Chapter Five #2
She compressed her lips, trying to suppress the frustration she felt at his superior tone.
‘Sure,’ she said, because it was easier than arguing.
And also because, on some level, his advice was sound.
Getting legal advice never hurt. In fact, it was one of the first things she counselled anyone to do, because lawyers often saw things in a way that could prevent difficulties in the future.
She forced a smile, even when she hated to concede the point to him.
‘How’s the wedding planning going?’
She arched a brow. ‘Wedding planning?’
‘Dress. Flowers. That kind of thing.’ It sounded a little ludicrous to hear a man like Dante, who was all pure alpha, talk about the pretty wedding requirements.
‘So, because I’m the bride I have to organise the flowers?’
He stared at her with a look of total non-comprehension. ‘Do you want me to do it?’
She pressed her lips together now to stop a laugh from escaping. She had to admit, to herself at least, that the idea was kind of ridiculous.
‘I do not know my roses from my lilies, but if you have some aversion to it, I can get my assistant to handle it.’
She opened her mouth to object, but then it occurred to her that the idea of having an assistant organise all the details was one sure fire way to keep their wedding just as it should be: meaningless. Something they had to go through for the sake of legally marrying, and little else.
‘I’ll hire a wedding planner,’ she said, tapping a finger on the prenuptial agreement. ‘I don’t know why it hadn’t occurred to me before now.’
He lifted the glass of wine towards her and when their eyes met, something charged the air between them. Static electricity lifted the hairs on the back of her neck. She looked away again quickly.
‘To our wedding, then,’ he said. She couldn’t help but detect the grimness in his voice. To wonder, again, at what had happened in his first marriage to make him so deathly against the whole institution. Questions, questions, questions that she would never ask.
But that didn’t mean she couldn’t read his feelings and sympathise with him.
‘I can’t thank you enough for this,’ she said, softly.
‘It is not just for you, Charlotte. This wedding benefits me too, remember.’
She nodded, clinking her glass to his then replacing it on the benchtop.
‘In fact,’ he said, taking a sip of his drink before echoing her gesture. ‘My grandmother is expecting us next week.’
Charlotte’s eyes flared wide. ‘When you say expectingus—,’
‘To stay with her,’ he said.
‘Oh.’
Her pulse went all thready and something like anxiety stormed through her, because keeping Dante at arm’s length was fine when they were alone, but in the presence of his Nonna, she’d have to do a much better job of acting enamoured with the man.
And she’d have to know more than the superficial stuff about him.
‘Dante, when you say ‘next week’, you don’t mean we’re staying with her for a whole week, do you?’
‘She wants to get to know you.’
Charlotte’s eyes swept closed. ‘That’s what I was afraid of.’
‘You knew this was part of the deal.’
‘Yes, it’s just—,’ her voice tapered off as she tried to explain. ‘Don’t you think there’s a risk, in spending so much time with her?’
‘What risk?’
‘Well, that she’ll see through us, for one thing.’
His eyes glittered with determination when they met hers. ‘It’s up to you and me to make sure that doesn’t happen.’
‘I mean, I’m obviously going to try, but—,’ She bit into her lower lip, eyes meeting his, as some sort of presentiment of disaster drifted across her.
‘You and I know that not getting to know each other properly is sort of how this all works,’ she gestured from herself to him, with the sinking sensation that she was standing on the edge of a big, gaping void.
‘If we’re going to pull this off, I think we sort of have to. ..go over more than just the basics.’
He shrugged.
‘You don’t think there’s a problem with that?’ she pushed.
‘You seem to be presupposing that the more we get to know each other, the more we’ll like each other. What if the opposite is true?’
She burst out laughing at the unexpectedly grim—but reassuring—take on their situation.
‘You’ve already said you don’t like me,’ he pointed out. ‘You know me well enough, after six months of sleeping together, to realise that there is precisely zero risk of us developing feelings for one another. We are simply not wired that way.’
‘Nonetheless, I think we should be cautious about this.’
He arched a brow, clearly sceptical. ‘How so?’
‘Well,’ she pondered that. ‘Like if I come up with some questions for you to answer. Things I’ll need to know, that aren’t too personal. That way, it’s less of a conversation and more of an...’
‘Interview,’ he interrupted, expression giving nothing away.
‘Yes,’ she agreed.
‘That’s fine. If that’s your preference, Charlotte, we can do it your way.’
She nodded, as if in agreement, but inside, her nerves were starting to zip and jangle, because this was more complicated already, than she’d wanted. ‘Are you sure I have to go meet her? You can’t just take a photo of me? Tell her I’m busy working?’
‘She knows I would never marry someone she hadn’t met.’
It was so damned sweet, so thoughtful and respectful, that Charlotte’s eyes stung with the unexpected ache of unshed tears. ‘You’re really close to her, huh?’
‘She put her life on hold to raise me,’ he pointed out. ‘I respect and love her, yes.’
Charlotte took a sip of her drink; it was full-bodied and spicy. ‘How old were you when—,’ she left the question unfinished, the implication nonetheless clear. So much for avoiding personal conversations.
‘Eight.’ And before she could ask him how his parents died, he supplied, ‘in a helicopter crash.’
She grimaced. ‘That’s awful.’
‘Yes. It was a mechanical failing. It went down quickly, landed hard. My parents, my grandfather and the pilot all died on impact.’
‘Oh, Dante,’ she shook her head a little, reaching across and covering his much larger hand with her own. He stared down at them, as if he’d never seen hands before, then pulled his away. But his eyes lingered on her own hand for several beats.
‘An engagement ring,’ he said, with a single nod of his head. ‘I’ll organise that tomorrow. Do you have any preference for style?’
And just like that, she was doused in ice-cold water, reminded of the strictly pragmatic nature of their relationship.
Not only that, but she was also reassured by the way he’d acted like a safety rail, when she’d had a momentary lapse in judgement and briefly forgotten the way things stood with them.
‘Something simple,’ she insisted. And then, for clarity, ‘Not flashy.’
‘Not flashy?’
‘You know, not some massive diamond that’s going to weigh me down all day.’
He frowned. ‘Why not?’
It was so like him to just presume bigger was better that she couldn’t help rolling her eyes. ‘Because I don’t like that kind of thing.’
‘Nice kinds of things?’
‘A simple gold band will be fine.’
He stared at her like she’d lost her mind. ‘No one will believe that’s what I would choose for you.’
‘Then why are you even asking me?’
‘Because it should be something you want.’
‘Then I’ve told you what I want.’
‘Something boring.’
‘No, something simple.’ She lifted her shoulder. ‘Apart from anything, I think it’s in poor taste to wear some huge rock when I’m working in the not-for-profit sector.’
‘You make no sense.’
She laughed. ‘I make perfect sense; you just don’t understand me.’
‘No, you are a contradiction,’ he insisted. ‘You went to expensive schools, a prestigious university. You raise hundreds of millions of dollars each year, from people like me, yet you are so disdainful of wealth. Why?’
‘Because it’s so unevenly distributed,’ she said, shaking her head at how he couldn’t comprehend that. ‘Don’t you think there’s something kind of gross about how much money you have? When there are people out there sleeping in cars?’
‘Yes,’ he surprised her by agreeing instantly. ‘Which is why I donate to your charities and many others.’
‘Well, you do at least have a social conscience,’ she said, ignoring the way her heart did a funny little triple beat. ‘I still don’t want a huge chunk of diamond on my finger.’
He groaned but she knew she’d gotten through to him. ‘Okay. It doesn’t matter, anyway. It’s just for show.’
‘Right. Like a costume.’ It was fake. Something she’d wear, then return at such time that their marriage was no longer useful to either of them and they went their separate ways. ‘Just make-believe,’ she added, wondering why she felt the need for that extra reassurance.