Page 45 of Unveiled As The Italian's Bride
‘And, if there’s any kind of reciprocal situation with you...’
‘Reciprocal situation?’
‘You get where I’m going with this.’
‘Ah. Yes, I do. I may be a little uncomfortable around you, Dante, but I think that’s understandable. I don’t have your level of experience. For a start, I’m a lot younger and I haven’t been married. It would be unnatural if it was all water off a duck’s back, wouldn’t you agree? So, if I seem a little gauche, then that’s why—and not because I’m suddenly finding you attractive because of the novelty of it all. That’s not the person I am.’
‘No?’
‘Not at all,’ she said stoutly. ‘Anyway, I’m fully awake now.’ She slipped off the bed. It was cold with the heaters off and the lack of body warmth hit her. ‘I’ll go read for a while, and in a bit I’ll go to the house—let them know that you won’t be here for long...’
Over the next day and a half, Kate realised that she knew less about her parents than she’d thought.
How could she ever have thought that they would disapprove of Dante? Because he was mega-rich, mega-powerful, uber-traditional and they were completely the opposite?
Had they actually been waiting for a suitable guy to appear in her life, a man with whom her father could bond? Because that was how it felt to Kate.
Her dad ignored all her dismayed protests that Dante really probably didn’t have time to have lessons on self-sufficiency, to be shown every square inch of the land her parents were cultivating or to be treated to an hour’s worth of prime viewing of the innumerable photos of the beloved motorbike that was no more.
He was a busy guy and had to leave to return to Milan, she had said more than once the evening before, but Dante had just turned to her with a smile and said that he could spare the time. Angelina was having a fantastic time with his uncle and a couple more days there wouldn’t hurt her. He was chatting to them both every day, doing video calls. Angelina was unspeakably excited and preparing some kind of surprise for them when they returned—what it was, he knew not what, but hints were that it was of a culinary nature.
‘It’s important to get to know the parents of my future wife,’ he had said sanctimoniously—which Kate had felt made her sound mealy-mouthed and petty, wanting him to leave when he was happy to stay on for a short while longer, especially given the weather.
Her nomadic, unconventional parents were far more conventional than she had ever given them credit for, Kate realised.
Her mother excitedly pulled her to one side so that they could discuss wedding dresses.
‘We always wished we’d done it properly,’ she confided, which was news to Kate. ‘But we were young, and in a hurry, and both sets of parents were making noises about going to university and getting jobs like everyone else, and we just wanted to escape and have fun and see the world.’
Dante was oblivious to her concerns. He was the perfect fiancé and loving the role. If he was bored by her father’s reminiscing, and by all the detailed plans afoot for growing what was at the moment just a cottage industry, then he gave no indication of it.
Not only that, but in the quiet of their quarters he was also the perfect gentleman. He’d taken the sofa, even though she’d assured him that there was no need. It had become quite clear that her novelty value on the desirability front had run its course and that what was being established now was a pattern of friendship that she knew she should welcome.
But, in some strange way, she felt as though she’d been outmanoeuvred and she hunkered down under the duvet, fulminating, while he quietly caught up on work in the tiny living area. The snow had gone from blizzard to a steady, thin fall and she could hear a stiff wind outside blowing it against the windows.
‘Why are you sulking?’
Wrapped up in her thoughts, Kate started at the sound of Dante’s voice, because she hadn’t heard him pad across the floor to the bed.
She flipped onto her side and then wriggled up as he sat on the bed with her.
His gentle voice said he was about to dispense some friendly, anodyne words of wisdom and she didn’t want any of it. She was fed up with the Mr Nice Guy image.
‘You’ve taken over,’ she said bluntly.
‘What are you talking about?’
‘This isn’t how it was supposed to go.’
‘What did you have in mind?’
‘It doesn’t matter. I don’t want to talk about it.’
‘I want you to.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I don’t like the thought of you being unhappy. If you have a problem, then spit it out. I can’t stand feminine wiles.’
