‘What’s up?’ Valente demanded, recognising the strain pinching her profile into tightness.
‘Nothing’s up.’
Caroline twisted to look at him. The moonlight arrowing into the back of the luxury car accentuated the strong angles and defined hollows of his hard handsome features. For the first time in more years than she wanted to remember she wanted to make physical contact with a man of her own volition. She wanted to smooth that aggressive jawline already roughening with stubble, trace that arrogant Roman emperor’s nose and that beautiful, brutally stubborn mouth. Without warning, as her tense fingers quivered with longing, it hit her like a tidal wave that the very idea of admitting her sexual inadequacy and watching Valente turn away from her in angry disgust was altogether more than she could bear. Fear of the future swiftly formed a cold hard knot inside her.
Joe Hales stared as Caroline descended the stairs in her wedding dress. It was a classic design, chosen because it would not swamp her small frame in an excess of fabric. Her gown had jewelled straps on the shoulders, and it fitted her like a glove to below the hip, where it flared into a fuller skirt. She wore a short veil, held by a silver tiara on top of her upswept hair.
‘You look as pretty as a picture,’ her father told her proudly, his eyes glassy with tears. ‘I don’t understand why your mother thought that you wearing a proper wedding gown would be in bad taste.’
‘Matthew,’ his daughter proffered, in one succinct word of explanation. ‘But, as you know, Valente wanted me to wear a gown.’
The older man’s eyes crinkled at the corners with wry amusement. ‘Your mother doesn’t like to be contradicted.’
‘Neither does he,’ Caroline remarked ruefully, thinking of the various tussles there had been over such decisions during the past two weeks, not to mention the outraged descent of Matt’s parents when they realised she was remarrying. Caroline had chosen to withstand the older couple’s condemnation with dignified understanding, but her mother had not been so tolerant of their interference.
Valente, unfortunately, was no more tolerant of views other than his own. He was determined to behave as if her first marriage had never happened, and had swiftly vetoed the suggestion of a civil ceremony with Caroline dressed in a suit in a pastel shade. On several occasions Caroline had been put in the thankless position of playing piggy in the middle between Valente and Isabel, who had craved more time in which to turn her daughter’s second wedding into the flashiest in local living memory. Never in her life before had Caroline been kept so relentlessly busy.
Valente had returned to Italy within days of agreeing to marry her, and he had ruled her by phone ever since, reeling off commands as if she was an employee rather than his bride-to-be. Almost all her possessions, including the contents of her workshop, had already been professionally packed and sent off to Venice. Her mother had wanted to stage an evening party after the wedding, but Valente had insisted that the bride and groom would be leaving in the afternoon for Italy. Koko, duly micro-chipped and inoculated for her travels, had been flown out in advance that very morning to Valente’s home.
Hales Transport was still in business, and a new warehouse was being commissioned—a comforting sign of an anticipated expansion in trade. In the same two-week period complex alterations to Winterwood had been agreed, after a lengthy meeting with an architect and her parents, who had had considerable input into the design of their new apartment. Joe and Isabel were overjoyed to be staying on at Winterwood, and delighted by the prospect of a modern and easily-maintained home. While the work on the house was being done they would be staying in a comfortable hotel at Valente’s expense. He had also instructed his staff to rehire their former housekeeper and gardener to take care of the property in the Haleses’ absence. As a final footnote to the speed and effectiveness of Valente’s virtual takeover of all their lives, her father was now scheduled for surgery at a private hospital the following month—Valente would be footing the bill.
The pre-nuptial agreement Caroline had had to sign had been rigorous in its detail. It had shocked her, covering as it did everything from infidelity to her allowance and the amount of travelling she would be allowed to do. If they had a child she would have to continue living in Italy even if the marriage ended in divorce. Every sin she might commit would affect the size of her divorce settlement, which was set for an amazing amount of cash. She had signed without arguing a single clause. If Valente honoured the promises he had already made, she expected nothing more from him.
But now that the wedding was upon her Caroline was as jumpy as a cat on hot bricks during the drive to the church. It was the same church at which she had failed to show up five years before. Valente had refused the suggestion that another venue might be preferable. A red carpet ran down the steps—probably one of the many ‘extras’ which Valente’s staff had organised. Photographs were taken as she entered the old building. She could not shake a daunting sense of déjà vu, because for years she had wondered what her life would have been like had she married Valente instead.
Glorious flowers embellished almost every visible inch of the rather austere interior of the church. She repressed the memories of her first wedding day, during which Matthew had begun to show his true colours. But Valente was not Matthew, she reminded herself furiously, striving to rouse herself and maintain an upbeat mood. Valente turned from the altar to look at her and all her anxiety momentarily died away. He looked gorgeous in his elegant grey morning suit, and his stunning dark golden eyes rested on her with an unconcealed appreciation that lit her up inside with relief and pleasure.
A little voice in her head whispered that he would not be feeling so generous by the end of the day, and even before she silenced that warning voice a shiver of premonition ran down her taut spine like a trickle of icy water. Valente might want her in a way that Matthew had not, but his desire would destroy their marriage before it even got off the ground.
The service was short and sweet. Valente held her hand firmly, slotting a wedding ring smoothly on to her finger. When they were pronounced man and wife, and he turned her round to kiss her, she was startled by the sudden intimacy, the crashing reminder that her body was no longer inviolable.
‘Your skin has turned to ice,’ Valente remarked half under his breath. ‘You must be cold, belleza mia.’
But she had only frozen when his mouth had come down hungrily on hers and the fear of how they would fare later that day had exploded back into her with double strength, making her skin clammy. She would not be his ‘beauty’ then, would she?
‘You look amazing, though. Who chose the dress?’
‘I did,’ she admitted with quiet pride. ‘Mum’s much too fond of frills and bows.’
Valente bent his handsome dark head lower and murmured huskily, ‘I’m especially fond of lace.’
Her pale skin washed tomato-red as that could only be a reminder of the distinctly intimate gift he had had delivered to her the day before. A set of ivory lingerie in silk and lace such as she had never seen before and certainly never worn: a cobweb-fine bra and knickers, teamed with a suspender belt and lace stockings and the all-essential bridal garter. She had felt quite sick looking at the set, even more intimidated when she’d forced herself to put the items on to wear below her dress. After all, no gift could have told her more candidly exactly what her bridegroom expected from her.
He wanted a fantasy woman who would parade half-naked for