Page 132 of A Diamond Deal
He reached into his pocket and retrieved another velvet box. ‘This is for you.’
She looked from his face to the box, her lips quirking in a curious frown. He popped the top and she gasped. ‘Oh! It’s perfect. It’s exactly the same.’
‘Yes,’ he agreed. ‘If it makes you more comfortable, you can wear this instead.’
She reached down and slipped the Moretti diamond from her finger, holding it out towards him. When she put it in the middle of his palm, he had to fight an urge to close his fingers over hers and pull her against his body. To hell with the dress, the make-up. He just wanted to feel her against him, body to body, soft to hard.
‘Thank you,’ she said, powder-blue eyes lifting to his. Innocent and shy. His gut twisted. Light and dark. Winter and summer. They were two sides of the same coin, but those two sides were never supposed to meet. In pushing her into this marriage, was he destroying her innocence? Smudging darkness over her light? ‘I’ll feel so much better knowing it’s just a copycat, and not worth a small fortune,’ she murmured as she slipped the newly made ring onto her finger.
He didn’t tell her that, while it was a copycat, it was still a canary yellow diamond, of perfect quality, that had cost more than an average house. It seemed like something she’d prefer not to know.
‘I have settled the agreed-upon amount into your account,’ he said, sticking to his intention for coming here. ‘If you log in, you’ll be able to clear your debts.’
Her lips parted on a breath of surprise, almost as though she’d forgotten the reason they were marrying. ‘Thank you.’
‘Don’t thank me, Amelia. It was our deal.’
‘I know, it’s just…’ She blinked quickly as moisture filled her eyes, and Massimiliano’s gut twisted again, sharp and hard. ‘I’ve been so worried about money for so long. For years. I can’t believe…it’s such a relief.’
And despite his best intentions, he reached out then, his thumb padding across her jaw, then cupping her cheek, stroking her lightly. ‘I’m sorry I didn’t propose to you a year ago.’
A tear slid from her eye. ‘That makes two of us.’
He wanted to fix this. More than giving her money, he wished he could click his fingers and bring back her father, change who her mother was, do anything to make her smile, as she deserved on her wedding day.
But this is not a real wedding,a voice reminded him, insisting he stick to the professionalism their plan required. Only his body had other ideas as he moved forward, finally doing what he’d wanted since arriving at her suite, and letting himself feel her.
Or feel a hint of her, through the layers and layers of tulle.
Massimiliano was thirty-five years old and, in his adult life, he had known many women. Too many to remember, and none of any particular importance. After his fiancée, all those years ago, he’d made an art form out of sensual, meaningless connections. So much the better if the women he slept with, and then walked away from, were from noble families. Those same families that had shunned his, because of the sins of his father. Those same families that had turned the Moretti name into mud.
But all of those encounters, all of those women, had turned into black shards in his mind, slicing through him accusingly, as he looked down on this beautiful, innocent woman and ached to make her his. No part of him thought he deserved that, and yet, they had a deal. Even without it, Massimiliano knew he didn’t have the willpower to resist. She wanted him to be her first, and, so help him God, he would be. Just as soon as they were married, and alone…
The wedding gown had been beautiful, but it had been a huge relief to remove the frothy fabric and step into a far sleeker, lighter-weight cream slip for their post-wedding lunch. Massimiliano had booked a high-profile, ritzy restaurant in a trendy part of Rome. The place was all industrial chic, from its exposed wiring and air-conditioning ducts to polished concrete floor, woodchip tables and bright lighting. But the crowd was unmistakably not industrial. These were Italy’s elite, in their incredible couture, and from the second she realised that, she knew why he’d chosen to come here.
To be seen.
Antonio and Massimiliano Moretti with the Rossi family. Two of Italy’s oldest names, joined together now in marriage. Her marriage.
If she’d been sceptical about the importance of this, seeing the way people responded, the whispers, the attention, would have convinced her that Massimiliano had known what he was doing. Their engagement had been announced in the papers, with a nice little quote from Massimiliano about having found the love of his life and brought her home to her native Italy. There was also some interesting information about her family, things she’d never known, so she’d felt something creaking open inside her, despite her best efforts.
Pride, in the Rossis. Curiosity about their history. Interest in her Italian heritage, and this beautiful, historic country she’d pretended, all her life, simply didn’t exist.
The fact Antonio and the Rossis had once been close friends was very easy to understand. The initial awkwardness had faded by the time the first course arrived, and they began talking in rapid-fire Italian, so Amelia couldn’t keep up.
Massimiliano, though, stayed close to her, his arm around her shoulders, his fingers doing that now familiar dance, of brushing over her bare flesh, until goosebumps lifted on her arms.
‘How are you feeling?’ he asked, when their dinner plates were cleared.
She glanced up at him to find his face only an inch or so from hers. She swallowed quickly. ‘I’m fine.’
‘I mean about tonight,’ he pushed, gently, so her body exploded with anticipation and heat. Embarrassed, though, she dropped her gaze to his chest.
‘I wasn’t sure if you still…’
His finger pushed gently beneath her chin, tilting her face back to his. ‘Still what?’
‘If it was going to happen. Tonight, I mean.’
