A Taste Of Italy: Midwife, Mother...Italian's Wife. Fiona McArthur

       CHAPTER ONE

      AS A reluctant best man, Leonardo Durante Bonmarito caught the unashamed adoration on the groom’s face as he circled the room with his new bride, and knew his own earlier arrival in Australia would have made no difference.

      Leon’s intention of stopping this wedding had faltered at the first sight of Gianni at the airport because nothing would have prevented his brother from marrying this woman.

      Such happiness made Leon’s chest hurt and he’d never liked wedding feasts. It was even harder when he felt insulated from the joy and gaiety around him by the fact he still hadn’t had a chance to talk to Gianni properly since arriving.

      ‘Not a big fan of weddings?’ The words were mild enough but the tone held a hint of quiet rebuke. Tammy Moore, chief bridesmaid and for tonight his partner, spoke at his shoulder and Leon returned to the present with a jolt. She went on, ‘We’re supposed to join them on the floor now.’

      ‘Sì. Of course. My apologies.’ Automatically he glanced around and down and unexpectedly his vision was filled with the delightful valley between her breasts.

      He swept his eyes upwards and her dark brows tilted at the flicker of a smile he couldn’t help.

      It was a problem but what was a man to do with a bodice just under eye level? It would be strange dancing with a woman willow-slim in body and almost as tall as himself. She felt twice the height of his late wife.

      He wondered if others might think they looked good together. Little did observers know their rapport had been anything but cordial, because he feared he hadn’t endeared himself to her.

      Leon repressed a sigh. He’d barely talked, in fact, it seemed he’d forgotten how to be at ease with a young woman, but in his defence, his mind had been torn between the recent danger to Paulo and when he could discuss it with his brother.

      Tammy tapped her foot with the music, surely not with impatience, as she waited for them to join the bride and groom on the floor and he’d best concentrate. He hoped it would not be too much of a disaster because his heart wasn’t in it. ‘You are very good to remind me,’ he said by way of apology, but she didn’t comment, just held out one slender hand for him to take so the guests could join in after the official party was on the floor.

      The music wheezed around them with great gusto if not great skill, like a jolly asthmatic between inhaler puffs, and Leon took her fingers in his and held them. Her hand lay small and slim, and somehow vulnerable, in his clasp, and suddenly he wasn’t thinking of much except the way she unexpectedly fitted perfectly into his arms, her small breasts soft against his chest, and her hair smooth against his face.

      In fact, her hip swung against his in seamless timing as if they’d danced together to a breathless piano accordion since birth.

      Such precision and magical cadence took him from this place—and his swirling, painful thoughts—to a strange mist of curative tranquillity he’d craved since not just yesterday but from the haze of time in his youth.

      Where was the awkwardness that’d always seemed to dog him and his late wife whenever they’d danced? The concept deepened the guilt in his heart and also the frown across his brows.

      ‘You sway like a reed in my arms.’ He tilted his head in reluctant approval. ‘You must dance often.’

      He