A Dark Sicilian Secret(19)

Fine. Force her. But she wouldn’t meet him dressed up like a shiny doll without a mind of her own.

No, she’d dress for the occasion her way. Which meant she’d find the plainest, drabbest, darkest dress she owned and wear that for their vows. A dull, dowdy black outfit should convey quite nicely how she felt about their nuptials.

Jillian allowed herself the faintest of smiles as she dragged a high-necked black blouse and a long gray skirt from the bottom of her suitcase. Perfect. Gray and black. Perfect colors for mourning.


Thirty minutes later, Vittorio stood in the center of the jet’s living room holding Jill’s hands as he recited his vows. His chief pilot, the jet’s captain, performed the simple service.

Jill, he noted, had dressed as if she was attending a funeral, replacing her gray knit top with a severe high-collared black blouse and the black pants with a long, narrow, charcoal-gray skirt.

She wore the blouse buttoned high on her neck and her pale hair had been pulled back into a low knot at the back of her head. She wore no jewelry or makeup and couldn’t have looked more miserable if she’d tried.

But she did go through with the ceremony, speaking her vows in a clear, almost defiant voice, and holding her hand steady so he could slip the ring onto her fourth finger.

And now his captain concluded the service, pronouncing them man and wife.

The captain didn’t linger. With his mission accomplished, he returned to the cockpit, leaving Vitt and Jill to celebrate together.

The flight attendant appeared with more champagne, and a silver platter of delicate appetizers. Vittorio ate and drank, but Jill touched nothing. It didn’t particularly trouble him. This wasn’t a love marriage—it was about duty, commitment and responsibility, as well as restoring honor to his family.

“Jill d’Severano,” he said, trying it out as he studied her pallor and her brown eyes that looked far too big for her small face. “Mrs. Vittorio d’Severano.”

She lifted her chin, her expression pained. Apparently she wasn’t very fond of the name.

“I wish I could say the worst was over,” he added thoughtfully, “but tomorrow won’t be easy. Nor will the day after that. But in a week’s time the shock will wear off and acceptance will begin.”

“It’s going to take me more than a week to get used to being your wife,” she answered tartly.

He laughed. “I was referring to my mother, and how she’ll react to you. But I suppose you’re right. You must be in shock, too. How were you to know this morning when you woke, that twelve hours later you’d be on a plane to Sicily, married to me?”

Fire flashed in her eyes. “Your empathy is touching.”

“My empathy allows me to protect you instead of crushing you. You should be grateful for that.”

She opened her mouth to speak but then closed it, shaking her head in silent, seething frustration.

She looked like a nun at a funeral. A nun minus the wimple. She was buttoned and closed and as emotionally distant as possible. But this was his wedding day, too, and he wouldn’t let her do this to him, wouldn’t have her play victim, all numb and cold, not when she’d created this situation. And not when he’d worked so damn hard to fix it.

“Unbutton your blouse,” he told her, aware that his voice was hard, aware that he sounded every bit as cold as she looked. “You have the softness of a dried up old prune.”

She held his gaze. “I like prunes.”

“I don’t.”

“I’m sorry.”

“If you were, you’d unbutton your blouse a little, smile a little, act like this isn’t the worst day of your life.”

“When it really is.”

“I should have left you on the side of the road when I had the chance!”

“Too late. You brought me along. Married me. We’re now husband and wife.”

“And wives are to submit to their husbands.”

“To believe that, you must also believe that husbands are to submit to the Church. But somehow I doubt you submit to anyone,” she retorted, her eyes huge, her jaw tightly clenched.

His temper flared. She was not the injured party. She could not be allowed to play the victim, either. He was the one who’d been cheated. He was the one who’d been kept from his son.

“Do it,” he ordered brusquely, “just unbutton a couple of buttons or I’ll do it myself.”

“We’re to consummate the marriage here?” she flashed. “Right now?”