She hauled her mind away, not wanting to remember that hideous scene. She couldn’t bear it. A wave of depression swept over her. Had there truly been no other way of saving Mia from a marriage she did not want to make, but did not dare to refuse? A way that didn’t end in bringing herself here, like this? Pregnant by the man whose wedding she had ruined, who loathed her very guts for what she’d done...
‘What would you like to drink?’
Luca’s enquiry was polite as he crossed to a sideboard made of chrome and walnut, which Ariana had disliked on sight.
‘Mineral water—still,’ she replied. ‘I can’t takefrizzanteany longer.’
He glanced at her.
She gave a slight shrug. ‘I’ve had some morning sickness.’
His obsidian eyes assessed her. ‘Is that why you’ve lost so much weight?’ His question sounded more of an accusation than an enquiry.
‘I don’t know,’ she answered.
He opened a bottle of mineral water, poured it for her, and came across to where she stood in the middle of the room.
‘It can’t be good for you...losing weight. You should be putting it on.’
‘I’m not even past my first trimester,’ she said.
She took the glass from him, taking a sip. Her throat was dry, suddenly. To be here—here in Luca Farnese’s ultra-modern, ultra-luxurious penthouse apartment in Milan—discussing her pregnancy, was unreal.
She felt emotion clutch at her and took another sip of water.
‘I’m well aware of that,’ was the only reply she got.
He’d returned to the sideboard, poured himself a shot of whisky from a bottle that she recognised as one of the most expensive single malts. He knocked it back, poured himself another, then threw himself down on a black leather sofa which Ariana had also immediately disliked. She disliked every aspect of the décor.
Yet it suits him.
The acknowledgement was in her head before she could stop it. The stark, unyielding décor was a perfect match for this stark, unyielding man.
He sat back, one arm thrown out across the back of the sofa, one long leg angled over his thigh. An apparently relaxed attitude, but she had never seen a man less relaxed. Her eyes went to his face, and she felt her throat tighten at its impact on her. Protest against it as she would...
Why? Why this man? Why him? What is it? What does he have? Why does he do to me what he does and why do I respond to it? To him? Why do I just want to gaze and gaze at him? To drink in every feature, feel every impact of it? Why? Why am I so helpless?
The questions tumbled through her head but she could not answer them. Not a single one.
He was taking another mouthful of his whisky, then he looked at her straight on. ‘Dinner will be here soon—there are kitchens in the apartment block that provide room service.’
She gave a slight nod, taking a seat on the sofa opposite him, clutching her glass of water.
He was silent for a moment. Then... ‘We need to talk.’
She looked at him, saying nothing. What was there to say? Except... ‘I’m not marrying you.’
The words fell from her lips and she was glad she had said them. Glad that she had made it clear. Where he had got the insane notion from she didn’t know or care.
She saw his grip on his glass tighten. His jaw tightened.
His eyes lanced hers. ‘Yes,’ he told her, ‘you will.’
She changed her expression changed, let it become one of genuine enquiry.
‘Luca, why do you say that? Why do you even talk of marriage? It’s so insane it doesn’t bear thinking of!’ She took a razoring breath. ‘You cannot possibly want to marry me—’
‘Of course I do not.’ The words were stark. The voice harsh. ‘You are the very last woman on earth I would want to marry.’