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Wife By Force(11)

By:Caro LaFever


There is nothing going on between your brother and me.

Maybe she should have it tattooed on her forehead.

He strode to the pew and stepped beside her.

"Manipulative jerk," she muttered.

One dark brow lifted, but his face stayed completely neutral.

As one, the congregation sat. The rustle of silk dresses as the women   seated themselves, the cry of a Casartelli baby as his mother settled   him in her arms, the shuffle of leather-clad feet on the stone floor   filled the church. The groom and bride moved forward to the priest.

The heat of his body simmered next to her, down the measure of her arm,   the length of her leg. His distinctive smell encircled her.

Her heartbeat increased. "Why are you here?"

"I am attending my sister's wedding."

His wry tone stirred her annoyance even more. "I mean, beside me."

"This is where my seat is."

"You arranged this."

"Si," he admitted, his voice calm. "I arrange many things."

"I don't want to sit here beside you."

He glanced at her then, his black eyes veiled by long lashes. "Really?"

"Sssshhh," Dani hissed. "You lovebirds can talk later."

Frustration rushed through her. She was stifled, entrapped, not only by   him, but by his family and their growing expectations. The curious   glances, the slight smiles, the knowing looks between the sisters.         

     



 

"Where is your father?" he said out of the side of his mouth.

"What do you mean?" she whispered back, sarcasm rolling on her tongue.   "I assumed you were the one who arranged for him to be absent."

He sighed but said nothing.

The traditional mass proceeded, yet she barely heard a word. Much to her   disgust, her entire focus was on the man beside her. With unwilling   interest, she focused on his hands. Large, broad palms, long, elegant   fingers draped over thick, muscled thighs.

Her skin heated.

He shifted slightly, easing his feet out and the scent and heat of him   circled her, like a silken web, pulling her body towards him.

She stiffened and moved an inch away from him.

He looked at her. The gaze, the searching black eyes.

The awareness between them.

But he embraced it. She rejected it.

His hand smoothed down his leg and the muscles of his thigh tightened,   then eased as he slid further back on the bench. An ache of desire   bloomed inside her and she wrestled with the instinct to smooth her own   hand down the long length of him.

"Blushing?" A deep voice rumbled beside her. "What could you be thinking of, bella?"

With grim determination, she focused on the ceremony. Her attention was   eventually caught by the priest's calm voice, his slow delivery   emphasizing the words of commitment and devotion. The young couple   standing before him were so young and hopeful, so in love. The groom   stared at the bride as if she were the center of his universe and the   bride gave him a smile of pure joy.

Had she ever been that naïve? Had she ever believed in love as much as this couple did?

The sudden tears blurring her vision surprised her. She thought she'd   cried every last tear she had over the past few years. Tears of regret   and resentment. Tears of fear and frustration. However, this ceremony   brought back the memories of what she'd once innocently dreamed of.   Dreams dashed long ago by the man sitting beside her.

A white handkerchief floated in front of her, held in a strong male hand.

"Thank you." Making sure not to touch him, she grabbed the cloth and dabbed at her tears.

"Non c'è problema."

No problem? She was afraid he was determined to become her very big problem.

The shattering of glass drew her focus to the altar once more. The good   luck tradition signaled the end of the ceremony. The bride and groom   kissed and turned, faces beaming with accomplishment and pride. She   hoped, for both of them, their marriage would be a better journey than   hers had been.

Everyone stood as the couple passed, and the swell of congratulations   and good wishes followed them as they marched down the aisle and out   into the Italian sunshine.

Lara glanced at the man standing beside her. He was so tall. She was not   a short woman, but he towered above her. And he was so large, his   shoulders wide and muscled beneath the sleek smoothness of his tux. The   gangly teenager she'd loved was completely gone, in every way.   Bittersweet wistfulness swirled inside her.

The man's mouth was grim.

Another difference from the teenager who'd often grinned.

"I thought you liked Sandro."

His gaze snapped to her face. "I do."

"Then why do you look like you're attending your sister's funeral instead of her wedding?"

"I am not thinking of my sister at this moment."

She frowned. "What could possibly be wrong?"

"The ceremony." He slipped his hands into his pockets. "It upset you."

He was worried about her? A brilliant joy jumped in her heart, but she   immediately beat it down. Once upon a time, she thought he cared and   notice where that had landed her. She glanced away from him, grabbing   for composure. "No, it didn't."

"Si, it did." His voice turned arctic. "The memory of your husband is still fresh. Still painful."

Startled, she gaped at him. His olive skin appeared strangely pale. "You have it all-"

"He is dead." His words were clipped and taut. "He is out of your life."

A choked laughter escaped her. Before she thought, she spoke. "Thank God."

He froze beside her and a sudden stillness descended. The crowd around   them seemed to drop away and it was only the two of them. His black eyes   held hers, penetrating into her deepest secrets.

No, no. She wouldn't let him in. Wouldn't give him any more clues to her   past. How foolish to give him even one small piece of knowledge. She   pinned her gaze on the smiling priest who was congratulating Carlotta's   in-laws. "I don't know why I cried, but it has nothing to do with my   marriage."

"Ah." He paused as if mulling her statement over in his mind. "So you   are saying it was merely a woman's customary practice of crying at   weddings that caused you to break down."         

     



 

"I did not break down." Exasperation twisted in her words. "And obviously, you would think only women cry at weddings."

"You should be glad I did not weep, as you seem to think a man should,"   he said. "Or I would not have had the opportunity to offer you my   handkerchief."

She didn't remember this sardonic humor. As a boy, he'd been more   inclined to funny jokes and amusing pranks. The changes in him continued   to disconcert her. And distress her in an odd way she couldn't  explain.

She forced herself to meet his gaze. The black eyes still questioned,   still searched. He would find nothing. After long years, she'd learned   how to hide her emotions. She wouldn't look away, wouldn't give him the   satisfaction. Instead, she let herself focus on his harsh face, all   angles and cuts, the only touch of softness in the long lashes and the   slight dip of his lower lip. She found it hard to imagine this cool,   contained man kissing her. Hard to imagine his mouth on hers, the   desperate passion, the powerful calling.

How could two such contrasting impulses reside in the same man?

His eyes turned into hot velvet darkness.

Instantly, hopelessly, she could imagine.

A bridesmaid and groomsman laughed as they passed in the aisle, and she   welcomed the distraction. Tearing her focus from him, she glanced at  the  cloth in her hand. "I'll get this back to you after I've washed  it."

"I believe I will survive without it." His voice was low, slightly rough. "You can have it as a keepsake."

The arrogant statement caused her eyes to jerk to his. "Why would I want a keepsake from you?"

"I remember you keeping many keepsakes of our time together." His gaze   was alive now with memories. Their memories. "A shell from the sea I   found for you. A ribbon I bought for your hair. The special gold leaf   from our garden-"

She took in a shaken breath. "I destroyed all of those long ago."

"Destroyed." His tone cooled. "Ah."

His family rustled around them, collecting purses and bibles and   children. He stepped out of the pew and his laser stare landed on his   mother, who appeared overcome with emotion. Turning to his brother, he   waved him over. She immediately felt as if he'd released her from some   bondage. The relief was palpable. She grabbed her purse and stepped into   the crowd moving toward the door.

"Ferma." Dante's hard hand landed on her elbow. "You will walk with the family."

Irritation smoldered inside her. "Let me go."