The Sicilian's Wife by Kate Walker

hadn’t touched him. Hadn’t reached through to his mind, let alone his heart, which remained as closed and locked from her as ever. Her feelings, her love , were clearly not what he wanted from her, nor, she doubted, would they ever be.
    But her passion, her sexuality, her body—that was another matter entirely. That he had made only too plain was what he wanted, and he emphasised it again now in his kiss. It was a kiss of fire, white-hot and burning, stamping the brand of his possession on her lips in a way that made her blood run molten in her veins in equally heated response. In the moment that their mouths met and locked and fused, all her senses woke and sang in soaring reaction in Cesare’s lightest touch and she knew that she was lost. That no other man had ever made her feel like this, and that if, for now, this was all that Cesare could give her then for now she would let it be enough.
    But somewhere way down, in the furthest, deepest part of her soul, a small, lonely voice, lost and forlorn, cried that it was not enough. That she needed more and without it she would starve, emotionally.
    But Cesare had lifted his head, his hand had closed firmly around hers, warm and hard and possessive as his kiss. The moment was gone, time moved on, the marriage service taking the usual path to its conclusion. In a daze she followed her husband’s lead, moving with him to the vestry,signing the register where she was told, though her eyes would barely focus on what she was writing. All she was conscious of was the bold, firm slash of her husband’s signature, hard and confident and sure as the man himself.
    Cesare Santorino. And below it, slightly shaky and far less assertive in every way, her own name, Megan Ellis, for the last time.
    â€˜Congratulations, Mrs Santorino,’ someone said, and automatically she looked round, searching for some sight of the woman being addressed because she had understood that, only just out of hospital after an appendix operation, Cesare’s mother had decided against travelling to England for the wedding.
    â€˜Where…?’ she began then belatedly realised that the registrar who had spoken was holding his hand out to her. That she was the Mrs Santorino he was speaking to.
    And suddenly that Mrs made the ground frighteningly unsteady beneath her feet, the down-to-earth English term hitting home in a way that Cesare’s Italian had not.
    She was Mrs Santorino !
    The blood leached from her cheeks, her legs took on the consistency of cotton wool, her head swam, her stomach clenched painfully. If Cesare hadn’t seen her sudden pallor, the way she swayed where she stood, she might have actually given into the weakness she felt and fallen, fainting to the ground.
    But he had been watching her like a hawk since the moment they had kissed out there in the church and he saw the change in her face, the way her eyes clouded, the lost and frightened look on her face. And suddenly he was there at her side, his strong fingers coming round her elbow, supporting her until he could tuck her hand under his arm and hold it there. Almost seamlessly he covered her nervous hesitation by putting out his own hand to take the registrar’s, which Megan had dazedly ignored until now, shaking it firmly and switching on a warm, appreciative smile.
    â€˜I think my wife’s a little overwrought,’ he inserted easily, squeezing Megan’s arm against the hard wall of his ribcage under the perfect fit of his sleek, grey morning coat. ‘It’s all been rather too much for her—especially when she’s been feeling rather delicate just lately.’
    â€˜Of course.’
    The registrar nodded smiling understanding.
    â€˜I usually find that the ladies get more nervous about these events than their husbands do. Pre-wedding nerves and all that. And there is always such a lot to arrange beforehand with a wedding, especially with one that had to be organised as