The Price Of A Dangerous Passion

And yes, right now, he was focused on her and the baby, but was it only because of the baby? How would things be after the baby was born?

Would Brando be as attentive? Would he still want her? Would he try to make her feel special?

She pictured Louisa—gorgeous, sexy, fun-loving Louisa—and felt a wave of insecurity. Charlotte hated feeling insecure. She’d had enough of that growing up in her family. It was impossible to get her parents’ attention, impossible to get anyone’s attention. She’d act out just to force one of the nannies to focus on her, hoping they’d take her to her parents, and yet when she was hauled before her parents, it never resulted in the outcome she’d wanted.

They had no time or patience for her when she was good, and they had even less time and patience when she was naughty. Gradually she learned not to look to others for affection, or validation. She would take care of herself, and learn to be happy and secure through her own actions and achievements. Once she stopped wanting her parents’ love and approval, she discovered herself, and became the person she wanted to be.

Since arriving in Tuscany she felt lost, though, and wasn’t sure who she was anymore.

She wasn’t sure about marriage and forever, either. In her family marriage didn’t equal forever. Marriage was just a source of friction and tension, with the friction growing worse until someone threw in the towel and initiated divorce.

The idea of marrying to divorce made her heartsick.

But being married to a man who didn’t want her, and might have clandestine relationships on the side, would break her.

Charlotte couldn’t escape her thoughts, or the panic rising in her, and she left bed and then left her room and headed upstairs to Brando’s bedroom. It was well past midnight and she doubted he was awake but she needed to see him, needed to hear from him that they weren’t making a terrible mistake.

She knocked lightly on his door and then opened it an inch. “Brando, are you sleeping?”

“Come in,” he said, his voice deep and sleep roughened. “Are you unwell?”

“I’m fine,” she said, stepping into his room, leaving the door slightly open behind her. “Everything’s fine. I just can’t sleep and my brain won’t turn off and I’m getting myself worked up.”

“Over what?”

“What if you don’t like being married to me?” she whispered.

“Come here,” he said, drawing back the covers, and patting the bed. “Crawl in with me.”

She did, needing his warmth, craving security. He gave her a pillow and then pulled her close, her back to his chest, his arm wrapping around her middle, before bringing the light feather duvet over both of them.

“Do you want to talk?” he asked, his deep voice husky.

“Will you regret marrying me?”

“We’re making a family. I will never regret having a family.”

A lump filled her throat. It wasn’t quite the reassurance she needed. “What about me, though? Will you regret marrying me?”

He kissed her bare shoulder. “Never.”

Her chest squeezed, air bottling in her lungs. “Promise?”

“It will not always be easy between us. We’re two strong people. But we can make it work, if we want to make it work. Does that make sense?”

“Yes.”

He pushed her hair aside and kissed the back of her neck. “We will find our happiness, cara. I am sure of that.”

And wrapped in his arms, and in his assurances, Charlotte fell asleep.

The wedding plans moved forward quickly, with the date set for the last Saturday in June, which was less than two weeks away.

Brando handled the arrangements, but he ran his ideas past her, making sure she approved. She liked his ideas and agreed with him on virtually everything, appreciating his logic, his tastes, as well as his decisiveness. Her only real objection was marrying in the historic chapel. Charlotte asked if maybe they couldn’t say their vows outside, perhaps in one of the gardens, with a view of the valley.

He agreed with her suggestion for a simple outdoor ceremony, and shared his idea for a reception in the inner courtyard, which could be illuminated with strings of white lights, and torches attached to the stone walls.

Ten days before the wedding, Livia arrived to take measurements for Charlotte’s dress, but before they could discuss dresses, there were other things Livia wanted to know. “You and Brando did not seem to like each other very much during our meetings. Clearly the rest of us did not know what was really going on behind closed doors.”

Charlotte blushed. “Nothing happened during our work together. He and I did have some issues—”

“Too much chemistry, hmm?”

“There were sparks, yes,” Charlotte admitted. “But nothing happened while I was under contract. I wouldn’t do that to you, not while working for you. It happened New Year’s Eve. He’d invited me to Enzo’s big party. That was the first time—and the only time—we got together.”

“One night and you’re pregnant?”

Charlotte grimaced. “We used protection, too. He did, I did.” She gestured helplessly to the bump. “But this one wanted to be born.”

“That’s a Ricci for you,” Livia answered with a wink. “Prepare yourself. You’re going to have your hands full. Now let’s get your measurements and discuss the kind of dress you’d like for the wedding.”

“I don’t actually have a preference,” Charlotte admitted. “I prefer clean, sophisticated designs, which is what you do. Can I just leave it to you to make whatever you think would look best on me?”

Livia embraced her, and then kissed her on each cheek. “It would be my pleasure. Leave it to me.”

A week passed, and the wedding was just days away. The guest list had swelled, with most of Brando’s family electing to stay overnight at the castello rather than make the drive back to Florence. All the decisions had been made for the wedding, too. Musicians and photographer were booked, flowers ordered, and Brando’s chef from Florence was coming to assist the castello chef and kitchen staff for the wedding weekend.

All the decisions that needed to be made were done. But Brando, who wasn’t a worrier, had concerns. The wedding, while still intimate, was no longer as small as he’d hoped, and the family and friends coming would be up late into the night, celebrating. Brando had wanted a special night for Charlotte, a wedding they’d both remember for years to come. He just hoped that it wasn’t going to be too much for her. The last thing they needed was Charlotte being rushed back to the hospital at the end of their wedding night.

From her room Charlotte could see the preparations for the ceremony and reception this weekend. The villa staff swept and scrubbed the courtyard, wiping down stones and the dozen columns supporting the arches of the inner courtyard. Planters were refreshed, topiaries pruned, and long strings of white lights were run across the courtyard, creating a tent-like canopy.

The morning of the wedding, tables were set up in the interior courtyard, and then covered with white cloths. Flowers arrived, and antique silver candelabra lined the long tables, the heavy silver candleholders matching the ornate silverware.

Livia was there to help her dress, and after her hair and makeup were done by a stylist Livia had brought from Florence, Charlotte carefully stepped into her gown.

Her gown was exquisite and what made it so beautiful was that it was perfect for her. It was her style—modern, clean and yet classic. The white silk gleamed in the sunlight, and the luxurious fabric molded to her full breasts, hugging her torso and bump, before forming a full, sophisticated skirt. There were even pockets in the skirt, a touch she adored. Normally she would have avoided such a deep plunging neckline, and yet the dramatic neckline, paired with the wide shoulder straps, looked chic, and drew the eye from her bump to her shoulders and face.

With her hair pinned up, and a long white

veil attached to the chignon, she looked like a true bride—radiant, glowing, excited.

Livia walked around Charlotte, adjusting her skirt, and then the floor-length veil. “Perfection,” she said approvingly. “Even the pearl earrings. Elegant, classic, discrete.”

Charlotte reached up and touched one pearl stud. “My mother’s.”

“Is she coming?”