‘I have to think about this,’ Jemima declared, ignoring the frowning slant of his black brows above his stunning eyes. ‘I need to be on my own for a while. I’m going for a walk on the beach.’
Recalling the flight of winding stone steps that led down to the shore from the terrace, she walked back into the sunlight. Round and round and round she went, moving faster and faster in her need to escape until her heels finally sank into the blissfully soft sand at the bottom. With a sigh she slipped off her shoes, closed her fingers through the straps and walked barefoot down to the shore.
The surf dampened her feet as she moved away from the castle. Little white houses straggled up the hillside on the other side of the horseshoe-shaped bay and boats bobbed in the harbour. A church with a bell tower made the village look even more picturesque in the sunshine.
So, how did she really feel about Luciano? Did she want him for the right reasons? Shouldn’t Nicky be her driving motivation? Did it matter that she was thinking less about Nicky and more about becoming Luciano’s wife? Why couldn’t she think about anything but Luciano? Was she infatuated with him? No doubt that would wear off with continued exposure to him and prevent her from behaving like an embarrassing teenager with a crush, she thought with an inner wince. After all, it was obvious that if such a marriage of convenience was to work she would have to be more practical in her outlook.
Could she happily settle for respect and consideration and fidelity? Well, she thought wryly, maybe not happily, but, if the alternative was not to have Luciano at all, her choice was being made for her. If the chance was there, she definitely wanted to take it and give it a go. And what about her family, her friends and the teaching career that she loved? Living abroad in Sicily? Could she adjust to that change? Friends and family would be able to visit as she would be able to visit them, she told herself, and, while she would miss her job, raising Nicky and having more children would certainly fill her time.
Registering that she was walking straight for the natural rock formation that cut off the beach at one point, Jemima changed direction in favour of the path running between the shore and the single-track road. She put her shoes back on, relieved she had worn low heels, and only as she straightened did she appreciate that she was not walking alone. Three of Luciano’s bodyguards hovered several yards away and she made a shooing motion of dismissal with her hands before turning defiantly on her heel and picking up her pace towards the village. Why on earth were they following her? Were such precautions really necessary for her safety?
Tired and hot, she paused at a café above the beach and walked in to sit down. It was busy. A large group of elderly men sat playing a board game in one corner and several other tables were occupied. As soon as Jemima sat down a bodyguard approached her to ask her what she wanted, acting as a liaison between her and the proprietor, who was viewing them nervously. Freshly squeezed orange juice was brought and she sipped, cooling off from the early-morning heat while watching a handful of children play ball on the beach below.
Nicky would have a whole beach to himself at the castle, she thought heavily. Would he even be allowed to play with other children? Had Luciano the smallest idea of what an ordinary childhood was like? What had his own been like? He had shared so little with her. All she knew about his background and his first marriage had been gleaned from the Internet. Luciano was not a male who willingly opened up about his past.
A sports car purred to a halt outside and Luciano sprang out of it. The proprietor bowed almost double and the waiter copied him. The old men stopped their game, suddenly rigid, their chatter silenced. As he strode in Luciano addressed the owner and then settled down lithely opposite her, seemingly impervious to the apprehensive silence that had greeted his arrival and that of his protection team.
‘Why did you have me followed?’
‘My father died when his yacht was blown up in the harbour out there,’ Luciano volunteered. ‘I have lived a very different life but there are still those who hate and fear me because of the blood in my veins. I can’t take the risk of ignoring that.’
Jemima had gone very pale. She brushed his hand soothingly with her fingers. ‘I’m sorry...’
His lush lashes lifted and dark golden eyes scanned her as a glass of water was brought to the table for him. ‘For what? For old history? Nobody grieved for my father, least of all me,’ he admitted bluntly.
‘Was your childhood unhappy?’ she murmured tautly, her eyes on his lean, dark face and the strong tension etched there.
‘Is knowing such things about me important to you?’
Amazed that he should have to ask that, Jemima nodded confirmation.
Luciano drank his water. ‘It was a nightmare,’ he admitted gruffly. ‘That’s why I want a normal family life for Niccolò.’
Jemima wondered what a nightmare entailed and wasn’t sure she could live with further clarification. The haunting darkness in his eyes sent a chill racing down her spine. The old men in the corner were still staring and she glanced away, wondering what it had been like for Luciano to grow up as the son of a man who was loathed and feared and whose reputation for corruption had stretched beyond death to shadow his son’s. Frustrated tenderness laced with intense compassion twisted through Jemima. A normal family life. It was not so much to ask. It was not an impossible dream, was it? In fact it was a modest aspiration for so wealthy and powerful a male and that knowledge touched her heart more deeply than anything else could have done.
Luciano wondered why Jemima appeared to be on the brink of tears. He could see moisture glimmering in her ice-blue eyes. He didn’t want to talk about his dirty past; he didn’t even want to think about such things. It had soiled him for ever—how could it not soil her? Furthermore, he was still reeling from his own behaviour the night before: he had lost control of his temper and acted with dishonour. Even his father had waited to marry his mother before sharing a bed with her. He repressed his troubled thoughts, knowing the futility of regretting what was past.
‘I want to marry you,’ he told her very quietly.
‘I know,’ she whispered, her heart beating so fast it felt as though it were in her throat. ‘But I’m not sure what that means to you.’
‘I wanted you the first moment I saw you,’ Luciano ground out in a driven undertone. ‘Is that what you want to hear? I thought you were your sister then and I couldn’t believe that I could want such a woman, so I fought it. You’re a very loving woman, Jemima, and my son needs that. I don’t think I’m capable of giving that kind of love, but you are.’
Yes, that was what Jemima had needed to hear. A blinding smile curved her lips and lit up her face. ‘OK...you’ve won me over,’ she told him shakily.
Luciano snapped his fingers and the proprietor came running. He spoke in Italian. The waiter scurried around serving everyone in the bar, even Luciano’s protection team. The café owner reappeared with a dusty bottle, which he proffered with pride. The wine was poured and toasts were made.
‘I bought everyone a drink to celebrate our wedding plans with us,’ Luciano explained as her eyes widened.
‘We’re talking weddings now?’ Jemima parroted as he nudged her nerveless fingers with a wine glass. ‘You want me to have a drink? But it’s only ten o’clock in the morning!’
He groaned out loud and raked impatient fingers through his black curls. ‘Santa Madonna! I forgot to give you the ring!’
In a daze, Jemima moistened her dry mouth with
