Even Cindy had said so. But then Cindy had bought into the whole love-lost-and-found fairy tale Enrico had carefully fed out there to the curious masses. She saw happy-ever-afters in everything Enrico said or did and made happen. He was even the romantic hero who’d invited Cindy to be Freya’s bridesmaid when he discovered she had no one else to ask.
Freya’d lost touch with most of her college buddies four years ago when she’d moved in with Enrico and had begun to live a completely different life. When that relationship was over, she hadn’t wanted to creep back to old friends with her tail between her legs, pregnant and miserable—and was too proud to let them know how badly she’d fallen flat on her face. After Nicky was born she just hadn’t had time to develop new friendships.
Now, all of a sudden, Cindy was her best friend, and Cindy’s new boss was the great guy who gave the crèche manager the week off work before the wedding took place. No bride could be more pampered and cosseted and indulged than Freya.
‘She looks like a pagan princess,’ she heard Sonny murmur.
I feel more like Cinderella, being given this one chance to know what it feels like to be a princess before the clock strikes twelve and it all vanishes.
Enrico sat contemplating the rings that had just been delivered to his office. Two matching gold wedding bands and a diamond eternity ring as was traditionally given on the birth of a first child.
Tradition was everything, he mused. He had gone all out to create a wedding for his son to remember and, although it was all taking place back to front, it was happening.
So why was he not feeling better about it? Why was he sitting here staring at these rings and feeling as if none of it was real?
Two weeks. In just two short weeks he had managed to pull off the most successful takeover he’d ever undertaken. He had his son living with him. He had the most sensually receptive women as a permanent fixture in his bed. In a few more days she would become his wife, then he would begin the legal process to claim Nicolo as his son.
It was all that he wanted—wasn’t it?
No.
He wanted more. He wanted Freya to tell him out loud and unprompted to his face that Nicolo was his son. Other than for that one whispered confession she’d made while she’d been half asleep, she had not said it.
She had not come close to saying it.
She lived in his house and slept in his bed, she dived greedily and wantonly into his passion every night. She let him feed and clothe her and was even willing to let him marry her. He had made all the concessions, he thought arrogantly, so was this one small concession on her part too much to expect?
That night he made love to her as if it was going to be their last time. The next morning over breakfast he was bad-tempered and sour. When Lissa asked Freya if her bridal gown would be white or cream, her reply stoked his temper even more.
‘I thought I gave explicit instructions that you were to wear a white dress,’ he said tightly as soon as Lissa had disappeared to get Nicolo ready for his morning at Hannard’s.
‘I’ve got a two-year-old son born out of wedlock,’ Freya mocked drily. ‘A woman like me would have to be a real hypocrite to walk up the aisle wearing white. It’s bad enough that you’ve insisted we have a church wedding!’
‘I told you why I want that. I want there to be no blemish on our son’s memory of the day his father married his mother. Our marriage will be as traditional as we can make it for him!’
For his son. It was always for Nicky.
‘I don’t see me causing him life-long damage by turning up to marry you in blue instead of white,’ she snapped.
‘The dress had better not be blue,’ he warned very grimly.
Freya stuck up her chin to him and stared. ‘It’s my prerogative to choose what I wear to my own wedding.’
The look hit him right between the legs and he’d reacted to that ever-present sexual urge. ‘While it is my money you’re using to pay for every item you put on your back, you will wear what I tell you to!’
She went white. A hard silence hummed between them while she stared at him through pained green eyes. Her mobile telephone began to ring. Freya broke eye contact to pick it up and make the connection, hurt stinging the back of her throat.
‘Hi, it’s me,’ a familiar voice said.
It was Cindy. They were supposed to be meeting up today in London to do some shopping, but Enrico’s bad mood had put Freya in two minds as to whether to go. Then she remembered that she had something special she wanted to do, and got up from the table to turn her back on Enrico.
‘Look, can’t talk now,’ she mumbled hurriedly. ‘I’ll call you back in a few minutes—OK?’
When she turned back to Enrico he was glowering. ‘Who was that?’ he demanded.
‘None of your business,’ she responded—then let out a yelp when he reached out and tugged her up against his chest.
‘Tell me,’ he gritted.