by Abby Green
‘If I don’t agree to marry you, would you allow me access to the castello? To visit my parents’ and grandparents’ graves?’ At least if she had access she might not feel as if all links had been be severed.
A hard expression settled over Santo Domenico’s features. ‘Why would I when your own family didn’t ever allow that basic access to us?’
Her insides tightened. Her father had been zealous about privacy and had only let staff or estate workers enter the castello grounds. She had a suspicion now that it had been a reflex, handed down from generations, dating back to when they’d had reason to be paranoid about intruders. The rightful owners.
‘In answer to your question, I would afford you the same respect as was afforded to my family—so, no, you would not be granted access. Within a very short space of time, Signorina Caruso, your claim on the castello and this place will be gone for ever. It will be as if you never existed.’
* * *
Nicolo Santo Domenico’s words were horrifyingly stark and brutal. Emotion rose. Terrified he would see it, Chiara whirled around and went back outside to stand at the terrace wall. Her eyes stung and she blinked rapidly.
The view was a view she’d looked out on herself many times, and yet she knew she’d never get tired of it. The scents...the sounds of this place...they were as much a part of her as her own flesh and blood.
She’d actually been born in the castello, because her mother had gone into labour three weeks before her due date. The housekeeper had helped her to give birth, but due to complications after the birth, and the delay in getting her to the hospital, her mother had not been able to have more children.
In spite of that, Chiara had always secretly loved the fact that she’d been born within the castello walls. As if she was as much a part of its fabric as the stones. She’d often wondered how many babies had been born there.
As much as Chiara had always wanted to travel and see the world, she knew she wouldn’t last long unless she could return to this place. It fed her soul. The thought of leaving here and never being able to return was more than she could bear.
Nicolo Santo Domenico would take ownership no matter what—she didn’t doubt that—and soon there would be fancy electronic gates permanently locking her out from her past and her ancestors. Removing her from the anchor of her life.
Chiara forced herself to try and cut through the emotion to think clearly, and her first thought was a churlish one—she’d only known Nicolo Santo Domenico for less than twenty-four hours and already he had an influence on her.
She’d called his bluff and it hadn’t worked. Clearly he was willing to go as far as marriage.
Chiara looked out over the view and realised there was nothing between her and a precipitous drop to the sea except the terrace wall. She felt dizzy for a moment, as if the wall had suddenly disappeared and she was teetering on the edge of a vast void.
The question slid into her mind and she couldn’t stop it. What if you said yes? What if you just said...yes?
She wouldn’t have to take that leap into the void. She wouldn’t have to face the heartache of never being able to pay her respects to her parents...her grandparents. She would see the castello restored to its former glory. A glory she’d never really witnessed.
Nicolo Santo Domenico might be willing to go as far as marrying her now, but once he saw how lacking she was in social graces and worldly sophistication—once he saw how unsuitable she was to be his wife—surely he’d realise that he’d made a huge mistake and call it off, move on to a more suitable woman?
A seed of hope bloomed in Chiara’s gut. If they got divorced wouldn’t she then have a chance to negotiate terms for access to the castello? At least visitation rights? It wouldn’t be lost to her for ever.
For the first time since she’d heard his outrageous proposal, marriage to Nicolo Santo Domenico didn’t seem like such a ridiculous suggestion.
Chiara heard a noise behind her and tensed—as much against the noise as at the way her blood leapt and her skin grew hot. It was disconcerting to find herself reacting like this. Disconcerting and galling that her own body could let her down so easily.
‘Signorina Caruso?’
Chiara took a deep breath and turned around. She wasn’t ready to leave her home. Her life. Not yet. Not until she’d negotiated terms to gain access. It was clear he wouldn’t give her an ounce of leeway unless she agreed to marry him. But at least if she could do it on her terms then it might be worth the upheaval.
She looked at Nicolo Santo Domenico and told herself that if he wanted to insist on entering into a legally binding state to further his own interests then she would at least ensure that it would protect hers, too.
She lifted her chin. ‘I will agree to marry you—but on one condition.’
There was a long beat of tense silence and then he inclined his head slightly and said, ‘Not that you’re really in a position to negotiate...but I’m listening.’
Chiara nearly crumbled at the last second, but she knew this was the only way she’d have a chance of keeping any kind of claim on the castello.
‘My condition is that after six months we review the marriage and see how it’s working. And there will be no question of having children until after the six-month trial period.’
As Chiara didn’t expect Nicolo Santo Domenico to be remotely interested in giving up the parade of beauties in his life any time soon, she felt fairly confident that in spite of his pronouncement about heirs he hadn’t actually planned on having them now.
He was silent for a long moment, that dark gaze far too assessing. Chiara fought not to squirm.
Eventually he said, ‘That’s actually two conditions. But very well. I agree.’
Chiara felt light-headed, and her heart palpitated madly as the enormity of what she’d just agreed to sank in, but she told herself she was doing the right thing. The alternative—walking away and never seeing her home again—was unthinkable.
Chiara held out her hand, ‘In that case, you may call me Chiara.’
Nicolo Santo Domenico took her hand in his and Chiara almost jumped out of her skin at the electric shock.
He squeezed her hand firmly and said, ‘And you may call me Nico. I look forward to getting to know you, Chiara.’
Chiara pulled her hand free abruptly, terrified he might see how he affected her. She knew there was a wall behind her, but suddenly she felt as if she took a step back she would be freefalling over that precipice with nothing to hang on to except the triumphant gleam in Nico’s dark eyes.
And it was too late to do anything about it except go forward. And pray that she hadn’t grossly underestimated him. Again.
* * *
A week later, Chiara’s head was still spinning. As soon as she’d made it clear that she would marry Nico, the true extent of his wealth and privilege had become scarily apparent.
There had been a flurry of meetings at the villa with his legal people and her solicitor, who had pulled her aside and wondered if she was quite all right. She’d ascertained that, yes, the bank would take possession of the castello as soon as possible, so she’d found out all she needed to know—this was indeed her only option of retaining any contact with her home. Doing a deal with Nicolo Santo Domenico. A devil with the face of an angel and the body of a bare-knuckle fighter. A self-made billionaire who’d lived a life in pursuit of vengeance. Against her family.
Contracts had been drawn up and signed, and Chiara’s life had been sent spinning in a direction she hadn’t ever anticipated.
She looked at herself now, in the mirror of her bedroom at the castello. She was wearing the wedding dress that had belonged to her paternal grandmother, whom Chiara had loved dearly. Her nonna had shown her the dress before she died and then laid it carefully in its custom-made box, telling Chiara that she would love to think of her wearing it on her wedding day, e
ven though she wouldn’t see her.
Chiara had inherited her body shape from her grandmother so the dress fitted almost perfectly. It was a little threadbare in places, but it was still surprisingly pristine. Made of Sicilian lace, it had long sleeves and a high collar. It was demure, and yet Chiara felt very exposed when she noted how it clung almost indecently to her body, showing off her too large bust and hips.
But there was nothing she could do about it now. She was due to go to the castello chapel and marry Nicolo Santo Domenico at any moment now.
He had offered to buy her a dress and hire professional stylists, but she’d refused. She’d eventually agreed for him to enlist the help of a couple of local girls, and one of them approached Chiara now with the matching veil for the dress. She’d pulled her hair back in its habitual style and it fell loose and wavy down her back—she’d given up any attempt to tame it.
They attached the veil low on the back of her head and pulled it over her face, almost obscuring her vision.
Chiara had seen the looks the girls had exchanged as they’d helped her dress, but she didn’t care. She knew this wasn’t a real wedding, and if her aim was to make Nico regret marrying her as soon as possible then this was the way to go.
They’d barely exchanged two words all week as the preparations had taken over and Chiara had felt ridiculously relieved—even though she knew it was futile to think she could avoid her husband once they were married.
But, thankfully, it looked as if he was as reluctant as she for them to spend any time together. He’d told her as much during one of their brief conversations, saying, ‘I will have to return to New York almost immediately to oversee a merger. There won’t be time for a honeymoon.’
She’d responded with relief. ‘I don’t expect a honeymoon—this isn’t a real marriage.’
He’d looked at her for a moment, as if he was about to say something else, but then they’d been interrupted and Chiara had taken the opportunity to escape.
Soon, she reassured herself, he would be back in New York, where he would be indelibly reminded of the kind of woman he preferred. By the time he returned to Sicily he would have decided to divorce Chiara and she could negotiate her terms.
She’d already checked with her solicitor and he’d assured her that once they were married, no matter what the contracts said, she would have rights as Nico’s wife. That was all she needed to know.
The two girls stepped back. There was a knock on the door and a voice.
‘Signorina, they are ready.’
Chiara sucked in a breath and tried to quash the ominous feeling that her confidence in predicting the swift demise of this marriage was all too shaky. She’d underestimated Nico before. But this was her only option—unless she wanted to take off the dress, pack it up and walk out of the castello for good.
She closed her eyes briefly, sending up a swift plea for a speedy resolution to all of this, and then she opened them again and turned around to face her destiny.
* * *
Nico was surprised at how on edge he felt as he waited for Chiara to appear at the entrance to the castello chapel. There was only a handful of guests. Her solicitor and his own legal team. There was no great pretence that this was anything other than a marriage of convenience.
Chiara had been surprisingly co-operative once she’d agreed to marry him, signing every contract put under her nose after brief consultation with her solicitor. In fact she’d been so amenable, particularly about the clauses that dictated how much of his fortune she’d receive if they ever divorced—she’d barely even looked at that part—that he’d had to instruct his own team to go through them again with a fine-tooth comb in case they’d missed something.
He’d given in to her demand of a six-month trial period, but he was confident enough to presume that by the time six months had passed she would be reluctant to give up her new lavish lifestyle.
But a small, annoying inner voice reminded Nico that Chiara had turned down all his offers for clothes, a dress...stylists. How ironic, he thought now, to have apparently found the one woman in the world who truly appeared to have no designs on his wealth—a member of the very family that had stolen his birthright!
There was a movement at the doorway and he narrowed his gaze. When she appeared, though, he wasn’t prepared for the punch to his solar plexus. She should have looked ridiculous in the old-fashioned wedding dress, so traditional that it must have been made in the last century. And yet its sheer simplicity robbed Nico of any coherent thought for a moment as Chiara started to walk down the aisle.
Unaccompanied.
And if there was something about that lonely image that sparked some answering echo inside Nico, he denied it immediately.
Quite frankly, he was too distracted by the way the dress effortlessly showcased the full extent of Chiara’s curves. The Venus de Milo made flesh. He even saw one of his legal team’s eyes widen at the sight of her, and felt a rush of something very hot and possessive. Crazy.
If Nico hadn’t been so acutely aware of what he was doing and where he was, he might have imagined himself to have slipped back in time some hundred years.
An ornate lace veil framed her face and dark hair. There was a small bouquet of flowers in her hands. When she finally reached his side he caught the delicate scent of wild flowers and earth...the sea. It was evocative and surprisingly sensual.
He turned to face the altar and was reminded again of how petite she was next to him. She reached his shoulder at the most. The priest started to speak, but the words washed over Nico as he realised that he had to restrain himself from reaching out to pull the veil up to see her face.
‘I now pronounce you husband and wife. You may kiss your bride.’
Nico turned to face Chiara, overcome with a sense of anticipation he never would have expected to feel for his convenient bride, no matter how much she might stir his blood.
Her head was down-bent and he reached for the veil, pulling it up and over her head. He willed her to look up at him and finally she did. He sucked in a breath. No make-up. Just clear fresh skin and those remarkable eyes. Long dark lashes. And her mouth... Had it always been so full?
He’d never have expected it, but right now all he could think about was how much he wanted to kiss his bride. He caught her chin between his fingers and thumb, angling her face up to his. The church, priest and witnesses were forgotten as he fixated on that lush mouth. As lush as the rest of her, it trembled slightly, and he saw the tiniest hint of a pink tongue. A wave of need rushed through him.
His mouth was on hers before he could stop himself and this was no chaste kiss, mindful of where they were. This was fuelled by unexpected lust and desire. He gathered her to him, feeling those abundant curves press against his body. Soft where he was hard and aching.
It took a long second for him to realise that his brand-new wife wasn’t responding as he’d intended. She was like a taut bow against him, quivering but not acquiescing. Her mouth trembled under his but didn’t open.
With the utmost reluctance he pulled back and saw those wide green eyes as startled as a fawn’s. Her cheeks were flushed. Her breasts moved rapidly against his chest.
He trailed his thumb down and along her delicate jawline, touched the corner of her mouth, making it open slightly. Right now there was nothing else in the world but this.
Nico said roughly, ‘Baciami.’
Kiss me.
Chiara’s whole body was on fire. She was pressed so tightly against Nico’s body that she could feel the delineation of every hard muscle under his suit.
This wasn’t how it was meant to be! She’d been expecting a peck on the cheek. Nothing more. Then leaving the chapel. Enduring a couple of hours of their pseudo-happy wedding breakfast with total strangers before Nico left in his private jet to get on with his life and his work. Leaving Chiara at the castello, to come to
terms with her new situation and the hope that she’d be served with divorce papers as soon as possible.
But she couldn’t think about any of that now. All she could think of was Nico’s firm mouth and how it had felt on hers. Like a brand. A hot brand of ownership. As if he didn’t already own her, thanks to the price he’d paid. As if he had to kiss her like that to really stamp his mark on her.
He was still holding her and saying ‘Kiss me.’ As if she hadn’t just—
His mouth touched hers again, chasing away all coherent thought. And if she’d thought that last kiss was a brand then this was a brutal awakening.
Nico’s mouth moved over hers, insistent, masterful. She had no choice but to open up to him, and when his tongue touched hers she almost lost the power of her legs, her insides turning to hot liquid jelly.
She’d longed her whole life to know the power of a transformative kiss. But this didn’t feel transformative—it felt cataclysmic. Earth-shattering. Nothing so banal as merely transformative. This was scorching along her insides and lighting a fire deep within her that begged for more.
When he finally lifted his head again Chiara was aware of a vague sound and realised it was the priest, clearing his throat with increasing vigour. She felt undone...turned inside out.
She looked up into her husband’s dark eyes and realised she hadn’t a clue who this man truly was. And yet she’d just allowed him to breach defences she hadn’t even been aware she’d erected over all the years of her isolation here at the castello.
She pulled back so abruptly she almost fell, and only Nico catching her arm stopped her. She glared at him, not even sure why she felt so angry. He’d just kissed her. So why did it feel like more than a kiss?
He held her arm and they walked back down the aisle. Chiara’s face was flaming. When they stepped out into the bright morning sunshine she was momentarily blinded, but she rounded on Nico anyway, pulling her arm free of his grip.
She opened her mouth, about to demand to know why he’d kissed her like that, but then their guests walked out behind them and she had to close her mouth again. It felt swollen.
