The Bride's Awakening - By Kate Hewitt Page 0,24

for hard liquor at all. If she hadn’t had that whisky, she wouldn’t have kissed him, wouldn’t have let him kiss her. Wouldn’t now be wondering about all the possibilities—all the hopes—that kiss had given her, her body awakened to its natural longings, her soul singing with sudden, fierce joy—

Quickly, Ana swung out of bed and dressed. She strode downstairs, determined to put the thoughts and, more importantly, the treacherous desires Vittorio Cazlevara created within her out of her mind completely, at least for a morning. They were too seductive, too dangerous, too much.

She stopped short when she saw her father in the dining room, eating toast and kippers. Her English mother, Emily, had insisted on a full English breakfast every day and, sixteen years after her death, Enrico still continued the tradition.

‘Good morning!’ he called brightly. ‘You were out late last night. I waited up until eleven.’

‘You shouldn’t have.’ Almost reluctantly, Ana came into the dining room, dropping her usual kiss on her father’s head. She wasn’t ready to talk to her father, to ask him how much he knew. She remembered his lack of surprise at Vittorio’s return, or the fact that he’d asked her out to dinner. Had he known—could he possibly have imagined—just what the business proposition was? The thought sent something strange and alarming coursing through Ana’s blood. She didn’t know whether it was fear or joy, or something in between. Had Vittorio asked her father for his blessing? How long had he been planning this?

‘Come, have some breakfast. The kippers are especially good this morning.’

Ana made a face as she grabbed a roll from the sideboard and poured herself a coffee from the porcelain pot left on the table. ‘You know I can’t abide kippers.’

‘But they’re so delicious,’ Enrico said with a smile, and ate one.

Ana sat down opposite him, sipping her coffee even though it was too hot. ‘I can only stay a moment,’ she warned. ‘I need to go down to the offices.’

‘But Ana! It’s Saturday.’

Ana shrugged; she often worked on Saturdays, especially in the busy growing season. ‘The grapes don’t stop for anyone, Papà.’

‘How was your dinner with Vittorio?’

‘Interesting.’

‘He wanted to discuss business?’ Enrico asked in far too neutral a tone.

Ana looked at him directly, daring him to be dishonest. ‘Papà, did Vittorio speak to you about this—this business proposition of his?’

Enrico looked down, shredding a kipper onto his plate with the tines of his fork. ‘Perhaps,’ he said very quietly.

Ana didn’t know whether to be disappointed or relieved or, even, strangely flattered. She felt a confusing welter of emotions, so she could only shake her head and ask with genuine curiosity, ‘And what did you think of it?’

‘I was surprised, at first.’ He looked up, smiling wryly, although his eyes were serious. ‘As I imagine you were.’

‘Completely.’ The single word was heartfelt.

‘But then I thought about it—and Vittorio showed me the advantages—’

‘What advantages?’ What could Vittorio have said to convince her father that he should allow his daughter to marry him as a matter of convenience? For surely, Ana knew now, her father was convinced.

‘Many, Ana. Stability, security.’

‘I have those—’

‘Children. Companionship.’ He paused and then said softly, ‘Happiness.’

‘You think Vittorio Cazlevara could make me happy?’ Ana asked. She didn’t sound sceptical; she felt genuinely curious. She wanted to know. Could he make her happy? Why was she thinking this way? She’d been happy…Yet at that moment Ana couldn’t pretend she didn’t want more, that she didn’t want the things her father had mentioned. Children. A home of her own. To kiss Vittorio again, to taste him…

Some last bastion of common sense must have remained for she burst out suddenly, ‘We’re talking about marriage, Papà.’ Her voice broke on the word. ‘A life commitment. Not some…some sort of transaction.’ Even if Vittorio had presented it as such.

‘What is your objection?’ Enrico asked, his fingertips pressed together, his head cocked to one side. He’d always been a logical man; some would call him unemotional. Even after the death of his beloved wife, his calm exterior had barely cracked.

Ana remembered the one time he’d truly shown his grief, rocking and keening on Emily’s bedroom floor; as a girl, the sudden, uncontrollable display of emotion had shocked her. He’d closed her off from it, slammed the door and then, with a far worse finality, shut himself off from her rather than let his daughter see him in such a state of emotional weakness. The separation at such a crucial time had devastated her.

It had