The Italian's Bought Bride

‘Stefano,’ she finally said, drawing herself up, bringing her scattered senses back into a coherent whole. ‘Yes, it has been a long time. But I was actually just leaving.’

She’d envisiaged a scenario such as this many times—how could she not? Yet in each one she’d imagined Stefano furious, indifferent, or perhaps simply unrepentant. She’d never, in all of her imaginings, seen him smiling, looking like an old acquaintance who wanted nothing more than for them to catch up on each other’s lives.

Yet perhaps that was precisely what they were. Seven years was a long time. Who knew how either of them had grown, changed? And Stefano had never really loved her in the first place; his heart hadn’t been broken.

Not like hers had.

He hadn’t given her her coat, she realized. He hadn’t said a word, just smiled faintly in that aggravatingly arrogant way.

‘My coat, please,’ she said, trying not to sound annoyed, even though she was.

‘Why are you leaving the party so early?’ he asked. ‘I’ve just arrived.’

‘That may be, but I’m going,’ she said firmly. She couldn’t help but add, as curiosity compelled her, ‘I didn’t realize you knew my uncle’s family that well.’

‘Your uncle and I do business together.’ His smile, still faint, now deepened. ‘Did you not realize I’d been invited?’

‘No,’ she said shortly.

‘From what I’ve gathered, your uncle and you are not on favourable terms.’

Allegra’s gaze jerked up to his; he was staring at her with a quiet understanding that quite unnerved her.

‘How do you know that?’

‘I hear things. So do you, I imagine.’

‘Not about you.’

‘Then let me take this opportunity to fill you in,’ he said, smiling easily. Too easily. Allegra shook her head in instinctive, mute denial.

She wasn’t prepared for this. She’d expected to encounter hostility, hatred, or perhaps at worst—or at best—indifference.

Yet here he was, smiling, relaxed, acting like her friend.

And she didn’t want to be his friend. She didn’t want to be anything to him.

Why? Was she still angry? Did she still hate him? Had she ever hated him? The questions streaked through Allegra’s mind like shooting stars and fell without answers.

‘I don’t think we really have anything to say to each other, Stefano,’ Allegra said when she realized the silence had gone on too long, had become pregnant with meaning.

Stefano raised his eyebrows. ‘Don’t we?’

‘I know a lot has passed between us,’ Allegra said firmly, ‘but it’s all in the past now and I—’

‘If it’s in the past,’ Stefano interjected smoothly, ‘then it doesn’t matter, surely? Can’t we share an evening’s conversation as friends, Allegra? I’d like to talk to you.’

She hesitated. Part of her howled inside that no, they couldn’t, but a greater part realized that treating Stefano as a friend, an acquaintance, was the best way to prove to him, and to herself, that that was really all he was.

‘It’s been a long time,’ he continued quietly. ‘I don’t know anyone here but George Mason, and I’d rather have more congenial company. Won’t you talk with me for a while?’ His smile twisted and the glint in his eyes was both knowing and sorrowful. ‘Please?’

Again Allegra hesitated. All those years ago she’d left Stefano, left her entire life, because he’d broken her heart.

Yet now was her chance to show him, herself, the world, that he hadn’t. Or, even if he had, she’d come out of the experience wiser, stronger, happier.

‘All right,’ she whispered. She cleared her throat and her voice came out stronger. ‘All right, for a few minutes.’

His hand rested on the small of her back as he guided her back into the Orchid Room. Even though he was barely touching her, she burned from the mere knowledge of those fingers skimming the silk of her dress.

His touch. She’d once craved it, although in all of their engagement he’d never given her more than the barest brush of a brotherly kiss.

And now her body, treacherous as it was, still reacted to him, her senses screaming awake from the mere brush of his fingers.

At least she knew, Allegra told herself, and recognized it. At least she was aware of his power over her body. That, in itself, was power.

And after tonight, she would never see him again.

‘Let me get you a drink,’ he said as they entered the ballroom amidst a flurry of speculative looks and murmurs. ‘What do you drink now? Not lemonade any more, is it?’

‘No…’ She found herself cringing at the memory of just what a child she’d been. ‘I’ll have a glass of white wine, dry, please.’

‘Done.’

Allegra watched him disappear towards the bar and resisted the urge to plunge back through the crowd, through the double doors, out of the hotel. Away from here…from him.

No, she needed this reckoning. Perhaps she’d been actually waiting for it, waiting for the day when she saw Stefano face to face and showed him that she was no longer the silly, star- struck girl who’d thought herself so lucky, so blessed, to have someone like him fall in love with her.

Just the memory of her own na?vetе, of Stefano’s deception, was enough to stiffen both her spine and her soul. Seeing him had been a shock; that was to be expected.

But she was different now, and she would show him just how different. How changed. They would have a drink for old times’ sake, and then…

And then what?

Turning her back on the crowd, as well as the unfinished thought, she found another innocuous spot to station herself.

‘There you are.’ Stefano stood in front of her, two glasses of wine cradled in one hand, his smile wry. ‘I thought you’d given me the slip.’

Allegra swallowed. Her throat felt too tight and dry to make any kind of reply. Given him the slip—as she had once before?

She reached for the glass of wine. ‘Thank you.’

Stefano glanced at her, shrinking in the shadowy corner of the ballroom, and quirked one eyebrow. ‘Why are you hiding, Allegra?’

‘I’m not,’ she defended herself quickly. ‘This isn’t exactly my crowd, that’s all.’

‘No? Tell me what your crowd is, then.’ He paused before adding, ‘Tell me about yourself.’

She glanced up at him, saw him looking down at her with that faint, cool smile that chilled her far more than it should. She found her own gaze sweeping over his features, roving over them, looking for changes. His hair was shorter and threads of silver glinted at his temples. His face was leaner, the lines of his jaw and chin more angular and pronounced. There was a new hardness in his eyes, deep down, like a mask over his soul. Or perhaps that had always been there and she hadn’t known. She hadn’t seen it, not until that last night.