Shameful Secret, Shotgun Wedding

Cassie’s gaze didn’t waver. Was that about the same time he learned never to trust women? ‘You should have been a politician,’ she said lightly, even though her heart was thudding painfully in her chest. ‘I’ve never heard such an evasive answer.’

‘Is that a criticism?’

‘Just an observation.’

His face darkened. ‘And why the hell are you bringing up a subject like that at a time like this?’

Because she needed to know—and how could she possibly know if he never told her anything, if he kept everything so buttoned-up and close to his chest? She thought of Gabriella’s bitterness about marrying the wrong man—which could have been provoked by regret and jealousy. But her sister-in-law had said something else, too…something which had also hurt. Something which could easily be proved.

Have you met any of his other friends? No? Well, I can assure you that I am only voicing what they will all be thinking.

Was Gabriella right? Hadn’t Giancarlo deliberately kept her away from his friends before the wedding—and then neglected to ask a single one to the ceremony itself? As his mistress she hadn’t been good enough to meet them—and it seemed that even as his wife she did not qualify either. Maybe he didn’t intend for her to get to know them at all. Perhaps that was to be the way of it—with her increasingly being marginalised. The unsuitable bride who needed to be kept away from his powerful peers.

‘You know, I still haven’t met any of your friends, Giancarlo.’

‘And?’

Fractionally, Cassie moved away from the distraction of his naked body and the warmth of his embrace, which did not match the sudden cold gleam in his black eyes. She drew a deep breath. ‘And I’d like us to throw a dinner party when we get back to London.’

His eyes narrowed and then he shrugged before moving away from her. ‘So do it.’

But just before he turned over—as if to halt any further conversation on the subject—Cassie saw the unmistakable tautening of his face.

Chapter Eleven

THE small blonde whirlwind which was his wife flew at him as soon as he had let himself in and Giancarlo stared down into her flushed face and listened to the words which were tumbling over themselves in their hurry to be heard. Lifting his hand as if he were quelling dissent at a board meeting, he shook his head. ‘Enough.’

‘But—”

‘I said enough, Cassandra,’ he reiterated softly. ‘Because I don’t give a damn if the trifle won’t set! And neither am I interested in the consistency of the gravy. That’s why I employ a housekeeper! Why the hell won’t you let Gina do it all—the way she always does?’

Cassie bit her wobbling lip. Why couldn’t he understand? Didn’t he realise that sometimes she felt useless—like some little child who needed to have everything done for her? ‘Because…because I want to do some of it myself—otherwise how can we possibly say that it’s our dinner party?’

Giancarlo looked at her anxious face with mounting frustration. He’d agreed to a dinner party so that she could meet some of his friends—yes. What had not been part of the deal had been a near-hysterical pregnant wife who was taking on an unnecessary amount of work and appeared to be failing spectacularly to complete any of it. Picking things up and then putting them down somewhere completely different. Changing her mind and then changing it back again.

But then, she’d been positively mercurial ever since they’d returned from their honeymoon—her moods varying wildly from sweet to tearful with a hundred variations in between. His online pregnancy guide had informed him that women were victims of their hormones during this trimester—and that he must be patient. Patience wasn’t an attribute with which he was particularly familiar, but he was trying. He had even drawn a veil over her prying persistence and the intrusive questions she had flung at him in Rome. His mouth hardened. Once things had calmed down she was going to have to learn he simply would not tolerate her raking up the past. But in the meantime he would humour her.

He studied her frozen little figure, his hands reaching out to massage away some of the tension in her shoulders. ‘Listen to me, Cassandra—I’ve told you a hundred times that you don’t have to prove yourself.’

‘But, I do! They’re your friends and they don’t know anything about me—and I want…I want to make a good impression.’ Shaking herself free, Cassie walked over to one of the vases which stood on the hall table and gave a piece of foliage an unnecessary tug. She had been gearing up to this dinner for days now and sometimes it felt as if she were taking an exam in social etiquette as she prepared to meet some of her husband’s buddies. Hadn’t she been reading all the broadsheet newspapers for days in preparation—stuffing her head with facts so they wouldn’t think she was just some vacuous shop assistant?