Page 1 of Fiancée for the Cameras

CHAPTER ONE

HERBRIDEGROOMWASN’TCOMING.

Monica D’Souza realized the awful dawning truth even as she dialed Francesco’s number one more time. It continued to ring, as it had done over the past hour, and with each unanswered call, she was beginning to feel like something a careless tourist had chewed up and spat over the steps of the piazza.

Or worse, something forgotten or abandoned. Or both. Which she’d already experienced far too many times in her life.

Had Francesco been in an accident? He drove that moped pretty recklessly, and Monica could just imagine him bleeding out on some tiled floor a few streets away. Why else would he not only be late but also not even call her? Hehad tobe indisposed in some way. He had to.

Standing outside the marvelous Sala Degli Specchi hall in Palazzo Reale for the past two hours—because of course she had to arrive at least an hour early—in the elaborate puffy white dress that she had bought online, she was beginning to draw attention of the worst kind.

The dress was nothing like the website posting had said, with a cheap, plasticky feel to the fabric and worse, a weirdly pungent chemical smell that was beginning to make her feel faint.

Breaking all her rules, she’d stolen a sachet of lavender from her boss’s private bathroom at work and pressed it between the folds. But the smell of the dress was as tenacious as she was and now it clung to her skin, creating her very own scent of desperation.

Granted, she hadn’t paid a lot for the dress—not after putting the little nest of her savings from the past three and a half yearsinto the tiny studio flat she and Francesco wanted to move into later this week.

A new home, though it was tiny, a new life, with someone who wanted to be with her... It was all she’d ever dreamed of.

With a frustrated exhale, Monica pushed away the ridiculous veil that had come with the dress out of her eyes, blinking back prickly tears. The June sun beat down mercilessly, probably melting her sunscreen and makeup. All she needed now was mascara tracks running down her cheeks to complete the picture of the ghastly, pathetic bride.

No, she refused to believe that Francesco would do this to her. She’d seen him only last night and while there had been a desperation to his kisses and more than usual urgency to his demands about making love to her, he’d said he couldn’t wait to begin their life together.

She had only known him two months but discovered they had so much in common. They were both orphans and had grown up in care homes all over the country—she in the US and he in Italy—and they both wanted desperately to build a family, both eager for belonging. Like her, Francesco loved art and history and languages, and on their first meeting they had chatted for hours and at the end of it, she’d been absolutely head over heels in love. And he had expressed with that European flair that he felt the same toward her.

Over the next few weeks, she’d seen him at least three times a week, the only impediment to their relationship being her very demanding boss and the rigorous work schedule he imposed on her as his assistant.

Monica had been floating on cloud nine, so much that evenhe—of the brooding glower, grumpy manners and workaholic energy—had noticed and questioned her.

Then, a week ago, Francesco had proposed to her right in this very spot, his grin that charming, naughty one that had temptedher more than once into almost breaking her rule that she’d only have sex when she was fully ready.

She’d always been a little dull, averse to risk. Dependable, definitely. She would have liked to spend, and would have spent, her entire life under the radar if not for the fact that whoever had abandoned her to an orphanage when she’d been a baby had passed on genes that made her “stunning” and “beautiful.”

While she could appreciate the symmetry of her angular features, her golden-brown complexion and the uniqueness of her yellow, catlike eyes, her face and body had always drawn attention of the worst kind, first from boys in all the foster homes she’d bounced through and then men—even the ones who were supposed to protect a homeless teen.

But her face had drawn Francesco to her. Francesco, who was fun and charming and sexy. She took everything too seriously and he took it very easy, breezing through life, making bets upon bets. No wonder he was late now. She wouldn’t be surprised if he’d gotten caught up in arranging a fun surprise for her or some other daring activity for their honeymoon.

He’s only late, she kept telling herself.

Not dumping her here. Not leaving her like everyone eventually did. Not deciding that something else was more important than her.

More than one woman had given her a piteous look and more than one man had whistled, laughed and asked if she wanted to celebrate a wedding night without getting married. After studying Italian for two years at a community college in New York and living in Milan for four years now, she had a good grasp of the language.

She wiped at the beads of sweat over her upper lip and licked her parched lips. Opening her small backpack, she was pulling out her water bottle when her cell phone chirped.

“Francesco? You’re late,” she said, unable to keep a sliver of frustrated anger out of her tone. “Our appointment was for an hour ago but I’ve sorted it out with them. If you can—”

“I’m sorry,mia cara. A golden opportunity came up for my business and you know how hard I’ve been working to get cash infusion,si?”

“I do,” Monica said, blinking a mixture of tears and makeup out of her eyes. “And I fully support you,” she added softly, as compensation for her miserable tone. “But I’m waiting for you. At the Palazzo Reale. To get married.”

“Ahh...bella. Unfortunately, this opportunity means I have to postpone the wedding. At least for a year.”

Unfortunately...

Misery and pain swamped Monica, bringing her back to that time the public school she’d attended had gone on a trip to swamplands in sixth grade. The whole trip to Florida, she’d been reminded by most of her classmates that she was the charity case their parents had chipped in extra for. She hadn’t cared—it was the first time she was seeing something other than the orphanage and foster homes and her school—but then Olivia Kent had pushed her head down into the water because Timothy Evans had smiled at Monica and not her.

This felt exactly like that. Like she couldn’t breathe.

---