Jo went pink. ‘You always know the right thing to say,’ she told him, knowing that there was no way on earth she could ever tell him that her heart had stuttered inside her chest when she’d first seen him awaiting her at the altar.
She refused to give Gianni the impression that she reacted to him like some infatuated teenager...even if it was true. She reckoned most women had frivolous thoughts on their wedding days but she was very conscious that she had no excuse to behave the same way. Attraction was one thing, anything more out of the question. She wasn’t planning to fall down that rabbit hole for Gianni in a marriage that she assumed would last no more than five years. She wasn’t queuing up to get a broken heart, because she wasn’t that stupid. That confirmed in her head, she relaxed a little.
‘You don’t like weddings, do you?’ she remarked as they emerged from the limo outside Belvedere, a line of catering staff, headed by a smiling Abigail, already awaiting them.
‘Not much. I don’t think I believe in that happily ever after stuff,’ he quipped. ‘Too much cheating and too many divorces in my social circle.’
‘You mix with the wrong people,’ Jo countered. ‘My grandparents were married for over fifty years.’
‘They had fewer choices and temptations than the people I know,’ Gianni traded, unconvinced.
And there was no time for any further personal chat because they were plunged straight into greeting guests. Some very beautiful women in fabulous dresses and jewellery were attending but equally, from the snatches of dialogue she heard around Gianni, it was almost a business occasion for an equal number of men.
Sybil strolled in with Federico Renzetti, his hand resting at her spine, and Jo resisted the urge to give her glamorous great-aunt a warning look to keep her flirtations out of the family circle. That ship had already sailed, after all. Some years earlier, Federico had invited Sybil out to dinner and she had gone, only to say that once was enough because all Gianni’s father had been able to talk about was his late wife, whom he had remained obsessed with.
‘And, as I remember it, Isabella treated him like dirt beneath her feet!’ Sybil had commented at the time. ‘Maybe that old “treat them mean, keep them keen” saying works better than you think.’
They took their seats in the ballroom at a traditional top table.
‘I don’t feel married yet,’ Gianni murmured silkily.
‘Wait until I start nagging,’ Jo advised with a wide smile as she sipped her champagne, relieved that the most formal part of the day was over.
‘My father’s chatting up Sybil,’ Gianni groaned.
‘Don’t worry about it. He had his chance with her and he blew it years ago.’
‘Is that so?’ Gianni did not hide his surprise. ‘What happened?’
‘Apparently, he could only talk about how much he missed your mother.’
Gianni tensed. ‘I doubt that. He didn’t treat her very well while she was alive.’
Aware she was treading on sensitive ground, Jo shrugged. ‘I’m only repeating what Sybil told my grandmother back then. Who knows?’
‘He was a terrible husband,’ Gianni informed her.
Jo nodded. ‘But don’t forget, there’s two sides to every story.’
‘And what’s that supposed to mean?’
Jo raised a finely arched brow, her sapphire eyes questioning his sharp tone. ‘Only what I said. I know they weren’t a happy couple, but you have to be fair. Your mother was ill for a good deal of their marriage and that must have imposed immense strain on them both.’
‘It’s none of your business.’ In reality, Gianni was shaken that he himself had never grasped that obvious truth about his parents’ relationship.
Jo dealt him a pained glance and turned her head away, her profile taut. He had a terrible relationship with his father, and she wasn’t surprised because both men avoided discussing anything that might have improved it. She had watched Gianni greet his father almost like a stranger when he’d first arrived, and it had disturbed her. In her opinion, life was too short to cherish that kind of bias but, even so, she resolved never to mention his parents again. Unfortunately, Gianni’s views were set in stone and he saw his mother as a misunderstood saint and his father as a dreadful man. He had never, she registered ruefully, really moved an inch on that issue since his mother’s death when he was thirteen.
‘I apologise. I was rude and you made a good point,’ Gianni murmured half under his breath.
‘I’m too outspoken sometimes,’ Jo said lightly. ‘We tend to speak the truth and shame the devil in my family.’
‘While the Renzetti men barely speak at all,’ Gianni completed wryly.
‘That could be a point of contention between us,’ Jo admitted quietly. ‘I like to talk things out.’
Gianni grasped her tiny fingers and sighed. ‘Why do you always foresee problems? Why aren’t you more optimistic?’
‘I suppose I’m just too practical. I’ll work on it,’ Jo promised, her plump pink lips parting in a wide smile.