Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
“T HIS IS A DISASTER,” Willow groaned, as soon as they were alone in her room. “I’m so sorry, Francesco.”
He eyed her for a long moment, his expression indecipherable.
“Say something,” she implored.
“What do you want me to say?”
“I don’t know. Are you annoyed at me?”
His lips quirked. “Why would I be annoyed?”
“Because I dragged you into this, and now your aunt and uncle are coming?—,”
“That’s not your fault.”
“I should have thought?—,”
“Will, I agreed to this,” he pointed out. “I knew there was a risk your father or stepmother would say something to Gianni and Maria, or someone else in my family. As far as I’m concerned, it doesn’t change anything. We’ll go our separate ways after this weekend; they’ll all just have to deal with that.”
“Are you sure you’re okay with this?”
His expression was grim. “I accept the situation,” he said, the difference subtle. “It’s not the end of the world.”
She nodded, but her face showed consternation, so Francesco swept towards her and pulled her into his arms. “Let me help you forget about this,” he said, and before she could respond, he was pulling her towards the bed, over her soft, weak protests, because she was dimly aware of the passage of time and her need to be ready to greet guests as they arrived. But Francesco was drawing her down to the bed at the same time his strong, broad hands began to strip her from her clothes, and Willow reassured herself that she had to get undressed anyway, so what was the harm in having a little help in that department?
But when he brought his mouth to her sex and ran his tongue along her seam, tasting her in a way that filled her vision with stars, she forgot everything. There was only this intense, mind-numbing pleasure, and the certainty she wanted to experience this as many times as she could over the weekend—like a squirrel, storing up nuts for the winter, was her last cogent thought before another orgasm tore through her.
His aunt and uncle arrived a little after seven, as most of the other guests—and there were many—were already well plied with exceptional alcohol, and beginning to act like it. Francesco hadn’t touched a drink. He hadn’t wanted anything that might dull his senses. Anything that might lessen his abilities, in any way. To support Willow, when Meredith swooped in and attacked. And to pleasure Willow, when they were alone once more.
Instead, he nursed a mineral water and made the sort of polite conversation events such as this required, with a man he vaguely remembered having met before, at a charity event in Venice. He hated this kind of thing.
Not birthday parties. Birthday parties that were for close friends and family, filled with warmth and love and genuine affection, were fine. He had no issue with those. But events that were all about showing off, and establishing your prestige in society, about spending time with people who you rarely thought of, much less spoke to, just because they were part of the same world you inhabited, left him with a cold pit in his gut.
Yet, this was Willow’s world.
The expectations on her shoulders had always been to take up her place here. To be a beautiful, perfect socialite, and marry someone worthy of her status. Someone like an earl, or a prince. He watched surreptitiously, as she endured a conversation which he imagined was probably similar in tenor to his. Surface-level and shallow, with a distant acquaintance. A conversation she couldn’t wait to be free from?
But then, Willow laughed, and Francesco stood up a little straighter, his eyes fixed on her, no longer surreptitious, but with obvious, unashamed admiration. And who cared? He was ostensibly her boyfriend—why shouldn’t he show the world that he thought she was the most amazing person?
Because in that moment, he felt that. He couldn’t help but feel it. Surely anyone with a pulse would look at her and see what he did? Anger fizzed in his veins when he contrasted that admiration with Meredith’s treatment of Willow. The constant putting down of the younger woman, who was all the things she’d been told she had to be, from birth. Elegant, sophisticated, educated, erudite, fascinating, charming, kind. Okay, the last one was hardly a prerequisite, but for Francesco, it was a big part of what differentiated Willow from so many of the other women he’d known, who belonged to this rarefied echelon of society. Willow had been raised rich, but her values were not reflective of that. She was egalitarian. Caring. Compassionate.
“Cesco? i .” His uncle’s deep voice came to him from up close, but Francesco had been so caught up in Willow, that he hadn’t realized their group had been joined by two more people. His gaze skidded away from her, towards Gianni and Maria, who were standing with smiles on their faces, as they regarded him thoughtfully.
Well, that was just great. They’d known his uncle and aunt would become a part of this ruse, and he’d just given an A grade performance as an adoring boyfriend, who couldn’t take his eyes off his lover.
His insides tightened at the thought of that.
Lover.
Yes, he wanted to make love to her again. Not like they had in the car, constrained by space, and time. And not like the quick orgasm he’d bestowed on her before they got ready for this party. But long, languorous, sensual love, exploring her body all night long, being explored by her…
“Darling, it is so good to see you,” Maria said in their native Italian, swooping across the distance that separated them and drawing Francesco into her arms, kissing both of his cheeks. He had to stoop and she to stand on the tips of her toes, which they both did, in a time honored, familiar routine.
“Indeed it is,” Gianni agreed, slapping Francesco on the back. “And you’ve been holding out on us.”
Francesco was rethinking his abstinence from alcohol. In that moment, a whisky would have hit just right. “Not at all, uncle.”
“You are seeing Willow Von Bates?”
He felt a twist in his throat, like a bone had gotten lodged there. Willow was right. Lying to his uncle and aunt was a step he hadn’t known if he’d be able to take. But it was necessary. Imperative, now. They’d crossed this line, with their eyes open. There was nothing for it but to keep on going.
“Yes,” he said, flicking a glance at his aunt and uncle, ignoring the hopeful light that lit their eyes. Like the rest of his family, they’d come to accept that he wasn’t likely to settle down ever. He hated the thought of getting their hopes up now. “But it’s still new, for both of us, and it’s casual.”
“Ah, ah,” Maria nodded, clapping her hands. “Yet, she is so wonderful for you. I always thought her to be a special kind of girl. Despite—,” Maria’s voice trailed off, a false smile plastered to her face. A tension in her features that Francesco immediately understood.
Despite the way her stepmother was with her.
Yes. That was all too true.
“She is special,” Francesco agreed, and he really meant it.
At that moment, Francesco looked once more to Willow, and Willow looked across to Francesco, so their eyes met and something like understanding burned between them. This was fake, but their feelings were real. Feelings of friendship, respect, like, desire. Which meant they weren’t technically lying to anyone.
They were ‘dating’, for now. And soon, they’d ‘break up’, because she was in love with some man called Tom, and he could never be what she wanted. Francesco’s chest shifted a little, as he felt a familiar emptiness inside of him, an awareness that he’d never give into the ‘happily ever after’ delusions that so many other people seemed to want.
But Rocco had, a voice in the back of his mind protested. Rocco, Francesco’s brother, had been able to put aside all the same life lessons their father had bestowed upon them and taught them, to reach out in the hope of living happily ever after with the woman he loved.
That, of course, was the crucial difference. Rocco loved Maddie. It had caught him unawares, totally out of nowhere, but they were madly in love. They had no choice but to be together. For Francesco’s part, he knew that would never happen to him. He refused to allow it.
He had seen what love could do.
Seen the pain his father had felt after their mother died. Had witnessed his father’s demise—from a loving, happy man, to a shell of himself, a relic of what he’d once been. A drunken womanizer, who was equal parts bitter and furious with the world, and the three sons he’d been left to care for. Although there hadn’t been an enormous amount of ‘care’. Were it not for Gianni and Maria, Francesco had no idea what would have become of them.
“Cesco?” Gianni clicked his fingers in Francesco’s face, so he glanced across at his uncle, frowning.
“Sorry, I missed that,” he apologized.
“You were miles away,” Maria winked, glancing at Willow, who was once more in conversation.
“Yes.” Why bother denying it? He had been miles away. Just not pleasurably admiring his fake girlfriend, so much as reliving his haunted past, remembering the pain of his childhood, his adolescence, his father’s mood swings and alcoholism, the darkness that had enveloped all of them after their mother’s death.
“Have you spoken to Raf, lately?”
Francesco frowned, the question catching him off guard. “No.” He’d tried to call his younger brother earlier in the week, but the call had been shunted to voice mail. “Why do you ask?”
Maria and Gianni shared a look of concern. “We’ll see him soon,” Gianni reassured Maria, so Francesco’s concern grew.
“Is there a problem?”
“She lost the baby,” Gianni said, quietly. “That’s all I know.”
“Oh, hell,” he cursed, staring at his aunt and uncle. He knew his brother had married Marcia hastily. The fact she’d been pregnant had come out just before the wedding, and though Raf had stopped short of confirming the pregnancy to be the reason for the wedding, Francesco suspected that to have been the case. Raf was as gun-shy when it came to commitment as Francesco. He’d lived through the same fucked up stuff that Francesco had. Love was a foreign concept to all of them, thanks to their father.
But Marcia and Raf had been together a long time. Despite the fact none of them could really stand her, she was a part of their family.
“A miscarriage?” he asked, looking from one to the other.
Maria’s eyes softened with sympathy. “Apparently. We do not know the details. We had hoped he might have confided in you…”
“No. He hasn’t.”
“We are going to New York tomorrow, to see him,” Gianni said.
“Them,” Maria countered, with a slight grimace. “We will have to check on Marcia, too, of course.”
“Of course.” Francesco drew a hand through his hair. “Do you want me to come with you?”
Maria blinked and then shook her head. “You are needed here,” she said. “But you’ll come home next weekend?”
Home. The villa. The home which Gianni and Maria had so willingly opened up to their nephews, in the wake of their mother’s death.
“Yes,” he said, immediately.
“And you’ll bring Willow? The others will be so delighted to hear your news.”
“No,” his response was immediate. “I’m sure she’ll be busy. She always is.”
“Let’s ask her,” Gianni said, with a careless shrug that belied an inner-strength Francesco had rarely had to deal with personally. A shift of movement and the older couple was moving across the elegant hall, towards Willow, who broke away from the women she’d been talking to and allowed herself to be drawn into indulgent, warm embraces. Francesco was frozen, temporarily, to the spot, but he began to move quickly enough, so he arrived in time to hear Maria say, “You must come, darling. Francesco thinks you might have plans, but I know you’ll be able to put them aside, to spend some time with his family. We are so thrilled with this development, you see.”
Her eyes were saucer-like when they lifted to his. Like a deer caught in headlights, he thought, with a grimace.
“I told you—,” he began, wanting to extricated Willow—and himself—from this expectation. “She’s busy.”
“But busy is not unavailable. Surely you can make yourself available, for us?”
She looked from Gianni to Maria with an expression of unflappable calm. But Francesco saw beneath it. He saw the fluttering at the base of her throat that spoke of a rapidly twisting pulse, the quick movements in her eyes that showed an over-active brain.
“Uncle, do not force her into the family already.”
“Force her? Darling, we’ve known her since she was this big,” Maria said, indicating a space around her hip. “She is already like family. Of course she must come and see everyone. Especially now,” Maria added, meaningfully, turning to look at Francesco. “We could all use some good news and distraction…”
Francesco ground his teeth. His aunt didn’t have a manipulative bone in her body, but that didn’t matter. The effect was the same. He felt backed into a corner, and so did Willow, going by the way her features shifted, briefly, into an expression of resolve.
“It’s fine,” she said, a bright smile getting rid of any hint of reticence. “I can come. I’d love to see everyone again,” she added, and he wondered if she’d ever contemplated acting as a career option, because everything about her response was utterly convincing.
* * *
“I shouldn’t have agreed.”
Francesco studied her for a beat and her insides twisted with discomfort. “Do you want me to get you out of it?”
She pulled a face. “Like they’ll let you.”
His smirk was pure arrogance. “I am a grown enough man to have some say in my life, cara. ”
“No, it’s okay,” she said, biting down on her lip. “It’s just one more weekend.” Her eyes lifted to his, a reflection of the torment inside of her. “Do you mind?”
“Pretending to be your boyfriend for a couple of nights?” he prompted. “I suppose I’ll survive.”
“I’m serious,” she murmured. “This is your whole family…”
“I know.” He stopped dancing, his lips quirking into a frown. “It’s not ideal. I would have preferred to stick to our agreement, as it was. But I’m sure we can find a way to make the best of it.”
Heat flushed her whole body from the inside out. “Yeah, I guess there’s a silver lining,” she admitted, but even that was so incredibly complicated. How could she want this man so much when she thought she was in love with Tom? Everything was turned completely upside down.
“Listen, we know what we’re doing, right?” Francesco prompted, so Willow glanced up at him, and her breath caught in her throat a little at how handsome he was. “We’re friends who are faking it. No one’s going to get hurt, no one’s going to find out about our deal. We’ll get through next weekend and move on. Okay?”
She nodded slowly.
“You sure? Cause you look like you’re about to be sick.”
She laughed a little and nodded, but the truth was, how could she be sure? Sleeping together had the potential to muddle everything. But she couldn’t let it. They had to remain committed to the original plan here. Fake relationship, no strings, no real feelings.
“Listen, it’s no big deal, cara. Come, don’t come, it doesn’t matter to me either way. If you decide you would rather stay in London, I’ll break it to Gianni and Maria. You decide, yes?”
She ignored the way her heart felt strangely heavy, her stomach all tangled. But the truth was, her deepest childhood fear was being unwanted. It wasn’t even so much a fear as a fact: she had been unwanted. By Meredith, at least, who would have liked to have her family without the inconvenient addition of a stepdaughter, and by the twins, perhaps, who’d always had each other, and didn’t need anyone else.
Willow had always gotten through life by not putting herself out there. She made friends, but those friendships were surface level, easy to separate herself from, to walk away when needed.
Francesco had somehow made that difficult. She’d always felt a tug towards him—weirdly, given he was all big, alpha, man mountain, a pull to protect him. As though he had vulnerabilities she understood, and she alone could help him with.
But there was something about his easy, casual carelessness, about whether she came to Italy or not, his ability to neatly box her into this fake dating box, that made Willow’s vulnerabilities go into overdrive.
She knew it wasn’t forever, she knew he wasn’t her future. She knew sex was just sex, for someone like Francesco. But notwithstanding all of that, deep down, Willow knew that she still wanted more—she wanted him to want her...
Wanting more had the power to hurt, and she couldn’t be hurt again. Her heart, so battered by a childhood of constant wanting and never getting, throbbed its agreement. Protect me, it whispered, and Willow promised it she would. No matter what, she’d play it safe. This was just temporary, and she wouldn’t forget it.