The Bride's Awakening - By Kate Hewitt Page 0,2

voice pitched low and smooth, ‘among beautiful women.’

She snorted. She actually snorted. Vittorio revised his opinion; the woman was not like a man, but a horse. ‘You have learned honeyed words on your trips abroad,’ she said shortly. ‘They are far too sweet.’ And, with a faintly mocking smile, she turned and walked away from him as if he were of no importance at all. She left him.

Vittorio stood there in soundless shock, his fury rising. He’d been summarily dismissed, and he, along with the little knot of spectators around him, was conscious of it. He felt the stares, saw a few smug smiles, and knew he’d been put properly in his place, as if he were a naughty schoolboy being disciplined by a mocking schoolmarm. It was a feeling he remembered from childhood, and he did not like it.

Standing there, Vittorio could not escape the glaringly—and embarrassingly—obvious conclusion: as far as opening gambits went, his had been an utter failure.

He’d been planning to ask her to marry him, if not tonight, then certainly in the next few days. When he decided a thing—even to marry—he wanted it done. Completed. Over. He had no time or patience for finer emotions, and frankly he’d considered the wooing of such a woman to be an easy exercise, a mere dispensing of charm, a few carefully chosen compliments.

After reading the article about her—and seeing her photo—he’d assumed she would be grateful for whatever attention she received. She was unmarried and nearing thirty; his proposal would be, he’d thought, a gift. Maybe even a miracle.

Perhaps he had been arrogant, or at least hasty. The wooing and winning of Anamaria Viale would take a little more thought.

Vittorio smiled. He liked challenges. Admittedly, time was of the essence; he was thirty-seven and he needed a wife. An heir. Yet surely he had a week—or two—to entice Anamaria into marriage? He wasn’t interested in making the woman fall in love with him, far from it. He simply wanted her to accept what was a very basic business proposition. She was the candidate he’d chosen, the most suitable one he could find, and he wasn’t interested in any others. Anamaria Viale would be his.

Still, Vittorio realized, he’d acted like a fool. He was annoyed with himself for thinking a woman—any woman—could be charmed so thoughtlessly. It was a tactical error, and one he would not make again. The next time he met Anamaria Viale, she would smile at him because she couldn’t help herself; she would hang on his every word. The next time he met her, it would be on his terms.

Anamaria made sure she didn’t look back as she walked away from the Count of Cazlevara. Arrogant ass. Why on earth had he approached her? Although they were virtually neighbours, she hadn’t seen him in at least a decade. He hadn’t had more than two words for her in the handful of times she had seen him, and yet now he’d expressly sought her out at tonight’s tasting, had looked for her and given her those ridiculous compliments.

Beautiful women. She was not one of them, and she knew it. She never would be. She’d been told enough. She was too tall, too big-boned, too mannish. Her voice was too loud, her hands and feet too big; everything about her was awkward and unappealing to men like Vittorio, who had models and starlets and bored socialites on his arm. She’d seen the photos in the tabloids, although she pretended not to know. Not even to look. She did, on occasion anyway, because she was curious. And not just curious, but jealous, if she were honest with herself, which Anamaria always tried to be. She was jealous of those tiny, silly slips of women—women she’d gone to school with, women who had no use for her—who could wear the skimpy and sultry clothes she never could, who revelled in their own femininity while she plodded along, clumsy and cloddish. And Vittorio knew it. In the split second before she’d spoken, she’d seen the look in his eyes. Disdain, verging on disgust.

She knew that look; she’d seen it in Roberto’s eyes when she’d tried to make him love her. Desire her. He hadn’t. She’d seen it in other men’s eyes as well; she was not what men thought of—or liked to think of—when they considered a woman. A pretty woman, a desirable one.

She’d become used to it, armoured herself with trouser suits and a practical, no-nonsense attitude, the best