As predicted, Cesare had roared. For a good ten minutes he had threatened, reproached her, ranted and railed against her, his frustration and displeasure flowing unstoppably like lava from a volcano.
On any other day she would have tried to soothe him, to be the eye of calm at the centre of his storm.
But not today.
Maybe it had been the strain of the last few hours catching up with her, or perhaps she’d just been worried about letting the truth slip out, but she simply hadn’t had it in her, so she had just let him rage until finally he’d registered her silence and said gruffly, ‘So this Trapani boy—he loves you, does he?’
‘Yes, Papà, he does.’
She’d heard her father grunt. ‘And you love him?’
‘I do—I really do.’
He’d sighed. ‘Well, what’s done is done. And if he makes you happy...’
It had been easier to lie than she had thought. Maybe it always was—ma
ybe that was how her father managed to lie to her about Alessandro’s business.
It hurt to think about all the other lies he might have told her. Only not as much as it had hurt having to stand next to Vicè at that dismal parody of a wedding and hear him repeat his vows knowing that he meant not one word of them.
She had heard him speaking, heard herself respond. She had watched the registrar smile and watched the witnesses sign the register. But she had felt totally numb, as though her veins had been filled with ice.
Until Vicè had kissed her.
Her heart bumped against her ribs as she remembered.
It had been as if he’d struck a match inside her. His mouth had tasted of freedom, and the warmth of his body against hers had seemed to offer danger and sanctuary all in one.
And just like that she had leaned into him, her body softening like wax touched by a flame. And all she knew was his closeness. And he had been all she wanted.
She shivered as a jolt of heat shot through her and shifted in her seat, pressing her knees together, trying to ignore the flood of want.
Her cheeks felt hot. Yes, want. She wanted him.
Only how could she?
How could she still want Vicè after everything he had done? The lies he had told... The manipulation... The pretence...
But it didn’t matter that it made no sense. It was the truth. And although she might be lying to her father, and to the cabin crew and to the rest of the world, she wasn’t going to lie to herself.
The truth was that, even hating him as she did, with every fibre of her being, she still wanted him.
Kissing him should have been complicated.
Except it hadn’t felt complicated.
It had been easy. Natural. Right. Facile come bere un bicchiere d’acqua, as her father liked to say when he was boasting about some deal he’d made.
But it was clearly just some kind of muscle memory kicking into action. It wouldn’t happen again, of that she was certain. She might have been swept along in the moment, captivated by the swift, intoxicating intimacy of that kiss in an otherwise colourless ceremony, but—like the misplaced desire she had felt for Vicè yesterday—it had been just a blip.
‘So how did it go? Am I going to be swimming with the fishes? Or did you manage to sweet talk him into accepting me as his son-in-law?’
A shadow fell across her face and, glancing up, she felt her pulse trip. Vicè was next to her, his dark eyes gazing down into her face, a mocking smile pulling at his mouth.
He was wearing a pair of jeans and a slim-fitting navy T-shirt—the kind of low-key clothes that would make anyone else look ordinary. But Vicè didn’t need logos or embellishments to draw the eye. His flawless looks and languid grace did that all on their own.
Dry-mouthed, she watched wordlessly, her heart lurching from side to side like a boat in a storm, as he dropped into the seat opposite her.