They walked the short way across the slender bridge to the party eagerly awaiting them in a local trattoria. Rosalie found herself engulfed by hugs and greetings as she met the employees and farmworkers from his vineyard.
“Welcome, contessa.”
“So happy to meet you, contessa!”
Rosalie looked up at Alex in astonishment. “I’m—a countess?”
He encircled her with his arms. “That’s how it works.”
“Me!” An incredulous laugh bubbled up as she looked back at him. “A farm girl from Emmetsville—an Italian countess! How did I get so lucky?”
Alex kissed her.
“I’m the lucky one,” he said huskily.
For lunch, they were served traditional Venetian dishes such as caparossoi a scota deo—clams in lemon pepper—and risi e bisi—risotto with peas—at the long, rough wooden tables. Alex toasted his bride with champagne, holding out his flute and speaking in rapid Italian, translating his words into English for her benefit.
But Rosalie needed no translation. Sitting at the table of the trattoria, surrounded by new friends, she felt happy, from her fingertips to her toes, to be Alex’s wife. She listened to the timbre of his voice, watched the movement of his body. Her gaze lingered on his large, capable hand holding the stem of the crystal flute. She watched his lips move as he spoke, noted the mesmerizing way they pressed together, lifted, laughed. Though it was only early afternoon, she noticed the five-o’clock shadow along his jawline, the thickness of his neck. As he took off his tuxedo jacket and rolled up the sleeves of his white shirt, her gaze lingered on his powerful forearms, laced with dark hair.
With his broad shoulders and muscular body, he seemed like a man who could lift a horse on his shoulders, or perhaps a car, or perhaps the whole world.
His low-slung trousers were trim against his slim waist. And as he turned to speak to someone who had come up to congratulate him, Rosalie’s gaze fell to his backside, so taut and shapely beneath the fabric that her mouth went dry. As lovely as this reception was, she could hardly wait for it to be over. Because once they were alone, she would be able to see him. She would be able to touch him. She would be able to—
“Don’t you think, cara?” Alex said, turning to face her, to include her in the conversation with his estate manager. Her cheeks went red as they waited for her reply.
“Um...yes—yes, of course,” she stammered. Then, “Er...what?”
“I was saying we do not wish to post a wedding photo online, not even on the winery’s social media accounts. Our celebration is private.” He frowned at her, and she knew her behavior must seem strange; she must look like a fool. Then, looking at her more closely, Alex suddenly grinned, as if he knew exactly what she’d been thinking about—and liked it.
Her cheeks felt radioactive with heat. What was wrong with her? She was a virgin, but felt totally wanton, utterly in her husband’s sexual thrall.
Her husband. Alex was her husband.
“Are you ready, cara?” he murmured hours later, holding out his hand as they finally left the trattoria.
This time, there was no hesitation in her answer, no doubt, no question. Looking up at him, she was vibrating with need.
“Yes,” she said.
They took the speedboat back to the palazzo, going very fast to evade paparazzi hovering in their wake, and taking five wrong turns to throw them off the scent. Instead of going to the back gate on the canal as expected, Lorenzo dropped them at a dock a little way from the front of the palazzo. Taking Rosalie’s hand, Alex led her down a tiny, winding alley, as they both laughed with joy at their escape.
Rosalie’s heart pounded as she looked at her darkly handsome husband. When they reached the rarely used kitchen door of the palazzo, she was still laughing as she started to go through it. Alex stopped her.
“Wait,” he said huskily.
Lifting her in his arms, he carried her over the threshold. She expected him to immediately put her down in the kitchen, because after all, at nearly eight months’ pregnant, she wasn’t exactly a waif. Instead, he carried her all the way through the kitchen, down the hall, into the grand foyer and up the stairs.
His footsteps never faltered. He carried her as if she were a feather.
Only when they were in his master bedroom, the room she’d never even been inside before, he slowly lowered her to her feet.
No. His bedroom no longer. Theirs.
Her eyes fell on the enormous four-poster bed, and she bit her lip nervously. She was about to experience what all the fuss was about. She would make love to the man whose child she already carried...
They’d done everything backward, she thought suddenly. Getting pregnant. Then marrying. Then making love. The last thing should have been falling in love—because really, that should have come first, before anything else. But now it would come never.
This was close enough to love, Rosalie thought as he looked down at her, burning her with his hot gaze. It was.