"Here we are," Hanna said, hoping to cover her
nervousness with the cool, dispassionate announcement. They paused at the
hotel door and she gestured awkwardly. "Would you like to come in?"
"For a little while," Marco agreed.
She hesitated, not quite sure what to make of that.
A little while meant not all night. So, if he wasn’t planning to spend the
night, what precisely, did he plan? A quick tumble before he left, just to
consummate their new relationship? She shrank from the thought. What in the
world had she been thinking to marry a complete stranger? How could she have
taken such a drastic step? Here she stood in the doorway outside her hotel
room with a man she’d only known for a few scant hours. He was her husband,
a man she’d committed to for the next few months, a man she’d given every
right to...to... To come in for a quick tumble before he left!
The key card fell from her nerveless fingers.
"Here, let me get that for you."
He bent and picked up the slip of plastic, inserting
it into the locking mechanism while she watched helplessly. No hesitation,
no fumbling, no awkwardness. As though to acknowledge his proficiency, the
tiny light flashed gaily from red to green. Come on, you stupid lock! Turn
red again and get me out of this! she wanted to scream. Instead the lock
gave way with a loud clicking noise that retorted down the hallway like a
gunshot. She flinched, not that Marco noticed. Twisting the knob, he shoved
the door open and gestured for her to proceed him into the one place she
least wanted to be with her brand-new husband—a bedroom.
Hanna hastened inside before he could think of doing
something incredibly gallant and Marco-like, such as carry her over the
threshold. Behind her the door slammed shut and she spun around in a swirl
of feathers and ivory skirts. As though in a symbolic gesture, the scarf
restraining her hair loosened and drifted to the floor with a silken sigh.
Fiery curls spilled across her shoulders to her waist and she had an
unnerving image of a red cape teasing the life out of a snorting, drooling,
raging bull. She’d seen cartoons. She knew what the bull would do when
provoked like that. She braced herself for impact.
The bull lifted a dark eyebrow. "Something wrong?"
he asked mildly.
"Yes. No." She gestured awkwardly. "My hair."
"It’s beautiful."
"It came loose."
"Yes, I see that."
"I...I wasn’t sure what you’d do."
"Ah. That certainly fails to clarify matters." He
approached and she steeled herself once more. Circling her, he bent and
plucked the scarf from the floor, the scrap of silk trailing from his hand
like a whip. "I believe you dropped this."
"It...it fell out."
He snapped the wrinkles from it with a swift flick
of his wrist and she stilled, her breathing shallow and rough. "What would
you like?" he asked, coming up behind her. He draped the cool black silk
over her bare shoulders, dragging it across her heated skin, the scarf
stirring a reaction as potent as a lover’s caress. "Would you like me to tie
your hair back again?"
"Yes." She cleared her throat. "Absolutely."
"Or is this what you wanted...?"
The scarf rippled a sinuous path to the floor like a
dark flag of surrender. Wrapping an arm around her waist, he urged her a
single step toward him, locking them together, spine to chest. Whispering an
Italian word rich with passion, he swept her hair over her shoulder. It
flowed in a tidal wave of molten fire across her breasts to her waist. He
leaned into her, the warmth of his breath stirring the fine curls at her
temple, his mouth so close to her cheek, she shivered beneath the promised
impact. He pressed her closer still, melding their bodies.
"I don’t think I want this," she whispered.
"You’re nervous."
Denying it would be pointless. "Yes."
"You’re beginning to think you’ve make a terrible
mistake."
She sagged against him. Could the man read minds, as
well? "Let’s just say that I’m having second thoughts."
"All brides have them, or so I’ve been told."
"Yes, but at least those brides have known their
husbands longer than a few hours."
"Not always. There are places where the bride and
groom meet for the first time on their wedding day."
She closed her eyes, laughter battling the most
alien emotion of all—an overwhelming desire to give in to tears again. "In
case you’re wondering, that doesn’t make me any less nervous."
"How do you suppose those couples made it through
their first night together?"
"I suppose it depends on what sort of people they
were. If...if the groom were a kind, understanding sort, he’d give his bride
a chance to get used to marriage before... Before... You know."
"And if the groom wasn’t a kind, understanding
sort?"
She swallowed. "He’d force himself on her. After
all, what choice would she have?" Turning in his arms, she clung to the
front of his shirt. "But you’re not that type of man."
He lifted an eyebrow, his expression frighteningly
impassive. "No? You’re so certain?"
"Yes!"
His eyes warmed, gentled. "Then why are you
nervous?"
Just like that, her fear eased. She trusted him!
She’d instinctively sensed he wouldn’t do anything to hurt her. Perhaps she
had gut instincts after all. Who’d have thought? She shrugged. "Call it an
attack of nerves. It’s awkward. We don’t know each other well and married on
impulse. I mean..." She attempted to smooth the creases she’d pressed into
his shirt, ironing them along the hard, ridged contours beneath. But all
that did was increase the intimacy of the moment and stir her anxiety to new
heights. Her hand stilled, gathering the strong, steady beat of his heart
within her palm. "You told me your brothers names, but I’ve tried and tried
and I don’t remember what they are. Silly, isn’t it? I know there’s six."
"Five. Six sons, five brothers."
"See?" She tore free and began to pace, her hair
billowing in agitated waves. "I don’t even have the number right. And
then... There’s your father. You haven’t told me his name."
"Papa."
She stopped and stared at him, her brow wrinkled.
"What?"
"Just kidding, carissima. His name is Dom. But he’d
be offended if you called him anything other than father or papa or dad."
Marco folded his arms across his chest. "What else?"
Hanna twisted her hands together. "You said you were
a salesman. But I don’t know what you sell."
"Does it matter?"
"How can you ask such a thing?" she demanded. "Of
course it matters. When we go back to Hidden Harbor and I introduce you,
guess the first question everyone will ask?"
"Let’s see..." He pretended to frown. "What does he
do for a living?"
She stabbed the air with her index finger. "Exactly!
And I’ll say... Why, he’s a salesman. And they’ll reply... Oh, really? What
does he sell? And I’d have to say... Gee, I don’t know." She lifted her
hands in appeal. "Do you see where I’m going with this?"
"As frightening as it is to admit, yes."
"Right! It would look odd. So, anyway..." She fixed
him with an inquiring stare. "What do you sell?"
"Anything and everything. I suppose it would be more
accurate to say I put together products with vendors, money with those who
need it. If someone has something they wish to sell, I find outlets for
them."
That intrigued her. "You do?"
"I do."
She resumed her pacing. "See? That wasn’t so
difficult. I can explain that to people. I think we’re on a roll here. Now
what else?"
"How about your late husband?"
She faltered, aware the tables had just been given a
sharp spin. "My...my husband?"
"Late husband. He is late, isn’t he? I’m not going
to arrive in Hidden Harbor and find him waiting for us, will I?"
"Er, no," she assured, hoping he wouldn’t pick up on
her evasiveness. "Not him."
"I can’t tell you how relieved I am to hear that. So
how long were you married?"
"Two months."
"Ah, sweetheart. I’m so sorry." His instant remorse
made her feel worse than ever. "That must have been very difficult to lose
your husband after so brief a marriage."
She couldn’t deny it. They’d been two of the most
difficult months she’d ever experienced. "He’d been ill for quite a while."
"And you married him, anyway?"
"Of course," she said simply.
"Did you love him?"
"I told you—"
"That’s right. You don’t believe in love, do you?"
"No." She set her chin and faced Marco squarely. It
was one of those occasions when the truth hurt, when her resolution to hold
emotion at bay seemed doomed to failure. "I...I cared for Henry. He was a
dear friend."
"Interesting you’d marry the late Mr. Tyler
considering you didn’t love him." He tilted his head to one side. "Why would
you do that?"
"It seemed the right choice at the time," she
confessed. And it had. There hadn’t been any other way to accomplish what
she needed unless she’d married him. How odd that she’d put herself in the
precise same situation again—marrying for need rather than more traditional
reasons.
"Did he love you?"
Tears pricked her eyes and she bowed her head. "No,"
she whispered. "He respected me. He might have even liked me. But he loved
his first wife."
"And you were willing to settle for that?" Marco
asked incredulously.
"At the time it seemed...acceptable."
"And what about us?"
"What do you mean?" she asked evasively.
"Is what we have, what you hope we’ll have in the
future, just acceptable? Or is it more than that?"
An intense yearning caught her by surprise. It was a
totally inappropriate emotion, but she couldn’t deny its existence. She
wanted more from this man than what she’d had from Henry. She wanted it with
all her heart—the very heart she’d denied possessing. "I hope it’ll be
more."
His expression eased and she knew her answer had
pleased him. "In that case, I have one final question for you."
Hanna eyed him warily. "What’s that?"
"You asked for a trial marriage." A smile tilted his
mouth. "When does it start?"
She braced herself once again. "Tonight. We can
start the trial tonight."
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