Hiring Cupid (18 page)

"Nice to see someone can get the better of you, Marco. I rather like it."

He gave her a withering look.

"A lot,” she added, chuckling.

"With three husbands one does gain a certain experience in these things,” Daphne declared.

"Three!” Carly exclaimed.

Marco's eyes hit the sky again making Carly smile. This really was rather enjoyable.

"Yes three. Though you never know, Ted is looking rather besotted these days."

Marco let out a groan, but it had no affect on his mother. Daphne grabbed her son's arm. “Off you go. Carly and I have some planning to do."

"Mother this is a small wedding. No one is invited."

"They aren't?"

"What Marco means, is we haven't even discussed it."

In truth, Carly wasn't really interested. Their marriage wasn't real anyway.

"Ridiculous. It's a wedding. It needs to be celebrated. Go!” Daphne may have been pint-sized, but within minutes she had Marco directed toward the door, opening it, giving him a slight shove which sent Carly into fits of giggles as she saw his astonished expression and Daphne closed the door in his face.

"Poor helpless boy,” Carly chuckled.

"Pah. The boy doesn't know what's good for him."

Carly choked back another fit of giggles. No one could win against Daphne. She was a formidable force all on her own.

The older woman led Carly towards the sofa, patting the seat. “Now, you and I need to get to know each other,” she instructed. “I rather think this is going to be fun."

Fun?

A wedding she didn't want. It sounded more like a living nightmare. But what Carly had found interesting was the definite undercurrent between mother and son. Marco may not like the fact that his mother seemed intent on giving Liz Taylor a run for her money in the husband stakes, but his love for her shone in his eyes.

And it was this simple thought, that Marco could love, that cheered Carly on as she sat and listened in awe of Mrs. Valente-Miller-Chambers and maybe soon, Taylor.

Carly guessed her to be in her early sixties and despite the fact that she had found herself a batch of husbands, Marco was her only child.

"Trust me, my dear. I'm an expert."

"I'm sure."

Still, she didn't want a fancy wedding. Why bother. It wasn't a celebration. It wasn't as if he loved her.

Sudden tears stung her eyes. Stupid. Stupid. Why think such a thing? So what if he didn't love her, they would be a family.

Yeah, but you love him
!

So?

So, what are you going to do about it
?

I'm marrying him aren't I? In two days time
.

The thought scared her to death. But for her baby's sake she would do it.

In a whirlwind, Daphne organized everything, leaving Carly to simply traipse after her. Fittings, flowers, hair, jewelry. Nothing was too much of an undertaking for her future mother-in-law.

But what Carly really wanted was to go to work. However, with Daphne in charge she had to temper her urge to phone Tansy constantly.

"You don't have to check on me every hour,” Tansy advised when she phoned her assistant for the sixth time that day. “It's all going fine. You rest. You've a wedding tomorrow."

Tomorrow sounded so far away, yet would come all too soon. Her gut churned continuously, though thankfully she hadn't seen Marco since yesterday. After being hounded out the door by his mother, he'd come home late and gone early this morning. Everything, according to Daphne who had retreated a short while ago giving Carly some blessed respite, was on schedule.

Just then, the doorbell rang. Carly frowned. She wasn't expecting anyone. She punched the security speaker

"Who is it?"

"Rosaria Santos. I have a wedding gift."

Presents?

It was real. A wedding. Marriage to Marco.

Carly buzzed the door release and waited.

A knock sounded on the apartment's front door a few minutes later and she opened it. A statuesque woman with lustrously dark hair hanging down her back stood on the doorstep. She didn't wait to be invited in, but strode passed Carly and into the apartment.

The woman's audacity caught Carly unawares for a few seconds, till she recovered her composure. “Marco's not here at the moment,” she informed the visitor.

"Never mind. It wasn't him I wanted to see.” The exotic beauty almost purred, her scarlet painted nails trailing a path along the back of the leather sofa.

"It wasn't?"

"No dearie."

"Dearie?” Who was she calling dearie? Carly bristled. She eyed the woman. Long, leather clad legs, her slim hips wrapped in a beaten silver and aqua belt, breasts pouting over the top of a laced peasant style blouse.

And shoes!

Carly's gaze dropped to the woman's shoes. The heels seemed so thin they'd split in two any minute. She prayed God would listen and heed her prayer. Not nice, she knew, but who cared. This woman had barged in and wasn't about to win any personality contests with her.

"I'm Rosaria Santos,” she said with barely concealed disdain as her gaze traveled up and down Carly.

Two could play this game. “So you said."

Rosaria circled her like a lioness on the hunt, ready to pounce and a prickle of fear shot down Carly's spine. Had she let a mad woman into the apartment?

"You'll do."

"Do?” Carly frowned. She rested her hands on her hips. “Look, I don't know who you are or why you're here, but I think it best you go."

"In my own time,
dearie
. I have a wedding gift.” Rosaria smiled and let out a deep throaty chuckle. It was the sound of molten sex. Damn it. The woman was a vixen in heat and made Carly more than nervous. She was afraid.

Rosaria picked up a bag at her feet and passed an elaborately wrapped parcel.

Carly took it, unsure what to say.

"Aren't you going to open it?"

"I'll wait for Marco."

"Oh no don't do that, I'd love to see you open it."

Putting the parcel on the coffee table, Carly sat down on the sofa and fiddled with the abundance of frothy ribbons. She turned the gift over and slipped a finger under the tape and unwrapped it. It was a picture frame.

Rosaria hovered, reminding Carly of a vulture swooping down. She turned the frame over and her jaw dropped. It was elaborate, gold filigree and very expensive. But it wasn't the expense that shocked her. It was the large portrait photo it enclosed. The frame slithered from her fingers and clattered onto the coffee table, but Carly didn't care if it smashed into a thousand pieces.

"Don't you like it?"

"Get out.” Carly scrambled from her seat and pointed to the door. “I think you'd better go. Thanks for the frame."

"Oh dear, I seem to have upset you.” Rosaria smiled and sashayed towards the door. Carly gritted her teeth. Why did the woman have to be as sexy as hell?

"What did you expect Ms. Santos? Did you think I'd enjoy seeing a picture of you, naked? I presume you're an ex-girlfriend of my fiancé?"

"Tut, tut,” Rosaria laughed again, showing off her brilliant white smile, a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. They were cold and lifeless. “You may not like it, but I'm sure Marco will. Marco always said I had a good body; he loves it.” And she slid a well-manicured hand across her flat abdomen and over the curve of her hip.

Carly choked back the bile. She had to get this woman out of here. “Thanks for your visit. Time to go.” Her tone was hard as stone, but her heart fragile, breaking. This is the body Marco loves. Present tense. The woman had said loves, not loved as in the past. Was Marco still seeing her? The thought filled Carly with a bitter dread.

"I'm going, but don't say I didn't warn you."

"Warn me?"

"
Si
."

Carly gasped. “You're Italian?"

"Of course.” Her smile widened. “Marco and I go a long way back. Family friends. We understand each other. I
know
him.” She gave Carly another withering look. “You may think you have him, but don't get too attached. Marco is mine. Once he gets over the baby idea, he'll come running back. He always does. Babies are such a bore. Marco doesn't want my body to get so ugly,” she preened, letting a hand drape once more over her pancake flat stomach.

Numbed by the woman's viscous verbal attack, Carly couldn't speak.

It didn't get any better. “Just wait till you're big and fat. Marco will not want you. And when that brat screeches the night away, he'll be back in my bed.” With that, Rosaria Santos tossed her silken tresses over her shoulder with the flick of one scarlet finger and walked to the lift, hips swinging with a sexual invitation Carly knew would turn heads wherever she went.

She couldn't look a moment longer and slammed the door, sinking to the floor only to catch sight of the picture frame. Naked as the day she was born, but definitely more voluptuous, Rosaria was draped with a barely there bit of fluff. Carly wanted to smash it to pieces, tear the picture out and rip it up. But most of all she wanted to strangle the dratted woman with the oh-so-artfully draped feather boa.

"Who the hell brought this?” Marco asked sharply as soon as he arrived home and spied the gift lying where she'd dropped it.

Carly looked up from her book. She hadn't been reading, merely staring at the same page for the last quarter of an hour feigning interest. “Your girlfriend I believe."

Marco eyed the picture. “She was here?"

"Yes and I can't say it was a delight to meet her. If you intend continuing your liaisons with Ms. Santos, make sure it's not here."

"Liaisons?” Marco exhaled, but Carly refused to jump, refused to acknowledge the power he had over her, despite the warring in her stomach. Her nerves were shot and her stomach heaved. Quite frankly she far preferred staring at the toilet bowl than the icy blue accusing eyes of her soon to be husband. “Rosaria is history."

"Whatever you say,” she said flicking a hand in dismissal. “Just keep her away from me."

Marco frowned, but Carly wasn't interested in letting him draw out this conversation.

"I can't be bothered arguing, Marco” She turned a page. “I realize my hold on you is tenuous to say the least. That the draw card in our marriage is the baby, but back off and keep that woman away.” With as much dignity as she could muster, Carly stood and looked down at the frame lying neglected on the sofa. “Nice frame, shame about the photo,” she said. Turning on her heels she walked to her room, closing the door behind her, the click of the lock resounding ten-fold, though it couldn't drown out the pain in her heart.

Crawling onto her bed, Carly pulled the luxurious cotton coverlet up and huddled underneath. She hurt—a lot—and within minutes the floodgate opened and tears fell. She didn't try and stop them, hoping to purge her heart. Having Rosaria Santos around hurt like hell and aborted any minuscule thread of hope she held.

A brittle laugh escaped her lips.

A tenuous hold she'd said.

What a joke. It wasn't a hold. It was their baby that bound them, nothing more.

But there was one thing Carly couldn't forget. She loved Marco. But what use was love?

Swearing under his breath, Marco paced the floor. He dropped his gaze and caught sight of the Aubusson underfoot, lips twisting in a slight smile as he remembered Carly's words about wearing a path in the rug. He halted, placed his tumbler of brandy on the side table and flopped down on the sofa, dropping his head in his hands. What an ass he'd been. Guilt washed over him and he felt an intense discomfort. Not for the first time either he remembered. Where Carly was concerned, he seemed to be making a shambles of everything.

Marriage!

The very idea scared the living daylights out of him, which wasn't surprising considering his mother's track record. Okay, so he was an adult and should conduct his life accordingly, but when it came to the ‘M’ word he was back at boarding school, listening to his mother's explanations about why he had to stay there or being shipped off to obscure Italian relatives. Father number two, or was it Fred who didn't like children? Marco shook his head and tried to block out the memories. Memories he wished he didn't have, but had to deal with nevertheless.

Children needed fathers. He knew that and he wasn't about to forsake
his
child. Never. His child would have him around and not be bundled off to boarding school or distant family. Never in a million years would Marco repeat his life experiences with his own child.

But marriage?

Carly hated his guts for forcing her hand.

Too bad! His child needed him.

Draining the glass of the last drop he headed to his bedroom. Hopefully he'd get some sleep. Three months dreaming of a certain auburn-haired goddess hadn't done his sleep patterns any good and he needed as much coma-inducing sleep as he could get.

Tomorrow was his wedding day.

The sun streamed through the bedroom window waking Carly with a start. For a moment she was confused by her surroundings until the miasma of mush that constituted her collective brain cells began to function, albeit one at a time.

Today was her wedding day. She was marrying Marco.

She should have been radiantly happy. Should have been ecstatic. Brides were, weren't they?

But inside, her nerves did a war dance. She was ready to bolt, but knew deep down she wouldn't.

Couldn't.

Marco may not love her, but she loved him and that was that. Unrequited love would have to be enough for their marriage.

She tossed aside the covers and swung her legs over the bed staring out at the day. The leaves were changing color; from the darkest reds and oranges they lay scattered across the street below like a lush carpet. How different life in New Zealand must be for Marco from his native Tuscany where everything was so old, with walled towns and castles, the medieval heart of Italy. Down under, New Zealand's seasons were the opposite and the lifestyle not so frantic. It was however, where he had etched an incredibly successful business for himself. Her soon to be husband was determined and loyal—at least where his baby was concerned. His blatant coercion to get her to marry him had shown this fact to be an absolute.