She turned her head and looked at him. ‘No, Max, we don’t.’
She pulled free and walked quickly from the room.
Two weeks later
‘I do hope that you haven’t put me anywhere near your father. Honestly, if he turns up with his latest bimbo—’
‘Mother. Please stop.’ Darcy tried to keep the exasperation out of her voice. ‘You’re not near my father, you’re at opposite ends of the reception lunch table and the registry office.’
Her mother, as petite as Darcy but über-slim sniffed. ‘Well, that’s good.’
Darcy sighed. She and Max had agreed that it would look better to have family there, and that they could serve as witnesses. Her parents were as bad as each other in different ways: her passionate Italian mother was on a constant quest to find security with ever younger and richer men, and her hopelessly romantic father got his heart broken on a regular basis by a stream of never-ending gold-diggers who saw Tom Lennox coming from a mile away.
She forced a smile at her mother in the mirror, not wanting to invite questions about anything beyond the superficial.
To say that the last two weeks had been a strain was an understatement. Luckily work had kept Darcy busy, preparing for the final reckoning with Montgomery. But the personal tension between Max and her had almost reached breaking point. Even though they’d barely seen each other in his apartment. He worked late most nights, so she was in bed when he returned, and he was gone before her in the morning. And Darcy, of course, had refrained from any more dangerous nocturnal wanderings.
Even now she burned with humiliation when she thought of the concern she’d felt when she’d seen him that night, staring broodingly into his drink. Alone... Vulnerable... Ha! The man was about as vulnerable as reinforced steel.
Darcy was sure that he’d only been in London to meet with Montgomery for the last two days to get away from her, and she hated how that stung.
Since that night in his apartment he’d been cool to the point of icy. And she only had herself to blame. She’d been the weak one. Blowing hot and then cold. Running away because she couldn’t handle the thought of Max breaching the final intimacy, afraid of what would happen to her if he did.
No doubt he was used to women who knew what they wanted and went after it—and him. No qualms. No questions. Maybe he’d been seeing one of those women in London, discreetly?
Her mother tugged at the back of her dress now, tutting. ‘Honestly, Darcy, why couldn’t you have bought a nice long dress? This one’s more suitable for a cocktail party. This is quite likely to be your only wedding day, you know.’
Darcy welcomed
the distraction and said fervently, ‘I’m counting on it. And it’s a registry office wedding, Mother. This dress is perfectly suitable.’
Her mother sniffed and tweaked Darcy’s chignon, where a mother of pearl comb held the short veil back from her face. ‘Well, I suppose it is a nice dress, for all that,’ she admitted grudgingly.
Darcy ran a critical eye over herself, feeling slightly disembodied at the thought that she was getting married that day. To Max Fonseca Roselli. The dress was off-white satin, coming to just over her knee. It was a simple sheath design, overlaid with exquisitely delicate lace. It covered her arms and up to her throat.
It’s fine, she told herself, hating that the little girl in her still yearned for something long and swirling...romantic.
Wanting to avoid any further scrutiny, she said to her mother, ‘You look gorgeous.’
Her mother preened—predictably. She was indeed stunning, in a dusky pink dress and matching jacket. An exotic fascinator was arranged in her luxurious dark hair, which was piled high.
As she zipped up her dress at the back Darcy referred to her mother’s comment about her father. ‘It’s not as if you haven’t brought your own arsenal, Mother.’
Viola Bianci glared at her daughter. ‘Javier and I are very much in love.’
Darcy just arched a brow. From what she’d seen of the permatanned Spanish Lothario, he was very much in love with himself, but he was obviously enjoying parading the very well preserved and beautiful older woman on his arm. For whatever reason—whether it was love or something less—he was lavishing attention and money on her mother, so Darcy desisted from making any more comments.
Her mother came in front of her now, to pull the veil over her face, but she stopped and looked at Darcy.
‘Carina...are you sure you’re doing the right thing?’ Her mother looked slightly discomfited for a moment. ‘I mean, after your father and I... Well, our break-up... I always got the impression that you weren’t really into marrying anyone.’
A familiar impulse to deflect any concern about her rose up, and even though Darcy recognised that it was totally misplaced she put a hand on her mother’s arm and said reassuringly, ‘Don’t worry. I know what I’m doing.’
And she did, she told herself.
Her mother wasn’t finished, though. ‘But are you in love with him, Darcy? You might think I don’t notice much, but one thing I’ve always known about you is that you’d never settle for anything less than a lifetime commitment—whether it’s through marriage or not.’
Darcy all but gaped at her mother. Since when did Viola Bianci display any perspicacity in looking into her daughter’s psyche? It slammed into her gut and made her want to recoil and protect herself. Lifetime commitment. Was that really what she wanted? As a result of her experiences? More than a sense of security and a successful career?