Would Bea stay friends with the messenger now, or hate her forever? A bit like Fran’s father had hated her since his marriage blew apart no matter how hard she’d tried to gain his approval. A tiny hit of warmth tickled around her heart. They were going to try again. Soon. He’d promised.
The tickle turned ice-cold at another throat-clearing prompt from Mr. Sexy.
Why, why, why was she the one who caught all the cheaters in the world?
All the eyes on her felt like laser beams.
Including the eyes of the mystery groomsman who she really would have liked to get to know a bit better if things had been different. Typical. Timing was definitely not her forte. What was his name? Something sensual. Definitely not Ugolino, as her aunt had mysteriously called her son. No...it was something more...toothsome. A name that tantalized your tongue, like amaretto or a perfectly textured gelato. Cool and warming all at once. Something like the ancient city of...
Luca! That was his name.
Luca. He was filling out his made-to-measure suit with the lean, assured presence of a man who knew his mind. His crisp white shirt collar highlighted the warm olive tone of his skin and the five-o’clock shadow that was already hinting at making an appearance, despite the fact it was still morning. He looked like a man who would call a spade a spade.
Which might explain why he was staring daggers at her. Strangely, the glaring didn’t detract from his left-of-center good looks. He wasn’t one of those calendar-ready men whose perfection was more off-putting than alluring. Sure, he had the cheekbones, the inky dark hair and brown eyes that held the mysteries of the universe in them, but he also had that scar. A jagged one that looked as if it could tell a story or two. It dissected his left eyebrow, skipped the eye, then shot along his cheek. If she wasn’t wrong, there were a few tiny ones along his chin, too. Little faint scars she might almost have reached out and touched—if his lips hadn’t been moving.
“Per amor del cielo! Put these poor people out of their misery!”
Fran blinked. Enigmatic-scar man was right.
She looked to his left. The priest-bishop-cardinal was speaking to her again. Asking her to clarify why she believed this happy couple should not lawfully be joined in marriage. Murmurs of dismay were audibly rippling through the church behind her. Part of her was certain she could hear howls from the paparazzi as they waited outside to pounce.
Clammy prickles of panic threatened to consume her brain.
Friends didn’t let friends marry philandering liars. Right? Then again, what did she know? She was Italian by birth, but raised in America. Maybe a little last-minute nookie right before you married your long-term intended was the done thing in these social circles filled with family names that went back a dozen generations or more. It wasn’t illegal, but... Oh, this was ranking up there in worst-moments-ever territory!
Fran sucked in a deep breath. It was the do-or-die moment. Her heart was careening around her chest so haphazardly she wouldn’t have been surprised if it had flown straight out of her throat, but instead out came words. And before she could stop herself, she heard herself saying to Beatrice, “He’s... You can’t marry him!”
“BASTA!” QUICK AS a flash, Luca shuttled the key players in this farce to the back of the altar, then down a narrow marble passageway until they reached an open but mercifully private corridor.
“Her dress was up and Marco—”
“Per favore. I implore you to just...stop.” Luca whirled around, only to receive a full-body blow from the blonde bridesmaid. As quickly as the raft of sensations from holding her in his arms hit him she pressed away from him—hard.
“I’m just trying—” Bea’s friend clamped her full, pink lips tight when her eyes met his.
The rest of the party was moving down the corridor as Luca wrestled with her revelation. “Do you have any idea what you’ve done? The damage you’ve caused?”
Stillness enveloped her as his words seemed to take hold.
Such was the power of the moment, Luca was hurtled back to a time and place when he, too, had been incapable of motion. Only there had been a doctor and a priest then.
Stillness had been the only way to let the news sink in.
Mother. Father. His sister, her husband—all of them save his beautiful niece. Gone. And he’d been the one behind the wheel.
He closed his eyes and willed the memory away, forcing himself to focus on the bridesmaid in front of him. Still utterly stationary—a deer in the headlights.
Another time, another place he would have said she was pretty. Beautiful, even. Honey-gold hair. Full, almost-pouty lips he didn’t think had more than a slick of gloss on them. Eyes so blue he would have sworn they were a perfect match to the Adriatic Sea not a handful of meters from the basilica.
“Don’t you dare—” She took in a jagged breath, tears filming her eyes. “Don’t you dare tell me I don’t understand what speaking up means.”
Luca’s gut tightened as she spoke. Behind those tears there was nothing but honesty. The type of honesty that would change everything.
His mind reeled through the facts. Beatrice was one of his most respected friends. They’d known each other all their lives and had been even closer during med school. Their career trajectories had shot them off in opposite directions, much to their parents’ chagrin. He’d not missed their hints, their hopes that their friendship would blossom into something more.
Beautiful as Beatrice was, theirs would always be a platonic relationship. When she’d taken up with Marco he’d almost been relieved. Si, he had a playboy’s reputation, but he was a grown man now. A prince with an aristocratic duty to fulfill—a legacy to uphold. When Marco had asked him to be best man he’d been honored. Proud, even, to play a role in Beatrice’s wedding.
Cheating just minutes before he was due to marry? What kind of man would do that?
He shot a glance at Marco, who was raising his hands in protest before launching into an impassioned appeal to both Bea and the cardinal.
Marco and a bridesmaid in a premarital clinch? As much as he hated to admit it, he couldn’t imagine it was the type of thing a true friend would conjure up just to add some drama to Italy’s most talked-about wedding.
He glanced down at her hands, each clutching a fistful of the fairy-tale fabric billowing out from her dress in the light wind. No rings.
A Cinderella story, perhaps? The not-so-ugly stepsister throwing a spanner into the works, hoping to catch the eye of the Prince?
Each time she pulled at her dress she revealed the fact that she was actually wearing flip-flops in lieu of any Italian woman’s obligatory heels. No glass slippers, then. Just rainbow-painted toes that would have brought the twitch of a smile to his lips if his mind hadn’t been racing for ways to fend off disaster.
She’d be far less high maintenance than his only-the-best-will-do girlfriend.
He shook off this reminder that he and Marina needed “a talk” and forced himself to meet the blonde’s gaze again. Tearstained but defiant. A surge of compassion shot through him. If what she was saying was true she was a messenger who wouldn’t escape unscathed.
“I saw them!” she insisted, tendrils of blond hair coming loose from the intricate hairdo the half-dozen or so bridesmaids were all wearing. All of the bridesmaids including his girlfriend. “It’s