by Jane Porter
AS JILLIAN relinquished Joe, her lips curved in a terrible self-mocking smile.
She had nothing to fear as long as she was honest with Vitt.
Which meant she had everything to fear because she could never be honest with him. She could never share her past with him, at least, not until she knew she was safe with him. Not until she knew she could trust him, because she’d be trusting him with her life.
It was that simple, because her secrets were that dangerous.
Look at what had happened to Katie. She’d shared the wrong thing with the wrong person and it’d killed her. Jillian couldn’t make the same mistake. Not when Joe needed her so much.
But watching Vittorio hold her son—their son—Jillian marveled over the fact that Joe didn’t cry or go rigid when Vitt took him from her. If anything Joe looked supremely comfortable, as well as extremely content in Vitt’s arms. It was the strangest thing, too, because Joe was never relaxed with strangers, and even less with men, as he’d been around so few in his first year of life. Yet here he was, held securely against Vitt’s broad chest, nonchalantly studying his chubby baby hands as if this sort of thing happened every day.
Remarkable.
Extraordinary.
Vittorio and Joseph already fit together. And they certainly looked like they belonged together. Both had the same dark glossy hair, although Joe’s was baby-fine, and the same intensity of expression, even though Joe’s eyes were blue and Vitt’s amber brown.
“You’ve held babies before,” Jillian said, trying to come to terms with her intensely ambivalent emotions. None of this was supposed to have happened. Being here, like this, was her worst fear and yet nothing terrible had happened yet. Maybe nothing terrible would.
“I have four nieces and three nephews and I’ve held each one within hours of his or her birth,” he answered.
The overhead light played off Vitt’s sculpted cheekbones, strong nose and angular jaw. On someone else the nose might have been too long, the bridge too broken, but on him it was perfect. Vitt’s eyes, shaded by that dark slash of eyebrow, and the curve of his full sensual mouth, were almost too beautiful. He needed a nose of character, and he had one.
“Your brothers and sisters live close then?” she asked, forcing her attention from his arresting face to the conversation. She would soon meet his family, and tomorrow she’d be expected to live amongst them. Who would have thought any of this possible?
Vitt dipped his head, pressed a kiss to Joe’s temple. “Two do. The other two are in different countries. But I’m always there when a baby arrives. Nothing is more important than family.”
She swallowed hard, hit by a wave of loss. Those were the very same words her father used to say when she was a little girl.
His two favorite expressions had been “There’s nothing more important than family” and “Family is everything.” Only he hadn’t meant it.
Or maybe once he’d meant it, before he’d become consumed by greed and reckless ambition.
“I agree,” she said softly, hating the awful emotions churning inside of her. Growing up she’d been a daddy’s girl. He’d adored her and she’d loved him deeply in return. He’d been such a handsome, gregarious father. Outgoing. Charming. Full of jokes and laughter.
And then it all changed, virtually overnight. Her father, learning he’d be arrested and prosecuted for a long laundry list of crimes, cut a deal with the feds and confessed his part, and everyone else’s role in organized crime. He saved himself but sold his crime family out.
He should have gone to prison. Because even fourteen years after her father confessed everything to the government, revealing everything he knew, and giving up everyone he’d known, he remained hated and hunted. He’d done the unthinkable. He’d turned on his people, and the mob had turned on him.
“Are you feeling all right?” Vitt asked, shifting Joe in his arms and scrutinizing her face.
She tried to smile but her eyes burned and acid rose up in her throat. Discovering at twelve that the father she’d loved more than life itself, was a thief, a traitor and a coward, had broken her heart. She’d lived with shame every day since. “I’m fine.”
“Do you need some mineral water?”
Did she need mineral water? No. She needed forgiveness. She needed peace. She needed grace. And most of all she needed to forget she was Frank Giordano’s daughter. But married to Vittorio, she could never forget. Married to Vittorio, she’d never be forgiven. “That sounds like a good idea.”
He took a couple steps, pressed a button on the wall and in seconds the flight attendant appeared. “Yes, sir?”
“A mineral water, and some crackers or dry biscuits.”
The flight attendant disappeared to fulfill the request and Vitt drew a chair from the table. “Come, Jill, sit, before you faint.”
Perhaps if he knew the truth now, perhaps if she confessed everything right away, he’d possibly forgive her. Perhaps he’d even understand…because surely, he wouldn’t really hurt her…she couldn’t believe he would hurt her, not after their two weeks together in Bellagio….
Katie flashed to mind.
Had Katie thought the same thing about her new boyfriend, Marco, the handsome law student she’d wanted to bring home to meet Mom and Dad? Had Marco made her believe that she was safe? That he could be trusted? Had she opened up and shared everything, thinking she’d finally found someone who would protect her?
Her eyes burned gritty and pain rolled through Jillian, hard, heavy, sharp, obliterating everything but a desperate determination to survive. To survive at all costs. And to make sure her son did, too.
So even if Vittorio wouldn’t hurt her, Jillian knew there could be no confessing, no pleading of innocence or begging for protection. Instead she’d play the role she’d agreed to play.
She gave Vittorio a calm, steady look, maintaining the steely façade she’d so carefully cultivated over the past year and a half. “Feeling guilty for treating me so callously earlier?” she asked, taking the offered chair.
He gazed down at her, black eyebrow arching slightly. “You practically wept with pleasure. I’m glad I could still satisfy you.”
She crossed her legs, feeling the tenderness between. “Is this how our relationship is going to be? You take what you want, when you want, and I comply?”
“But of course. You’re my wife.”
“Yet you make me feel like your whore.”
The moment the words left her mouth she knew she’d said the wrong thing. She didn’t even need Vittorio to speak to know she’d blundered. The ugly words hung there, suspended, between them.
Did she really feel like a whore?
Or had he merely possessed her the way he knew best—thoroughly and totally?
She opened her mouth to retract the words but was cut short by the appearance of the flight attendant who’d arrived with a small bottle of Perrier, a glass and a plate of crackers balanced on a silver tray. The attendant was pretty and professional and until now had been extremely poised, but her expression faltered as she sensed the mood.
The mood wasn’t good.
The mood would be even worse when she left.
The pretty brunette placed the silver tray on the table near Jillian’s elbow and then Vittorio transferred Joe into her arms. “Have Maria feed him dinner,” he said, giving his son a comforting pat on the back. “Tell Maria we’ll be sure to see him before he goes to bed.”
And then they were alone again, and in the silence and stillness Jillian felt panic. She’d said too much, perhaps pushed him too far.
With a shaking hand she poured the bubbling water into her short crystal glass. The water tumbled and splashed.
“Whore? ” Vittorio repeated softly.
She couldn’t speak. She didn’t know where to look. The atmosphere weighed heavily on her, thick and tense.
“That’s a horrendous thing to say,” he said.
She bent her head.
“Do not ever use th
at word again,” he added furiously. “You’re my son’s mother and my wife and I will not have you demean yourself—or our relationship—in that manner.”
Her stomach churned and Jillian swallowed compulsively, fighting the nausea. Relationship? What relationship? There was no relationship. He was the dictator, the emperor, the ruler. She was his prisoner, his captive, his slave. He had utter and complete control and she would be lucky to survive the next week, much less a month with him.
Jillian drew another breath, gulping fresh air into her lungs. “We do not have much of a relationship.”
“Then we’ll build one.”
She averted her head, bit her lip, holding back the hot retort that burned within her.
“We’ll start over,” he added. “Tonight. Now. Let’s begin again.”
She looked at him swiftly, and the intensity in his expression burned her. She flashed back to their lovemaking earlier and she shivered at the flood of erotic memories. It’d been so hot between them. Scorching.
She felt scorched all over again by the heat and desire in his dark eyes. Her whole body responded, breasts aching, nipples tightening.
“Easier said than done,” she answered huskily, mesmerized by the chemistry between them. That sizzling physical connection was always there, and it’d been that way from the beginning.
He smiled at her, a lazy, sexy, smoldering smile. “Why didn’t you wear this to the ceremony?” he asked, reaching out to touch her silver top. “This would have been far more suitable,” he added, letting his finger slip down, stroking from her shoulder over one peaked breast.
His finger lingered on the tight, taut nipple.
She inhaled quickly at the sharp stab of sensation between her thighs. “Not for me,” she said.
“Why not?”
She took another quick breath. “I was angry. Little girls do not dream of marrying in secret, shameful ceremonies on airplanes.”
“Shameful?”
“There were no witnesses. No family. No friends. Our son wasn’t even there.”
Vitt’s hand fell away and his brow furrowed. “The goal wasn’t to have a formal wedding, but to join us together. The goal was to protect Joseph and give him my name.”
“I understand. But you asked me why I didn’t wear something more festive, and I told you. I didn’t feel good about our wedding. It didn’t feel right.”
He studied her for a long moment. “What would have felt better? A church wedding?”
“Yes.”
“I didn’t think you were religious.”
“I was raised Catholic.”
“You never told me.”
“You never asked.”
For a long moment he said nothing. Then he rose and paced the room silently for several minutes. Finally he paused and looked at her. “The vows are binding, regardless of where we said them.”
“I understand.”
He frowned at her, clearly uncomfortable. “But you were disappointed by our ceremony?”
She licked her lips. “Yes.”
“You used the word shameful.”
“It just felt that way. It was so…rushed and hush-hush. We don’t even have any pictures to show Joe when he’s older. And I can’t help but think that one day he’ll want to know how we met, and what our wedding was like. How will he feel when we’ve no wedding photographs to show him?”
“That’s ridiculous,” Vittorio said, moving to the narrow sideboard to pour himself a neat shot of whiskey.
“I know. I’m just being foolish. Not all weddings are music and candles and flowers with your friends and family gathered around. And just because I imagined a certain kind of wedding doesn’t mean I needed it. Joe is what’s important. Joe should be our only concern—” She broke off as the jet suddenly shuddered in a pocket of turbulence.
Holding her breath, Jillian watched the water slosh wildly in her glass. For several moments the jet bounced, up, down, up, down, and the glass and bottle on the table rattled and danced toward the edge of the table, and then just as abruptly the turbulence ceased.
All was smooth again but Jillian’s heart still raced. “I hate turbulence,” she whispered, mouth dry.
“It’s over.”
“I know, but I still hate it.”
“But if we didn’t have turbulence, we’d never appreciate a smooth flight.”
Their dinner was a strange meal, an almost painfully civilized meal, with Vittorio playing the role of attentive host. They discussed only safe topics—their mutual love of Turkey, favorite European cities, the stunning Dalmatian coast as if both were determined to put their best foot forward.
Could they really start fresh? Could they make their relationship work?
“We’re not entirely incompatible,” he said just moments later, as if he could read the emotions flitting over her face. “We both like sex and apparently still enjoy it together.”
She felt as though he’d dashed cold water over her head. “And that’s enough for you?”
His dark eyes met hers. “It wouldn’t be, but we also have Joseph and we share responsibility for him.”
And that was a terribly important responsibility. Jillian couldn’t imagine anything else ever being so important. “Yes.”
Vitt continued to hold her gaze. “Maybe another ceremony wouldn’t be a bad idea. Maybe we should renew our vows at the chapel, and include our families. It would be good to have them on our side.”
“They won’t be now?”
“No. Not entirely.”
“Why not?”
His mouth quirked. “You’re not Sicilian.”
They left the small elegant dining room for the staff room and found Joe happily playing with a set of toy cars with one of Vitt’s bodyguards. Maria watched from an armchair nearby.
Looking at Joe it struck Jillian that in Vitt’s world Joe was royalty. He was treated like a young prince. Protected. Pampered. He was the heir to his father’s throne.
It was both a terrible truth and a heartbreaking reality. Joe was no longer her baby, her son. He’d already become Joseph d’Severano, inheriting all the power, wealth and control that accompanied the d’Severano name.
They stayed in the staff room for a few minutes and Vittorio talked to his bodyguards as if they were close friends. And maybe they were. Then conversation ended, he swung Joe into his arms and led the way to Jillian’s room where the baby’s travel cot had been set up.
Her tiny plush bedroom felt absolutely claustrophobic with Vittorio there. She did her best to pretend he wasn’t watching every move she made. Acting as natural as possible, Jillian gave Joe a sponge bath and then dressed him in his footed, zippered sleeper for bed.
Vitt half smiled at Joe’s bright blue footed pajamas. “Babies all over the world must wear these.”
“Snug sleepwear is essential,” she answered, fastening the little flap that covered the zipper head. “You don’t want a baby to get tangled up or in trouble.”
For a moment Vitt was silent, his powerful body still. “Was it hard raising him on your own?”
“Yes.” She looked up at him, her expression rueful. “Especially in the beginning. I was so tired. So terribly sleep-deprived.”
“Did you have anyone to help you?”
She shook her head. “No.”
“Not even your mother?”
“I haven’t seen her in years.”
Vittorio watched as she expertly juggled Joe on her hip and prepared a bottle. “So there never were any worries? He’s given you no fits? No scares?”
“I didn’t say that. I worried about him every single night. For the first six months of his life I woke again and again during the night to make sure he was safe, to make sure he was breathing. I was absolutely terrified that when I closed my eyes, something would happen to him.”
“You mean like SIDS?”
She nodded. “You probably think that’s silly.”
“Not at all.” He reached out a hand and held it over
Joe, as if bestowing a blessing. “One of my cousins lost his son to SIDS. It was devastating.”
“I can’t imagine anything more horrible,” she said, holding Joe closer.
“Neither can I.”
Jillian struggled to wrap her mind around such a tragedy. “Did your cousin have other children?”
“A little girl. She was almost three at the time.” Vittorio shook his head. “Christopher lost his life six months later. It was a very hard time in the family.”
Jillian shivered at the grim direction their conversation had taken even as Vitt’s words stirred a ghost of a memory.
Years ago a young Sicilian immigrant named Christopher had died in Detroit after her father accused him of double-crossing Detroit’s crime family. Christopher claimed he was innocent, without any connections to organized crime, but it didn’t save him. “How…how did he die?”
“He was shot.”
“Where…where did it happen?”
“In the States.”
“I know, but where?”
Vitt gave her a hard look. “Does it matter?”
She shook her head, but on the inside, she knew it did matter. It mattered too much.
“Were you serious about having us renew our vows in the d’Severano chapel?” she asked, suddenly desperate to change the subject.
“Yes.” He suddenly smiled. “Provided you don’t wear black again.”
She couldn’t resist his smile. “I won’t. I promise.”
“Good.” He stood there another moment, tall, broad, imposing, considering her. “I suppose that means we better get you a proper dress.”
“No—”
“Yes. If we’re going to do this again, we better do it right, which means making sure it’s the wedding every girl dreams of.”
He left them then, excusing himself to get some work done, and after he’d gone, Jillian gave Joe a bottle and then tucked him into his travel cot.
But after putting Joe to bed, she didn’t know what to do with herself. Was she supposed to join Vittorio? Was she supposed to stay here? What did one do when you were married but didn’t feel like a wife?
She ended up staying with Joe. After dimming the lights as much as she could, she curled up on the bed to watch him sleep.
