by Jane Porter
Vitt studied her pale face and hard, tight jaw for a long moment before reaching out to smooth a pale blond strand of hair back from her face. She shied away from his touch but he didn’t comment on it. Instead he smiled at her almost kindly. “Our son is quite comfortable and sleeping soundly in an infant cot in the staff room. Maria will bring him to us when he wakes.”
The jet began to move, rolling forward on the tarmac. “Please, Vitt. Please let me have him. I want him. I need him with me.”
“Even though he’s sleeping in his cot?”
She’d had her life ripped apart by her father’s deceit. Her only sister had been killed in an accident the police termed “suspicious,” yet they’d never brought charges against anyone. Her mother, terrified of further reprisal, had broken off all contact. Jillian’s only anchor in life was Joe. He was the reason, and the only reason, she’d been able to survive so many blows. “Yes.”
Vittorio studied her for a long, silent moment. “You really wish for me to have him woken up just so you can hold him?”
She heard condescension in his voice. Condescension and disbelief. Because what kind of woman would put her needs before her child’s?
“No,” she choked, lifting a hand to shield her eyes so he couldn’t see her tears. “No. You’re right. I don’t want to wake him. It is his naptime. He should sleep.”
Again Vitt subjected her to his scrutiny. “Sometimes it is difficult to do the right thing, but I have found that difficult or not, doing the right thing is the only real option.”
The jet was moving faster now, racing down the runway, picking up speed by the second. Within moments the jet’s front wheels left the ground and then the back wheels. They were airborne.
Dark pine trees dotted the ground. The blue of the Pacific Ocean came into view. In less than an hour they’d leave California far behind. In eleven hours they’d be in Sicily, in his world, and Joe, her baby, her child, would be living in Vitt’s home.
And if Joe were to live in Vitt’s home, where would she live? Would Vittorio keep her nearby, or would he set her up in her own house or apartment, someplace close by but not in his immediate household?
During the two weeks they’d spent together in Bellagio, Vitt had told Jillian a great deal about the twelfth-century Norman castle the d’Severano family called home. His family hadn’t always owned the property. Apparently his great-grandfather had purchased the crumbling fortress in the early 1900s and each generation since had spent a fortune restoring sections at a time. Over half the castello still remained uninhabitable but Vittorio had said that was part of the charm.
Twenty months ago she’d been anxious to see this historic property. Now it was the last place she wanted to visit.
“My family is old-fashioned,” Vitt said, breaking the silence. “And my mother is extremely devout. At first she might seem cold, and unapproachable, but given time, she will grow to accept you. But you must give her time. She is slow to embrace change.”
This sounded far from encouraging, Jillian thought, turning from the view of the deep blue Pacific Ocean to look at him. “Is she upset with you for having a child out of wedlock?”
“She doesn’t know.”
Jillian’s eyes widened. “What?”
He shook his head. “I haven’t told her. Or anyone else in my family.” He saw her expression and shrugged. “There was no reason to share such news. You were hiding from me. I didn’t have legal access to him yet. But it’s a different situation now.”
“And now?”
“Now it is a joyful occasion. My wife and son return home with me. Everything is good. Everything is as it should be.”
His wife and son…
His wife and son…
His wife.
Her heart hammered relentlessly and her hand shook as she clutched the flute. Is this why he’d ordered the champagne? “So that is the story we’re to tell them.”
“It won’t be a story.”
She exhaled in a painful rush. It was both a protest and a prayer. “Vittorio.”
“My captain has the authority to marry us in-flight, allowing us to land in Sicily in the morning as husband and wife.”
“That’s crazy,” she whispered, her fingers clenched so tightly around the flute’s fragile stem that the tips had begun to go numb.
“Why is it crazy? We arrive married, stepping off the plane as a family. Joseph is no longer illegitimate. You are my wife. Problem solved.”
Problem solved? Problem multiplied.
Her head spun. She was dizzy with the shock of it. Marriage was so serious, so binding, and even more so among the Mafioso. Once you were part of the family, there was no way out. At least not alive. “Your family has never heard of me, and then to produce me from thin air, introducing me as your wife, and Joe as your son—?”
“It would be the truth.”
“They’ll never accept us this way, Vittorio, surely you can see that. Especially your mother. She’ll be hurt that you’ve kept her in the dark, and suspicious as to why you’re only introducing us now. She’ll have so many questions—why was there no proper courtship or wedding? Why didn’t you tell her about the pregnancy or Joe’s birth? You’re bringing him to Sicily at nearly a year old. You know that won’t go over well.”
His eyes never strayed from her face, a faint smile playing at the corners of his lips. “And what would you rather me tell her? The truth? That you ran away when my eighteen-year-old maid told you I was a member of the mafia? That you then hid your pregnancy from me, and then kept my son from me after his birth? Would that be better, Jill?”
She stared into his dark eyes with the flecks of amber around the black pupil. He might be smiling but his expression was one of utter resolve. He was not going to relent. “No,” she said after a moment.
“So we have to come up with a suitable story, one that compromises our integrity as little as possible, because I don’t like lying to family. I don’t believe in lying, much less deceiving my father and mother. But I have a son to think of and I would sacrifice everything to ensure his well-being.”
And looking at him, at the steely determination in those dark eyes fringed by the thickest, blackest of lashes, she believed him. But she also believed that there was always more than one way to accomplish something. Life was full of possibilities. There were always options, and those needed to be considered. “You don’t need to marry me to introduce Joe as your son. He is your son. He will always be your son—”
“Your point being?”
“That it would be easier for both you, and Joe, if you didn’t marry me. Introduce me as Joe’s mother. Let your mother think the worst…that I’m a floozy, or a gold digger, or whatever. But at least this way she’ll be mad at me, rather than at you.”
One of his dark eyebrows lifted. “How good of you to martyr yourself on our behalf. It’s gratifying to know you do still have feelings for me.”
“That’s not what I mean.”
“What did you mean?”
Jillian flushed. “That she’ll be angry.”
“Undoubtedly.” He shrugged philosophically. “But I am an adult, a man and the head of my family. I do not answer to my mother, and nor should you fear her. As long as you play your part of the doting wife, she’ll eventually be happy.”
The words doting wife echoed loudly in her head. Jillian’s throat sealed closed. What else would she be? After all, she was the eldest daughter of a famous Detroit mobster. Why shouldn’t she be married to the head of the Sicilian mob?
And then she pictured her sister, followed by an explosion of color. Her sister’s blue, blue eyes. The red-and-gold flames of the car burning. The black-and-white ink of the newspaper article covering twenty-one-year-old Katie Smith’s death.
At least her sister died quickly.
At least she hadn’t seen it coming.
“Surely there are other options we could explore,” she said after a moment. “Roles that would require less acting�
�roles that would be less of a stretch.”
“And what role would that be? My son’s nanny? My mistress? My what, Jill Smith? Just what role would you now choose to play in life?”
“Joe’s mother.”
“And you may. Provided you’re married to Joe’s father.”
She cringed at the way he said Joe. He meant for her to cringe, too.
“My family has a disreputable history, a history you’ve thrown in my face. But my father has worked hard to change the past, and I’ve continued his fight. We’ve worked too hard, sacrificed too much, to have Joseph inherit scorn or scandal. No one is to know he was born out of wedlock,” Vittorio continued quietly. “He is not to grow up marked by shame.”
They were still climbing but Vittorio downed what was left of his champagne and ignoring the seat belt sign, rose.
“The ceremony will take place in the next half hour, before the baby wakes,” he said, looking down at her. “Find something appropriate in your suitcase for the ceremony, something elegant and festive. Something that could pass for celebratory. I don’t expect you to wear white, but silver, gold or cream would be nice. After all, we’ll want good memories to help us remember our special day.”
CHAPTER FOUR
JILLIAN fumed in her cabin as she confronted her open suitcase. Silver, gold or cream? Something celebratory for their ceremony?
Ha! He was out of his mind. His power had clearly gone to his head. There was no way she was going to dress up in a sparkly party dress for their vows. Because this wasn’t a special occasion and she wasn’t celebrating.
He was the one insisting on the wedding. He was the one forcing her hand.
Fine. Force her. But she wouldn’t meet him dressed up like a shiny doll without a mind of her own.
No, she’d dress for the occasion her way. Which meant she’d find the plainest, drabbest, darkest dress she owned and wear that for their vows. A dull, dowdy black outfit should convey quite nicely how she felt about their nuptials.
Jillian allowed herself the faintest of smiles as she dragged a high-necked black blouse and a long gray skirt from the bottom of her suitcase. Perfect. Gray and black. Perfect colors for mourning.
Thirty minutes later, Vittorio stood in the center of the jet’s living room holding Jill’s hands as he recited his vows. His chief pilot, the jet’s captain, performed the simple service.
Jill, he noted, had dressed as if she was attending a funeral, replacing her gray knit top with a severe high-collared black blouse and the black pants with a long, narrow, charcoal-gray skirt.
She wore the blouse buttoned high on her neck and her pale hair had been pulled back into a low knot at the back of her head. She wore no jewelry or makeup and couldn’t have looked more miserable if she’d tried.
But she did go through with the ceremony, speaking her vows in a clear, almost defiant voice, and holding her hand steady so he could slip the ring onto her fourth finger.
And now his captain concluded the service, pronouncing them man and wife.
The captain didn’t linger. With his mission accomplished, he returned to the cockpit, leaving Vitt and Jill to celebrate together.
The flight attendant appeared with more champagne, and a silver platter of delicate appetizers. Vittorio ate and drank, but Jill touched nothing. It didn’t particularly trouble him. This wasn’t a love marriage—it was about duty, commitment and responsibility, as well as restoring honor to his family.
“Jill d’Severano,” he said, trying it out as he studied her pallor and her brown eyes that looked far too big for her small face. “Mrs. Vittorio d’Severano.”
She lifted her chin, her expression pained. Apparently she wasn’t very fond of the name.
“I wish I could say the worst was over,” he added thoughtfully, “but tomorrow won’t be easy. Nor will the day after that. But in a week’s time the shock will wear off and acceptance will begin.”
“It’s going to take me more than a week to get used to being your wife,” she answered tartly.
He laughed. “I was referring to my mother, and how she’ll react to you. But I suppose you’re right. You must be in shock, too. How were you to know this morning when you woke, that twelve hours later you’d be on a plane to Sicily, married to me?”
Fire flashed in her eyes. “Your empathy is touching.”
“My empathy allows me to protect you instead of crushing you. You should be grateful for that.”
She opened her mouth to speak but then closed it, shaking her head in silent, seething frustration.
She looked like a nun at a funeral. A nun minus the wimple. She was buttoned and closed and as emotionally distant as possible. But this was his wedding day, too, and he wouldn’t let her do this to him, wouldn’t have her play victim, all numb and cold, not when she’d created this situation. And not when he’d worked so damn hard to fix it.
“Unbutton your blouse,” he told her, aware that his voice was hard, aware that he sounded every bit as cold as she looked. “You have the softness of a dried up old prune.”
She held his gaze. “I like prunes.”
“I don’t.”
“I’m sorry.”
“If you were, you’d unbutton your blouse a little, smile a little, act like this isn’t the worst day of your life.”
“When it really is.”
“I should have left you on the side of the road when I had the chance!”
“Too late. You brought me along. Married me. We’re now husband and wife.”
“And wives are to submit to their husbands.”
“To believe that, you must also believe that husbands are to submit to the Church. But somehow I doubt you submit to anyone,” she retorted, her eyes huge, her jaw tightly clenched.
His temper flared. She was not the injured party. She could not be allowed to play the victim, either. He was the one who’d been cheated. He was the one who’d been kept from his son.
“Do it,” he ordered brusquely, “just unbutton a couple of buttons or I’ll do it myself.”
“We’re to consummate the marriage here?” she flashed. “Right now?”
“It hadn’t been my intention, but if you’re eager—”
“Not at all.”
“—and desirous of being my obedient, obliging wife—”
“That’s the furthest thing from my mind.”
“—then you can pleasure me. I appreciate that you are so sensitive to my needs.”
She flushed furiously, her pale cheeks flooding with bright crimson color. “You have many needs, if I recall.”
He took a step toward her. “And you begged for it every single time.”
Undaunted, she took a step toward him. “You flatter yourself.”
“No, if you recall, you flattered me. You were amazed at what my body could do and how I could make you feel. You wanted to know if all men were as well endowed as me, and if others could last so long. You were nearly always reverent when you took me into your mouth—”
“I was tired of being a virgin. I wanted knowledge and experience. You gave it to me. But I’ve been with other men now. I know what others can do, and oh, can they do.”
He took another step toward her and once again she moved closer, chin lifted, eyes bright and challenging. She was deliberately provoking him, daring him to lose control. He was getting close to losing control, too, intensely aware of the hot lick of testosterone, and the primitive drive of an animal hunting prey.
“And what can they do?” he murmured, so very aroused.
She held her ground, chin high, eyes bright as she breathed in and out in short, jerky gasps that made her breasts rise and fall beneath the ugly black blouse. Her cheeks were a vivid pink. “They make me moan and scream,” she threw at him.
“Really?”
“Mmm. And the good ones can make me come multiple times.”
This was a fine wedding day, wasn’t it? “You’ve really gotten around.”
“Why not? I wasn’t y
our woman.”
“But you are now.” He reached out an arm, and catching her low around her waist, drew her toward him.
And with his body hot, his groin hard, he roughly slipped his finger between the buttons at her breastbone and popped the first button off. “Just as you always will be,” he said, moving down a button and popping that one off, too. “So let’s dispense with this blouse, shall we?”
Her lips now were nearly as pink as her cheeks. “Why don’t you just lift my skirt and get this over with?”
She spit the words at him as if she could shame him.
He wouldn’t be shamed though. He remembered how they’d been together. Intense, physical, passionate.
“Why rush our pleasure?” he asked, reaching out to touch one of the loose blond waves that now fell past her shoulders.
She stared him in the eye, her expression disdainful. “You wouldn’t know how to pleasure me if you tried.”
“Why do you want to provoke me?”
“Not trying to. Just stating facts.”
Facts. His lip curled ever so slightly.
Despite everything, she was still determined to play a game with him, something he found both disturbing and intriguing.
She was either incredibly brave or ridiculously foolish. He wasn’t a man to toy with. She had to know that. So why dangle her adventures with other men before him? Why throw his so-called inadequacies in his face?
Brave or foolish, she did intrigue him.
She’d intrigued him in Istanbul and then she’d intrigued him in Bellagio and now here she was, cornered on his plane, his ring on her finger, mocking him. Challenging him. Attempting to defy him.
Interesting, so interesting because so few people tried to defy him, much less a slim scrap of woman who didn’t even reach his shoulder. Jill Smith was a complete enigma. She was small and fine-boned and yet so very fierce. She had a heart-shaped face, heartbreakingly high cheekbones and fire in her eyes. She flung her head back as if she were a tigress and to draw blood she talked of other men.
