The Bride's Awakening (14 page)

His temper finally frayed. ‘Because she is my
wife
.’ And he wanted to know where she was, he wanted to see her now, to feel her smile, her sweetness—

‘A wife you won’t love.’

Vittorio stiffened. ‘That is no concern of—’

‘Isn’t it?’ She stepped closer and he saw the anger in her eyes, as well as something else. Something that looked strangely like sorrow. It was unfamiliar. He was used to his mother angry, but sad—?

‘You don’t know what it is like to love someone, Vittorio, who will never love you back—’

He laughed in disbelief; he couldn’t help it. ‘Don’t I?’

Constantia looked utterly nonplussed. ‘No—’

He shook his head, too weary to explain. ‘Do you know where Ana is?’

‘You will bring heartache to that girl. You will destroy her—’

Vittorio tensed, steeling himself once more, but this time he couldn’t.
Love is a destructive emotion.
The thought of bringing such pain and misery to Ana made his head bow, his shoulders shake. ‘Why do you care?’ he asked in a low, savage voice.

‘She is a good woman, Vittorio.’

‘Too good for me, obviously.’

Constantia sighed impatiently. ‘I have made many mistakes with you, I know. I have many regrets. But this marriage—it can only lead to more despair. And surely our family has had enough unhappiness?’

She was pleading with him, as if their family’s misery was his fault? Vittorio turned around, his body rigid with rage. ‘On that point we agree, Mother. Yet it seems odd that the instrument of so much unhappiness should then seek to end it.’

Constantia blinked as if she’d been struck. ‘I know you blame me—’

‘Blame you?’ Vittorio repeated silkily. ‘Are you referring to your attempt to take my inheritance, my father only
hours
in the grave? Your desperate desire to drag the family into the law courts and give my brother my title?’

Constantia straightened and met his hostile gaze directly. ‘Yes, Vittorio, I am referring to that. God knows you will never let me forget it.’

‘One hardly forgets the dagger thrust between one’s shoulders,’ Vittorio returned, every word encased in ice. He still remembered how he had reeled with shock; he’d come back from his father’s funeral, devastated by grief, only to find that in his absence his mother had met a solicitor and attempted to overturn the contents of his father’s will, disinheriting him completely and giving everything to Bernardo. All the childhood slights had led to that one brutal moment, when he’d understood with stark clarity that his mother didn’t just dislike him, she
despised
him. She’d do anything to keep him from inheriting what was rightfully his.

He would never forget. He couldn’t.

‘No,’ Constantia agreed softly, her eyes glittering, ‘one does not forget. And I will tell you, Vittorio, that for a woman to be denied love—by her own husband—is not a dagger between the shoulders, but one straight to the heart. For your wife’s sake, if not my own, do not hurt her.’

‘Such pretty words,’ Vittorio scoffed. The rage had left him, making him feel only weary. ‘You have come to care for my wife then, Mother?’

‘I know how she feels,’ Constantia said bleakly and, with one last shake of her head, she left the room.

Her words rang in his ears, and yet Vittorio still made himself dismiss them.
I know how she feels.
Was his mother implying she’d loved his father? To Vittorio’s young eyes, his parents had agreed on a polite marriage of convenience. Just like the one he’d meant to have. Yet his parents’ marriage had descended into anger and even hatred, and at the thought of that happening to him—to Ana—Vittorio swore aloud. All the old feelings, hurt memories, had been raked up tonight and Vittorio knew why.

Ana.

Somehow she’d affected him, touched him in a way he had never been touched. Made him open and exposed and, more than that, she made him want. Made him need.

Love.

He swore again.

‘Vittorio?’

He whirled around. Ana stood in the doorway, her face nearly as white as her lace gown.

‘How much did you hear?’ he asked, his tone brusque, brutal.

Ana flinched. ‘Enough. Too much.’

‘I told you my family’s history was not worth repeating,’ Vittorio replied with a shrug. He moved to the drinks table and poured himself a whisky.

‘Don’t—’ Ana said inadvertently and he turned around, one eyebrow arched.

‘I’m having a
drink
, Ana,’ he said, the words a taunt. ‘Whisky. Your favourite. Don’t you want to join me?’

‘No. Vittorio, I want to talk.’

He took a healthy swallow and let the alcohol burn straight to his gut. ‘Go ahead.’

Ana flinched again. Vittorio knew he was being callous, even cruel, but he couldn’t help it. The exchange with his mother, the emerging feelings for Ana—it all left him feeling so exposed. Vulnerable.

Afraid.

He hated it.

Turning away from her, he kept his voice a bored drawl. ‘So what do you want to talk about?’

Ana watched her husband as he gazed out of the window, affecting an air of bored indifference, yet she knew better now. He was hurting. She didn’t understand everything he’d referred to in his conversation with Constantia, didn’t know the source of all the pain, but she did know her marriage had no chance if Vittorio was going to remain mired in his painful past.

‘Tell me what went wrong,’ she said quietly.

Vittorio must not have been expecting that, for he bowed his head suddenly, his fingers clenched around his whisky glass.

‘Everything,’ he finally said in a low voice. ‘Everything went wrong.’

Cautiously Ana approached him, laid a hand on his shoulder. ‘Oh, Vittorio—’

He jerked away. ‘Don’t pity me. I could not stand that.’

‘I just want to understand—’

‘It’s simple, Ana.’ He turned to face her, his expression hard and implacable once more. ‘My mother didn’t love me. What a
sad story, eh? Pathetic, no? A thirty-seven-year-old man whingeing on about his mean
mamma
.’

‘There’s more to it than that,’ Ana said quietly.

‘Oh, a few trite details.’ He gave a negligent shrug and drained his glass. ‘You see, my parents hated each other. Perhaps there was once love or at least affection, but not so I could remember. By the time Bernardo came along, the battle lines were drawn. I belonged to my father and Bernardo was my mother’s.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Simple. My father had no time or patience for Bernardo, and my mother had none for me. They used us like weapons. And my father was a good man, he trained me well—’

‘But he was a hard man,’ Ana interjected, remembering.

Vittorio glanced at her sharply. ‘Who told you that?’

‘My father. He said Arturo was a good man, but without mercy.’

Vittorio let out a little breath of sound; Ana wasn’t sure if it was a laugh or something else. Perhaps even a sob. ‘Perhaps that is true. But he knew I was to inherit, and he wanted to train me up for the role—’

Ana could just imagine what that must have felt like, especially if Bernardo was not receiving the same harsh treatment. ‘And Bernardo?’ she asked softly.

‘My mother lavished all her love on him. He was like a spoilt poodle.’

Ana flinched at the contempt in his voice. Surely being spoiled was just as bad as being disciplined, just in a different way. ‘It sounds like both of you had difficult childhoods.’

‘Both of us?’ Vittorio repeated in disbelief, then shrugged. ‘Maybe.’ He sounded bored, and Ana clung to her belief that it was merely a cover for the true, deeper emotions he was too afraid to expose.

She knew all about being vulnerable. Physically and emotionally. Even wearing this dress—opening herself to scorn—made
her feel exposed, as exposed as Vittorio did raking through his unhappy childhood. No one liked to talk about such dark memories, admit how they hurt.

‘What happened when your father died?’ Ana asked.

‘My mother did what she’d undoubtedly been planning to do ever since Bernardo was born. She went to court to have his will overturned—and Bernardo made heir.’

Ana gasped. Even though she’d suspected as much, it still surprised her. Why would Constantia do such a vindictive thing? Yet, even as she asked the question, Ana thought she knew the answer. Hadn’t Constantia explained it herself?
You would be amazed to know the things you can be driven to…when you feel like that.
And then, her words tonight:
You’re just like your father.
Had she transferred all the bitterness and anger she’d felt towards her husband to her son? It seemed perfectly possible, and unbearably sad.

‘Oh, Vittorio,’ Ana whispered. ‘I am sorry.’

‘Well, don’t be,’ he replied, his voice turning harsh again. ‘She didn’t have a prayer of succeeding. My father was too smart for that. Perhaps he suspected what she was up to, what she could be capable of. His will remained intact, and Bernardo didn’t inherit a single
lira.
’

Ana gasped again. ‘Not…anything?’

‘No, and rightly so. He would have squandered it all.’

‘But then,’ Ana said slowly, realization dawning, ‘he lives here only on your sufferance. Doesn’t he work at the winery?’

Vittorio shrugged. ‘I let him work as the assistant manager.’

‘You let him,’ Ana repeated. ‘As an assistant.’

‘Are you saying it is not enough?’ Vittorio demanded raggedly. ‘This brother who would have taken everything from me? Do you think he would have been so merciful?’

Ana shook her head. ‘But if your mother attempted all this with the will when your father died, you were only—’

‘Fourteen.’

‘And Bernardo was a child—nine or ten at the most—’

‘Ten,’ Vittorio confirmed flatly. Anger sparked in his eyes; his face had become hard again, a stranger’s. ‘Are you taking his side, Ana? Don’t you remember what I told you, what I warned you about?’

His tone was so dangerous, so icy, that Ana could only blink in confusion, her mind whirling with all these revelations. ‘What—?’

Vittorio closed the space between them, circling her wrist with his hands, drawing her to him. The movement was not one of seduction, but possession, and Ana came up hard against his chest. ‘Loyalty, Ana. I told you those closest to me would try to discredit me. You swore you would be loyal to me—’

She could hardly believe he was bringing up loyalty now. This was his
family.
‘Vittorio, I am simply trying to understand—’

‘Maybe I don’t want you to understand,’ Vittorio said harshly. ‘Maybe if you understood—’ He stopped, shaking his head, a look of what almost seemed like fear flashing across his face before he muttered an oath and then, with a sudden groan, claimed her mouth in a kiss.

It wasn’t a kiss, Ana thought distantly, so much as a brand. He was punishing her for her curiosity and reminding her of her vow. And, in that kiss she felt all his anger, his hurt and even his fear. And despite her own answering anger—that he would kiss her this way—she felt the traitorous flicker of her own desire and she pressed against him, let her hands tangle in his hair, wanting to change this angry embrace into something healing and
good
—

‘No!’ With a bellow of disgust, Vittorio pushed her away. Ana stumbled and reached out to steady herself; both of them were gasping as if they’d run a race. And lost.

‘Vittorio—’

‘No,’ he said again. He raked a hand through his hair, let out a ragged sob. ‘Not like this. God help me, I never wanted this.’

‘But—’

‘I told you,’ he said in a low voice, ‘love is a destructive emotion.’

Ana shook her head, wanting to deny what he said, wanting to fight—and wondering if he was actually telling her, in a terribly twisted way, that he loved her.

Was this love? This confusion and sorrow and pain?

No wonder they’d both agreed to live without it.

‘It doesn’t have to be destructive,’ Ana said quietly but, his back now to her, Vittorio just shook his head.

‘With me,’ he said in a voice so low Ana strained to hear, ‘it is.’ He let out a shuddering sigh. ‘Leave me, Ana. Just leave me.’

Ana stood there uncertainly, knowing to slink away now was surely the worst thing to do. ‘No,’ she said finally. ‘I don’t want to.’

Vittorio swung around, incredulous. ‘What—’

‘We’re married, Vittorio. I’m not going to run away like some frightened child.’ He flinched, and she raised her chin. ‘And I’m not going to sleep alone tonight, either. I’m your wife and I belong in your bed.’

Vittorio’s disbelief turned to disdain.
‘Now—’

She stepped closer to him, reached out with one hand to touch his lapel. ‘Just hold me, Vittorio.’ She saw his mouth tremble and she touched his lips. ‘And let me hold you. And maybe, together, for a few moments, we can forget all this bitterness and pain.’

Vittorio shook his head slowly and Ana’s heart sank. She’d thought she’d reached him, managed to get past the barrier he’d constructed to keep her—and anyone important—out. She could not bear his rejection now, not when she’d made herself so vulnerable, so exposed—just as he had—

Then, to her amazement and joy, he slowly reached for her hand, lacing his fingers tightly with hers, and silently, accepting, he led her from the darkened room.

A
NA
woke to sunlight. Even better, warming her deep inside, she woke with Vittorio’s arm around her, her head nestled against his shoulder. She breathed in the scent of his skin, loving it, loving him.

Yes, she loved him. It seemed so obvious, so simple, in the clean, healing light of day. Yes, love was confusing and scary and full of sorrow and pain; it was
love
. Opening your heart and your body and even your soul to another person. Risking everything, your own health and happiness and well-being. And yet gaining so much.

Maybe.

She pulled away from Vittorio a little so she could look at him; he remained asleep, his features softened, almost gentle in repose. She touched the dark stubble on his chin, felt her heart twist painfully. Yes, love hurt.

This love hurt—for, if she loved him, she had no idea if he loved her.

Love is a destructive emotion.

She was starting to understand why he believed such a thing. Constantia’s love for her husband had been destructive, her unhappiness and despair leading her to unhealthy relationships with both of her sons. And, as the one who felt unloved by his
mother—and harshly loved, no doubt, by his father—Ana could almost understand why Vittorio wanted no more of it.

My love wouldn’t be destructive. My love would heal you.

She touched his cheek, let her fingers feather over his eyebrow. He stirred and she stilled, holding her breath, not wanting him to wake up and ruin this moment. She was afraid when he opened his eyes the distance would be back, the cold, logical man who had insisted on a marriage of convenience, a marriage without love.

And she had agreed. She had, somehow, managed to convince herself that that was the kind of marriage, the kind of life, she wanted. Lying there, half in his arms, Ana knew it was not and never had been. She’d accepted such a poor bargain simply because she was afraid she’d find nothing else—and because it had been a bargain with Vittorio.

A life with Vittorio.

When had she started loving him? The seeds had surely been sown long ago, when he had touched her cheek and called her swallow. Such a small moment, yet in it she’d seen his gentleness, his tender heart, and she hoped—prayed—that she could see them again now. Soon.

She wouldn’t let Vittorio push her away or keep their marriage as coldly convenient—and safe—as he wanted it to be.

Ana eased herself out of Vittorio’s embrace, wondering just how she could accomplish such a herculean task. She’d agreed to a loveless marriage, very clearly. How could she now change the terms and expect Vittorio to agree?

Lying there in a pool of sunlight, still warmed by Vittorio’s touch, the answer was obvious. By having him fall in love with her.

And Ana thought she knew just how to begin.

Vittorio awoke slowly, stretching languorously, feeling more relaxed and rested than he had in months. Years. He blinked at the sunlight streaming in through the windows and then shifted
his weight, suddenly, surprisingly,
alarmingly
conscious of the empty space by him in the bed.

Ana was gone.

It shouldn’t bother him—hurt him—for, God knew, he was used to sleeping alone. Even when he was involved with a woman, he left her bed—or made her leave his—well before dawn. It had been his standard practice, and he neither questioned it nor chose to change it.

Now, however, he realized how alone he felt. How lonely.

‘Good morning, sleepy-head.’

Vittorio turned, his body relaxing once more at the sight of Ana in the doorway of his bedroom, wearing nothing but his shirt from last night. He could see the shadowy vee of her breasts disappearing between the buttons, the shirt tails just skimming her thighs. She looked wonderfully feminine, incredibly sexy. Vittorio felt his own desire stir and wondered how—and why—he’d kept himself from his wife’s bed for so long.

‘Where did you go?’ he asked, shifting over so she could sit on the bed.

‘To the loo.’ She gave a little laugh. ‘I drank quite a bit of champagne last night. Dutch courage, I suppose.’

‘Were you nervous?’ He found he was curious to hear what she said, to know what she thought. About everything.

Ana shrugged. ‘A bit.’ She paused. ‘You can’t say that our marriage is usual, or normal, and I don’t want people…saying things.’

‘What kinds of things?’

She gave another shrug, the movement inherently defensive. ‘Unkind things.’

Vittorio nodded, realizing for the first time how their marriage bargain might reflect on her, as if she wasn’t good enough—or attractive enough—for a proper marriage. For love.

I’m not interested in love.

What he was interested in, Vittorio decided, was getting his wife into bed as quickly as possible, and then taking his own sweet time in making love to her. Whatever the guests from the party might think, their marriage would certainly be wonderfully normal in at least one respect.

‘I know it’s Saturday,’ Ana said, rising from the bed before Vittorio could even make a move towards her, ‘but it was quite cool last night and I wanted to go to the vineyards and check—’

‘We have managers for that, Ana.’

She gave a low throaty chuckle that had Vittorio nearly leaping out of bed and dragging her back to it with him. Had she ever laughed like that before? Surely he would have noticed—

‘Oh, Vittorio. I don’t leave such things to managers. You might, with your million bottles a year—’

‘Nine hundred thousand.’

Her eyebrows arched and laughter lurked in her eyes, turning them to silver. ‘Oh, pardon me. Well, considering that Viale only has two hundred and fifty—’

‘What does it matter?’ Vittorio asked, trying not to sound as impatient as he felt. His wife was wearing his shirt and he was half-naked in his own bed; their marriage was still unconsummated nearly a week after the wedding. Why the hell were they talking about wine production?

‘It matters to me,’ Ana said, a smile still curving that amazingly generous mouth. Vittorio wondered if she knew how she was teasing him. Seducing him. He’d thought she was insecure, unaware of her own charms, but at the moment his wife looked completely sexy, sensual and as if she knew it. Vittorio felt as if he’d received a very hard blow to the head.

Or to the heart.

Either way, he was reeling.

‘It’s a beautiful day—’ he started again, meaning to end the sentence with
to spend in bed
.

Ana’s smile widened. ‘Exactly. And I wanted you to show me the Cazlevara vineyards, or at least some of them. It’s too nice to be inside.’

Enough, Vittorio thought. Enough talking. He smiled, a sleepy, sensual smile that left no room for Ana to misunderstand. ‘Oh, I think we could be inside for a little longer.’ Her eyes widened and she hesitated, clearly uncertain. Vittorio extended a hand. ‘Come here, Ana.’

‘What—’ she began and nibbled her lower lip, which was just about the most seductive thing Vittorio had ever seen. He groaned aloud.

‘Come
here
.’

She came slowly, hesitantly, perching on the edge of the bed so her shirt rode even higher on her thighs. God give him patience, Vittorio thought, averting his eyes. ‘What is it?’ she asked, and he heard the uncertainty and even fear in her voice. His wife, Vittorio realized, didn’t think he desired her.

He smiled and reached out to brush a strand of silky hair away from her eyes, his fingers skimming the curve of her ear. ‘Don’t you think,’ he murmured, ‘we’ve waited long enough to truly become man and wife?’

Ana’s breath hitched. ‘Yes, but—’

‘But what?’

Again she nibbled her lip. ‘You seemed content to wait.’

‘Only because I didn’t want to hurt you.’ Vittorio paused, the moment turning emotional, scaring him. Even now he shied away from the truth of his own feelings. ‘I wanted to give you time.’

A smile lurked in Ana’s eyes, in the generous curve of her mouth. ‘And now you feel you’ve given me enough time?’

‘Oh, yes.’ He reached out to stroke her leg; he couldn’t help himself, her skin looked so silky. And it felt silky, too. Vittorio suppressed a shudder. ‘Do you feel you’ve had enough time?’

‘Oh, yes,’ Ana said, and he chuckled at her fervent reply.

‘Good.’

Ana sat there in shock, unable to believe Vittorio was saying these things, touching her this way, his fingers skimming and stroking her thigh, sending little shocks of pleasure through her body. His other hand tangled in her hair and he drew her to him, his lips fastening on hers with hungry need; as he kissed her he let out a low groan of relief and satisfaction, and Ana felt another deeper shock: that he seemed so attracted to her, wanted her so, that he couldn’t help but touch her, right here in the middle of the morning, in the sunshine, without her having done anything at all. She’d meant to seduce him, to wear a sexy nightdress and have champagne—but this was so much better. So much more real.

‘Ana…’ Vittorio murmured, his lips now on her ear, her jaw, her neck, ‘Ana, you’re going on about grapes and vineyards and all I can think about is…this…’

And then it was all Ana could think about too, for Vittorio claimed her lips in a kiss so consuming, so fulfilling, she felt replete and satisfied—as if this kiss could actually be enough—instead of the endless craving she normally felt when they touched.

Vittorio pulled away, just a little bit, but it was enough to make Ana realize that actually she wasn’t satisfied at all. She wanted more…and more…and oh, please, a little more than that.

She must have made her need and frustration known, for he chuckled and traced a circle on her tummy with his tongue, making Ana moan aloud, the sound utterly foreign to her. She could hardly believe she was making these sounds, feeling these things.

So
much
.

Vittorio’s mouth hovered over her skin. ‘I’m going to take my time,’ he promised her, and then did just that, while Ana closed her eyes in both surprise and pleasure.

Yet Ana wasn’t willing to be a passive recipient, as wonderful
as it was. As Vittorio teased her with his mouth and hands, she finally could take no more and flipped him over on his back, straddling his powerful thighs. Vittorio looked so surprised, she laughed aloud.

‘You seem to be wearing too many clothes,’ she remarked in a husky murmur, and Vittorio nodded.

‘I completely agree.’

‘Let’s do something about that, then.’

‘Absolutely.’

She tugged at his pyjama shirt and bottoms, laughing a little bit as buttons snagged and caught, but soon enough he was naked, and Ana pushed back on her elbow to take in his magnificent body, sleek and powerful, all for her. She ran one hand down the taut muscles of his chest.

‘I’ve been wanting to do that for a while,’ she admitted a bit shyly, for now that they were both naked, his arousal hard against her thigh, she felt a little uncertain. A little afraid.

‘There’s a lot I’ve been wanting to do,’ Vittorio admitted, his voice low and a little ragged. ‘And I can’t take much more waiting, Ana—’ True to his word, Vittorio rolled her onto her back, his hands and lips finding her secret sensitive places once again, until Ana found that waiting was the last thing she could think of doing. The wanting took over.

When he finally entered her, filling her up to the very brim with his own self, and with the knowledge of their bodies, fused, joined as
one
, Ana felt no more than a flicker of pain and then the wonderful, consuming certainty that this was the very heart of their marriage, the very best thing that could have ever happened, that they could have ever shared.

Afterwards, as they lay in the warm glow of the sun, their limbs still entangled, she wondered how she’d lived so long without knowing what sex was about. What love was about. For surely the two were utterly entwined, as entwined as her body
was now with Vittorio’s. She couldn’t imagine loving a man she hadn’t felt in her own body, and neither could she imagine sharing this with anyone but a man she loved—and that man was Vittorio.

Vittorio ran his hand down her stomach and across the curve of her hip. ‘Ana, if I’d known—’ he said softly, and she turned to him.

‘Known?’

‘Known you were a virgin,’ he explained. ‘I would have—’ he smiled ruefully ‘—I would have taken
more
time, I suppose.’

‘You didn’t know I was a virgin?’ Ana couldn’t keep the amusement from her voice. ‘Goodness, Vittorio, I thought it was rather obvious.’

‘Obvious to you, perhaps,’ Vittorio returned. ‘But you mentioned a relationship—a man—’

‘It never got that far,’ Ana replied. The hurt she usually felt when she remembered Roberto’s rejection seemed distant, like an emotion she knew intellectually but had never truly felt. It hardly mattered now.

‘I’m sorry he hurt you,’ Vittorio murmured.

‘It’s long past,’ Ana told him. She pressed her lips to his shoulder; his skin was warm. ‘I’ve completely forgotten it.’ She kissed the hollow of his throat, because now that he was truly hers she just couldn’t help herself.

It was several hours later when they finally rose from that bed. Ana was sweetly sore all over, her body awakened in every sinew and sense. ‘Now the vineyard,’ she said and, still lounging among the pillows, Vittorio threw his head back and laughed.

‘The vineyard will always be your first love,’ he said, his words giving Ana a tiny pang. She wanted to say,
You’re my first love
, but she found she could not. The words stuck in her throat, clogged by fear. Instead, she reached for her clothes.

‘Absolutely.’

An hour later Ana followed Vittorio from the estate office to
one of Cazlevara’s finest vineyards. Since Vittorio owned a much bigger operation than she, he had hectares of vines all over Veneto, but the one closest to the castle—on the original estate—was still reserved for the label’s most prized grapes.

The sun beat down hot on her head and her shirt was already sticking to her back as Ana walked between the grape plants in their neatly staked rows. She wished she’d worn a hat, or makeup. Instead, without thinking, she’d donned dusty trousers and an old shapeless button-down shirt, her standard field clothes. Hardly an outfit to impress her husband. And just why did she want to impress him? Ana wondered. The answer was painfully clear. Because she still felt a little uncertain, a little worried.