Page 81 of My Fake Italian Marriage

“Be my guest.”

His brother led Cleo onto the dance floor where they began to move to a lively Benji & Fede song. Cleo threw her head back in a laugh, full of that sunshine and exuberance he so admired in her. Luca turned away. Yes, he definitely needed to avoid temptation and stay away from her tonight. And he needed more alcohol.

* * *

A couple of hours later, the Franciacorta was finally having an effect, and that knot, while it hadn’t unravelled, no longer plagued him. His conscience, however, was less easy to appease. It prickled, but he did his best to ignore it.

He’d played the role of dutiful son; engaged his elderly relatives in conversation, danced with almost every woman present, with the exception of his own “wife”, and smiled for more photographs than he could count. He’d earned a respite.

On the dance floor, Camillo was leading Cleo through the steps of a rumba. He watched for a moment, then checked his watch. It was time. He skirted around the room to the French doors, and stepped out onto the terrace.

The air outside was blissfully cool and clear. A few guests milled about, chatting or catching a quick smoke. He headed away from them, down the wide stone stairs to the lower terraces. He’d chosen the Lovers’ Grotto as a meeting place because it was as far from prying eyes as was possible in a villa crawling with staff and guests.

Sofia was already there, seated on the wooden bench beneath the arbour of fragrant yellow roses.

He sank onto the bench beside her. “Thank you for meeting me.”

“You texted that you need my help?” She was as sleek and glamorous as ever, her dark hair loose and looking as if it had been professionally styled for the occasion, and she wore an arctic-blue cocktail dress that wouldn’t have looked out of place on Audrey Hepburn. Not for the first time, he wondered about her life before she arrived in their quiet, little town. In the years they’d been friends, he’d learned enough to know that she was widely travelled and had lived abroad, but she never spoke of her life before. It was what hedidknow that he was counting on: her generosity, her loyalty. If anyone could be trusted to have his back, it was Sofìa.

He swallowed. “I need a favour. When we return to the party, I need you to dance with me—” She shook her head, but he ploughed on before he lost his nerve, “Intimately. And then, when we have everyone’s attention, I need you to leave the party with me.”

She arched one sculpted eyebrow. “You know I don’t dance, and I certainly do not mess around with married men.”

“But we wouldn’t be messing around, merely letting people think it…” He blew out a long, unsteady, breath. “Would it help if I told you that Cleo and I are not really married?”

Now both her eyebrows rose.

Since he’d committed himself this far, he might as well go all the way. “We pretended to be married while my father was ill, but now she must return to London, and we need an excuse for our separation.”

“You could tell the truth.”

And risk his father having another stroke? He shook his head. Sofia crossed her arms over her chest. “So I am to be the ‘other woman’ in your break-up?”

“You’ve never cared what people think before.”

“You weren’t fake-married before.” She laughed. “While I don’t care much whatotherpeople think, I do care what I think of myself and, pretend marriage or not, I won’t do this for you.”

“Please?” he begged, infusing all his legendary charm into the smile few women could resist.

But Cleo was clearly not the only woman who’d developed immunity to his charm. Sofia eyed him steadily. “If you really wanted to cheat on Cleo, you wouldn’t have to set up an elaborate scheme. You would simply flash your smile, work your magic, and seduce the next available woman who caught your eye. But you can’t do it, can you? I think you need this subterfuge because, in your heart, you don’t want to cheat on her.” She laid a hand on his arm. “Since she arrived, you’ve looked happier and more settled than I’ve seen you before. You should ask her to stay.”

He shook his head. “I trapped Cleo into this lie, and I need to release her from it. If we tell everyone the truth, my parents will blame her for lying to them, as much as they’ll blame me.” An edge of despair crept into his voice. “I owe her so much. I cannot let my family—or this town—think less of her.”

“So instead you want them to think less of you and me?” Her mouth quirked into an amused smile, as if she was able to see right through him. First Cleo, then Sarah, and now Sofia. He was definitely losing his touch.

When he didn’t answer, Sofia leaned back on the bench. For all her beauty, his heart did not surge with emotion as it did when he looked at Cleo. He and Sofia would never be more than friends-with-benefits, but Cleo… No, he could not let himself go there, not now. “I need to set her free.”

“And she agreed?”

“We discussed it.” Another lie, but what was one more deception layered on top of all the others?

Cleo would not want him to wreck his parents’ party, but this was for the best. The more public their break-up, the less chance there was that anyone would expect them to work it out and stay together—including Cleo.

Sofìa rose. “I won’t dance, but I will help you, if you are certain this is what you want.” She sent him a scrutinising look. “But if you have a chance at happiness and don’t take it, I will be very cross with you.”

He nodded. “I am certain.”

“Then I will see you in the ballroom for our big performance.” With an incline of her head, she turned to leave, moving with the fluid grace of the dancer she claimed not to be, but her steps faltered as Cleo emerged around the bank of roses.

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