‘That is Rosa Corretti.’ He nodded in the direction of a very beautiful woman who wore a flower in her hair that didn’t match her strained expression. ‘She was the apple of Benito’s eye and her brothers keep her on a very short leash.’ As they entered the church and took their places, he pointed out a few others. ‘Over there is Zach Scott. His father is a U.S. senator. Zach was shot down in the war....’ His voice trailed off and he looked around.
It almost killed him to be here.
To watch the groom standing where he once had, though unlike Anton all those years ago Alessandro showed no nerves. This was surely not a love match. Unlike his own wedding.
Emily didn’t notice his sudden pensiveness. Instead she was trying to keep her eyes from popping as they landed on Taylor Carmichael, an American actress who had been off the radar for ages and was making a return. She looked stunning, of course, breathtakingly so. She was wearing a dress so tight she must surely have been sewn into it.
It wasn’t just the guests who were stunning. Her eyes lifted to the stained windows, taking in the architecture as the anticipation built for the bride’s arrival.
‘It’s a beautiful church.’ Emily said it more to herself but her heart stilled for a moment when Anton responded.
‘I was married here.’
There was nothing she could say. Just like earlier, there were no words, so Emily slipped her hand into his.
‘Thank you,’ he said, surprised how much it helped.
‘Well, I could hardly...’
He smiled, not a big one, but there was a lift to the edge of his lips as she referred to earlier, and he never thought he would stand in this place and want another beside him, let alone be able to smile.
The music was starting. All in the church were standing and Emily craned her neck to get a glimpse of the bride as she entered. The dress was all lace, with long sleeves and a high neck, and, though beautiful, Alessia looked terribly wary.
Someone’s phone went off, and remembering that she hadn’t turned hers off, Emily went to do just that but noticed there were a couple of people filming the blushing bride on their phones.
‘Can I?’ she said, remembering the no-press-allowed rule.
‘You’re a guest,’ Anton said. ‘Go for it.’
It was a new phone, though, and instead of filming, she took a shot, just not the one she had intended. She had captured the bride turning, running the wrong way down the aisle. There was commotion all around—the church doors opening, the shocked congregation starting to ask questions, the press going into a frenzy outside.
‘Oh my!’ Emily said. ‘Did she just run off?’ Emily simply could not believe it. ‘This is huge.’
‘You have no idea,’ Anton said. ‘And neither does the rest of the world.’
There was a man running after her, yet it wasn’t the groom. Alessandro stood, shoulders back, taking it on the chin as he was jilted at the altar.
‘I have to ring my boss.’
‘Why?’ Anton asked. ‘So Dianne can first report it?’ He took the phone from her hand and opened it to her social media account, quickly typing.
Developing story—Alessia Battaglia jilts Alessandro Corretti at altar, Matteo Corretti seen chasing bride—back soon with more.
More than that, he attached the photo she had accidentally taken. Unlike Emily, he knew all their names without checking notes. ‘While the rest of the world is wondering if there is a security breach or if, indeed, the bride has fled, you, Emily, have just confirmed it.’ Anton handed her back her phone.
They just stood there grinning as she broke the story, her phone practically melting in her hand as responses poured in. But she really did have to call Adam. ‘I’m in the church.’ Briefly she explained what had happened.
‘Keep on it,’ Adam told her. ‘How the hell did you get inside?’
Emily didn’t even try to explain. Instead she stood behind a pillar, her hand shaking slightly but working her phone like a pro, just caught up in the rush of being in the centre of the storm in a breaking story. ‘Is it wrong how turned on I am right now?’ she asked as she frantically texted.
‘If it is, then we are both in trouble.’
He took her hand and helped her through the crowd outside, but he steered her in the opposite direction when she went to follow the masses who were heading over to the reception venue.
‘We go back to the hotel.’
‘Anton! We can’t.’ There was her career to think of, except she couldn’t think clearly right now. She had, after all, just broken the news; surely she was allowed a teeny celebration. Her feeble protest was a short-lived one. ‘Oh, okay, then.’
He gave her a smile, one she couldn’t work out, and they ran down the street and raced to get to her room. In the elevator she was so busy being kissed she paid no attention to the button he was pushing.
‘Wrong floor,’ Emily groaned as they stepped out of the elevator, but again, Anton, in everything, was a step ahead.
‘We go to my room.’
‘Your room? But—’
He kissed her through the doorway. Emily started stripping off the second they were inside, but then she halted, frowning, when she saw him standing beside a small, high-up open window.
‘Given they didn’t want me at the reception, I booked a room with a view.’ She teetered over, her cheeks scalding as she peered out. No, he hadn’t been racing back to make frantic love to her. Instead he’d been bringing her back for a bird’s-eye view of the reception. Emily could see everything—the manicured gardens, the streets filled with press and police and excited onlookers.
‘What did you think we were coming back for?’ Anton asked.
She cringed and went to retrieve her dress, embarrassed at her own presumption, but if it was a cruel tease, it was a brief one.
‘Come here,’ he said, his voice thick with lust as she joined him at the window.
Her arms leant on the window and he stood behind, wrapping his around her and making her smile as he whispered into her ear. ‘Now that’s pole position.’
IT WAS heaven to watch the chaos, though there were more than a few distractions.
Namely Anton.
He was working her neck but Emily’s mind was on work.
‘Is that who I think it is?’ Emily asked, watching a fight break out, but only briefly. Her eyes widened as the Correttis lived up, in every sense, to their depraved reputations. ‘Oh my God, look at those two making out.’
‘Are you glad you came up here?’
‘Very.’ It was dark now and she didn’t want the night that was suddenly here.
Her last in Sicily.
As the figures became impossible to make out, Emily worked for an hour on his computer to get her report in.
He lay on the bed and for once his heart was not black. For a brief moment he glimpsed the peace of normal, of a couple together and sharing an evening. An honest, normal evening. The television on in the background, the tap of the keyboard as Emily worked. Then she looked up. ‘I’m going to have a bath.’ She smiled at him, and as naturally as breathing he returned it.
Yet his soul had been dead for