She added her elegant black scrawl to the certificate the lawyer presented, and Benedetto did the same. But when he looked at her afterwards, she felt like he was peeling her dress off with a slow determination.
Her hands were trembling. She kept them pressed to her side so he wouldn’t notice.
Except Cleopatra had a feeling that Benedetto noticed everything.
She was nervous.
He eyed her across the table, and for the first time since enacting this meticulously clinical plan, he wondered about the woman he’d married. Not in terms of her suitability as a mother type figure to Alfredo. He was confident on that score.
No, Benedetto was now wondering about his new bride as a flesh and blood woman, as a person with her own wants and needs.
He sat across the elegant table his housekeeper had set for them, on the terrace of his Roman mansion. The Tiber sparkled beneath them, shimmering like a bed of diamonds in the midst of this ancient city. The summer’s evening was balmy and though it was late, the sun had not yet completely set, bathing the city in a gold and purple haze that was breathtakingly atmospheric.
“This really wasn’t necessary,” she said stiffly, her face pale as she glanced at him from beneath those thick black lashes.
Curiosity – a curiosity that had been born with their kiss – flared in his gut. She’d looked at him, in that moment, as though she wanted to throw him to the ground and strip him naked. Her desire had lashed him as sharply as a whip might have.
“It’s our wedding night,” he pointed out, but the words emerged gruff, tinged with his speculation.
“But it’s not a real wedding.” The reminder was patently unnecessary. There couldn’t have been less fan-fare if they’d tried.
“It is still worth marking the occasion.” He pushed back in his chair with all the appearance of relaxation. “Tell me, Cleopatra, how you came to work as a nanny.”
When she swallowed, the delicate column of her throat shifted, drawing his attention lower, to the hint of milk skin exposed at her décolletage. Curiosity morphed dangerously close to desire. He ignored it.
She wasn’t just an attractive woman he’d met in a bar, someone to forget his past with for a few nights. This was his wife – and he couldn’t touch her, no matter how fascinating he suddenly found her.
“I’m good with children,” she said, after a slight pause, reaching for her glass of wine.
“Naturalmente,” he agreed, having had ample opportunity to witness this for himself. She sipped her wine, her eyes flicking away from him, towards the view. Above them, several rows of lights criss-crossed overhead. In the evening, when darkness fell, it was a beautiful space. Benedetto had enjoyed entertaining here often. Women were always captivated by the view. “Do you have siblings?”
Her eyes moved back to his, something stirring in their depths that made his interest grow. “No.” A pause, as she contemplated this, and then a small sigh. “I have adopted siblings. Six of them.” Her smile was tight. “But I don’t speak to them anymore.”
“Why not?”
“My adoptive parents forbid it, when I moved out of home.”
“There was bad blood between you?”
She grimaced. “You could say that.”
“Why?”
Her expression took on a look of pain, but she shook her head. “It’s a long story, not one you need to worry about. It was a long time ago. I’m over it.”
But the tone of her voice showed that she was anything but.
“It doesn’t seem like it.”
She swallowed. “I’m used to being alone.”
Something like recognition flashed in his eyes. He lifted a brow enquiringly.
“My mother died, when I was little,” she surprised him by confiding, the words a little uneven. “I was six. It was unexpected. And it was like the bottom was pulled out of my world.” Her fingertips traced a line over the table, her eyes were lowered, focussed on their dinner as though it was the most fascinating thing ever.
“Your father?”
“He was never in my life.” Her cheeks flushed with pink, something shifting her features, as though she was weighing up what she could and couldn’t say. Finally, slowly, she admitted, “He’s not on my birth certificate so when my mother died, there was no way to contact him or anything.”
He couldn’t say why, precisely – instinct, perhaps – but Benedetto felt as though she were withholding something from him, something important.
“You were raised in foster care?” He recalled the detail from the file he’d had prepared.
She nodded. “For about eight years. It felt like longer.”
“I can imagine.”
Pity shifted inside of him. His own childhood had been far from a walk in the park – he’d been raised by his parents but he wasn’t sure the drug addicted messes they’d been really constituted ‘parents’.
“I doubt it.” Her smile twisted to bitterness. “Unless you’ve been in the system, it’s pretty hard to comprehend.”
“Tell me about it,” he invited, the question borne out of a general curiosity rather than a specific desire to learn about his new wife. Benedetto was a ‘fixer’. He liked to look at systems and work out how they could be improved.
She wrinkled her nose a little. “Oh, you know. You’re just sent from pillar to post, waiting for someone to have the means or desire to raise you as their own kid. It’s a lot of getting to know new people, a lot of fitting in. A lot of being let go.” She grimaced.
“Then you were adopted?”
Her nod was slow. “Yes. I was older by then, though. I’d been through a fair few homes before a ‘family’ was found for me.”
“Were you happy with them?”
She pulled a face. “No.”
Before he could ask his next question, she reached for her wine and lifted it towards her lips. Pale pink and shaped like cupid’s bows, they had been soft beneath his, pliant. Willing. Begging him for more. His gut kicked with a desire that was now unmistakable.
“This is beautiful,” she said, a clunky conversation change, but one he allowed.
He dipped his head in agreement.
“Have you lived here long?”
“A while,” he agreed.
“It’s very peaceful, despite the fact we’re in the middle of a huge city.”
He cast his eyes around the deck, studying the space. There were dozens of trees in big terracotta pots, creating the feeling of a rooftop oasis, and behind a screen of jasmine, an infinity pool overlooked Rome.
They ate in silence for a while, and Benedetto found himself watching her with more interest than he had expected. This plan had been simple, and yet, now that he sat opposite his wife, he found himself wondering about her in a way that was anything but professional.
He found himself wondering about her love life, her sex life, her boyfriend or lack there of.
As if she was thinking along the same lines, her eyes dropped to her hand, where the enormous canary yellow solitaire sparkled in the evening light. It was strange, sitting there being married to someone he’d only know a couple of weeks. A year ago, he had thought he would be married, but not to Cleopatra.
His intended wife had been a raven beauty with pale skin and cherry red lips, eyes that could see right to the centre of his soul. His chest shifted uncomfortably, as it always did when he thought of Melinda.
His mouth twisted with a bitterness that was also familiar.
And despite the fact his new wife had nothing to do with his ex, he felt anger burst inside of him, an anger that took over his body, that made it impossible for him to think straight. Resentment tightened his features.
He hated that he was married. He hated that this had been necessary.
When her eyes met his, he felt her softness, her innocence, and he hated that too. He hated that she was so sweet and kind, and he was so not. He felt as though he’d trapped a beautiful, delicate butterfly in a cage of nails. If she got t
oo close to him, she’d clip a wing.
“You’re twenty four years old,” he said it conversationally, the words chipping from him like ice.
But she nodded, as though it were a question.
“You seem younger.”
Her eyes flickered down to the table-top. “Do I?”
“In some ways.”
“Like what?”
“I make you nervous.”
At this, her gaze skidded back to his, and he felt tension radiating off her in waves. “I’m not nervous.”
His laugh was a harsh bark of derision. “Really?”
“I mean, this isn’t… the situation makes me nervous. It’s not exactly orthodox.” She swallowed, her throat shifting once more. “You make me a bit nervous,” she conceded with a tight smile, reaching for her wine glass, taking a sip.
“Why?”
At that, despite her obvious nerves, she laughed softly. “Seriously?”
“Yes.” He leaned forward, and beneath the table, their legs brushed. She startled and he felt it. Attraction. Lust. The power of desire. She wanted him.
An answering desire pulled at him, demanding he do what he ordinarily would. Flirt with her. Charm her. Invite her to his bed.
But she wasn’t a normal woman, not like the lovers he generally entertained. She was his wife, for one, a woman he’d promised he wouldn’t touch. And the last thing they needed was the complication of a physical relationship in the midst of this. That wouldn’t serve Alfredo’s interests. If he wanted to get laid, he could do so elsewhere.
And yet, he didn’t pull back. He didn’t move his legs, he kept them right where they were, on either side of hers beneath the table, and his body grew hard as he watched heat bloom in her cheeks, the flutter of the pulse at the base of her throat.
“Because you’re very intimidating.”
He didn’t laugh now.
She pulled her lower lip between her teeth, a small line between her brows as she searched for better words.
“I mean, you’re successful and rich and all that, but I’ve worked for men like you before.” She flicked her gaze away, looking towards the view for a moment and sucking in an uneven breath. “It’s more than that. You seem… hard in a way I’m not used to. You seem completely untouchable.”
She lifted a hand to her lips, covering her mouth on a gasp. “I’m sorry. That was rude of me. I don’t usually drink.”
“No,” his denial was husky. “It’s fine. You’re right, and it is a good thing for you to see and know that. A good thing for you to understand.” His eyes chased the outlook. “What kind of man cannot even love his own godson, the orphaned child of his very best friends?”
Her breathing was loud. Soft. Fast. His eyes landed on her throat and then dropped to her chest, her soft swell of breasts moving quickly to inflate her lungs.
“I don’t know,” she said, after a moment. “Perhaps you don’t understand your feelings?”
“I understand how I feel.” Beneath the table, as if driven by madness, he shifted his legs, moving them closer together, so hers were trapped by the strength of his thighs. “I understand that I was angry at them. Angry that they died, and so angry that they left him to me. They didn’t tell me, you know?”
“As you said,” her voice was strangled now, by desire or grief? “They obviously didn’t intend to die.”
“But that doesn’t excuse it. Appointing me as his guardian was reckless and foolish. In no way am I a suitable guardian for a child. They know that. They knew me better than anyone else on earth.”
Cleopatra ran her tongue over her lower lip. He wondered if she had any idea how much he wanted to slash his hand over the table top, clearing it of food and glasses and plates and cutlery, reach for her and drag her into his lap?
He looked away, even as his arousal strained at his pants.
“Perhaps because they were your best friends, they understood something about you that you don’t see.”
The words were offered gently, and beneath the table, her fingers curved over his knee, surprising him. Desire kicked up a notch but something else was there too, because her touch was designed to comfort him. He hated that. He hated sympathy. He hated being seen as a person in need of support – as someone weak.
He didn’t pull away though. He didn’t want her to stop touching him. But his eyes assumed a look of steel. “There is nothing more to me than what you see. I am as I am. And yet they left their precious boy to my care, expecting what? That I would somehow learn to love him? That I would become a suitable parent? It was foolish in the extreme.”
She tilted her head a little, her eyes flooding with anguish. “Perhaps,” she conceded after a moment. “None of which is Alfredo’s fault.”
“No.” And it was as if he was being shaken from a dream. She was the solution to this problem; he couldn’t mess with this. He needed her – in his bed, perhaps, but more than that, he needed her in his Godson’s life.
He pulled his legs away, sitting up straighter, assuming a business-like façade even as desire was rioting through his body, making his pulse hound his veins. “Which is why having you here is so important. You have to be what I cannot. You have to love him and spoil him and make him happy.” He stared at her intently. “I hate that they left him to me, but I cannot fail them. Veronica and Jack were like family to me. There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for them.”
“I married you because I want Alfredo to be happy,” she said, after a moment. “I promise you, I’m going to do everything I can to make sure he grows up feeling loved and adored.”
Her face was alive with passion, with an intense determination.
He wanted to push her. To ask her why, to investigate her motivations some more, but he also knew he needed to leave. There was some kind of sink hole in effect, a pull to her that was beyond his control and he wouldn’t succumb to it. He couldn’t.
They had a deal.
He thought of the paperwork in his office, the enormous document his lawyers had prepared. This was a business partnership. The nature of their relationship, the fact it was legally a marriage, didn’t alter what they were to one another.
She was a nanny who couldn’t quit, and he had no business acting like there was anything else between them.
With a frown etching across his symmetrical features, he scraped the chair back, standing abruptly. Her eyes followed him, her expression showing confusion and something far more dangerous. Yes, she wanted him, as much as he did her.
With a scowl on his face, he took a step away from the table. “I have work to do.”
“Oh. But you still haven’t eaten –,”
“I’m not hungry. Good night, Cleopatra.”
4
THE MORNING WAS PERFECT. Warm, sun-filled and clear, with cars beetling around the ancient, curved streets, mopeds weaving in and out, the click clack of high-heeled shoes on cobbled stones, the smell of coffee rich in the summery air.
Cleopatra paused a moment, her hand squeezing Alfredo’s to reassure him. She looked down at the same time he looked up; their eyes caught and she smiled warmly.
In the four weeks since marrying Benedetto di Fiori, things had gone exactly to plan. She barely saw her nominal husband, and Freddie was every bit as delightful and delicious as she’d first thought. Not that a poor temper would have given her a reason to leave: Cleopatra had made a commitment to the boy, and that meant everything to her.
But his sunny disposition made him a delight to be around, and they’d fallen into a lovely routine. In the morning, they walked. Through the little winding, Roman streets that surrounded Benedetto’s enormous house, streets paved with cobbles and lined with pot plants stuffed with geraniums and lavender, the sound of bees buzzing happily at their precious, fragrant buds one she’d become used to. She had a cappuccino at a bar while he had a milky chocolate, and then they continued to walk until they came to another café, where they’d order a flat-pressed sandwich to share as they continued their e
xploration.
It took over an hour, and then, once home, Alfredo liked to play in the garden. Cleopatra watched over him, though she was careful not to hover. He liked to explore and dive into his own games, though he could also be very clingy to her. If she went inside to make a hot drink, he would be startled to discover her missing and wail. He liked to know where she was as much as possible.
And Cleopatra could understand that.
He’d lost the two people he loved most in the world, and it had been sudden and obviously traumatic. He’d gone from the fat and into the frying pan, unfortunately, with Benedetto di Fiori and the string of unsuitable nannies giving him no reason to feel secure in anyone’s affection or their permanence in his life.
Cleopatra had reassured Freddie that she wasn’t going anywhere, but naturally, it wasn’t an easy message to convey to a three year old. Besides, he was rightfully sceptical. No doubt he’d come to terms with her being there when she’d been around long enough for him to take her for granted.
Until then, she had to be patient and present, never giving him a reason to doubt her.
They generally ate lunch together on the rooftop terrace, after which Freddie would take a nap – he was a good sleeper, and would kip for a couple of hours in the early afternoon.
Then, more play, some books, an early dinner and bath time for Freddie.
All children were different, but she could tell after only a few weeks how well Freddie responded to a tight routine. He liked predictability and regularity. There was security in that, security in knowing what happened next and why.
She pulled into a café and placed their order, standing where they always did. The waiter behind the counter made silly faces at Freddie, which made Cleopatra laugh as well.
“It’s a nice day out there,” he said, as he passed their drinks over.
Cleopatra smiled. “It sure is.”
“Are you doing much?”
“We might go for a swim,” she said, for Alfredo’s benefit, wiggling her brows at the toddler. “If little Master approves.”