Stolen Pregnant Bride

Chapter One

‘Ready?’

Stella met her father’s eyes, searching for warmth or approval. But Alfredo Barbieri rarely revealed emotion.

What had she expected? Effusive thanks? A warm hug? Definitely not. That wasn’t her father’s way.

Yet today she needed something from him. Moistening her dry mouth, she opened her lips to speak but he nodded briskly and turned towards the big arched doorway.

‘I—’ She wasn’t sure what she was going to say, which was just as well because he was already pulling her forward, her arm linked with his and his heavy hand holding hers firmly in place.

As if realising more was expected, he slanted her a brief, sideways look. ‘I knew you’d see sense. You’re a Barbieri after all.’

Stella knew that was his idea of high praise.

Yet a voice inside whispered, You’re not a real Barbieri. You never will be.

She shook her head, making the heavy lace swish around her, wishing it would create a breeze against the stifling summer heat. But the sound didn’t block out that insidious voice.

It’s not too late. You can still back out.

And do what? What other future did she see for herself?

That fantasy future she’d recently dreamt of had been just that—pure fantasy. And heartache.

Stella knew, had known most of her life, that happiness didn’t come from wishing. It came from hard work and accepting reality.

Even so, as they entered the ancient stone building, frantic doubts rose. So did the desire to turn back into the bright, cleansing sunshine.

She stumbled and blinked, taking in the packed cathedral. Curious faces turned to stare.

She felt her father straighten, his chest puff out as he led her forward, nodding and murmuring greetings to acquaintances. How many of them did she know? A dozen? Two? Three? She had no idea who most of these people were.

But her father did. He’d carefully devised the guestlist for today’s ceremony. He and Eduardo’s mother.

Her gaze flicked up the long aisle to the man waiting for her. Eduardo Morosi, handsome in his hand-tailored suit, wearing a smile that would look perfect in every photo.

Alfredo Barbieri had pulled out all the stops for the wedding of his only daughter. She suspected no florist in Sicily had pastel pink or white flowers left in stock.

Stella breathed slowly through her mouth, trying to slow her staccato heartbeat. And avoid the sickly-sweet scent of massed blooms filling the cathedral.

It didn’t work. Her heart raced and her stomach churned as the smell of lilies invaded her nostrils.

Lilies of all things! Even buried amongst other blossoms, that distinctive scent shoved her straight back to that day when she was ten, skinny and bereft, standing by her mother’s coffin.

To her that rich perfume meant loss and grief. Not new beginnings. But that was what today was—a new beginning. A step towards a bright future.

She pinned on a smile in case anyone could read her features through the lace.

Before her, six little flower girls paced down the aisle, pretty in pale pink. Not Stella’s favourite colour, but Signora Morosi had had her heart set on it and Stella had more on her mind than the bridal colour scheme.

She and Eduardo had agreed that today’s ceremony was for their parents more than them. Let them have the grand event they craved. Soon it would be over and she could relax.

Except the closer she got to the altar, the less relaxed she felt.

The long-sleeved lace dress with its train and heavy satin lining weighed her down.

Though it had been made to measure, it felt too tight.

She knew it was imagination yet the illusion was so strong.

The waistband felt like a vice and the bodice constricted her lungs, making it difficult to breathe.

Her tightly pinned hair pulled her scalp and would give her a headache soon.

Meanwhile that sick feeling in the pit of her stomach worsened. Nerves, that was all. Wasn’t every bride nervous on her wedding day?

This wasn’t your average wedding and hers wouldn’t be the sort of marriage she’d expected, but it would bring everything she’d craved for so long.

She and Eduardo liked and respected each other.

With him she’d have security and a real family of her own, something she’d missed since her mother’s death.

And professionally… Some of her tension faded. Professionally she’d finally have the opportunity she deserved after years of hard work, loyalty and outstanding performance.

Her father had promised and now, at last, he’d have to deliver. His promise had been public so he couldn’t renege.

Stella pushed her shoulders back and fixed her gaze on her husband-to-be. The other thing she and Eduardo shared, the thing that would make their marriage strong, was honesty. She’d been completely frank with him and he with her. To her surprise that frankness had drawn them together.

For too long she’d taken people at face value and believed easy promises. She’d mixed with people who didn’t keep their word. People who lied.

The bouquet shook in her left hand and she gripped it tighter, ignoring the ache in her chest.

She was tired of lies and half-truths, of vague assurances that were never made good. Of being taken for granted or downright duped.

As they neared the front of the huge congregation she saw her half-brothers looking the picture of sleek success, faces serious and well-fed bodies dressed in bespoke suits proclaiming their wealth.

Neither caught her eye but that was no surprise.

Meanwhile their wives looked as if they were calculating the cost of Stella’s bridal finery.

It was almost a relief to step up beside Eduardo and hand off the bouquet.

He smiled reassuringly and Stella told herself it would be okay. This would work. So when his hand closed around hers she didn’t flinch at his touch. She didn’t, definitely didn’t, compare it to another’s.

Ignoring the buzzing in her ears and the sick feeling from being too close to an oversized arrangement of lilies, Stella squeezed his hand and turned to face the priest.

Even after her years living here and mastering Italian, the drone of church services took extra concentration. Today she didn’t try following the priest’s words. All that mattered were the vows they’d make. She concentrated on standing straight and controlling her breathing.

That was why she was late realising.

It was only when the priest looked past her, frowning, and Eduardo twisted to look over his shoulder, that she noticed the ceremony wasn’t following its schedule.

The vast space, filled to the brim with people, fell abruptly silent. Until she heard a rustle, a whisper that began at the back of the cathedral and rolled forward, growing in intensity.

The air thickened as static electricity flickered across her nape then down her spine.

She sensed someone approach.

Her heart gave one almighty thump, leaping so high it felt as if it almost reached her mouth. But she was no longer a gullible fool, imagining impossible things.

Whoever had caused this interruption, it couldn’t be—

‘What are you doing here?’ her father snarled. ‘This is a private family event.’

‘Hardly private,’ murmured a deep voice. ‘You’ve invited half the island.’

Stella froze, mouth gaping. Her heart seemed to still and her lungs stopped working. It couldn’t be. It couldn’t possibly be…

Finally, she gasped in a deep breath, hand going to her chest as pain cleaved her ribcage.

Her eyes met Eduardo’s. She read concern there and shock. What did he see on her face?

It had to be fury. It couldn’t be anything else, despite the frightful jumble of her emotions.

The nerve of this intruder! The sheer, unmitigated gall of him!

Grabbing her heavy skirts, she spun around, heart thundering as she saw the man who’d walked the length of the aisle to halt mere steps away.

Amongst the horde of people dressed to the nines, he stood out in worn, faded jeans that clung to powerful thighs, a black T-shirt and leather jacket.

Even his hair looked rumpled, matching his unshaven jaw.

As if interrupting the sanctity of a wedding ceremony wasn’t enough, his casual appearance added extra insult.

Stella refused to let her gaze travel his tall body or dwell on the strength of his chest and shoulders. She ignored his chiselled, too-handsome features and focused on his eyes. She’d never seen anything so cold in her life. It was like looking at shards of ice.

Ice that nevertheless had the power to burn.

He stood a step below her yet their eyes were level. How could such a cold stare look so angry? As if he had anything to be angry about!

‘Ah, the blushing bride. All dressed in white, too. How very predictable.’

Once his sneer might have hurt. Maybe it would later. For now she had the strange sensation that she saw him from a distance, as if separated by a wall of toughened glass.

‘Now see here, Valenti, you’re not welcome.’ Her father bustled forward, his big hands clenched. Her half-brothers rose from the pew to stand behind him.

Giancarlo Valenti ignored them. Not by so much as a flicker did he give any indication he’d noticed the three solid men crowding threateningly close.

Stella opened her mouth but it was Eduardo beside her who spoke. ‘I must ask you to leave. If you want to offer your good wishes to my wife and myself, you can wait outside.’

‘But she’s not your wife yet, is she?’

Her father started blustering but Stella spoke over him, snapping out the words. ‘I can’t imagine why you’re here, but—’

‘Can’t you? Can’t you really?’

His mouth curled and she hated the fact that even that sneer didn’t detract from his heart-stopping attractiveness. But good looks were no guarantee of a good soul. This man should appear twisted and ugly, to match what he was inside.

She raised her chin and narrowed her eyes, staring him down. If she’d been able to harness the power of her hatred he’d be a pile of smouldering cinders at her feet.

‘No,’ she said loudly and clearly. ‘I can’t think of any reason for you to be here.’

Abruptly, with no warning, her energy disappeared like air from a punctured balloon.

This was too much on top of everything else.

These last months had been appalling. She’d told herself she just had to get through the wedding but now despite her righteous anger she suddenly felt as if she didn’t have the strength.

Her muscles loosened and it took enormous effort to shore up her wobbly knees.

She stiffened her legs and her spine. ‘Goodbye, Signor Valenti.’

She turned towards the altar, only to halt as he responded, clear enough for half the congregation to hear, ‘You don’t get rid of me that easily. I’m here to stop this farce of a marriage.’

Stella spun around as a hubbub exploded from the congregation. Her father lunged at him, grabbing his leather jacket with one hand and pulling back a fist. It was Eduardo who grabbed her father’s arm and stopped the punch.

Giancarlo Valenti didn’t even flinch, his eyes were on her, making something inside her frozen heart squirm.

Her groom hissed at her father under his breath, ‘Do you want to make matters worse, Barbieri? You’re playing into his hands, resorting to violence.’

Belatedly Stella’s half-brothers hauled their father back, holding him by the arms.

Eduardo, cultured, unflappable Eduardo, forked his fingers through his immaculate hair. He shook his head, sliced a look her way then murmured, ‘We need to take this somewhere private. Father?’ He turned towards the shocked priest hovering nearby. ‘There must be somewhere we can talk.’

‘It’s too late for that.’ Silver-grey eyes held Stella’s, their expression as dangerous as summer lightning. ‘You can’t marry her. She’s mine.’

She heard a hissed breath and realised it was hers. Her hand went to her throat. What was he playing at? Why? This made no sense.

She hadn’t realised she’d moved until she was standing before him, toe to toe, neck arched to hold his stare, fisted hands planted on her hips.

‘Who do you think you are? No one owns me. I’m not a piece of property.’

Though her father used her exactly like that, as an asset to be traded.

‘Get out of here,’ she snarled. ‘You’re not wanted. You’re not welcome.’

Something blazed in his eyes but she was too het up to read it.

‘Oh, I’m going. And you’re coming with me.’ Hard fingers wrapped around her elbow, his warmth seeping into chilled flesh.

Everyone shouted at once, remonstrating, threatening or cursing.

Men from the congregation thronged forward, encircling the intruder, but still he stood his ground.

Angry hands reached for him as he said, calmly and clearly, ‘Do you really think I’d let you marry another man when you’re pregnant with my baby? ’

If he’d thrown a bomb into the crowd it couldn’t have had more impact. She saw the reverberation ripple through the throng as horrified eyes turned to her. Her father, bright red, was unrecognisable, his face twisted with shock and contempt.

Automatically Stella shook her head. This couldn’t be happening. It was impossible.

Desperately she caught Eduardo’s gaze but before either could move, Giancarlo Valenti tugged her hard against him.

‘Which man here would stand between a man and his child?’

Everyone stilled, some even retreated a step. In that instant Valenti spun around, his arm clamping her to his side, half carrying her as he strode down the aisle.

He moved so fast she scrabbled to keep her feet on the ground, all the while trying to break his hold. It was only when they reached the blinding sunlight that Stella managed to land a blow. She jabbed him with her elbow, kicked at his shin, trying to wrestle free.

But in seconds they were beside a long black car with tinted windows. A man with dark glasses and bulky muscles beneath his suit held the back door open.

Stella aimed another vicious kick at her captor, jabbing her high heel onto his instep, rejoicing when he flinched and finally released her.

She retreated a step, panting with exertion, not quite believing he’d let her go.

‘What’s it to be, Stella? Do we discuss this in private? Or do you want to try explaining to the mob?’

Behind them, like a roaring wave bearing down on them, came a furious babble of irate, outraged voices, coming closer by the second.

Stella hauled in a desperate breath as she surveyed his smug expression, one coal-black eyebrow raised, his mouth curved in a knowing smile at her expense.

She drew herself up to her full height. ‘You’re despicable. I never knew what it was to hate someone before I met you.’

It would have been nice to think that was shock crossing his self-satisfied face, but she knew he didn’t care enough about anyone else for her words to affect him.

She swallowed hard. She’d never spat at anyone in her life and was sorely tempted to make an exception now, but she refused to lower herself to his crass level.

Instead she grabbed her heavy skirts and turned away, sinking onto the back seat of the limousine.