The Italian Proposal. Maisey Yates

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      CHAPTER FIVE

      THE WEDDING HAD become sort of much-anticipated society event, despite how little time had passed between the announcement and the actual ceremony—or maybe because of that reason. Elaine couldn’t help but think that the haste of the marriage was part of what made it interesting.

      She felt half the eyes in the historic church examining her flat stomach speculatively as she walked down the long aisle.

      The air was heavy with the perfume of flowers, compliments of her overzealous wedding planner, and the late-afternoon sun streamed through a round stained glass window, throwing squares of blue light onto the stone floor. It was a beautiful wedding. But it was someone else’s wedding. None of it was to her taste except for her simple dress. But none of that mattered. All that mattered was what would happen twelve months from this moment. When the company she had worked so hard for would be hers.

      She raised her eyes and looked at her groom, waiting for her at the head of the aisle. She had never seen him look so handsome. His tuxedo was black and well fitted, showing off broad shoulders and a tapered waist. He was in fantastic shape, but hours in the gym weren’t the biggest contributing factor to his immense appeal. He was handsome, criminally so, his chiseled features the perfect blend of masculinity and beauty. But it was his charisma, his raw confidence, his power that made people gravitate to him. He wasn’t like any man, any person, she’d ever met. And she was about to marry him.

      She swallowed. Her throat felt like the inside of a pincushion.

       This is nothing but a business deal. Nothing but another contract.

      She shifted her bouquet and took her groom’s hand.

      * * *

      Elaine had no idea how she’d managed to make it through the ceremony, the receiving line, and four hours of the reception. Her feet hurt from wearing her extremely impractical shoes, and her face hurt from all the overly cheerful smiling. And dancing with Marco, clinging to his arm, trying to pretend that she wasn’t melting from the heat he was making her feel, had been as taxing as it had been torturous.

      She sank into the limo with a sigh, and rested her head on the back of the seat. “That was exhausting.”

      “New brides usually say that after the honeymoon.”

      Heat flooded her face. Her treacherous mind was all too willing to offer up possible ways Marco could tire her out. She did not need this. Not now, and not with this relic from the Dark Ages.

      The limo, which had been decorated with over-the-top script writing that said Mr. and Mrs. Marco De Luca, pulled up to the curb in front of Marco’s penthouse. She didn’t wait for him to open the door for her. She got out and waited for him by the entrance of the building.

      He caught up to her and passed her by, his long legs taking strides much faster than her own legs could carry her. She’d changed after the reception into a white silk pencil skirt and a green sweater, but she was still wearing the ridiculous stilettos, which made walking fast a little tricky.

      She trailed after him down the long marble corridor. This was the sort of love den she’d expected a man like him to own. His women probably fawned over it. Then over him.

      Her stomach lurched at the thought of him bringing other women back here. How many had there been? More importantly, how many would she have to see during their marriage? Would she be able to hear them as she lay in her own bedroom trying to sleep?

      “This is my elevator.”

      “You have your own personal elevator?” All those little tarts he paraded though here probably loved that.

      “Yes, it acts as the main door to my house. It would be a security risk if everyone could use it.” He spoke to her as if she might be a small child.

      “Does everyone have their own elevator?”

      “No, just me.” He offered a smug grin at that.

      He entered a key code into the number pad that was on the lift and the doors opened. The ride up was a long one; he was on the top floor, naturally—what penthouse wasn’t? When the ping signaled that they had reached their destination, the doors opened and revealed a bright, airy living room. It didn’t match with the rest of the building at all. Nothing tacky or overdone about it. No gold filigree on the windows. No champagne glass hot tub dominating the room.

      Far from any of the glittering garishness she’d imagined, it was a contemporary design with clean, sleek lines that didn’t suffer from the impersonal, cold feeling of some modern décor.

      White walls and vaulted ceilings added to the feeling of openness, along with floor-to-ceiling windows that afforded a fantastic view of the sparkling Manhattan skyline.

      The kitchen and living room flowed into one another seamlessly. The countertops in the kitchen were granite, and the appliances were top-of-the-line stainless steel. It was a modern luxury Mecca. The kind of home she’d always imagined setting up for herself. Of course her overcrowded one-bedroom apartment with its mismatched СКАЧАТЬ