Page 27 of Bound By The Italian’s 'I Do'

Gianni raised his glass of champagne to his bride and, for at least the dozenth time since he’d turned up at her cabin, marvelled at how ravishing she looked. He could hardly believe the beautiful creature beside him was the same woman in the screenshot he’d cloned. Alone in his cabin, he’d found himself staring intently at that picture with the strangest mixture of emotions playing through him. He strongly suspected the screenshot was Issy in her natural state and this blonde vision of perfection was a carefully curated image in which to ensnare him. What he couldn’t understand was why the plainer, unpolished, plumper version on the screen made his chest tighten so much.

He’d shoved the strange emotions aside while showering for dinner, shaking off, too, the strange flux that had taken him out of himself during their ‘wedding ceremony.’ The papers they’d signed would never see the light of day. More than an annulment, their ‘marriage’ would never have happened. He was confident Issy shared the same thoughts on the matter but that, like him, she’d decided to play it out. How long did she think she could do that for?

Come the morning, they would dock at St Lovells and this charade would be over.

For tonight, he would enjoy his time with this dazzling woman and see what tricks she had planned to back out of consummating the marriage that would never be.

CHAPTER EIGHT

TOISSY’SSURPRISEand relief, the dinner was actually fun. As course after course of the most exquisite food was brought out to them—the chef really had pulled out all the stops to create a feast for them—they slipped into light, impersonal conversation. Neither of them even bothered faking conversation about their future together. They both knew it wouldn’t happen. It didn’t need to be spelt out. The subjects they did touch on, though, gave her a greater insight into the man she’d believed she knew so well before meeting him, minor things no amount of research on Gianni could have dredged up.

‘You don’t read?’ she asked in astonishment when they moved from music they liked onto books, and he couldn’t name a single one he’d enjoyed.

‘Not since I left school. The books they forced us to read were too boring and worthy for me to get any enjoyment from.’

‘Didn’t your parents encourage you?’ She thought of how both her parents had helped and encouraged her to read, sparking a love of literature in her that she’d carried all her life.

His features tightened at this. ‘My father is a homophobic and misogynistic bully. If he’d seen me reading a book for pleasure he’d have probably assumed I was gay and beat me.’

Shock at this brutal admission came close to making her choke on the raspberry she’d just popped in her mouth.

From the way he grimaced and the deep breath he took, she sensed this was an admission he hadn’t intended to make. Swirling the wine in his glass, he tipped it down his throat. ‘Sorry,’ he said as he refilled both their glasses. ‘I didn’t mean to lower the mood.’

‘That’s okay... Did you mean it?’

His gaze was steady. ‘I would never lie about something like that. My father is a monster.’ The beginnings of a smile formed. ‘But I don’t want to talk about him on my wedding night so why don’t you tell me about the books you enjoy.’

Issy had no idea why the thought of Gianni’s father being a monster hurt her chest so much or why she felt something much like a yearning that he’d shut the subject down. It didn’t make sense. She knew the bones of his childhood—the whole world did—so why the sudden craving to know more, to have flesh put onto those bones? She knew his mother had left his father when Gianni was a child and that she lived in Milan. She knew his father ran the same family vineyard in Umbria with his brother that the Rossi cousins had been raised in and that Gianni and his cousin were both estranged from their fathers, going so far as to change their surnames when they were eighteen. It was all part of their legend as self-made men who’d risen from nothing to the stratosphere. What more did she need to know?

It frightened her that shewantedto know more.

For the first time since they’d entered the dining room, she had to force a smile to her face. ‘There’s no point in me telling you if you haven’t read any of them.’

Gianni stared at her for a beat. There had been a moment when he’d been certain she was going to press him for more information about his father. Instead, she’d chosen to respect his wish to end the subject. He never spoke about his father. He wasn’t worth the wasted breath. He rarely thought about him either. He wasn’t worth the headspace.

To find himself thinking about both his parents in one day and to actually mention his father, to confide a snippet of his life to Isabelle Seymore of all people, was perplexing, and he rubbed his hand over the thickening stubble of his jawline. What the hell was it about her that made the past feel so much closer than it had in over a decade?

‘You’ve read a lot of books?’

She nodded.

‘Don’t tell me a party girl like you is a secret bookworm?’ he teased.

She put a finger to her lips. ‘Secret being the operative word.’

Unable to resist, he snatched at the finger and brought it to his own lips. ‘Something tells me you’re full of secrets, Signora Rossi.’

Her eyes glittered, and she stroked the finger pressed against his lips across his cheek, whispering, ‘And something tells me it won’t be long before you discover all of them.’

He captured her hand again and pressed a kiss into the palm. ‘I look forward to it.’

The glitter darkened. ‘So do I.’

An undercurrent had built, a tension laced with more than the sexual chemistry that kept drawing them so close together. Gianni could almost taste the deception swirling between them, nearing the surface, straining for the moment when their masks—already slipping—could be ripped away and nothing but the truth would be enough to satisfy them.

‘What do you say to a game of snooker?’ he asked.

‘Only if you promise not to thrash me.’

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