Page 4 of Forsaking All Others

And just as cold as they stared at me.

He looked like one of the sculptures I loved, one done by a master like Michelangelo. Perfect, cold, and entirely unmoved.

I swallowed hard as a shiver worked down my spine.

He was the exact opposite of Niccolo’s warm, approachable handsomeness. I felt my hands would burn like holding dry ice if I tried to touch Dario.

When we stopped before the altar, Papà ritualistically handed me over to my future husband, who took my hand in his huge rough palm and dropped it on his forearm. I followed him on shaky legs up the few steps to the dais before the archbishop who would marry us.

“Hi,” I whispered in English, because I was suddenly desperate to connect with this ice sculpture of a future husband. “It is nice to finally meet you.”

Those freakishly pale eyes, ringed in a dark blue around the iris, slid my way before training again on the archbishop as he started the proceedings.

Okay then . . .

The ceremony was tediously long, especially when I was anxious to have time to speak to the man I would spend the rest of my life with. The hand not trapped by Dario sweated around the stems of my orange-blossom-and-peony bouquet, but the sweet scent of the florals helped to settle my queasy stomach somewhat. I tried to sneak glances out of the corner of my eye at Dario, but he stared resolutely forward, his expression so bland as to be insufferably bored by the entire affair.

I swallowed thickly when the archbishop asked me to repeat after him, and my voice emerged timidly as I spoke the vows that would tie me forever to the cold stranger on my arm.

When I was finished, Dario repeated those same words in a rich, perfectly accented Italian that seemed to echo through the marble hall.

If Niccolo had spoken with such firmness, I would have perceived it to mean he was proud to take me as his wife.

Now, I wondered if it was impatience and irritation that made Dario loud.

“I now pronounce you husband and wife,” the archbishop declared in a booming voice that ricocheted against the walls.

He did not have time to allow for the groom to kiss the bride because Dario Ferretti was already tugging my hand so that I fell indelicately into his arms, which banded around me like iron vises so that every inch of me was pressed to every inch of him. Shocked by the overfamiliarity and mild impropriety—we were, after all, in a place of God—my mouth opened on a gasp.

And my new husband took advantage.

His lips were on mine before I could blink, a firm, hot brand against my own. His tongue swept instantly between my parted teeth, sliding over my tongue in a silken, powerful thrust that made my knees give out. Held like a limp doll in his possessive hold, he kissed me too long and too salaciously until I did not know where I was or what my purpose was on this earth.

My first true kiss.

Not the chaste, sweet, and gentlemanly brush of lips I’d experienced previously with Niccolo.

This was hot, dominating, and utterly ruthless.

And then it was over.

I blinked as Dario tore his mouth from mine and stepped back from me abruptly. I almost fell, my legs still gone to rubber, but he lashed out to steady me with a hand on the hip.

Dumb and mute, I stared up at him, bruised mouth parted, slick and cooling in the dry air of the cathedral.

Vaguely, I was aware of clapping and happy shouts of congratulations.

Before I could recover, Dario was pushing me forward by the hip and then capturing my hand in his so he could lead me at a vigorous pace down the aisle. I struggled to keep up on my high heels, stumbling after him and trying to smile demurely at the well-wishers who reached out to touch me or offer blessings as we raced by while others showered us with grains of rice in celebration.

I didn’t know why he was in such a rush to get to the reception at my father’s estate unless, a small freshly awakened part of me feared, it was so he could kiss me again in the privacy of the car on our way there.

Belatedly, I turned my head to seek Niccolo in the crowd and only glimpsed his tall golden head moving toward the side exit of the church. Guilt surged up my throat like bile as I thought about him watching me in Dario’s indecent embrace.

Dario hauled me out of the doors of the cathedral into the Sicilian sunshine, and I was forced to blink away the sunspots in my vision.

A crowd of people who had not been invited to the ceremony but loved my family nonetheless and wanted to support their local business tycoon and his family hovered on the steps. Dario led me through them with an impatient hand raised to push them out of the way, and I trailed behind, murmuring my thanks.

When we reached the car, something urged me to look over my shoulder for my family.