Page 24 of My Fake Italian Marriage

“Well, that was different.” Cleo laughed as they headed back to the car with their purchases. “I can’t imagine my brothers going shopping like that. Their idea of clothes shopping is to find the nearest pub that serves cold beer to wait while their wives shop.”

They headed out of the city, slowing for the single-carriageway provincial road that was the final leg of their journey. Luca concentrated on the road, and Cleo gazed at the landscape beyond the windows, which had grown more scenic now that they were off the motorway.

Her subtle scent teased him, but he couldn’t identify it. It drove him crazy, as crazy as his awareness of her, of every shift she made in her seat, the way she unconsciously hooked her hair behind her ear each time it came loose. Maybe it was the new dress, and the confidence it gave her, but his body pulled taut with a hunger he absolutely should not be feeling for someone he needed to work side-by-side with for the next few days.

“So, tell me about this family history that makes you think you’re cursed,” she said, breaking the silence.

She clearly didn’t believe his story. He wasn’t sure he believed in the curse either, but he did know that he was certainly keeping up a family tradition. “How far back do you want me to go? Is three generations far enough?”

She smiled, and again his body tightened with desire. When she smiled, her lips teasing up at the corners, her eyes warming, it was as if she was letting him in on a secret.

He had to clear his throat to speak. “The day my great-grandfather went away to fight in the Horn of Africa for Mussolini – not one of our family’s proudest moments – my great-grandmother dressed in black. Not because she was mourning him going to war, but because she hoped to become a widow. She wore black until the day she died at ninety-two.”

“Didhe die in the war?”

“No. She wasn’t that lucky. He outlived her. But he came back from the war with a young Ethiopian bride. No matter that in the eyes of the Catholic Church and all of Tuscany they were living in sin, he and his new ‘wife’ lived happily ever after in Rome and had three children.”

“If they lived happily ever after, then he doesn’t sound like he was unable to settle down or that he was a bad husband when he met the right woman.”

True, but the family still hadn’t forgiven Great-grandfather Nicola. Luca had visited the old man during his student days in Rome and met his other family, and Nonno had called him a traitor and refused to speak to him for more than a year when he found out. Italian grudges had very long memories.

“In my grandfather’s generation it was my Great Uncle Luciano, whose name I share. His wife filed for one of the first divorces in Tuscany in the late 60s. His next four wives also divorced him because of his infidelities.”

“Five marriages? You’re making this up!”

“Ask my father if you don’t believe me. He still remembers the day Luciano came home to ask his first wife for the wedding ring he’d given her so he could give it to his new bride. That ring got around almost as much as he did.”

He had her laughing now, and she had a nice laugh, warm and genuine.

“It’s not that funny,” Luca protested, but since her laughter was infectious, he laughed too.

It was Uncle Luciano who’d created the football pitch between the house and the winery buildings where he and Gio had spent many afternoons. As kids they’d loved him, hung on his every word, begged him to tell them his stories. He’d died alone in an apartment in Florence, his body only found by neighbours four days later.

He’d often been told he’d inherited Uncle Luciano’s story-telling ability and looks, as well as his name. Though occasionally Luca woke in the early hours in a cold sweat, wondering if he would one day meet the same fate and die alone.

“What about your parents’ generation? Who carries the curse in that generation?”

“My father’s older brother, Enrico, died unmarried at the age of thirty-seven.” The same age Luca was now. “It was at his funeral that his girlfriends met each other for the first time. None of them knew he was seeing other women.” He flinched at the memory. “It wasn’t pretty.”

Like his uncle and great uncle, Luca too was incapable of staying interested in one woman for very long. Since he’d reached nearly forty without meeting even one woman who made him consider giving up his bachelorhood, he’d learned to avoid dating women who might get serious. That way, he couldn’t break their hearts. He’d learned that lesson the hard way; now, none of the women he dated were so emotionally invested that they threw sharp objects at him when he moved on.

But sometimes, an emptiness gaped inside him that nothing could fill, no amount of activity, or friends, or women. A yearning for something more.

He let out a dramatic sigh. “That’s why it’s a curse: women can’t resist us Fioravanti men. Even my cousin Camillo.” Or maybeespeciallycousin Camillo, who had a bigger circle of female friends than any man Luca had ever met.

Cleo did that screwed-up-face thing again as she contemplated him. “No offence, but I don’t see it. I mean, you’re good-looking, and clearly your family has—or had—money and some influence, but I wouldn’t call youirresistible.”

He chuckled. “I am mortally wounded that my charm doesn’t work on you.”

“You mean that your ego is dented that your charm doesn’t work on me. Don’t worry, you’ll get over it. How much further until we get there?”

“Another half hour. Since you now know my family’s darkest secrets, why don’t you tell me yours?”

He’d meant it as a joke, but she stiffened. Interesting. Did she indeed have a dark secret in her past?

Keeping his voice casual, he added: “Tell me why you dumped your ex. Did he cheat?”

“The Arse. That’s what my friends and I used to call him.” She blew out a breath, relaxing. “Evan and I worked together the summer that Sarah first came here to Italy. And no, he didn’t cheat on me. His curse isn’t infidelity, but an over-developed sense of entitlement. Apparently, he felt entitled to whatever he wanted from me without giving anything in return.” She flashed him a brittle smile. “What can I say? I’m just a typical woman who wants more from a man than he’s willing to give. You know, like an engagement ring. Turns out he wasn’t ready to make that kind of commitment. He wasn’t even ready to introduce me to his friends or family.” There was no mistaking the bitterness in her tone.

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