Page 82 of The Terms of the Sicilian's Marriage

It would work for her and Carlo.

Sonia leaned close to examine Olivia’s sleeve as a knock sounded on the door.

‘Would you mind seeing who it is?’ Olivia asked the seamstress. ‘I’m not expecting anyone.’

Her grandparents weren’t even in Venice. Olivia had come ahead to check the arrangements for next week’s wedding.

‘Stand still a moment longer,’ Sonia said, frowning at a flower that wasn’t sitting right.

‘There’s a man here.’ The younger woman scurried back, her eyes round, her hand smoothing her already smooth hair. ‘It’s il signor Sartori. He wants to talk with you.’

Carlo, here? He wasn’t due till next week.

Sophia spoke. ‘Can he wait five minutes? Tell him it’s bad luck for the groom to see the bride’s dress before the ceremony.’

‘I’m afraid it can’t wait.’ A deep voice spoke from the doorway and all three women froze.

Olivia knew that voice. As usual it was clipped to the point of brusqueness, yet it held something more than impatience. Something that sent a trickle of heat spilling through her.

She closed her eyes for a second, regrouping.

She should be used to him by now. There was no reason for this unwanted response. They were politely distant, she and her soon-to-be brother-in-law.

That was exactly how she wanted to stay—distant.

Opening her eyes, she saw Sonia’s wide stare and her assistant surreptitiously straighten her top.

Alessandro Sartori had that effect on women.

Carlo did too. But half her fiancé’s attraction was in his smiling good humour. His older brother was more the strong, silent type. Except in his case it was distant and disapproving.

Olivia sucked in a breath and turned.

His straight shoulders filled the doorway. His lean frame was elegant yet powerful, as if his urbane air concealed a man far grittier and dangerous than his suave tailoring suggested.

As usual he wore a perfectly fitted suit. She’d never seen him in anything else. He was a walking advertisement for Sartori, the firm whose exclusive menswear was renowned and coveted the world over.

Olivia wondered why the advertising gurus at Sartori hadn’t suggested capitalising on their CEO’s aura of leashed sexual power as a marketing tool.

His hair was like ebony, short around the back and sides and longer on top. It shone, glossy in the light from the chandelier. That same light revealed strong, even features, hooded dark eyes, a sculpted jaw and a sensual mouth that right now was set tight.

No surprise there. Alessandro Sartori always looked like that when she was around.

She wondered what she, or Carlo, had done now to annoy him. Surely with the wedding next week everything was going precisely as he wanted.

A spark of annoyance flared. Annoyance that her marriage had been concocted as part of a deal to combine the Sartori and Dell’Orto commercial empires. Concocted by her grandparents and this man.

Olivia released her breath in a calming flow.

It wasn’t as if she hankered after a love match. The marriage and the merger would give her and Carlo the opportunities they’d worked so hard for.

No, it was a shadow of residual annoyance at having her life managed. Again.

From now on she’d be the one making decisions, taking control of her life.

‘Alessandro. This is a surprise.’ She’d hoped not to see him until the ceremony and have as little to do with him then as possible, though he’d be best man. ‘I’m afraid none of the family are here and, as you know, Carlo is away.’

He must be looking for her grandparents. Alessandro Sartori’s discussions with Olivia had been limited to passing pleasantries. As if she didn’t have the brains or experience to understand business. The inference that she wasn’t worth engaging in meaningful conversation rankled, especially as, soon, they’d be on the same management team.

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