A Marriage Fit for a Sinner

by Maya Blake

He stared unseeing at the vivid orange horizon, his thoughts in turmoil.

  He couldn’t deny that the discovery of her innocence in bed had thrown him for a loop. Unsettled him in a way he hadn’t been for a long time.

  For as long as he could remember, his goal had been a fixed, tangible certainty. To place himself in a position where he erased any hint of neediness from his life, while delivering an abject lesson to those who thought themselves entitled and therefore could treat him as if he were common. A spineless fool who would prostrate himself for scraps from the high table.

  He’d proven conclusively yesterday at his wedding reception that he’d succeeded beyond his wildest dreams. He’d watched blue-blooded aristocrats fall over themselves to win his favour.

  And yet he’d found himself unsatisfied. Left with a hollow, bewildering feeling inside, as if he’d finally grasped the brass ring, only to find it was made of plastic.

  It had left Zaccheo with the bitter introspection of whether a different, deeper goal lay behind the burning need to prove himself above the petty grasp for power and prestige.

  The loneliness he’d so offhandedly dismissed had in fact eaten away at him far more effectively than his mother’s rejection and the callous disregard his father had afforded him when he was alive.

  Impatiently, he dismissed his jumbled feelings. He didn’t do feelings. He achieved. He bested. And he triumphed.

  One miscalculation didn’t mean a setback. Finding out Eva had had no previous lovers had granted him an almost primitive satisfaction he wasn’t going to bother to deny.

  And if something came of this union sooner rather than later... His heart kicked hard.

  Sliding a hand through her silky hair, he angled her face to his. Her beauty was undeniable. But he wouldn’t be risking any more heart-to-hearts. She was getting too close, sliding under his skin to a place he preferred to keep out of bounds. A place he’d only examined when the cold damp of his prison cell had eroded his guard.

  He was free, both physically and in guilt. He wouldn’t return to that place. And he wouldn’t allow her to probe further. Satisfied with his resolution, he kissed her sexy, tempting mouth until the need to breathe forced him to stop.

  The sun had disappeared. Lights strung through the trees flickered on and he nodded to the member of staff who hovered nearby, ready to pack up their picnic.

  He caught the glazed, flushed look on his wife’s face and came to a sudden, extremely pleasing decision.

  ‘Tonight, il mio angelo, we’ll have an early night.’

  * * *

  The first week flew by in a dizzy haze of sun, sea, exquisite food, and making love. Lots and lots of making love.

  Zaccheo was a fierce and demanding lover, but he gave so much more in return. And Eva was so greedy for everything he had to give, she wondered whether she was turning into a sex addict. She’d certainly acted like one this morning, when she’d initiated sex while Zaccheo had been barely awake. That her initiative had seemed to please him had been beside the point.

  She’d examined her behaviour afterwards when Zaccheo had been summoned to an urgent phone call by Romeo.

  This was supposed to be a moment out of time, a brief dalliance, which would end the moment she spilled her secret to him. And yet with each surrender of her body, she slid down a steeper slope, one she suspected would be difficult to climb back up. Because it turned out that, for her, sex wasn’t a simple exchange of physical pleasure. With each act, she handed over a piece of herself to him that she feared she’d never reclaim.

  And that more than anything made her fear for herself when this was over.

  A breeze blew through an open window and Eva clutched the thin sarong she’d thrown over her bikini. Dark clouds were forming ominously over the island. Shivering, she watched the storm gather, wondering if it was a premonition for her own situation.

  Lightning flashed, and she jumped.

  ‘Don’t worry, Mrs Eva.’ Zaccheo’s housekeeper smiled as she entered and turned on table lamps around the living room. ‘The storm passes very quickly. The sun will be back out in no time.’

  Eva smiled and nodded, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that her storm wouldn’t pass so quickly.

  As intense rain pounded the roof she went in search of Zaccheo. Not finding him in his study, she climbed the stairs, her pulse already racing in anticipation as she went down the hallway.

  She entered their dressing room and froze.

  ‘What are you doing?’ she blurted.

  ‘I would’ve thought it was obvious, dolcezza.’ He held clippers inches from his face.

  ‘I can see what you’re doing but...why?’ she snapped. ‘You already got rid of most of it for the wedding.’ Her voice was clipped, a feeling she couldn’t decipher moving through her.

  Zaccheo raised an eyebrow, amusement mingled with something else as he watched her. ‘I take it this look works for you?’

  She swallowed twice before she could speak. When she finally deciphered the feeling coursing through her, she was so shocked and so afraid he would read her feelings, she glanced over his head.

  ‘Yes. I prefer it,’ she replied.

  For several seconds he didn’t speak. Her skin burned at his compelling stare. Schooling her features, she glanced into his eyes.

  ‘Then it will remain untouched.’ He set the clippers down and faced her.

  Neither of them moved for several minutes. The storm raged outside, beating against the windows and causing the timber to creak.

  ‘Come here, Eva.’ Softly spoken, but a command nonetheless.

  ‘I’m beginning to think those are your three favourite words.’

  ‘They are only when you comply.’

  She rolled her eyes, but moved towards him. He swivelled in his chair and pulled her closer, parting his thighs to situate her between them.

  ‘Was that very hard to admit?’ he rasped.

  Her skin grew tight, awareness that she stood on a precipice whose depths she couldn’t quite fathom shivering over her. ‘No.’

  He laughed. ‘You’re a pathetic liar. But I appreciate you finding the courage to ask for what you want.’

  ‘An insult and a compliment?’ she said lightly.

  ‘I wouldn’t want you to think me soft.’ He caught her hands and placed them on his shoulders. ‘You realise that I’ll require a reward for keeping myself this way for your pleasure?’

  The way he mouthed pleasure made hot need sting between her thighs. Several weeks ago, she would’ve fought it. But Eva was fast learning it was no use. Her body was his slave to command as and when he wished. ‘You got your stylists to prod and primp me into the image you wanted. I’ve earned the right to do the same to you.’ Her fingers curled into the hair she would’ve wept to see shorn.

  He smiled and relaxed in the chair. ‘I thought being primped and plucked to perfection was every woman’s wish?’

  ‘You thought wrong. I was happy with the way I looked before.’

  That wasn’t exactly true. Although she’d loved her thick and wild hair, she had to admit it was much easier to tend now the wildness had been tamed a little. And she loved that she could brush the tresses without giving herself a headache. As for the luxurious body creams she’d been provided with, she marvelled at how soft and silky her skin felt now compared to before.

  But she kept all of it to herself as he untied the knot in her sarong and let it fall away. ‘You were perfect before. You’re perfect now. And mine,’ he breathed.

  Within seconds, Eva was naked and craving what only he could give her, her eventual screams as loud as the storm raging outside.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  ‘COME ON, we’re taking the boat out today. As much as I’d like to keep you to myself, I think we need to see someth
ing of Rio before we leave tomorrow.’

  Eva stopped tweaking the chorus of the melody she’d been composing and looked up as Zaccheo entered the living room.

  The perverse hope that he would grow less breathtaking with each day was hopelessly thwarted. Dressed in khaki linen trousers and a tight white T-shirt with his hair loose around his shoulders, Zaccheo was so visually captivating, she felt the punch to her system each time she stared at him.

  He noticed her staring and raised an eyebrow. Blushing, she averted her gaze to her tablet.

  ‘Where are we going?’ She tried for a light tone and breathed an inward sigh of relief when she succeeded.

  ‘To Ilha São Gabriel, three islands away. It’s a tourist hotspot, but there are some interesting sights to see there.’ He crouched before her, his gaze going to the tablet. Reaching out, he scrolled through her compositions, his eyes widening at the three dozen songs contained in the file.

  ‘You wrote all these?’ he asked.

  She nodded, feeling self-conscious as he paused at a particularly soul-baring ballad about unrequited love and rejection. She’d written that one a week after Zaccheo had gone to prison. ‘I’ve been composing since I was sixteen.’

  His eyes narrowed on her face. ‘You’ve had two million pounds in your bank account for over a year and a half, which I’m guessing is your shareholder dividend from your father’s deal on my building?’

  Warily, she nodded.

  ‘That would’ve been more than enough money to pursue your music career without needing to work. So why didn’t you use it?’ he queried.

  She tried to shrug the question away, but he caught her chin in his hand. ‘Tell me,’ he said.

  ‘I suspected deep down that the deal was tainted. I hated doubting my father’s integrity, but I could never bring myself to use the money. It didn’t feel right.’ Being proved right had brought nothing but hurt.

  He watched her for a long time, a puzzled look on his face before he finally nodded. ‘How was your session with Ziggy Preston?’ he asked.

  She saw nothing of the sour expression he’d sported that night in the club. ‘Surprisingly good, considering I’d thought he’d have me on the blacklist of every music producer after your behaviour.’

  An arrogant smile stretched his lips. ‘They’d have had to answer to me had they chosen that unfortunate path. You’re seeing him again?’

  She nodded. ‘When we get back.’

  ‘Bene.’ He rose and held out his hand.

  She slipped her feet into one of the many stylish sandals now gracing her wardrobe and he led her outside to the jetty.

  Climbing on board, he placed her in front of the wheel and stood behind her. She looked around, expecting Zaccheo’s right-hand man to be travelling with them. ‘Isn’t Romeo coming?’

  ‘He had business to take care of in Rio. He’ll meet us there.’

  The trip took twenty-five minutes, and Eva understood why the Ilha São Gabriel was so popular when she saw it. The island held a mountain, on top of which a smaller version of the Cristo Redentor in Rio had been erected. Beneath the statue, bars, restaurants, parks and churches flowed right down to the edge of a mile-long beach.

  Zaccheo directed her to motor past the busy beach and round the island to a quieter quay where they moored the boat. ‘We’re starting our tour up there.’ He pointed to a quaint little building set into the side of a hill about a quarter of a mile up a steep path.

  She nodded and started to walk up when she noticed Romeo a short distance away. He nodded a greeting but didn’t join them as they headed up. The other man’s watchfulness made Eva frown.

  ‘Something on your mind?’ Zaccheo asked.

  ‘I was just wondering...what’s the deal with Romeo?’

  ‘He’s many things.’

  ‘That’s not really an answer.’

  Zaccheo shrugged. ‘We work together, but I guess he’s a confidant.’

  ‘How long have you known him?’

  When Zaccheo pulled his shades from the V of his T-shirt and placed them on, she wondered whether she’d strayed into forbidden territory. But he answered, ‘We met when I was thirteen years old.’

  Her eyes rounded in surprise. ‘In London?’

  ‘In Palermo.’

  ‘So he’s your oldest friend?’

  Zaccheo hesitated for a second. ‘Our relationship is complicated. Romeo sees himself as my protector. A role I’ve tried to dissuade him from to no avail.’

  Her heart caught. ‘Protector from what?’

  His mouth twitched. ‘He seems to think you’re a handful that he needs to keep an eye on.’

  She looked over her shoulder at the quiet, brooding man.

  ‘My father worked for his father,’ he finally answered.

  ‘In what capacity?’

  ‘As whatever he wanted him to be. My father didn’t discriminate as long as he was recognised for doing the job. He would do anything from carrying out the trash to kneecapping a rival gang’s members to claiming another man’s bastard child so his boss didn’t have to. No job was too small or large,’ he said with dry bitterness.

  The blood drained from her face. ‘Your father worked for the Mafia?’

  His jaw clenched before he jerked out a nod. ‘Romeo’s father was a don and my father one of his minions. His role was little more than drudge work, but he acted as if he was serving the Pope himself.’

  She glanced over her shoulder at Romeo, her stomach dredging with intense emotions she recognised as anguish—even without knowing what Zaccheo was about to divulge.

  ‘That bastard child you mentioned...’

  He nodded. ‘Romeo. His father had an affair with one of his many mistresses. His mother kept him until he became too much of a burden. When he was thirteen, she dumped him on his father. He didn’t want the child, so he asked my father to dispose of him. My father, eager to attain recognition at all costs, brought the child home to my mother. She refused but my father wouldn’t budge. They fought every day for a month until she ended up in hospital. It turned out she was pregnant. After that she became even more adamant about having another woman’s child under her roof. When she lost her baby, she blamed my father and threatened to leave. My father, probably for the only time in his life, decided to place someone else’s needs above his ambition. He tried to return Romeo to his father, who took grave offence. He had my father beaten to death. And I...’ his face tightened ‘...I went from having a friend, a mother and father, and a brother or sister on the way, to having nothing.’

  Eva frowned. ‘But your mother—’

  ‘Had hated being the wife of a mere gofer. My father’s death bought her the fresh start she craved, but she had to contend with a child who reminded her of a past she detested. She moved to England a month after he died and married a man who hated the sight of me, who judged me because of who my father was and believed my common blood was an affront to his distinguished name.’ The words were snapped out in a staccato narrative, but she felt the anguished intensity behind them.

  Eva swallowed hard. Stepping close, she laid her head on his chest. ‘I’m so sorry, Zaccheo.’

  His arms tightened around her for a heartbeat before he pulled away and carried on up the steps. ‘I thought Romeo had died that night, too, until he found me six years ago.’

  She glanced at Romeo and her heart twisted for the pain the unfortunate friends had gone through.

  They continued up the hill in silence until they reached the building.

  They entered the cool but dim interior and as her eyes adjusted to the dark she was confronted by a stunning collection of statues. Most were made of marble, but one or two were sculpted in white stone.

  ‘Wow, these are magnificent.’

  ‘A local artist sculpted all the
patron saints and donated them to the island over fifty years ago.’

  They drifted from statue to statue, each work more striking than the last. When they walked through an arch, he laced his fingers with hers. ‘Come, I’ll show you the most impressive one. According to the history, the artist sculpted them in one day.’

  Smiling, she let him tug her forward. She gasped at the double-figured display of St Anne and St Gerard. ‘Patron saints of motherhood and fertility...’ She stopped reading as her heart dropped to her stomach.

  Zaccheo traced a forefinger down her cheek. ‘I can’t wait to feel our child kick in your belly,’ he murmured.

  A vice gripped her heart, squeezed until it threatened to stop beating. ‘Zaccheo—’

  His finger stopped her. ‘I meant what I said, Eva. We can make this work. And we may not have had the best of role models in parents, but we know which mistakes to avoid. That’s a good basis for our children, sì?’ he asked, his tone gentle, almost hopeful.

  She opened her mouth, but no words formed. Because the truth she’d been hiding from suddenly reared up and slapped her in the face.

  Zaccheo wanted children, not as a tool for revenge, but for himself. The man who’d known no love growing up wanted a family of his own.

  And she’d led him on, letting him believe he could have it with her. The enormity of her actions rocked her to the core, robbing her of breath.

  ‘Eva? What’s wrong?’ he asked with a frown.

  She shook her head, her eyes darting frantically around the room.

  ‘You’re as pale as a ghost, dolcezza. Talk to me!’

  Eva struggled to speak around the misery clogging her throat. ‘I...I’m okay.’

  His frown intensified. ‘You don’t look okay. Do you want to leave?’

  She grasped the lifeline. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Okay, let’s go.’

  They emerged into bright sunlight. Eva took a deep breath, which did absolutely nothing to restore the chaos fracturing her mind.

  The urge to confess now, spill her secret right then and there, powered through her. But it was neither the time nor the place. A group of tourist students had entered the room and the place was getting busier by the second.