Page 26 of His Fantasy Bride (Things To Do Before You Die)

“A purely temporary aberration. It was my grandfather’s last request that I take over the company for a year. I think right to the end he believed—or hoped—I would see the light and want a different life.”

“Move over to the dark side. And did you?”

He considered her over the rim of his glass. “In some ways, I loved it. It made me feel alive.”

“And the luxury, the Armani suits, and the five star hotels?”

“I had to look and act the part otherwise our competitors would have torn the company to pieces like a pack of hyenas. It’s a cutthroat world.” Then he grinned again, looking boyish and something melted inside her. “But yeah. I enjoyed those things—and the private jet and the driver.” He was pensive for a moment. “But in the end it wasn’t enough. I love my real life. You’ll have to come on a dig with me sometime.”

“I’d like that.” She felt a pang of…something. She wouldn’t be going on any digs. They had no future however normal and pleasant this might seem.

“You want anything else?” he asked.

“No, I’m full.” Her thoughts had taken on a downward plunge. She rested her chin on her hand and gazed around the place. The tables were all occupied, the waiters scurrying around, carrying plates and bottles, constantly on the move.

“You seem a little distracted,” Vito said.

“Just worried about Theresa.”

“She looked fine.”

“She’s tough, but she doesn’t let on if she’s hurting.” You tended to grow up with at least the outward appearance of toughness in the Scarlesi family or get walked all over. But she could hardly tell Vito that.

“Call her.”

“I don’t want to disturb her if she’s gone to bed.”

She shrugged off the worry of her up-and-coming meeting with Theresa. It was going to happen whatever she did. Theresa was tenacious if nothing else. But perhaps she could put it off as long as possible. “You’re right. So what shall we do next?”

“What would you like to do?”

“Let’s go dancing.”

“Dancing?” He sounded as though he had no clue as to the meaning of the word.

“You can’t dance?”

“I think it’s more a case of I don’t dance.”

“Well, we all have to try new things. I’m just popping to the ladies’ room. You can have a think about where to go while I’m away.”

She almost grinned at the expression on his face, but then grabbed her bag and headed to the ladies’, where she stared at herself in the mirror. She looked like Gabrielle. It made her feel uneasy, like a fraud.

And his parents were goddamn missionaries. That made him almost one. And he didn’t dance. They had zero in common. Less than zero.

For a while there, talking over dinner, they’d seemed like a couple, a normal couple finding out about each other. But they weren’t, and pretending would only get her in deeper, and then she’d never climb out.

She pulled the clips from her hair, fluffing it up then holding her head upside down and zapping it with hairspray from her bag, so it tousled around her face. She had a small makeup kit and she rimmed her eyes with kohl, slapped on a couple of layers of mascara, and glossed her lips fuchsia pink. Pouted. Yeah, Gabby was back.

She was starting to feel just a little bit schizophrenic.

Chapter Seven

She’d changed when she came out of the ladies’ room. Not literally—she still wore the little black dress, but for some reason it no longer looked demure. She’d loosened her hair, added makeup. It was as thought she’d donned a whole new persona as she walked across the room with a sexy sway of her hips that did weird things to his insides.

Which was the real Gabby?

He’d thought they’d made a sincere connection over dinner. Though he was the one to do all the talking, she’d seemed genuinely interested.

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