That's Amore! (23 page)

Luke began to toy with her hair, tangled amidst the fabrics, and to stroke the soft, supple skin of her hip as he contemplated how to tell her what was on his mind.

It was too soon. It was crazy. But he knew without a doubt that he loved her and wanted to spend the rest of his life with her. So he came right out with it. "Marry me."

She laughed. "Right."

"I mean it. Marry me. I want you to be my wife."

She slowly pulled away, looking into his eyes to gauge his seriousness. He hoped his feelings were as obvious to her as they were to him—to everyone, really, since his own mother had admitted this morning that she'd suspected he was in love with the beautiful shopkeeper.

"I'm serious. This isn't about cold feet or second thoughts or just how much I want you."

"You have me," she said softly, punctuating the remark by sliding her bare leg over his thighs. "And you don't have to say these things."

Rolling onto his side, he traced his fingertips over her cheek. "Yeah. I do. I love you and I want to marry you. Whether we wait a year or a week isn't going to make a damn bit of difference."

Her gaze shifted. "Luke, have you ever heard of being on the rebound?"

He groaned and ran a frustrated hand through his tangled hair. "Yeah, I've heard of being on the rebound and I've heard of hurt pride and I've heard of grooms with cold feet going after any sexy woman nearby." Cupping her face with his hand, he added, "But this isn't any of those things. This is me realizing how damn lucky I am to have gotten out of a situation I created out of my own stupid need to carry on with tradition. I got engaged for all the wrong reasons, and not one of them included falling in love."

He kissed the corner of her mouth,
then
whispered, "But I did fall in love with you. And I want to marry you for all the right reasons."

She still looked unconvinced. Though it killed him, he continued. "Say it's too soon. Say you want a career for a while. Hell, say you got caught up in the moment and you don't really love me. But don't you dare try to tell me I don't know what I want."

Her blue eyes widened and grew moist with emotion. "You're serious about this?"

"Dead serious."

She still didn't say yes. But she didn't say no, either. "What will everyone think?"

"Who the hell cares? My family already loves you, and they wanted to jump for joy when they realized I wasn't marrying Maria." Then, because she didn't know everything that had happened yesterday, he explained. "And Maria eloped with her dentist to
Las Vegas
last night, so it's not like anybody on her side is going to have much room to criticize me."

Her mouth dropped open. He tipped it closed with his index finger.

"So she was serious? She's been having an affair? Is she out of her mind?"

He liked her vehemence, which showed her indignance on his behalf. Surely that indicated he hadn't been wrong about her feelings. "Yes, it's true. She got engaged to me for the same lame reasons I asked her. Family,
traditions, all that
stuff. Her father's more conservative than anyone I know and he was the one who wanted the wedding, the Italian customs, even the gown." He shook his head ruefully. "Do you know she told me she hated the dress and wanted more than anything to wear a strapless yellow sundress instead? Her father picked the final one out of a magazine and demanded that she wear it."

Rachel thought about the exquisite gown hanging on a nearby rack and rolled her eyes. "She's mental."

"Not as much as we thought yesterday when she lost it at the restaurant. Apparently there was a mix-up with the company who sent those wedding favors. Inside the box were dozens of these little round metal charms that looked like eyes. A guy eating at the restaurant—who's Greek—said they're a tradition at Greek weddings, to ward off bad spirits."

A naughty grin widened her lips. "Or bad fiancées?"

He laughed with her, hoping her light mood meant she was getting used to the idea of his proposal.

"Yeah. The packing slip inside the box said they were for another couple, with a completely unpronounceable Greek name. They just got mixed up."

"I'll have to send
domeafavor.com
a thank you note," she said.

He squeezed her tighter. "You're bad."

"I know. But I'm also very thankful Maria got a wake-up call. Even if she thought it was one from the Twilight Zone."

"Yeah. She saw all those eyes and the guilt was just too much. She's been involved with this guy for a couple of months, but was too scared of her father's reaction to tell the truth. Apparently he's not only non-
Italian,
he's also Jewish and has been divorced."

Thinking of the hell she'd put all of them through, he was angrier about Maria's silence than anything else. The thought that she'd fallen in love with someone else didn't bother him a bit—because he'd done the same thing.

Shrugging, he added, "That's why she's been such a witch to be around lately. She decided to try to get me to break the engagement by being as horrible as possible."

"She succeeded," Rachel
said,
her tone dry. "We started calling her the Nazi bride."

"My brothers told me last night they'd been calling her the Bride of Chuckie. Mark couldn't stand her, which was why he's kept his distance lately."

She tilted her head back and feigned innocence. "Does that make you Chuckie?"

"No, I think that makes Dr. Schwartz Chuckie. I'm
lucky."

She rolled her eyes, even as she shook with laughter. "That was pretty lame. You're no poet." Then she added, "But you know what? We're
both
lucky."

They remained silent for a moment, absorbing everything. Their past, their future. The present, wrapped in one another's arms, naked, exposed, with their feelings laid bare.

And finally she put him out of his misery.

"The answer is yes, Luke. I will marry you."

CHAPTER EIGHT

"You're sure
it's all right with you that I'm not Catholic? And not Italian?" Rachel asked
,
nibbling her lip as she shared one last moment in the back of the church with Mr. Santori before the older gentleman walked her down the aisle. "I know how much that means to your family."

The elder Anthony Santori patted her hand and shook his head. "Don' you worry. My nephew, Father Frank, he's coming to the reception later to bless the union. You don' have to be married in the Catholic
church
to be blessed by it." Then he shrugged, his brown eyes—so much like Luke's—twinkling. "And as for not being Italian? Well … nobody's perfect."

So Rachel was walked down the aisle with laughter on her lips. Her new family all around. And a song in her heart.

The only thing that could have made these slow—but joyful—steps up the aisle better would have been if her own father could have been here escorting her. But Luke's father was a kind, loving substitute and as they neared the altar, he leaned close to whisper, "Welcome to the family, little one. Your mama and papa, they are watching and are so very proud."

She had tears in her eyes as she stepped up to stand beside her groom. He gave her a quizzical look, and she flashed him a dazzling smile telling him her tears had been happy ones.

The wedding took place at a lovely, non-denominational chapel on the grounds of a local university. Because they were getting married only two weeks to the day after Lucas had proposed to her, there had been no time for Rachel to take the required classes to be married in the Roman Catholic Church. But Luke didn't mind, and his family didn't seem to, either.

That had been a pleasant surprise. His family had been absolutely wonderful. Not with one word or a single look had anyone made her feel less than …
bridal …
during the past two weeks. If they wondered just what had gone on between her and Luke while he'd been engaged to another woman, well, they were courteous enough not to ask.

"I love you, Rachel Grant," Lucas whispered as he took her arm. "You're the most beautiful woman I've ever seen."

She
felt
like the most beautiful woman in the world, because of the love in his eyes, and the happiness of their friends and family, who filled the small chapel to overflowing.

Rachel's closest pals from
North Carolina
had made the trip up, and of course she had Ginny and
Maddie
and some of her new friends in
Chicago
. And there were
lots
of Santoris.

The presence of Luke's family members from overseas had been one reason for her to agree to schedule the wedding so soon. They were all coming anyway for his, uh,
original
wedding. But she'd put her foot down on the date, and they'd compromised to have the ceremony on Sunday, rather than Saturday. Which Luke's mother said was more in keeping with Italian tradition, anyway, since Saturday weddings were originally thought to bring bad luck.

The one thing she'd allowed herself to be talked into was the dress.
The
dress. The perfect, beautiful, exquisite wedding dress that had never been seen, much less touched, by its first intended wearer.

It swished around her legs, the lace so delicate and the tiny seed pearls glowing with an effervescent light. The train trailed out behind her, its miniscule white roses swirling amid the lace, blending in and out in a pattern of vines.

"It was meant for you," Lucas whispered just before the minister began to speak, as if he could read her mind.

"Maybe it was," she replied just as softly, still amazed the dress had needed no major alterations. Just a little extra room in the bust, which Maddie had easily taken care of.

Of course, originally she'd had absolutely
no
intention of wearing it at all, even though her aunt Ginny and Maddie had tried to talk her into it. But she'd remained firm … until the day Maria Schwartz's father, Rudy, had come into the store.

He'd been an absolute charmer. Not only had he paid for the dress, as well as the bridesmaid gowns his newly married daughter had ordered, he'd also congratulated Rachel on her engagement to Lucas. And he'd told her that it would do him a great honor if she would consider wearing the gown he'd so wanted to see his daughter in. Because, of course, he was so very proud to be invited to the wedding, in spite of his daughter's actions.

It made her head spin, these traditional, old-world people who valued honor, kinship and family above all.

She liked it. She definitely liked it.

But she wasn't so sure Lottie was going to like it. Because Rudy Martinelli also informed her he and Tony Santori were talking about a match between his son and the only Santori daughter. She could only hope Luke's sister had the strength of will to follow her older brothers' examples and marry for one reason and one reason alone. True love.

"Maybe it
was
meant to be," she repeated. Maybe everything that had happened in the year since her father had died—her loneliness, the decision to move to
Chicago
and go into business with Ginny—perhaps it had happened for one reason.

So she could find the love of her life.

She liked to think Mr. Santori was right and her parents were watching now. Maybe they'd even been guiding her a little. With tears moistening her eyes, she sent up a little loving thank-you as the ceremony began.

Luke's strong presence by her side, and the strength of his voice when he took his vows gave her such confidence that she didn't have a moment of wedding jitters. The words love, honor and cherish came easily when spoken about this man. And when they were pronounced husband and wife, she was the one who turned and kissed him with every bit of tenderness and emotion she felt.

"Oh, wow, it's going to be a long day, Mrs. Santori," he whispered against her lips as their kiss ended and they turned to face the congregation.

"Hey, you agreed to wait after that one, umh, premarital
sampling
at the shop."

"Which I've regretted every minute of every day since." He sounded downright mournful. Rachel loved that, loved the anticipation and desire that made his brown eyes velvety with want.

Tonight was going to be an amazing night. Especially when he saw what her aunt Ginny had made for her trousseau: an utterly exquisite nightgown made from that peach-colored silk. Ginny was an artist with sewing, a da Vinci who worked with fabric instead of paint. And the gown, with a plunging neckline decorated with glittering beads, was going to make her husband lose his mind.

"What's giving you that anticipatory look?" he asked as they walked down the aisle, past their smiling—or happily crying—family members.

"Thinking about tonight," she admitted, watching him out of the corner of her eye. "You're going to
die
when you see my wedding nightgown."

He stopped. Came to a dead stop in the aisle, and turned to face her. "Tell me it's the peach silk," he growled.

She gave him a nod, and a tiny, wicked grin, at which point her new groom pulled her into his arms. Ignoring everything—location and audience—he caught her mouth in a hot wet kiss that screamed of his driving need and incredible want. And his love.

By the time they pulled apart … by the time she could
think
again … she realized the entire congregation had burst into a round of spontaneous applause and cheers. They were still cheering as the newlyweds left the church and dashed to the horse-drawn carriage waiting for them at the end of the walk.

As they rode together, cuddling on the velvet-covered bench, Rachel had to laugh at the joy of it—the beauty of the sunny day, the profusion of flowers lining the walk, and the well-wishes of everyone they passed.
Chicago
loved weddings. Even the drivers on the busy streets who were interrupted by the carriage didn't seem to mind so much as
they
clip-clopped down

"I'm so glad we decided to have the reception at the restaurant," she murmured.

"That made my parents very happy, too," he admitted. "My father thinks French food is fit only for dogs."

Laughing, she hugged his arm close. "I love your father. I love your whole family."

"They love you too. Almost as much as I do."

They arrived at the restaurant and were greeted by well-wishers who lined the street and filled the entranceway. As they alighted from the carriage, a few of Luke's Italian relatives tossed colorful pieces of candy at them, startling her.

"More candy-covered almonds, called
confetti,"
he explained. "They represent the bitter and the sweet parts of marriage and are meant to bring happiness."

As long as they didn't bring stains to her beautiful gown, or put anyone's eye out, that was fine with Rachel.

Inside, they were immediately overwhelmed by the flowers, the people, and lord, the food. Luke's parents, grandparents, aunts and uncles had all taken turns in the kitchen in the preceding days and the tables overflowed with every Italian dish imaginable. As well as a few southern ones Mrs. Santori had sneaked in, in honor of Rachel. The sight of Grandmother Santori sampling grits was one of the highlights of the afternoon.

It seemed that every time she turned around, someone else was lifting a glass, shouting, "Per cent'anni!" which, Luke had explained, blessed them for a hundred years.

A hundred years. Didn't sound long enough to live with the incredible man who hadn't left her side all day. But it would do for a start.

In all, their wedding was a great success, in spite of the fact that Luke's great aunt Leila was a kleptomaniac who kept stealing trays full of Italian cookies and sneaking them out to her car. Mark and Nick, the twins—so tall, dark and handsome they made Rachel's girlfriends turn into flirtatious southern belles—got retrieval duty and stole back the stolen cookies.

Luke's uncle Johnny kept pinching the rear ends of all the ladies in attendance, including Rachel's aunt Ginny who, truth be told, didn't seem to mind so much.

Meg scared them all with a few false labor pains. Tony and Gloria's oldest son decided he didn't like being ring bearer if he didn't get to keep the pretty gold ring. Rudy Martinelli began to weep when he asked Rachel for a dance,
then
thanked her for indulging an old man's whim by wearing the dress.

They ate. They drank. They danced. Rachel kept opening her white satin bag—a "borsa" Luke's mother called it when she'd presented it as a gift last week. And people kept right on stuffing money inside.

Finally, late in the evening when she was dancing with one of Luke's great-uncles, who spoke little English, she saw her groom staring at her from across the room. His intensity and his loving expression were loud and clear, through the throngs of people, the music,
the
noise.

"I love you," he mouthed.

She smiled, whispering, "I love you, too."

"Che?"
the uncle said.

Before she could say a word, Luke was there, answering for her. "She was talking to me, Uncle Pepi. She said she loves me."

His uncle didn't appear to understand much of what Luke had said, but he patted him on the cheek, anyway. Then he walked away, leaving the two of them alone on the dance floor.

All the noise faded away, becoming merely a dull buzz in the background. Rachel saw nothing of the other people in the room, just Luke. His face. His lips. His smile.

"Are you ready to go, wife?"

She nodded. "I'm ready."

He took her arm and led her through the crowd, who parted—nodding, smiling, laughing and crying and all, of course, wishing them many years of happiness.

"We
are
going to be very happy, aren't we, Luke." She wasn't asking a question. She was stating fact.

He
nodded,
his expression tender as he traced his fingertips across her cheek and pressed a soft kiss on her temple.