Cristo glanced over at Farrah in the passenger seat of his Maserati. She white-knuckled the bouquet of yellow roses with one hand. The other clutched the door pull with enough force to leave permanent finger marks.
“Relax. I brought my mother’s favorite cake, so she’s not going to eat you for lunch.”
Her smile was tight. “Are you sure? I’ve trapped her only son into marriage. You can’t tell me she’s going to be leaping for joy.”
Farrah had badgered him for information on his parents from the moment they’d stepped aboard the flight from Paris to Palermo. He never should have revealed that his mother was more Catholic than the Pope and doted on her only son like he was a candidate for sainthood. Which he definitely wasn’t. But his mother was a little blind where he was concerned.
“She’s wanted me to marry for years. She’ll be fine. And for the record, I wasn’t trapped in marriage. I was the one who proposed, remember? Rather a lot of times, actually.”
Despite his words of reassurance, he wasn’t sure how his mother would react. She wouldn’t be pleased that her plans for a huge wedding in Palermo’s grandest cathedral would be replaced with vows at city hall and a small reception.
Farrah had made him promise to keep the guest list under a hundred. Especially since the only people who would be there for her were a handful of friends.
And they still had to break the news of their impending nuptials to Mario and Bella. That was the revelation Cristo was most worried about. Mario considered Farrah like a little sister to be protected. He was not going to be pleased that Cristo had got her pregnant and obligated them to be wed.
All in all, it was going to be a hell of a day.
His mother flew out of the house as soon as he pulled into the driveway. Maybe he shouldn’t have told her he was bringing a special woman for lunch. But given his parents’ age, he’d not wanted to spring such a big surprise on them without at least some warning.
“Cristoforo, mio angelo. Welcome home! You have been gone too long,” his mother called out. He was barely out from behind the wheel before she pulled his head down so she could kiss his cheeks.
“It’s been less than two weeks, and I called you twice in that time. You know I’m busy.”
One day he’d learn not to try to defend himself. Google Maps got route info for guilt trips from Italian mothers. And he’d never managed one meal at home without a side dish of contrition.
“Mamma, come meet Farrah.” He put an arm around his mother’s shoulders as he steered her to the passenger side of his car where Farrah stood, shoulders back, a decent imitation smile in place. “Tesori, this is my mother, Maria.”
“I’m pleased to meet you, Mrs. Bernini,” Farrah said in near-perfect Italian.
His mother’s eyes narrowed as she raked his fiancée with a gaze that was one step away from hostile. Farrah held out the flowers she’d brought. His mother hesitated a moment before accepting them.
“I have not seen you in church,” his mother said.
“I don’t live in Sicily,” Farrah replied. Her gaze sought his after he retrieved his mother’s favorite cake from the back of the car.
“Why don’t we go inside?” he said. Should he take his mother’s hand or Farrah’s? He opted for his mother’s in case he needed to intervene. “The light’s better there for interrogations.” He said the words in jest, but based on his mother’s stiff posture, she was already preparing her line of questioning.
“You are not Sicilian. Are you at least Italian?” his mother asked Farrah as they entered the house.
Was it too early for a whisky? Poor Farrah. She’d have to endure the inquisition sober.
“Enough, Mamma. Let’s have lunch first. We’ll fill in the questionnaire later.” Hopefully, if his mother realized how wonderful Farrah was, she’d forget her animosity by the time she cut the chocolate cake.
As they entered the sitting room with its gorgeous view over the Mediterranean, his father joined them. Cristo proceeded with introductions once more, relieved that his father at least seemed to hold no animosity toward his intended.
“You have a lovely home,” Farrah said, drifting over to the floor-to-ceiling window. “This view is amazing.”
“I will check on the food,” Maria said.
“Is there anything I can do to help?” Farrah asked. Her fake smile was slipping under his mother’s coldness.
“Why don’t you sit and chat with my father?” Cristo answered. “I’ll help my mother in the kitchen.”
That, at least, earned him a maternal nod of approval. As he followed his mother out of the room, he heard Farrah ask his father a question about football. His dad beamed. At least Cristo wasn’t leaving Farrah in the lion’s den.
“What is this game you play, Cristoforo?” his mother asked the second the kitchen door swung closed behind him. “Do you think that if you bring home a totally unsuitable girl, I will look on the next one with more favor? Is she”—his mother gestured with a kitchen knife toward the sitting room—“the decoy?”
“Farrah is not the decoy. She is a woman I’m serious about. If you give her a chance, you’ll realize she’s friendly, warm, and a wonderful person. Ask her about the work she does with impoverished women. If anyone is a candidate for sainthood, it’s Farrah.”
“She’s not Italian.”
“No. She’s from Tunisia.”
“Is she at least Catholic?”
“No.”
His mother threw her hands in the air like he was holding a gun and had just demanded the family jewels. Thank God she’d put the knife down. “How can you do this to me? My only son! Was I so horrible a mother to you?”
He rubbed his hands over his face. Evidently, the three hours of sleep he’d got last night—after Farrah reluctantly accepted his proposal then kicked him out of her hotel room—weren’t enough. “You’re a fantastic mother. But I was never going to let you choose my wife for me.”
“Your wife? You have asked this woman to marry you?!”
“Yes.”
“I do not believe you, Cristoforo. This is some horrible trick you play on your poor mamma.”
“It’s no joke. Farrah and I are getting married. I thought you’d be happy that I’m finally settling down.” He was tempted to mention the baby. Surely, the prospect of an imminent grandchild would change his mother’s attitude. But he’d rather she accepted Farrah for herself, not as the vessel carrying the next Bernini bambino.
Tears welled in his mother’s eyes. “That is like asking if I’m happy you burned down only the house and not the whole village. This is too much for my poor heart. If you truly loved me—”
“That’s not fair.”
She shook her head. “Go away and return when you’ve come to your senses.”
His heart stalled. Was she really asking him to choose between his mother and his child? “Mamma, be reasonable.” He attempted to hug her, but she batted his arms away.
Cristo turned at a sound and saw his father and Farrah in the doorway. “What is happening?” his father demanded, his eyes darting between his son and the tears now streaming down his wife’s face.
While his mother brought his father up to speed on the situation, Cristo wrapped both arms around Farrah. Mamma was speaking rapidly and in a mix of Italian and Sicilian, so he wasn’t too sure how much Farrah understood. But the dark atmosphere in the kitchen was enough to give her the gist of the conversation.
Cristo met his father’s gaze over the top of his mother’s head after his dad, too, enveloped his wife in a hug.
“Go. I’ll talk to her when she’s calmer,” his father said, his voice barely discernible over the loud sobs coming from Maria. Each hiccuping inhalation stabbed Cristo in the chest.
Farrah was silent as she exited the house and slipped into the passenger seat of the car.
Rather than drive straight back to Palermo, he set off on the coastal highway. Maybe the beautiful view would take some of the sting out of the nasty scene they’d just left. “I guess that’s two people we can scratch off the guest list,” he said.
She turned to him, stunned eyes huge in her pale face. “You can’t seriously expect to still marry me after that.”
***
Cristo pulled the car into a small viewing area and slammed on the brakes. “Of course we’re still getting married. My proposal was not contingent on my mother’s approval.”
“But surely you never thought you’d have to choose between your parents and me!”
He focused on the view for a moment before he turned to her again, his eyes serious. “My parents’ happiness is not the overriding consideration here. The well-being of our child is.”
The ripples from their night of pleasure had become tsunamis devastating their lives. She straightened her shoulders. They could rebuild. And stronger. “You’re right. I’m just sorry that I can’t be the woman your mother would want for you.”
He unclipped his seat belt as his soft chuckle filled the car. “I wouldn’t want the woman my mother would want for me.” He ran a finger over her lower lip. “I want you.”
He leaned forward, and his lips replaced his finger. The kiss, more than his words, spoke of his commitment to her and their child.
One hand was in his hair and the other was on his thigh when he eventually lifted his head from hers. A cocky grin stretched his lips. “We have chemistry, Farrah. And if we work hard, we’ll have a marriage we can both be happy with.”
She sincerely hoped so.
After another all-too-brief kiss, he pulled his seat belt on again. “I owe you lunch. I know a good restaurant nearby.”
She nodded, although her stomach wasn’t pleased with the idea. Did this baby think she was going to live on air and Cristo’s smiles? He sent her another grin after he pulled back onto the highway. It didn’t quite reach his eyes. There was a tension about him that belied his claim that all would be wonderful.
The restaurant he’d chosen was inside a hotel, and before they asked for a table, he booked a room. “In case you’re tired after lunch and want a rest.”
He was certainly taking her care seriously. She couldn’t deny, though, that after the morning’s events, a few quiet moments to herself would be most welcome.
Maria Bernini’s rejection stung. While she hadn’t expected an arms-open welcome, the prospect of a mother figure in her life had given her the warm and fuzzies for a few hours last night.
The maître d’ welcomed Cristo with a triple-cheek kiss and a warm smile for her. They were seated on the terrace overlooking the Mediterranean, under a large bright-blue umbrella.
“They have fabulous seafood here and are best known for their calamari,” Cristo said before she’d even opened her menu.
“I love calamari, but I don’t think I should eat any shellfish. Aside from that, please order for me.” Even small decisions about what to eat were too much for her at the moment. He nodded, and the waiter materialized by their table instantly.
“Please don’t feel you need to abstain from alcohol on my account,” she said when the waiter asked what they wanted to drink.
He ordered a glass of wine, a bottle of sparkling water, calamari, and a pasta dish with a salad on the side. When their food arrived, she carefully tucked in.
Flavors burst on her tongue, and she smiled over at Cristo. “This is fantastic.”
“It’s good to see you enjoy it.” This time the smile reached his eyes.
The meal passed with pleasant conversation about nothing more controversial than favorite films and books. He was a bit of a science fiction aficionado while she preferred period dramas and romances.
After lunch, he escorted her to the reserved hotel room but declined her invitation to enter.
“I have emails I need to answer and a few phone calls to make. I don’t want to disturb you,” he said.
The email notification bings from his phone had the regularity of a heartbeat. But not once during their meal had he pulled out his device to check his messages.
Despite the beautiful room and comfy bed, Farrah tossed and turned, unable to sleep. Was Cristo regretting asking her to marry him? Bella had told her how Cristo had turned down a promotion last year because his mother was ill. And now the treasured son was giving all that up for her? Or rather for the baby that bound them? Was he being honest with her when he said all would be well and they could have a good marriage?
The questions bounced around in her head until she gave up all hope of a nap and stared out the window at the blue Mediterranean beyond the white sandy beach.
She hadn’t come to Cristo a virgin. Her first boyfriend had promised her a ring as soon as he could afford it. Then he’d married the woman his parents chose for him. Even Mario, while never outright confessing his love, had hinted that their relationship would transition from business to personal after he recovered his memory—at least the part that related to the wedding ring he wore. Well, his memories had returned. And Farrah had stood next to his wife as they’d reaffirmed their vows.
As much as she liked and desired Cristo, she wouldn’t let him consume her and leave her an empty woman when he had enough of playing husband and daddy. When all this ended, there’d still be some pieces left to pick up and move on.
Cristo’s eyes were guarded when he came to collect her at 3:30. His tight smile and clenched hands preempted her asking if all was well.
The flight to Tunis was uneventful. Before venturing to Mario’s, they stopped at her tiny apartment on the third floor of an old colonial building so she could leave her luggage. Without a lift, the stair-climb was already starting to wear thin. She wasn’t looking forward to doing it while nine months pregnant.
Once inside, Cristo looked around as she headed to the bathroom, the only other space. He said nothing, but it was easy to read his face. She’d be moving as soon as the wedding occurred, if not before.
She tried to view the apartment with dispassionate eyes as she rejoined Cristo in the sitting room/kitchen/sleeping area. It wasn’t anything fancy, but it was hers. She’d bought it with money she made. It was a symbol of her success and her independence. She’d considered putting it up as collateral for a loan to start a new company. But now, the safety net of an assured roof over her head was too valuable a commodity to risk. She’d have to ensure that it remained hers in the prenup agreement.
A taxi dropped them as close as possible to Mario’s house. Vehicular access was impossible in the medina quarter, so they went the rest of the way on foot.
She hesitated before she knocked on the outer door. This was not a conversation she was looking forward to. But hiding her pregnancy from her coworkers would not be an option for long. Farrah had already noticed Bella looking at her oddly whenever a smell triggered a wave of nausea. And unless she planned to take up wearing a burka, her belly popping out would soon be a dead giveaway.
Cristo laced his fingers with hers then banged on the door.
If only she’d had the camera on her phone ready when Mario opened the door. His eyebrows met his hairline when he saw them standing hand in hand in the narrow alley.
“Surprise!” Cristo said.
“Understatement of the year,” Mario replied, ushering them into the courtyard of his traditional Moorish home.
“Hey, Farrah.” Bella was wiping her hands on a towel and didn’t look up until she was next to Mario. “Oh, and Cristo.” Her gaze bounced between the two of them before settling on their joined hands.
Farrah made a half-hearted attempt to pull her hand free, but Cristo held firm. This was the encounter she’d been dreading all day. It was one thing to be rejected by a woman she didn’t know, even if she’d been hoping for a warm, welcoming family to take her into their arms and love her. But to lose the respect of her closest friends and business partners… That was the stuff of nightmares.
Bella ushered them into a cozy room with large navy sofas and a heavy wooden coffee table piled with the paraphernalia of modern life: TV remotes, mobile phones, an iPad and laptop. A couple of half-filled wineglasses sat on a tray next to a bottle. There were dents in the cushions of one sofa, right next to each other, where the couple had obviously been cuddling before this intrusion. It was a scene of tranquil domesticity, of evident love, that once more made Farrah long for something she’d unlikely ever have.
Would she and Cristo ever achieve this level of comfort with each other? Or, without love to bind them, would they forever be awkward roommates?
“I’ll get two more wineglasses,” Mario said, his gaze bouncing between her and Cristo. “Unless something stronger is required? I’m guessing this visit is about more than your business trip.” His eyes narrowed on Farrah. “Have you recruited Cristo for support in your bid to oust me from IAA?”
Cristo’s brows rose as he glanced at her, but he answered, “We’re getting married, and we’d like the two of you to stand up with us as our witnesses.”
Mario’s eyes narrowed even further, and he took a menacing step toward Cristo. “You’ve only known each other a couple of months,” he said.
“About the same length of time you knew Bella before you married the first time,” Cristo replied. His left hand had fisted at his side, and he’d taken a step toward Mario, placing his body between her and their hosts.
Farrah pushed against his ribs, and he glanced down at her, seeming almost surprised to find her there.
“I’m pregnant,” she blurted. “We conceived on your wedding night.” Cristo wrapped his arm around her shoulders. Her empty stomach lurched, and for a moment she worried she’d flee the room before she got up the courage to see the expression on her friends’ faces. When she finally raised her eyes, there was understanding and compassion on Bella’s face.
“Can I have a word with you in the other room, Farrah?” Mario said between clenched teeth, all the while glaring at Cristo.
She nodded and headed toward Mario’s home office. She’d been in the room countless times during their years as business associates. But she took an extra-long look around to calm her nerves. The heavy oak desk was ornately carved and very masculine. The array of monitors held up by columns of steel, despite the contrast with the antique desk, somehow only added to the vibe of strength and purpose. The rest of the room was decorated in sage green, and the back wall was filled with tomes on marketing, investing, and—oddly enough—decorating. In the corner sat a wingback chair with a chrome light arching above. It looked too much like an interrogation spot, so Farrah sank into her usual place: the leather tub chair in front of the desk. She smoothed the long skirt over her knees, hoping to hide their shaking.
She’d wanted out of their business association on her terms. Was he about to tell her that their partnership must come to an end immediately? That an associate who’d clearly got pregnant before marriage was too much of a liability to the businesses?
Mario paced, and with each step he took, Farrah’s stomach roiled. She noted the location of the garbage can.
“We never talked about the end of our personal relationship.” He ran a hand through his hair. “I know you had … feelings for me. And I reciprocated them to a degree. But when I saw Bella again—”
“You don’t need to explain to me, Mario. I know. I was there.”
“But I never apologized for leading you to believe we could be more than business partners. And now you want to end that relationship as well. This is going to sound conceited, but I’m concerned that you’re making a lot of life-altering decisions based on a broken heart.”
She shook her head but didn’t meet his eyes. “We want different things for the company.” They’d had this conversation weekly for the past two months.
“We don’t. You just want to take more risks than I’m comfortable with. If something happens to you, the whole entity will fail.”
“We disagree on that as well. You’d find someone to replace me.” She was too tired to have this discussion again now. “Anyway, what does this have to do with my marrying Cristo?”
His fingers gave his hair another raking. She’d never seen him so agitated.
“Is this what you want, Farrah?” he finally asked. “Do you really want to marry Cristo? I don’t want to see you jump into marriage just for convenience. We can find another option for you. I … we—Bella and me—will support you in whatever way makes you happy. I know a guy who does excellent fake papers. We can make up a husband for you if you’re worried about the reaction of other Tunisians.”
“Cristo is the father of my child. He has a right—”
Mario stood directly in front of her chair. “Stop. In all the years I’ve known you, you’ve never asked for one thing for yourself. What do you want, Farrah? You. Not Cristo. Not the baby. What do you want?”
What did she want? A man to love her as obviously as Mario loved Bella. A man who sniffed back tears of joy when she announced a pregnancy. But the turmoil in her stomach wouldn’t be denied. This was the best option for everyone. And she was tired of being alone. So very tired.
“I want to marry Cristo.” As she said it aloud, realization hit. Sometime in the past few hours she’d shifted from a reluctant bride to an anticipatory one. All she had to do now was stop herself from becoming too hopeful. She’d been disappointed too many times in life already.
Mario stared at her a moment longer. “All right, then. Let’s plan a wedding.”