he prepared to shoot. His shot went as wide as her own.
He swung around to face her, his eyes narrowed, and Ana smiled sweetly. ‘I think you’d make an appropriate wife.’
‘Appropriate. What a romantic word.’
‘As I said,’ Vittorio said softly, ‘this is a matter of business.’
Ana lined up her own shot; before Vittorio could say anything else, she took it, banking his ball and missing the skittle by a centimetre. She’d been a fool to mention romance. ‘Indeed. And you see marriage as a matter of business?’
He paused. ‘Yes.’
‘And what about me is so appropriate?’ Ana asked. ‘Out of curiosity.’ Vittorio took his shot and knocked her ball cleanly into a skittle. Ana stifled a curse.
‘Everything.’
She let out an incredulous laugh. ‘Really, Vittorio, I am not such a paragon.’
‘You are from a well-known, respected family in this region, you have worked hard at your own winery business these last ten years, and you are loyal.’
‘And that is what you are looking for in a wife?’ Ana asked, her tone sharpening. ‘That is quite a list. Did you draw it up yourself?’ She took another shot, grateful that this time she knocked his ball into a skittle. They were even, at least in billiards.
Vittorio hesitated for only a fraction of a second. ‘I know what I want.’
She had to ask it; she had to know. She kept her voice light, even dismissive. ‘You are not interested in love, I suppose?’
‘No.’ He paused. ‘Are you?’
Ana watched as he stilled, his head cocked to one side, his dark eyes narrowed and intent as he waited for her answer. What a strange question, she thought distantly. Weren’t most people interested in love?
Yet, even as she asked the question, she knew the answer for herself. She was not—could not—be interested in love, the love of a man, romantic, sexual. She’d tried it once and had felt only failure and shame—both feelings had taken years to forget, and even now she remembered the way they’d roiled through her, Roberto’s horrified look…
No. Love—that kind of love—Ana had long ago accepted, was a luxury she could neither afford nor access. Yet did she want it? Crave it? Need it? Ana knew the answer to that question as well. No, she did not. The risk was simply too great, and the possibility—the hope—too small. ‘No,’ she said coolly. She leaned over for her next shot, determined to focus completely on the game. ‘I’m not.’
‘Good.’
She took the shot and straightened. ‘I thought you’d say that.’
‘It makes it so much easier.’
‘Easier?’ she repeated, and heard the sardonic note in her voice. When had she become so cynical? From the moment Vittorio had proposed a marriage of convenience, or before? Long before?
‘Some women,’ Vittorio said carefully, ‘would not accept the idea of a marriage based on common principles—’
‘Based on business, you mean.’
‘Yes,’ Vittorio said after a moment, ‘but you must realize that I mean this to be a true marriage.’ He paused. ‘A proper marriage, a marriage in every sense of the word.’
Naïve virgin she may be, but Ana still knew what Vittorio was talking about. She could imagine it all too easily. Or almost. She closed her eyes briefly, but if she wanted to banish the image, she failed. It came back clearly, emblazoned on her brain. An antique four-poster, piled high with pillows and cushions. Vittorio, naked, tangled in sheets. Magnificent. Hers.
Ana turned back to the billiards table. ‘So,’ she said, blindly lining up a shot, ‘you mean sex.’ She didn’t—couldn’t—look at him, even as she kept her voice nonchalant. She missed her shot entirely.
‘Yes.’ Vittorio sounded completely unmoved. ‘I’d like children. Heirs.’
‘Is that really why you’re marrying?’
He hesitated for only a second. ‘The main reason,’ he allowed and Ana felt a ripple of disappointment, although she hardly knew why. Of course a man like Vittorio wanted children, would marry for an heir. Heirs. He was a count; he had a title, a castle, a business, all to pass on to his child. A hoped-for son, no doubt. Her son. The thought sliced through her, shocking her, not an altogether unpleasant feeling. Vittorio arched his brows. ‘Do you want children, Ana?’
There was something intimate about the question, especially when he spoke in that low, husky tone that made her insides ripple and her toes curl. She’d never expected to have such a fierce, primal reaction to him. It was instinctive and sensual, and it scared her. She turned away.
‘Yes, I suppose.’
‘You only suppose?’
‘I never thought to have children,’ she admitted