“Put the ring on my finger,” he growled.
His ring, white gold inlaid with three rows of diamonds, had been chosen by Vico also. She’d wanted nothing to do with it. Actually, she’d been surprised this playboy even wanted something that screamed commitment on his hand.
She plucked the ring from his best man’s palm and shoved it onto his long finger.
“You may kiss the bride.” The priest sounded happy to be done with this ceremony.
Her new husband’s hand landed on her arm and pulled her around as if she were his doll. Lise kept her gaze pinned to the center of his chest, the striped grey-and-green tie matching the steel-grey morning coat she’d thought romantic some long ago day as she’d ripped the picture out of another magazine.
Kissing. She didn’t remember any kissing from the one night that had changed her life forever. She didn’t want to kiss him.
Perhaps if she didn’t kiss him, this ceremony wouldn’t count?
A blunt male finger slipped under her chin and nudged.
Closing her eyes, she forced her lips to rise to his. She wouldn’t look at him and then this would fade into unreality and she could dream her way back to when she had control of her life and control of herself.
His mouth, a mouth she didn’t remember, was soft, so soft. The mouth moved across her lips, no tongue, only soft, soft…yearning.
Her eyes popped open to meet his.
Tiger eyes gazed at her, misty and hazy…with what?
He leaned back and away.
“May I present to you, Mr. and Mrs. Vico and Lise Mattare.”
His eyes snapped into his usual sharp, cutting gaze and his mouth, his soft, soft mouth gave her a hard, hard smile.
He’d won again.
* * *
Married. Quite, quite married.
Lise kept trying to slip into a numb state, allowing her to ignore what had just happened. However, it was impossible.
Her new husband, a man who couldn’t be ignored, sat beside her at the center table in a sea of tables covering the Claridge's legendary ballroom. Late afternoon sunlight splashed from the long windows and sparkled back from the floor-to-ceiling mirrors. Tall baskets of white gardenias mixed with pale pink roses and evergreen stood sentinel along the walls, scenting the air with their perfume. The clink of silver and china blended with the chatter of the guests as they sipped expensive wine and nibbled on the antipasto salad before them.
Precisely as she’d dreamed.
How did he know all this?
A sudden burn to know the answer swept inside her. She turned his way in time to see him smile at his sister across the table, white teeth glinting in the sunlight. Before she could rip her question at him, he flipped his long hair over his shoulder with a careless, casual gesture causing her breath to hitch.
Something curled in her stomach. Not sickness. No, something hot. Something she’d banished to her dreams months ago and had thought, after all the horrific happenings in the past month, it was gone for good. Yet here it was again. A stealthy, silent want.
Her hands tightened into fists in her lap.
He would not win this battle.
The tuxedoed waiters swooped in, an elegant line of servants gracefully exchanging one course with another. Soup replacing the salad course. One of seven courses. In this one area, he'd deviated from her wedding dream list. She’d imagined a buffet filled with petit fours and cucumber sandwiches. The plan he’d laid out for her several weeks ago listed a seven-course, sit-down meal featuring a range of Italian delicacies. His family would expect it, he’d said.
His family.
All one thousand of them.
All surrounding them in a sea of boisterous, exuberant Italians. Vico Mattare was quite possibly related to every Italian alive and kicking on the planet.
The clatter of dishes mixed with the chatter of an excited crowd. Enjoying a very expensive, lavish party. Celebrating a harmonious union between two people in love.
He’d been adamant. She must pretend.
He’d been clear. She must go along.
He’d been inflexible. She must play the game.
Happy bride. Loving wife. Ecstatic lover.
Right through the prelude to the wedding. At the wedding. At the reception. Concealing his treachery from his oblivious family. Deceiving her delighted staff into believing this wretched situation was what she wanted. Keeping her agitated thoughts and ugly emotions to herself.
She grabbed her water glass and sipped. The cool water ran down her hot throat doing nothing to dampen the burn of her awareness of him and the anger she felt towards him.
“Thirsty?” he murmured. “You have some color in your cheeks all of a sudden.”
Another sip. Her mouth felt as dry as a parched desert.
“I wonder what you are thinking?” His words licked with a wicked tease.