gasping, the aftershocks of exquisite sensation still rocking her, and he smiled rather coolly. ‘See, Ana?’ he said, reaching behind her to open the front door of the castle; a cool breeze blew over her heated body. ‘I think you know me well enough.’
Vittorio waited until Ana was safely in her car, making her way down the curving drive, before he let out a long, low shudder.
He had not expected that. He’d been planning to seduce Ana, to sweep away her doubts with a kiss—or two. Instead, she’d kissed him. He’d been shocked by her audacity as well as his response. For, in that kiss, he’d realized that Ana was more than this thing he wanted, this possession he meant to acquire, his goal achieved. Wife.
She was a person, a being with hopes and needs and oh, yes, desires—and, even as he’d sent his little gifts and said the right words and kissed her, he’d somehow managed to forget this fact. Had he ever really known it?
Why he should realize that when she’d been kissing him, pressing against him, stirring him to a sudden desperate lust, he had no idea. He wished he hadn’t realized; it was easier not to know, or at least to pretend not to know.
To hold someone’s happiness in your hand, to take responsibility for her life—
It was monumental. Frightening, too.
‘Why, Vittorio?’
Vittorio stilled, his mother’s accusing voice ringing in his ears. He turned slowly, his gaze sweeping over her in one dismissive glance. She stood poised on the bottom step of the ornate marble staircase—a nineteenth-century addition to the castle—her eyes blazing blue fire and her mouth twisted into a contemptuous sneer. It was an expression he’d become accustomed to.
‘Why what, Mother?’ he asked, his words holding only a veneer of icy politeness.
‘Why are you marrying that poor girl?’
Vittorio’s eyes narrowed. ‘I don’t appreciate the way you refer to my bride. There is nothing poor about Ana.’
Constantia let out a crow of disbelieving laughter. ‘Come, Vittorio! I know the women you’ve taken to your bed. I’ve seen them in the tabloids. They would eat Anamaria Viale alive.’
He just kept himself from flinching. ‘They will never have the opportunity.’
‘No?’ Constantia took a step towards him, incredulity lacing the single word. ‘You think not? And how will you manage that, my son? Will you keep your precious wife locked away in a glass case? Because, I assure you, that is not a pleasant place to be.’
‘I have no intention of putting Ana anywhere,’ Vittorio said flatly, ‘that she does not wish to be.’
‘She loves you,’ Constantia said after a moment. Her voice was quiet. ‘Or at least she could.’
Vittorio’s jaw tightened. ‘That is no concern of yours, Mother.’
‘Isn’t it?’ Constantia lifted her chin, her expression challenging and obdurate. ‘Do you know how it feels to love someone and never have them love you back? Do you know what that can drive you to think, to do?’ Her voice rang out, raw and ragged, and Vittorio narrowed his eyes. Her words—her tone—made no sense to him; was her obvious distress another ploy?
‘What are you talking about?’
Constantia pressed her lips together and shook her head. ‘Why are you going to marry her, Vittorio? Is it simply to spite me?’
‘You give yourself too much credit.’
‘You had no interest in marriage until I spoke of it.’
Vittorio lifted one shoulder in a careless shrug. ‘You simply reminded me to do my duty as Count of Cazlevara and CEO of Cazlevara Wines,’ he said. ‘It is my duty to provide an heir.’
‘So Bernardo cannot take your place,’ she finished flatly.
Vittorio’s eyes narrowed. She didn’t even hide her true ambition, but then she never had. ‘Every man wants a son.’
‘Why her?’ Constantia demanded. ‘Why marry a woman you could not love?’
‘I’m not interested in love, Mother.’
‘Just like your father, then,’ she spat, and again Vittorio felt a confused lurch of unease which he forced himself to dismiss.
‘I’m finished with this conversation,’ he said shortly and he turned away, walking quickly from the room. It was only later, when he was preparing for bed, that he remembered and reflected on his mother’s words. She’d called Ana a woman he could not love, as if such a thing—to love Ana—was an impossibility.
His hands stilling on the buttons of his shirt, Vittorio wondered if his mother spoke the truth. He’d never wanted to love, that was true; was he even capable of it?
Chapter Seven
TODAY was her wedding day. Ana stared at her reflection in her bedroom mirror and