His Merciless Marriage Bargain
“You should have told me last night that the reporter was coming this morning. It would have changed things.”
“How so?”
I wouldn’t have given you my heart, she thought, looking away, jaw grinding to hold back the emotion, I would have just given you my body. But Rachel wasn’t sure that was true. She didn’t think she could have helped falling for him. And maybe that was why she was angry. She’d wanted to hold out for true love. Instead she’d fallen for Gio.
He tipped her chin up. “It wouldn’t have changed anything, cara. You willingly, happily went to bed with me last night. I kissed every inch of your lovely body, and then this morning, after a good sleep, when you couldn’t blame the wine for clouding your judgment, I took your virginity. There was no coercion involved.”
“Can you not say virginity so loud?” she gritted, face on fire.
“Is that why you’re so sensitive this morning? Did you want to lounge around this morning—”
“No.”
“Savoring your first time?”
She dug her nails into her palms. “I will slap you if you continue mocking me.”
“I am not mocking you.”
“Then what are you doing?”
“Teasing you.” He leaned forward and kissed her brow. “As new lovers do,” he added with another kiss. Gio drew back and smiled into her eyes. “Shall we go select our wedding cake?”
The chef had a speech prepared, and in the palazzo’s cavernous kitchen, he shared how cake wasn’t just something sweet with which to finish the meal, but the breaking of bread over the bride’s head dated to the ancient Romans. The groom would smash the cake—sometimes even throw it at her—as a fertility ritual.
Rachel’s lips compressed. “What a lovely thing for a man to do to his bride,” she said under her breath. “I’m sure she enjoyed it immensely.”
Gio grinned lazily at her. “Is that your sense of humor returning?”
“Oh no. It’s gone. I don’t think it’ll ever be back, either.”
He just laughed, and the photographer snapped away, and the chef kept talking as he showed them each of the different types of cake they could choose for their wedding.
“This is the classic Italian white cake,” he said, gesturing to a four-tier cake. “It is the one most similar to your American wedding cake style. In Italy, the beautiful white icing represents purity and fidelity, and the bride’s faithful devotion to her new husband.”
“That sounds like our perfect cake,” Gio said.
Rachel shot him a dark glance. “What other choices do we have?”
The chef went on to the next cake. “Many couples choose millefoglie, a very traditional cake comprised of very thin, delicate layers of pastry with a light cream mascarpone filling. Millefoglie translates to ‘a thousand layers’ and is finished with powdered sugar and fresh berries. You can also choose a chocolate cream filling instead of mascarpone if you are a chocolate fan.” The chef smiled. “The only drawback to such a cake is that it cannot be stacked, so it does not create quite the same centerpiece effect.”
“Since my bride is American, I think we should give her a tall cake,” Gio said.
The chef moved to the third cake. “There is also the profiterole cake. It is a tower cake, but instead of layers of cake that have been iced and stacked, it is a cone covered in cream-filled pastries. It is a very European cake, popular in France, too, although there it is called croquembouche.”
The room was silent as everyone looked at her, as if eager for her pronouncement. “I don’t care,” Rachel whispered, overwhelmed. “Whatever Giovanni wants. This is his big day, too.”
Gio’s gaze met hers and held. “I think we should go with the traditional layered cake,” he said after a moment. “A white layered cake with all white frosting to symbolize my beautiful bride’s purity and devotion.”
And then it was all over. The photographer and journalist left, and the chef packed up his cakes, and it was just Rachel and Gio with a stack of sketches—the wedding dresses.
Rachel numbly leafed through the illustrations of gorgeous white dresses but they were all just that—formal white gowns that meant nothing to her. She was finding it impossible to wrap her head around the marriage and the wedding and everything else. Finally, she just pushed the sketches across the table to Gio. “You decide,” she said. “I don’t care. I really don’t.”
* * *
It wasn’t the answer Gio wanted, but he smiled lazily, hiding his frustration. But later, when he was in his office, he found himself pausing between conference calls to wonder why he wanted her to care. He wanted her to be enthusiastic; he wanted the wedding ceremony and reception to be something they’d both enjoy, and he wasn’t sure why.
They weren’t marrying out of love. This was a practical marriage at best. So why should it matter if she was or wasn’t excited about the ceremony? Why should he want her to treat this as if it was her dream wedding?