Aislin pushed all thoughts about Tonino Valente away, recognising that her imagination had briefly got the better of her, and instead concentrated on the wedding reception.
She’d been to many weddings in her life but this one topped the lot. The ballroom had been transformed into a sparkly wonderland complete with a champagne fountain that had to break all world records, a chocolate fountain that no one above the age of ten could get near, a cocktail bar, an ever-replenished array of canapés served by an army of waiting staff...all of it set to music pumping out courtesy of a world-famous DJ who had recently hit number one in every continent with his remix of a classic eighties tune.
The atmosphere was pumping as much as the music and she had a whale of a time, drinking lager from a bottle—Dante assured her that propriety should be damned—and chatting to Sabine and her husband, Francois, who after a few drinks loosened up and became excellent company too. Other guests joined them, dipping in and out of the conversation.
All Aislin’s feelings of inadequacy had gone. Not even Katrina’s malicious presence bothered her. She felt nothing but pity for the beautiful woman trapped in a hell of her own making.
The only fly in the ointment was Dante.
Something was bugging him, she was certain of it. It was nothing she could put her finger on, as outwardly he was his usual sociable self, but she detected an undercurrent to his mood.
Aislin was catching her breath at their table after a vigorous dance with Sabine when Riccardo D’Amore came over to them.
‘You drink beer?’ he asked her, his brow creased.
She nodded cheerfully. ‘Champagne gives me a headache.’
‘No cocktail?’
‘Not tonight. Too many and I’ll get drunk, and then I’ll probably fall over and make a fool of myself, so it’s safer for me to stick to beer.’
Dante doubted Riccardo had understood half of what she’d just told him in that rapid-fire delivery, but he beamed nonetheless.
And then he turned to Dante. ‘Are you free Monday morning?’ he asked in their own language.
‘That depends why you’re asking.’
‘I’ve been having a rethink about that deal you made with Alessio. I think I was a little hasty in my involvement. Alessio has a good head on his shoulders.’
That was as close to an apology as Dante would get but he didn’t expect a full one. Riccardo was a proud man. He did not like to admit his mistakes.
‘What are you saying?’ He wanted it spelt out.
‘That I was wrong to interfere. I have spoken to him and he is still of the opinion that the deal with you is the best one on the table. The contracts are still drawn up. He goes on his honeymoon Monday afternoon but can spare a few minutes to sign it before he leaves. That is, if the deal is something you still wish to go ahead with?’
Hiding his euphoria at his plan succeeding so perfectly, Dante pretended to consider the question. ‘I have meetings all day Monday. My lawyer will be with me. If Alessio can bring the contract and his lawyers to me for eleven a.m., I should have a window to fit him in then.’
Dante had his pride too. He wanted this deal—he wouldn’t have offered Aislin such a large amount of money if it wasn’t so important to him—but he would not roll over and demean himself by snatching Riccardo’s olive branch without making the man sweat a little. It was the least he deserved. Alessio too, for allowing his father to browbeat him into pulling out of the deal in the first place.
‘You are still willing to go ahead?’
‘If he can get to me for eleven, then yes.’
‘He will be there. Where will you be?’
‘Madrid. I fly there tomorrow evening.’ His tone left no doubt—Riccardo and Alessio could take it or leave it.
Riccardo pulled his handkerchief out of his top pocket and patted his perspiring forehead. ‘He will be there.’
Dante finally allowed himself a smile and extended his hand. ‘Then we have a deal.’
Riccardo clasped it in his clammy paw. ‘We have a deal.’
* * *
When Aislin opened her eyes the next morning there was a cramping weight in her chest so heavy that it took a few moments before she could breathe with any ease. Dante’s arm was draped over her belly, his knee nudging against her thigh, sleeping deeply.
His mood had much improved once the deal with the D’Amores was confirmed as back on. He’d joined her on the packed dance floor and neither had complained that the mass of bodies forced them to hold each other closely.