Shocked, Rosalie looked back at the mirror. She hardly recognized herself, with her bold red lips and hair that looked almost black against the white gown. She looked like a princess. Reaching up, she touched the tiara with a trembling hand. The stones twinkled in the mirror, but felt hard and cold to the touch. “But—but what if I lose it?”
“The tiara is yours to keep or lose.” Tilting his head, he said huskily, “I cannot wait to marry you.”
Holding the tiara to her head, she ran to the bathroom and stuck in a bunch of bobby pins to hold it tight. With all the pins, and beneath the weight of the tiara, her scalp hurt, and her temples ached. Her heart was still pounding with fear for the commitment she was about to make.
A life with diamonds. But without love.
She would die without ever hearing a man tell her he loved her.
But how could it be a mistake, when it would allow their son to have two parents in a secure home...forever? How could it be a mistake, when it meant that tonight and for always, Rosalie would sleep in Alex’s bed?
“Cara?” he said quietly. He held out his arm.
Her gaze fell on his antique cuff links, solid gold engraved with the Falconeri family crest. He had large, sensual hands, which she yearned to have on her body. His every teasing kiss, every passionate caress, made her burn until she thought she’d die. She had to marry him. Had to.
Picking up her bouquet of red roses, Rosalie placed her hand around his arm. He kissed her gently on the temple and led her downstairs.
They left his palazzo at the back, going to the private gate at the canal. She’d expected to see the speedboat. But instead...
“A gondola?” she gasped. He gave a sheepish grin.
“The speedboat left twenty minutes ago with decoys to draw away the paparazzi. Gondolas are only used by tourists. With luck, no one will even look at us.”
As his burly-looking bodyguard, dressed as a gondolier, steered the picturesque boat down the canal, Rosalie looked out at Venice in the bright early morning. The golden rays of the sun burst over the water, gilding the edges of the streets, the alleyways peeking out from between the orange-and-red-stucco buildings. The Venice of dreams.
It was almost as good as a love song, Rosalie thought. A lump rose in her throat.
A light breeze blew against her bare shoulders, against her hot skin, causing her hair and translucent white veil to flutter behind her in the gondola. She gripped her small bouquet of blood-red roses.
“Cara?” Alex said incredulously. “Are you crying?”
She looked at him, blinking fast. She couldn’t wipe her tears without wrecking her mascara. She tried to smile. “Of course I’m crying. It’s our wedding day.”
It was the most romantic moment of her life. The streets were still quiet, as it was early. To an observer, Rosalie probably looked like Cinderella getting whisked to a palace with a handsome prince.
But amidst all the beauty, all the glamour and romance, she knew what she was losing today, losing forever.
I have no choice, she told herself desperately.
Then she was tortured by the memory of Alex’s earlier words.
There is always a choice.
She’d made hers, and she would have to forget about what she was losing today—the last hope of being truly loved. She didn’t care. It wouldn’t have happened anyway. She would wrap up her yearning in an iron box and dump it into the lagoon, never to be found again.
When they arrived at the palazzo where Venice’s civil weddings were held, she kept her face frozen in a smile as Alex helped her out of the gondola and onto the dock.
His eyes were dark, his words simple.
“Are you sure?”
“I’m sure,” she told him.
But was she?
Taking a deep breath, she went forward.
Inside the palace, Collins and Maria were waiting to be witnesses. Rosalie turned to Alex in surprise.