It didn’t help that, despite everything she knew about him, her body persisted in overriding her brain whenever she was near to him.
Remembering exactly how near he had been earlier, on the plane, she felt a coil of heat spiral up inside her. She could tell herself it had been the plush intimacy of the plane or the glass of champagne that had affected her judgement. But it would be a lie to say she hadn’t wanted him in that moment.
Only it was going to stop now. It had to.
This marriage might be a lie, but she couldn’t lie to herself for a whole year.
She might have agreed theoretically with what Vicè had said on the plane, about making their marriage look real, but she knew she was going to find faking it far more difficult and painful than he would.
For him, those hours in her bed had been a necessary step in his plan to win back his father’s business. A trick, a trap, a seduction.
For her, ignorant in her bliss, it had been something more.
He’d taught her about sex. About the sleek warmth of skin, the melting pleasure of touch and the decadent ache of climax.
It didn’t matter that he’d been lying to her; her feelings for him had been real. And, even though she knew the truth now, the memory of how she had felt that night remained, overriding facts and common sense.
Admitting and accepting that would stop her repeating the reckless intimacy between them on the plane. But she needed to set some ground rules. Make it clear to him that she would play her part—but only in public, and only when absolutely necessary.
Feeling the car slow down, she glanced up ahead. The road was growing narrower and more winding. The palms of her hands were suddenly clammy.
Were they here?
As though he’d read her mind, Vicè turned towards her and, taking one hand off the wheel, gestured casually towards the view through the windscreen.
‘This is it. This is Portofino.’
She wasn’t ready, she thought, her heart lurching. But it was too late. They were already cruising past pastel-coloured villas with dark green shutters, some strung with fluttering lines of laundry, others decorated with trompe l’oeil architectural flourishes that made her look twice.
The town centre was movie-set-perfect—a mix of insouciant vintage glamour and stealth wealth chic. Beneath the striped awnings of the cafes hugging the piazzetta, women in flowing, white dresses and men wearing linen and loafers lounged in the sunlight, talking and drinking Aperol spritz.
It was all so photogenic, so relaxed and carefree. A part of the world where dolce far niente was a way of life.
She swallowed, her throat suddenly dry. No wonder Vicè chose to live here. And now she would be living here too. Living here as Signora Trapani.
A shiver wound down her spine. Up until that moment she had been so focused on getting married she hadn’t considered what being married would mean for her day-to-day life.
But here in Portofino, with Vicè, she would be free. For the first time ever there were no bodyguards tracking her every move, no Cesare dictating her agenda.
No rules to follow.
No rules at all.
Her stomac
h flipped over.
It was nerve-racking—like stepping from the safety of a ship onto new, uncharted land—and yet she wasn’t scared so much as excited.
She let go of a breath. So much of her life had been spent feeling unsure about who she was, being scared to push back against the weight of duty and expectation. But without noticing she had pushed back, she realised with confusion. She had already changed, something shifting tectonically inside her.
How else could she be here with Vicè?
Her stomach knotted.
Much as she might want to flatter herself into believing that she had done so alone, incredibly—unbelievably—he was part of it. He had backed her into a corner and she had come out fighting. She had found another side of herself with him.
Feeling his gaze on the side of her face, she turned. ‘It’s beautiful,’ she said simply.