Blackmailed Bride, Innocent Wife

‘It’s an hour before the registry closes.’ He glanced at his discreet gold watch. ‘Then you miss the deadline.’

Alissa smoothed trembling hands over her skirt. She straightened her spine and reached for the pen, ignoring the voice inside that shrieked dire warnings.

This felt wrong. But it was the only way to make things right.

‘Where do I sign?’

Dario paced the foyer, resisting the urge to check the time. She was on her way; he’d just had an update on her movements.

He strode to the entrance, fists deep in his pockets. He’d never been so keyed up before a deal. Regaining his family home meant more than buying or selling companies. This wasn’t about mere cash, but about family, his very identity. This quest had been his sole purpose for as long as he could remember.

It went against the grain marrying a woman shallow enough to sell herself to acquire a fortune she could fritter away. But no sacrifice was too great.

His gaze fixed on a passing teenager, all fly-away hair and bare legs. Instantly the memory he’d repressed so often filled his mind. Alissa the first time he’d seen her. A few years ago, when he’d grown impatient of long-distance negotiations and visited Gianfranco Mangano. The old weasel had insisted only marriage would secure the Parisi estate.

Dario had sat in his car after the fruitless meeting, trying to find the bait to make Mangano sell. That was when he’d seen her, sneaking into the house in the dark.

He recalled the sultry length of her legs as she climbed out of the low car in her miniskirt. The throaty laugh of a woman sharing a joke with her lover. Her long hair flicked provocatively over one shoulder, a glimpse of pert breasts and a profile that stopped his breath.

His body had responded with a primal throb of hunger neither pride nor logic could prevent. The old man had let slip a thing or two about his granddaughter and her wild ways. He’d wanted her safely married and off his hands.

From that one glimpse Dario knew she wasn’t the sort to have marriage on her mind. A judgement confirmed when he heard of her later drug conviction.

Yet he’d never been able to rid himself of that image of carefree, sensual beauty. Even now something about Alissa Scott made his hormones stand up and salivate. It was a reaction he wasn’t proud of.

A blur of movement caught his eye and he turned.

Porca miseria! She couldn’t be serious.

His lips thinned as she approached, his temper rising to boiling point. Had she no self-respect? She made a mockery of them both.

His gaze swept over his wife-to-be, climbing the steps towards him. Heads turned to watch. She wore satin and lace, a long white dress with a froth of skirts and a dragging train. A fussy veil obscured her face, no doubt hiding a triumphant smirk at his expense.

‘I don’t remember specifying fancy dress.’ His provocative drawl slid across her flesh like ice. Alissa clenched her jaw and continued up the stairs, ignoring him.

She felt sick to her stomach about the wedding. The last thing she needed was sarcasm.

For two pins she’d…what? Run away?

She didn’t have that luxury. The knowledge weighed her down, like shackles on a condemned prisoner. She drew a sustaining breath then wished she hadn’t as the bodice, a size too small, constricted her lungs.

‘Hello, Dario. As charming as ever, I see.’

He was too big, too daunting, too…unsettling. Tension squirmed in her stomach and her pulse tripped as she caught the scent of lemon and warm male flesh.

Her body conspired against her, responding to his overt masculinity with an excitement that appalled her. She lifted her skirts and hurried up the last of the stairs.

‘What’s the meaning of this?’ He stepped in front of her so she had no alternative but to meet his steely gaze. Glacial ice couldn’t be colder than the look he gave her.

‘This?’ She tilted her chin.

‘The masquerade costume.’ He spoke through barely parted lips and she had the satisfaction of knowing that no matter how terrible she felt wearing Donna’s precious bridal dress, her bridegroom hated it more. Good. Let that be some small compensation for the distress he’d caused.

‘Haven’t you seen a bride before?’ she taunted.

‘But you’re not a bride in the usual sense.’

For that she was thankful. The idea of a real marriage, of intimacy with Dario, was too devastating.

‘What do you care?’ She moved sideways but he blocked her, filling her vision, dominating her senses.

‘Why do you insist on this charade?’ he snarled.

Alissa slipped a hand under the veil and rubbed her temple where a tension headache throbbed.

‘As I’m moving to Italy I had to explain to people I was getting married. There was no need when I’d planned to stay in Melbourne.’ He said nothing, just stood, waiting. ‘My sister is sentimental. She married recently. She believes in romantic love with all the trimmings.’

‘So you lied about this marriage? To your sister?’ There was condemnation in the deep timbre of his voice.

Alissa shrugged. ‘It was easier to let her believe I’d been swept off my feet. When we divorce it will seem a case of marry in haste and repent at leisure.’ She wouldn’t add to Donna’s worries by revealing the true reason for the wedding. She’d be racked with guilt, knowing Alissa had married for her sake, and Dario Parisi of all men.

‘That doesn’t explain the costume.’

‘Donna wanted to be here but I persuaded her not to.’ Even her loving sister had seen it made more sense to save to see a specialist in the USA than cross the country for a wedding. ‘She asked me to wear her dress. You know, something borrowed…’ Her words petered out under his critical stare. ‘I promised her I’d wear it. OK?’

‘And you keep your promises?’

Did he have to sound so sceptical? It was a good thing she didn’t care about his opinion. This was just a business deal. A charade to satisfy the terms of a will.

Yet, wearing her borrowed finery, dwarfed by his ultra-masculine presence, Alissa felt a thread of something unexpected weave through her. A tremor of awareness. Dario was still the sexiest man she’d laid eyes on.

Pity he was an arrogant jerk.

‘If you’ve finished finding fault, can we go in? We don’t want to miss our appointment.’

Silently he took her arm and escorted her inside, a parody of the solicitous lover.

After that everything was a blur. Nothing seemed real, not the weight of the dress, or the way her hand fitted snugly in his. When he produced a ring, a glittering proclamation of wealth and status, she wasn’t even surprised that it fitted perfectly.

Only as the celebrant said, ‘You may now kiss the bride,’ did the comfortable illusion of unreality splinter.

Dario turned her round, his hands heavily proprietorial at her waist, and heat radiated through her. She read triumph in his eyes. Satisfaction.

That was when it hit her full force. She’d just married a man who could make her life hell.

Panic clawed at Alissa. She fought for oxygen, her breathing hampered by the too-tight bodice. Blood rushed so loud in her ears she heard nothing else.

Deft hands drew the veil up. Without its protection his scrutiny was razor sharp, his smile knowing. It was the satisfied look of a rapacious marauder, not a dispassionate businessman. And it confirmed what she’d feared.