Modern Romance August 2019 Books 5-8. Trish Morey
a bedroom for that.’
Lara felt that like a slap in the face. Ciro would sleep with her but not sleep with her.
He came into the room. ‘Dinner will be ready—shall we?’
Lara was about to follow him out of the room when she saw her shoes and slipped them on again, wincing slightly as they pinched after the long day. She also pulled her jacket over her shoulders, feeling a little exposed in the silk dress.
When they went out onto the terrace Lara couldn’t stop an involuntary gasp of pleasure and surprise from leaving her mouth. There were candles flickering in little jars all along the wall and fairy lights strung into the leaves and branches that clung to the palazzo’s ancient walls.
With the moon shining on the sea in the distance and exotic scents infusing the air, it was magical. The thought that Ciro might have gone out of his way to—
‘Don’t get any ideas. This is all Isabella’s idea. She’s a romantic.’
Lara’s heart sank and she berated herself. What was wrong with her? Throw a little candlelight on the situation and she was prepared to forget that this was a marriage of convenience built on her sense of guilt and responsibility. Built on Ciro’s need for retribution.
A table had been set for two with a white tablecloth and silverware. A champagne bottle rested in a bucket of ice. Out of nowhere a handsome young man appeared to open the champagne. Ciro introduced him as Roberto, Isabella’s twin brother.
Ciro lifted his glass to Lara when they were sitting down. It was a mockery against the flickering lights of all the candles. ‘Here’s to us, and to a short but beneficial marriage.’
Lara longed to put down her glass and make her excuses, but Isabella was back with the first course, and she looked so happy to be serving them that Lara didn’t have the heart to cause a scene.
When she’d left them alone, Lara leaned forward. ‘You didn’t have to marry someone you despise, you know. There are plenty of women who I’m sure would have loved to be in my position.’
Ciro took a drink. ‘Ah, but they weren’t you, cara, with your unique qualities. You’ve been a thorn in my side for two years. I need to exorcise you to move on.’
‘You mean take your revenge and in the process exploit my connections as much as possible?’ She added, ‘I hate to break it to you, but I don’t wield half the influence my father and uncle did.’
Ciro appeared totally unperturbed by that. He flicked open his napkin. ‘You wield influence just by being a Templeton. Marriage to you has automatically given me access to an inner circle that no one admits exists.’
Lara knew he was right on some level. As much as she hated to admit such hierarchical snobbishness existed. Impulsively she asked, ‘Why does it matter so much to you?’
Ciro sat back, not liking his sense of claustrophobia at her question. But then he considered it. Why shouldn’t he tell her? It wouldn’t change anything. It wouldn’t give anything away. It might actually show her just how determined he was to make this work. And how clinically he viewed this marriage. Even if his thrumming pulse told another story that was a lot less clinical.
‘My father had a bad experience in England. He went to talk business with a number of potential partners. One by one they smiled to his face but refused to do business with him. He heard later that they had decided to close ranks against him. It wasn’t just that he was new money—it was the rumours of where that money had come from. Had it been laundered? Did it come from the money made out of violence and crime by previous generations? He was humiliated. Angry. He made me promise to do better. To get myself a seat at the table so that the Sant’Angelo name could finally be free of negative associations.’
‘Was your father the first one to try and break away?’
Ciro shook his head. ‘It was his father. My grandfather desperately wanted to remove the stain of infamy from our name. He knew the world was moving on and he had ambitious plans for the Sant’Angelos. To go beyond these small shores, and Italy. He was sick of how our name engendered shock and derision. No respect. Not real respect. He wanted us to be accepted outside our narrow parameters. He craved the ultimate acceptance from a world that had always shunned us. But to do that we had to change our ways completely.’
Lara’s eyes were wide. ‘Where did he get his drive from? Presumably it would have been easier to keep things as they were?’
Ciro had been about to bring this line of conversation to an end—he’d said enough already—but some rogue urge compelled him to keep going, as if to impress upon Lara how determined he was.
‘My grandfather’s mother had wanted to marry a man she’d fallen in love with but he wasn’t from the right family—in other words a family that the Mafia approved of. Her family threatened to kill him if she eloped with him. So, she stayed and married the man chosen for her—my great-grandfather. They had nine children and a perfectly cordial marriage, but she never forgave her family for doing that to her. She hated all the violence and oppression. She rebelled by passing on a new message to her own children—to my grandfather. A message to do things differently.’
Lara had stopped breathing. Ciro’s ancestors had threatened to kill a man because they didn’t sanction the relationship. History had repeated itself right here and the parallel was too cruelly ironic.
A little shakily she asked, ‘What happened to the man she loved?’
Ciro waved a dismissive hand, as if it was of no importance. ‘He left—emigrated to America. Does it matter?’
Lara curbed her urge to shout Yes, of course it matters! ‘Not now, I guess, no.’ She avoided Ciro’s eye, not wanting him to see how this was affecting her.
‘That’s why it matters to me,’ Ciro said. ‘The Sant’Angelo name no longer has anything to do with those old and lurid tales of violence and organised crime, but the stain of infamy is still there. That kind of infamy only disappears completely with acceptance—true acceptance—in a very visible and public way. By association, you will bring a new kind of respect to the Sant’Angelo name that we’ve never had.’
Lara recalled how sick she’d felt when she’d seen the headlines after the kidnapping: Mafia Heir Kidnapped and Held for Ransom... Sant’Angelo Kidnapping Proof He’s Still Target for Criminals... Sant’Angelo Stocks Plummet After Kidnapping!
She had brought that infamy into his life. And she hated to admit it but he was right, even though status meant nothing to her. She had to recognise that she’d been born into privilege—what did she know of his family’s struggles to prove that they’d moved on from a violent world?
She had made the decision to do this—to make some redress for what had happened to Ciro, for what she had done. It was too late to turn back now.
He gestured to her plate. ‘Eat up. Isabella’s mother Rosa is a sublime cook.’
Lara saw the delicious-looking pasta starter on her plate but her appetite had fled. She forced herself to eat, not wanting to upset Isabella or her mother.
They conducted the rest of their meal in relative civility, sticking to neutral topics. When the plates for dessert had been cleared away Ciro got up with his coffee cup and went over to the wall of the terrace. Lara couldn’t help drinking in his tall, powerful form. The broad shoulders and narrow hips. His easy graceful athleticism. The thought of going to bed with him...of seeing him naked...was overwhelming.
She realised she wasn’t remotely prepared for such an intimate encounter with Ciro. What would he do when he discovered she was still a virgin?
A spark of panic propelled her from the chair to stand. ‘I think I’ll go to bed, actually. I’m quite tired.’
She winced. Her voice was too high and tight. She sounded so prim. A world away from the kind of woman who would undoubtedly be twining