Awakened by the Scarred Italian Read online

  Ciro might think the worst of her but she knew who she was. She just needed to remember that.

  * * *

  By the time Lara had walked from the car and up the steps to the porch of the cathedral on Saturday afternoon she was shaking. There were what looked like hundreds of people lining the steps, calling out her name, and the flashes of cameras.

  The wedding dress that Ciro had picked out was stunning, but far more extravagant than Lara would have ever chosen for herself. Designed to get as much attention as possible with its long train and elaborate veil. Not unlike the dress she’d worn to marry Henry Winterborne.

  Her mother’s dress had been simple and graceful. Whimsical and romantic. But then it had been a dress worn for love. Lara was almost glad it was gone now. Hopefully some other woman had married for love in it.

  She was not unaware of the irony that for the second time in the space of a couple of weeks she was glad of a veil to hide behind.

  The aisle looked about a hundred miles long from where she was standing. And she was going to walk down it alone. She wanted to turn and run. But instead she squared her shoulders, and as the wedding march began she started walking, spine straight, praying that no one would see her bouquet shaking.

  The back of Ciro’s neck prickled. She was here.

  He’d heard the cacophony of shouts outside just before a hush rippled through the church. He knew she would be walking down the aisle alone—she hadn’t requested any bridesmaids or attendants. She had no family. Something about that lonely image of her caught at his gut but he ignored it.

  She was the type of woman who could bury one man one week and marry another a week later. She was not shy or vulnerable.

  You offered her little alternative, pointed out the voice of his conscience.

  Ciro ignored it. Lara might not like what people thought of her, but she’d soon forget it when she got used to the life of luxury Ciro could offer her.

  He fought the desire to turn around, not liking the sense of déjà vu washing over him as he thought about how this day should have happened two years ago. And how it hadn’t.

  In the lead-up to that wedding he’d been uncharacteristically nervous. And excited. Excited at the thought of unveiling his virginal bride. Of being the first man who would touch her, make her convulse with pleasure. And at the thought of the life he would have with her—a different life from the one he’d experienced with his parents.

  But she hadn’t been that woman.

  Suddenly Ciro felt hollow inside. And exposed. As if he was making a monumental fool of himself all over again.

  The wedding march grated on his nerves. For a moment he almost felt the urge to shout out, Stop! But then Lara’s scent reached him, that unique blend of lemon and roses he would always associate with her, and the urge drained away.

  He turned to look at her and his breath caught. Even though he’d chosen the dress for its classic yet dramatic lines—a full satin skirt and a bodice which was overlaid with lace that covered her arms and chest up to her throat—he still wasn’t prepared.

  He’d always known Lara was beautiful, but right now she was...exquisite. He could just make out the line of her jaw, the soft pink lips and bright blue eyes behind the veil. Her hair was pulled back into a chignon.

  His gaze travelled down over her slender curves to where she held the bouquet. There was an almost imperceptible trembling in her hands, and before he could stop himself Ciro reached out and put a hand over hers. She looked at him, and a constriction in his chest that he hadn’t even been aware of eased.

  Instead of the triumph he’d expected—hoped—to be feeling right now, the residue of those memories and emotions lingered in his gut. And relief.

  It was the relief that made him take his hand off hers and face forward. The scar on his face tingled, as if to remind Ciro why they were there. What she owed him. And any sense of exposure he’d felt dissipated to be replaced by resolve.

  The wedding service passed in a blur for Lara. She wasn’t even sure how she’d made it down the aisle. The mass was conducted in English, for her benefit, and she dutifully made her vows, feeling as if it was happening to someone else.

  Her second wedding to a man who didn’t love her. At least she’d never been deluded about Henry Winterborne’s feelings for her.

  Every time she looked at Ciro she wanted to look away. It was like looking directly at the sun. He was so...vital. He wore a dark grey morning suit with a white shirt and tie. His dark hair was gleaming and swept back from his face.

  But now she had to face him, and she reluctantly lifted the veil up and over her head. There was nothing to shield her from that dark, penetrating gaze. Hundreds of people thronged the cathedral but suddenly it was just her and him.

  Before, she’d imagined this moment so many times...had longed for it. Longed to feel a part of something again. A unit. A unit of love.

  And now this was a parody of that longing. A farce.

  Suddenly Lara felt like pulling away from Ciro, who had her hands in his. As if sensing her wish to bolt, he tightened his grip on her and tugged her towards him.

  ‘You may kiss the bride...’

  One word resounded in Lara’s head. No!

  If Ciro touched her now, when she was feeling so raw—But it was too late. He’d pulled her close, or as close as her voluminous skirts would allow, and his hands were around her face. He was holding her as tenderly as if she really meant something to him. But it was all for show.

  Past and present were blurring. Meshing.

  Ciro’s head came closer and those eyes compelled her to stay where she was. Submit to him. At the last moment, in a tiny act of rebellion, Lara lifted her face to his. She wasn’t going to submit. She was an equal partner.

  Their mouths met and every muscle in Lara’s body seized against the impact of that firm, hot mouth on hers. But it was useless. It was as if a hot serum was being poured into her veins, loosening her, making her pliant. Making her fold against him, letting her head fall back so he could gain deeper access to her mouth.

  It was only a vague sound of throat-clearing that made them break apart, and Lara realised with a hot flush of shame just how wantonly she’d reacted. With not one cell in her body rejecting his touch. She pushed back, disgusted with herself, but Ciro caught her elbows, not allowing her to put any distance between them.

  ‘Smile, mia moglie, you’ve just married the man you should have married two years ago.’

  Lara dragged her gaze away from Ciro’s and looked around. A sea of strangers’ faces looked back at her, their expressions ranging from impassive to downright speculative. And there were a couple of murderous-looking beautiful women who had no doubt envisaged themselves becoming Signora Sant’Angelo.

  Ciro tucked her arm into his and led her back down the aisle to a triumphant chorus of Handel’s ‘The Arrival of the Queen of Sheba’.

  Lara somehow fixed a smile to her face as they approached the main doors, where Rome lay bathed in bright warm sunshine—a direct contrast to her swirling stormy emotions. She was Ciro Sant’Angelo’s wife now, for better or worse, and the awful thing was Lara knew without a doubt that it was going to be for worse...

  CHAPTER FOUR

  ‘WELL, YOU CERTAINLY had us all fooled.’

  Lara’s fixed-on smile slipped slightly when she saw who was addressing her. Lazaro Sanchez. Probably Ciro’s closest friend. She’d met him a few times two years ago, when he would often look at her speculatively and say, ‘You’re not like Ciro’s other women.’

  Lara had used to joke with him that he and Ciro had a warped sense of what was normal and what was not, given their astounding good-looks and success in life. Lazaro Sanchez was every bit as gorgeous as Ciro, with messy overlong dark blond hair and piercing green eyes.

  Yet in spite of the Spaniard’s devastating charm he’d ne
ver made her pulse trip like Ciro had. Did. She could still feel the imprint of his kiss from the church on her mouth and had to resist the urge to touch it.

  Lara decided to ignore his barbed comment. ‘Lazaro, it’s nice to see you again.’

  Lazaro folded his arms. His expression was not charming now. Far from it. ‘I’m afraid I can’t say the same. You know, two years ago, when you left Ciro in the hospital, I’ve never seen him so—’

  ‘Filling my wife’s head with stories like you used to?’

  Lazaro scowled at Ciro, who’d interrupted them and who was now snaking a possessive arm around Lara’s waist. She was intrigued to know what Lazaro had been about to say but suspected she never would now.

  Then she registered what Ciro had said—my wife. With such ease. As if this was all entirely normal.

  He turned to Lara. ‘We’ll be leaving shortly to take our flight to Sicily. You should go and change—there’s a stylist waiting for you upstairs.’

  The manager of the exclusive Rome hotel that Ciro owned, where Lara had stayed the night before and got ready earlier, escorted her to the suite where the stylist was waiting. Lara welcomed he opportunity to get away from the hundreds of judgemental eyes. Lazaro’s in particular.

  In the past week, along with the wedding dress, Lara had been fitted for dozens of other outfits. Evening wear, day wear. Night clothes. Underwear. Now, as the woman and her assistant helped Lara out of the elaborate wedding dress and veil, she felt a pang of regret that this wasn’t a normal wedding or marriage and never would be. She’d always fantasised about a small and intimate wedding, and the fantasy had included staying in her wedding dress all night, until her groom lovingly removed it as he took her to bed.

  But she had to remind herself that she’d only ever been a means to an end for Ciro. Access into a rarefied world. So she needed to forget about fantasies of small, intimate weddings. If life had taught her anything by now it was that she was on her own and had to depend on herself.

  ‘Bellissima, Signora Sant’Angelo.’

  Lara’s attention was directed back into the room, where the stylist was standing back and looking her up and down.

  The wedding dress was on its hanger again, and Lara now wore a sleeveless mid-length shirt dress in the softest blush colour. It had a high ruffled neck and was cinched in at the waist with a belt. She wore strappy high-heeled sandals. Her hair was left down, to tumble over her shoulders, and a make-up artist touched up her make-up.

  For a hysterical moment she felt like an actress, about to take her cue to go on stage.

  Ciro was waiting outside when she emerged. His dark gaze swept her up and down. ‘You look beautiful.’

  The immediate flush of warmth that bloomed inside Lara felt like a betrayal. She didn’t want his words to have any effect on her. They weren’t infused with emotion. They were purely an objective assessment. She was a commodity. Just as she’d always been.

  He’d changed into a dark grey suit and white shirt, open at the neck. Elegantly casual. They complemented each other. He extended his arm and she took a breath before putting her arm in his, so he could lead her down the stairs to the main foyer, where people were waiting.

  The crowd parted to let them through, and a few people clapped Ciro on the shoulder as they passed. Lara caught Lazaro’s eye. He still had that grim expression on his face. She felt like pulling free from Ciro, so she could go over and tell him that he had it all wrong. Ciro had hurt her, not the other way around...

  And then she glanced up and saw Ciro’s scar, standing out so lividly, and fresh guilt for her responsibility in that made her keep her eyes forward until they were outside and in the back of a sleek SUV. Lazaro Sanchez was right to look at her the way he did.

  ‘Try to smile, hmm...cara? You’ve just married the man of your dreams and you will never have to lift a finger again if you are wise with your divorce settlement when it comes.’

  Lara’s rattled emotions bubbled over. She turned to Ciro as the vehicle pulled into the traffic. ‘I couldn’t care less about the money, Ciro. You, on the other hand, are obsessed by it. I pity you—because if it all went tomorrow, what would you have?’

  Stupid question, Lara.

  She realised that as soon as the words were out of her mouth. He’d have the towering Sicilian pride and immense self-belief that had brought him to where he was today.

  But he merely shrugged lightly and said, ‘I’d start again and be even more successful.’

  That stopped anything further coming out of Lara’s mouth.

  Ciro conducted some phone calls in Italian while they were en route, and soon they were pulling into a private part of the airport where a small silver jet was waiting.

  The pilot and staff welcomed them on board and Lara accepted a glass of champagne when they were airborne. Below them Rome was bathed in a magical golden sunset.

  She sneaked a look across the aisle to see Ciro holding his own glass of champagne, which didn’t look at all ridiculous in his big hand. Her belly fluttered with nerves and awareness. Would he expect her to sleep with him tonight? Take it as his due? Would he force her?

  She shivered. He wouldn’t have to. Not like her first husband. She diverted her mind from that bilious memory.

  As if sensing her regard, Ciro turned and looked at her. She cast around for something to say—anything but what was on her mind. ‘All those people at the wedding and afterwards...do you know them?’

  Ciro’s mouth twitched slightly. ‘Of course not. They’re mostly peers...business acquaintances. A small number of friends and staff whom I trust.’

  Whom I trust.

  Lara smarted at that. Even though he’d married her, he didn’t trust her. She thought of the pre-nuptial agreement and how it had specified that no children were expected from the union.

  They hadn’t really discussed children before. Lara had just assumed Ciro would want them, as he was the last in the Sant’Angelo line.

  However, for her it had been more complicated. The memory of losing her own parents and her brother had been so painful she’d always believed she couldn’t have borne that kind of loss again, or inflicted it on anyone else... And yet after meeting Ciro, she’d found herself yearning to be part of a family again. He’d made her want to risk it for the first time.

  Ciro was still looking at her, as if he could probe right into her brain and read her thoughts. Terrified in case he might ask her what she’d been thinking about, she scrabbled around for the first thing she could think of.

  ‘Where are we going in Sicily?’

  ‘My family’s palazzo. Directly south from Palermo—on the coast.’

  ‘Does anyone live there?’

  He shook his head. ‘Not since my grandfather passed away a few years ago. It was his property and he left it to me because he was afraid my mother would persuade my father to sell it or turn it into a resort. She never liked Sicily.’ Ciro’s jaw clenched. ‘As you might have noticed from her absence at the wedding, we’re not really in contact.’

  Lara said nothing. He’d told her before of his mother’s serial philandering, and the way his father had devoted himself to her regardless of the humiliation. How his mother had persuaded his father to move to Rome, away from his homeland of Sicily. But Ciro had spent a lot of time there with his grandfather.

  Lara had always believed that his experience at the hands of his mother had explained the ease with which Ciro had believed in Lara’s duplicity and betrayal. He had told her once that when he was very small she’d used to make him collude with her in hiding the evidence of her infidelity from his father. Making him an accomplice. Lara could understand how her own betrayal must have been a huge blow to his pride, and more.

  But while knowing all that was very well, it didn’t really do much to help her now. Ciro’s beliefs were entrenched, and what she had done had merely co
nfirmed for him that women were not to be trusted.

  Lara was quiet. Unnervingly so. Ciro remembered the way she’d used to chatter when they’d first met. She’d ask him so many questions that he’d resort to kissing her to stop them. And yet there’d been those moments when no conversation had been required and she hadn’t filled the silence with nonsense. She’d been just as happy not to talk. Something he’d found refreshing.

  This time around he was under no illusions.

  He thought of the moment just a few hours before, when he’d emerged from the cathedral with Lara on his arm. When the paparazzi’s cameras had exploded into life he’d felt her flinch ever so slightly on his arm, and the sense of triumph which had been so elusive had finally oozed through his veins.

  He’d envisaged that moment—the beauty marrying the beast. And yet when he’d looked down at her she hadn’t had a look of revulsion on her face at being photographed with Ciro and his livid scar—she’d looked haunted by something else entirely and he hadn’t liked that...

  In fact, since they’d met again he’d never got a sense from her that she considered him some sort of monster—which was how he felt sometimes, when people looked at him with horror or fascination. In her eyes there was something else...something almost like...sympathy. Or guilt. Which made no sense at all.

  Ciro looked over Lara’s form broodingly. Her head was turned away, as if the shape of the clouds outside the window was utterly fascinating. The silk of her dress clung to her slim curves in a way that made his hands itch to uncover her inch by inch and see the bounty he had denied himself before...

  He’d been such a fool. Lust had clouded his judgement the first time around. Of course a woman as beautiful as Lara couldn’t have been a virgin. Or if she had been she wasn’t one now.

  No matter. Tonight she would be his in every way—wife and lover. Tonight he would slake the hunger he’d felt since the moment he’d laid eyes on her. Tonight he might finally feel some measure of peace again.