A Hunger for the Forbidden

She swallowed hard, looking at the skyline, her vision filled with concrete, glass and steel. The noise from the cars was deafening, the motion of the traffic in front of her making her head swim. “I know that the wedding has been much talked about. And that Matteo chasing me out of the church has been the headline. Well, there’s more to the story.”

Flashes blinded her, tape recorders shoved into her face, questions started to drown out her voice. She felt weak, shaky, and she wondered, not for the first time, if she was completely insane.

Her life in Sicily had been quiet, domestic, one surrounded by her family, one so insular that she’d been dependent upon imagination to make it bearable, a belief of something bigger looming in her future. And as a result, she had a tendency to romanticize the grand gesture in her mind. To think that somehow, no matter how bleak the situation seemed, she could fix it. That, in the end, she would make it perfect and manage to find her happy ending.

She’d done it on the night of her bachelorette party. New York was so different than the tiny village she’d been raised in. So much bigger, faster. Just being there had seemed like a dream and so when she’d been confronted with Matteo it had seemed an easy, logical thing to approach him, to follow the path their mutual attraction had led them down. It was a prime example of her putting more stock in fantasy, in the belief in happy endings, over her common sense.

This was another.

But no matter how well planned this was, she hadn’t realized how she would feel, standing there with everyone watching her. She wasn’t the kind of woman who was used to having all eyes on her, her aborted wedding being the exception.

“I’m pregnant, and Matteo Corretti is the father of my baby.” It slipped out, bald and true, and not at all what she’d been planning to say. At least she didn’t think it was.

“Mr. Corretti—” the employee was speaking into his phone now, his complexion pallid “—you need to come out here.”

She released a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding.

“When is the baby due?”

“Are you certain he’s the father?”

“When did you discover you were pregnant?”

The questions were coming rapid-fire now, but she didn’t need to answer them because this was never about the press. This was about getting his attention. This was about forcing a confrontation that he seemed content to avoid.

“I’ll answer more questions when Matteo comes to make his statement.”

“Did the two of you leave the wedding together, or are you estranged? Has he denied paternity?” one of the reporters asked.

“I …”

“What the hell is going on?”

Alessia turned and her heart caught in her throat, making it impossible to breathe. Matteo. It felt like an eternity since she’d seen him, since he’d kissed her, put his hands on her skin. An eternity.

She ached with the need to run to him, to hold on to him, use him as an anchor. In her fantasies, he had long been her knight in shining armor, a simplistic vision of a man who had saved her from a hideous fate.

But in the years since, things had changed. Become more complex, more real. He was her lover now. The father of her child. The man she had lied to. The man who had left her sitting alone in an airport, crying and clutching a positive pregnancy test.

For a moment, the longing for those simple, sun-drenched days in Sicily, when he had been nothing more than an idealized savior, was so sharp and sweet she ached.

“Mr. Corretti, is this why you broke up the wedding?”

“I didn’t break up anyone’s wedding,” he said, his tone dark.

“No, I ran out of the wedding,” she said.

“And is what why I broke up the wedding?” he asked, addressing the reporter, stormy eyes never once looking at her.

“The baby,” the reporter said.

Matteo froze, his face turning to stone. “The baby.” Color drained from his face, but he remained stoic, only the change in his complexion a clue as to the shock that he felt.

He didn’t know. She felt the impact of that reality like a physical blow. He hadn’t even listened to a single message. Hadn’t opened any emails, even before she’d started tagging them to let her know when he opened them.

“Is there more than one?” This from another reporter.

“Of course not,” Matteo said, his words smooth, his eyes cold like granite. “Only this one.”

He came to stand beside her, his gaze still avoiding hers. He put his arm around her waist, the sudden contact like touching an open flame, heat streaking through her veins. How did he manage to affect her this way still? After all he’d done to her? After the way he’d treated her?

“Do you have a statement?”

“Not at this point,” he bit out. “But when the details for the wedding are finalized, we will be in touch.”

He tightened his hold on her waist and turned them both around, away from the reporters, leading her up the steps and into the hotel. She felt very much like she was being led into the lion’s den.

“What are you doing?” she asked, wishing he would move away from her, wishing he would stop touching her.

“Taking you away from the circus you created. I have no desire to discuss this with an audience.”

If he wasn’t so angry with her, she might think it was a good idea. But Matteo Corretti’s rage was like ice-cold water in a black sea. Fathomless, with the great threat of pulling her beneath the waves.

His hold tightened with each step they took toward the hotel, and her stomach started to feel more and more unsettled until, when they passed through the revolving door and into the hotel lobby, she was afraid she might vomit on the high-gloss marble floors.

A charming photo to go with the headlines.

He released her the moment they were fully inside. “What the hell is the meaning of this?” he asked, rounding on her as his staff milled around very carefully not watching.

“Should we go somewhere more private?” she asked. Suddenly she felt like she’d rather brave his rage than put on a show. She was too tired for that. Too vulnerable. Bringing the press in was never about drawing attention to herself, it was about getting information to Matteo that he couldn’t ignore. Giving the man no excuse to say he didn’t know.

“Says the woman who called a bloody press conference?”

“You didn’t answer my calls. Or return my messages. And I’m pretty sure now that you didn’t even listen to any of them.”

“I have been away,” he said.

“Well, that’s hardly my fault that you chose this moment to go on sabbatical. And I had no way of knowing.”

He was looking at her like she’d grown an extra head. “Take me to your suite,” she said.

“I’m not in the mood, Alessia.”

“Neither am I!” she shot back. “I want to talk.”

“It’s just that last time we were in this hotel, talking was very much not on the agenda.”

Her face heated, searing prickles dotting her skin. “No. That’s very true. Which is how we find ourselves in this current situation.”