“You are my wife, Grace” Letter to Reader Title Page CHAPTER ONE CHAPTER TWO CHAPTER THREE CHAPTER FOUR CHAPTER FIVE CHAPTER SIX CHAPTER SEVEN CHAPTER EIGHT CHAPTER NINE CHAPTER TEN CHAPTER ELEVEN Copyright
“You are my wife, Grace”
Donato continued. “There has been no divorce, the marriage contract still stands.”
“Not in my eyes.” She was panting hard, her slim fairness overshadowed by his dark maleness as he held her fast. “You might be my husband by contract, but that is all, and without love our marriage certificate becomes just a piece of paper....”
Sometimes the perfect marriage is worth waiting for!
Look out next month for the follow-up story, SECOND MARRIAGE.
Dear Reader,
Wedding bells, orange blossom, blushing brides and dashing grooms...and happy ever after? As we all know, the path of true love often doesn’t run smoothly—both before and after the knot is tied. So what makes two people’s love for each other special? And why can love survive everything that is thrown at it?
In these two linked books I’ve explored that very thing—how one couple copes with a tragedy that has the potential to destroy their marriage; and, in the second book, how that same disaster sends out ripples of bitterness and disillusionment toward their friend, tarnishing his view of love until...
Well, read the books and all will be revealed! I’ve thoroughly enjoyed writing them, and do hope you enjoy reading them.
Love,
Helen Brooks
Husband By Contract
Helen Brooks
CHAPTER ONE
‘EXCUSE me, but are you feeling all right?’
‘I’m sorry?’ Grace felt as though she had just returned from a dark, cold place as she focused her deep blue eyes on the concerned face of the stewardess bending over her, the gentle murmur of conversation from the other passengers on the plane penetrating the horror that had held her in its grip. ‘Oh, yes, yes, thank you, I’m fine.’ The pretty young face watching her didn’t look convinced and she added quickly, ‘A headache. I’ve had a headache all day, that’s all.’
‘Oh, you should have said.’ The tall, slim stewardess smiled her professional smile of sympathy as she straightened. ‘I’ll get you a couple of aspirin, shall I?’
‘Thank you.’ Grace nodded her appreciation. ‘If it’s no trouble,’ she added quietly, forcing a smile from somewhere.
A headache. If only this fear and panic that had made eating and sleeping impossible since she had received the telegram could be dealt with as easily as a headache. The flat formality of the printed words swam into her mind again as her stomach churned.
I have been instructed by Donato Vittoria to inform you of the sudden death of his mother, and to request your presence at the funeral on 23rd April. The service will be held at the Church of the Madonna di Mezz’ Loreto at midday.
That had been all. No explanation, no suggestion that she call or contact the family in any way, just a cold, terse announcement from the Vittorias’ solicitor, Signor Fellini.
But it hadn’t really been an announcement, had it? she thought sickly. It was a demand, a decree, by the autocratic head of the Vittoria clan, whose word was law and power absolute. Donato. Oh, God, I shan’t be able to stand it, she prayed desperately; help me get through the next few days...
‘Here we are.’ Again the smooth, pleasant voice of the stewardess brought her back from the edge of despair and into the real world as she handed Grace a glass of water and the aspirin. ‘Not long now and we’ll be landing; you’ll feel better then,’ she added brightly, the tone faintly patronising.
‘Thank you.’ Grace obediently swallowed both the aspirin and the water and settled back in her seat as she closed her eyes. She knew what the stewardess was thinking; it had been transparently obvious. Poor little thing, she’s frightened of flying. Well, she was frightened all right, absolutely terrified, but not of flying.
Oh, she had to pull herself together, she told herself angrily. She was a grown woman of twenty-three, not some nervous, over-excited schoolgirl who couldn’t say boo to a goose. If only she looked her twenty-three years, that would give her a little more confidence for the days ahead, but her petite five feet four inches added to red-gold curls that defied all efforts at smoothness and a naturally elfin face took at least five years off her age despite her careful choice of clothes.
But she was old inside. She shuddered, her hands clenching on her lap. Ancient, antediluvian inside. More than old enough to cope with Donato and the rest of the Vittoria family.
That thought carried her through the rest of the journey and the arrival at Naples airport, and once through Customs she collected the one suitcase she had brought with her and prepared to find a taxi, her face white and strained and her small, slim body held erect amidst all the bustle and chaos around her.
‘Grace.’ She froze for an infinitesimal moment, mind and body registering the shock of hearing that deep, cool voice with its heavy Italian accent speaking her name, and then forced herself to turn slowly as she took a long, steadying breath.
‘Donato.’ A smile was beyond her as she took in the tall, dark man watching her so closely, his black eyes narrowed in the tanned hardness of his face and his firm, sensual mouth unsmiling like hers. He was still the same! She felt her heart begin to slam against her ribcage with the force of a sledge-hammer and willed the panic to cease. She had to be in control, give the impression of calm and cold restraint; anything else would be seized upon as weakness and used against her. ‘I’m very sony about your mother,’ she said quietly, hoping the slight quiver in her voice would pass unnoticed. ‘She was a truly great lady.’
‘Yes, she was.’ He was standing very still, his loose-fitting trousers and dark blue cotton shirt immaculate as always and sitting on the big, lithe body in a way guaranteed to make any female heart beat a little faster.
But not hers. Grace took another hidden breath before she spoke. Definitely not hers, never again. ‘The telegram