The Ranieri Bride

The marriage had already happened, in a sense: her son was wed to these people. She needed to stop being an idiot and get in there and make it official—for him.

She let Nicky pull her across the tiny foyer. She allowed Cindy to fuss with her dress. Her heart was still pounding. Her fear of what Luca could do to them still made her feel cold with dread.

Clutching her son’s hand, she took that first, tremulous step then another. She saw Enrico come to his feet at the top of the aisle. He was wearing a dark suit and his shoulders looked as if someone had strapped them to an iron bar.

There was a stir and it was then that she became aware of the congregation. She hadn’t taken part in any of the arrangements. She’d just allowed herself to be carried along on the marriage wagon, buying things when she’d been told to buy them and kind of drifting through the weeks without bothering to think about this part at all.

But she had expected the chapel to be empty other than for their

small wedding party, so it came as a shock to see that it was full of guests. The narrow pews were lined with row upon row of Ranieris, uncles, aunts, cousins, people who were complete strangers to her, but all with those distinctive genes that made them all look so familiar. Some were turning to stare at her curiously, others were smiling, and a few looked just plain arrogant—like the tense man who stood at the top of the aisle with his ramrod-straight back to her.

On the other side of the chapel the pews were filled with a sea of familiar faces: Hannard employees, a few wearing starry-eyed romantic smiles like Cindy’s.

Enrico had done this? He’d brought all of these people together to witness their marriage without telling her? And he’d done it knowing there was a big chance she might jilt him in front of them all?

Or maybe he’d done it to add more pressure. As in—jilt me in front of this lot, if you dare.

Enrico turned then to look at her and she faltered to a complete standstill. Her heart seemed to split wide open then just fall apart. He looked exactly like what he was: a sensationally attractive, tall, dark, Italian male, wearing a fantastically cut three-piece suit and the requisite ice-blue tie.

His face was paler than it should be, which made his eyes too dark to be real. And stern—his frown was stern. His mouth looked flat, his chin taut as he stood there looking at her.

Enrico was caught, captivated. Freya’s dress was exquisite: a romantic creation of fine antique lace over sensual silk. With her hair left loose and a coronet of tiny pearls holding her lace veil in place, she looked staggeringly lovely and heart-shatteringly ethereal.

She was an earth mother and fragile bride in one sensational package, with their son as her escort standing proudly at her side and her bridesmaid behind her.

But her face was so white and her eyes so dark she looked as though she were attending a wake.

Was she going to do it and jilt him? Was this why she looked so ethereal and tragic?

He felt as if he was being torn apart, his emotions spitting and crackling like a million electrodes gone wild. The music was playing and she wasn’t moving. His younger brother shifted tensely at his side. Valentino did not know Freya. He’d been away in America attending university for three years. But he heard him murmur, ‘Santo cielo. Is she for real, Rico?’

Not so you could tell, Enrico thought tensely.

Then, ‘Daddy!’ Nicolo suddenly shouted out and a ripple of laughter ran around the chapel as the giver of the bride broke ranks to run to his father’s side.

His son’s hand slipped into his hand. His long fingers closed around small ones, but Enrico’s eyes did not leave his bride.

Would she do it? Would she strip him of his pride in front of all of these people?

Por Dio! Come down here and finish it one way or the other. But don’t just stand there looking at me as if I’ve died! Enrico winged his thoughts to his bride via sheer telepathy.

Freya felt as if she were standing on water, the stone floor beneath her seemed so insubstantial and unsafe. It was seeing her son and her lover standing there looking at her, both dark-haired and dark-eyed, that made it feel that frail.

As if she could hear what she was thinking, Cindy stepped up to Freya. ‘They belong to you. Go and get them,’ she whispered.

Freya’s feet began to move again. She saw a nerve flick along Enrico’s tense jaw. The music was still playing, people were whispering. As she came closer Fredo stepped up from seemingly nowhere and bent to lift Nicky into his big arms.

Then it was just the two of them with the priest, and they had the ceremony to get through. Each time Freya was expected to speak, Enrico felt his heartbeat go crazy, each soft and tremulous response she gave hitting his libido hard.

She did it, though; she got through the ceremony with only one heart-stopping moment when the priest asked if there was any reason why the marriage should not take place, and in the throat-cutting silence that followed her cold fingers shook in Enrico’s hands.

They did all the legal stuff without speaking to each other. Valentino introduced himself to Freya, then welcomed her into the family with truck-loads of Ranieri charm. Jealousy ripped through Enrico, a greedy, dark, possessive jealousy, because she smiled for Valentino but she had stopped looking at him at all.

He watched her eyes hunt the mass of Ranieri faces as she and he walked back along the aisle. He could feel her tension, her fear that Luca was going to jump out at any minute and slur their names in front of everyone.

He must have been mad to put her to the test like this, Enrico thought on a sudden burst of anger. Who the hell did he think he was, playing with her feelings like this?

The Press were there in force to capture their reports and pictures. No one could say they did not make the perfect image of romance as they stood on the church steps with their son standing between them with one of his big grins on his face.