Page 11 of Reckless Love

“Wrong.”

I startled. “Excuse me?”

“We’ve met before,” he clarified. “It was several years ago, but today was not the first day you saw me, Alessia.”

The way his lips formed around my name had a shiver rolling down my spine. “When?”

His jaw tensed, and I got the vague notion he was irritated I didn’t remember him. “It doesn’t matter.”

“Of course it matters,” I spluttered as I wracked my brain, trying to figure out when I might’ve met him. “Is that why you picked me?”

His brows drew down. “You think I would select my wife based on a six second meeting at a random Christmas party three years ago? That seems monumentally reckless.” He shook his head with a bemused smirk. “You met the criteria I needed in a wife, Alessia.”

I gaped at him, the pieces of the puzzle slotting into place. I remembered that Christmas. It was the first one without Nonna. Papa had decided to still host her annual Christmas gala, but it had been a disaster.

I’d spent most of the evening in tears, seeing all the ways Nonna was gone while Papa steadily started drinking bourbon. It was one of three times in my entire life I’d seen him drink to the point of being drunk. And when he’d started crying for Nonna in front of a room full of employees, friends, and investors, I’d taken him upstairs before coming down to end the party.

I’d held it together until the last guest left, and then I’d crumbled in the middle of the foyer and sobbed my eyes out, fat, mascara-laden tears splattering against my silver gown.

In the midst of my breakdown, someone had come up behind me and pressed a handkerchief into my fingers. I’d blindly accepted it with a mumbled, if not horrified, thanks. But by the time my vision cleared, the front door was shutting and he was gone, leaving me with a sandalwood scented piece of fabric with the initials WF stamped into it.

I’d always assumed it was a brand, and I’d tossed away the handkerchief after I’d used it to mop up my face. But now the truth was staring me in the face.

“You—”

“I have a few calls to make,” Warwick cut me off. “Why don’t you get cleaned up for bed, and I’ll meet you there in a bit. There’s a separate bathroom out here I can use.”

My mouth snapped shut. “And then what?”

His eyes narrowed. “You read the contract, correct? This marriage isn’t binding until it’s consummated.”

All the moisture in my mouth evaporated. I could only nod.

Warwick stared back at me, giving nothing away. Not a hint of emotion or empathy.

Swallowing hard, I turned and walked away from my husband.

Five

Breathe, Alessia. Just breathe.

How could I breathe when I was pretty sure I was having a heart attack? My pulse pounded as I stared at my reflection in the mirror over the sinks, and tried once again to twist my arms enough to undo the buttons on the back of my dress.

Dammit.

Frustrated tears burned my eyes because none of this was how I’d ever imagined my wedding night.

Or my first time.

I was woman enough to admit I was scared. The one time I’d let a guy’s fingers near my lady business, his nails had been so rough and jagged that he’d cut me. Who knew that a tiny cut to the vag could hurt like a bitch for days?

Granted it was the same college asshole who’d left me stranded at a frat party because I wouldn’t put out, but come on. What jerk had fingernails long enough to actually cut a pussy?

I was hoping I’d be able to change into my most grandmotherly flannel jammies in an attempt at warding off my husband, but I was rapidly realizing the man had given me a gown that would require assistance getting out of.

And, unless I wanted to call the beauty team he’d assembled earlier to help me get ready, I was going to need to ask him for his help.

Or Hulk out and rip through the stunning layers of silk and satin.

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