Ravelli's Defiant Bride

CHAPTER SEVEN

CRISTO STRODE OUTSIDE to greet his brother, Nik. The two men stopped on the terrace to talk. Belle hovered, hearing an animated exchange between the men in a foreign language. It didn’t sound like Italian and she wondered if it could be Greek. When she heard the other man expostulate loudly several times she guessed that Cristo was telling him about her mother and the children and she winced uncomfortably, feeling agonisingly self-conscious.

Nik Christakis was a big man, even taller than her bridegroom, but he did bear a strong resemblance to Cristo. Nik frowned across the room at her and his frown only darkened more when he saw the young child standing by her side.

‘My wife, Belle, and our youngest little brother, Franco,’ Cristo imparted in calm explanation in response to his brother’s interrogative look. ‘My brother, Nik.’

‘Our?’ Nik queried straight away. ‘The child’s nothing to do with me. Five of them? You would have to be crazy to take that on, Cristo! Gaetano’s dead and buried. What does it matter what comes out ab

out him now?’

‘It would matter to Zarif,’ Cristo countered squarely.

‘Like I care about that!’ Nik quipped darkly, digging into an inside pocket on his jacket to extract a document, which he extended to his brother. ‘Read it and weep. Learn what happens when you get married without a pre-nup.’

‘We didn’t have a pre-nup,’ Belle remarked awkwardly, uneasy with the tension flowing around them, and Nik’s reluctance to even acknowledge her, never mind make polite conversation.

Cristo raised his dark gaze slowly from the document to say, ‘I have to admit that I’m surprised.’

‘Are you? Are you still that naïve? Obviously Betsy married me for my money and now she’s trying to steal half of everything I own!’ Nik declared with raw, unconcealed bitterness.

‘She didn’t marry you for your money,’ Cristo contradicted with quiet assurance. ‘She fell in love with you.’

‘Don’t be naïve. I give you and your wife and her little bunch of Ravelli by-blows two years at most before she walks out and tries to take the shirt off your back!’ Nik vented with ringing derision.

Belle flushed and lifted her chin. ‘I wouldn’t do that. Look, I’ll leave you two to talk in private,’ she completed, anchoring Franco’s hand in her own.

As she left she heard Nik Christakis cursing, something that was instantly recognisable in many languages. She realised that she was very grateful not to be married to a man like that. Nik’s hard-featured face, cold eyes, not to mention the smouldering bitterness that escaped every time he mentioned his estranged wife, Betsy, chilled Belle to the marrow. Nik was clearly tough, obstinate, furiously hostile and, she suspected, the sort of man who would make an implacable enemy, a man who saw only the worst in anyone who crossed him.

Cristo, she reasoned, was more reasonable, more civilised…wasn’t he? She respected him for speaking up in defence of his sister-in-law. Furthermore the night before she had been surprised and reluctantly impressed when Cristo had suggested that complete honesty between them might well be the way to make their marriage work. That was a rational and mature attitude to take, she acknowledged thoughtfully. She liked and respected honesty, hated the lies and persuasive pretences that Gaetano had shamelessly employed to keep her mother content and make his own life smoother.

Two hours later, after Nik had finally departed and a second helicopter had flown in and deposited its colourful cargo, Cristo went off in search of Belle and found her sitting in the shade of a tree clutching a book. ‘You own a massive library of books,’ she complained as she heard his approach and lifted her head, auburn hair gleaming rich as silk in the shadowy light below the overhanging foliage, ‘but I could only find a couple written in English.’

Cristo swiped the hardback from between her fingers and studied the spine. It was a heavy-duty tome on the history of his mother’s family, written by one of his ancestors and translated by a more recent one. ‘I’ll order some English books for you. I’d suggest that you start learning Italian but it would hardly be worth your while.’

Her bone structure tightened, tension leaping through her as she absorbed that reminder that their relationship was of a strictly temporary nature. Images of his passionate lovemaking the night before swam up through her mind and killed every sensible thought stone dead, making concentration impossible while sending a wave of unwelcome heat travelling through her slender length. Her face hot, she studied the book fixedly as he returned it to her with an elegant gesture of one long-fingered hand. Last night those hands had touched her with breathtakingly erotic expertise and had extracted more pleasure from her weak body than she had known it was capable of experiencing. His complete poise in the aftermath of their passionate argument the night before, however, set her teeth firmly on edge. Evidently, as far as he was concerned, everything was done and dusted but Belle still felt as though her reactions, emotions and even her thoughts were whirling around in a maelstrom and out of her control.

‘Were you looking for me?’ she asked curiously.

‘Yes, cara. It’s time for you to enjoy your wedding present.’

‘Wedding present?’ Belle parroted as she rose slowly to her feet in discomfiture. ‘What on earth are you talking about?’

‘Wedding presents go with the territory of getting married,’ Cristo fielded smoothly, a lean hand settling to the base of her spine to steer her back in the direction of the villa.

‘But not between us, not in our sort of marriage,’ she parried with spirit.

‘I promised to treat you as my wife and that is what I am trying to do.’

‘So…’ Belle murmured tightly in the echoing hall. ‘This present…?’

‘It’s waiting for you in the ballroom,’ Cristo informed her, nodding to Umberto to open the double doors.

Belle crossed the hall slowly, peering into the vast room to focus in astonishment on the catwalk now dissecting it. ‘My goodness, what the heck—?’ she began in confusion.

‘Every woman wants a new wardrobe. I arranged to have a selection flown in along with the models to show the clothing off. All you have to do is choose what you want to wear.’

Every woman wants a new wardrobe? Most social climbing, gold-digging women would certainly fall into that category, Belle reflected with a helpless little moue of distaste that he should have assumed that she was that sort of a woman. But he hadn’t given her a choice. This was what Cristo thought she wanted and, it seemed, he was happy to deliver on that score and it would be needlessly confrontational for her to deny him the opportunity. One step into the ballroom she was introduced to Olivia, who whisked a tape measure over her with startling speed and efficiency and announced that any garments she selected would be delivered sized to fit by lunchtime the next day.