Free A Queen for the Taking? by Kate Hewitt Page B

pain. It hurt .
    But she didn’t even need to worry about that, because right now she and Sandro were just going to have sex. Emotionless sex.
    They spent the next few minutes saying their goodbyes; her mother hugged her tightly and whispered that she hoped she would be happy. Liana murmured back nonsense about how she already was and saw the tension that bracketed her mother’s eyes lessen just a little. Her father didn’t hug her; he never had, not since Chiara had died. She didn’t blame him.
    A quarter of an hour later she left the reception with Sandro; neither of them spoke as they walked down several long, opulent corridors and then up the wide front staircase of the palace, down another corridor, up another staircase, and finally to the turret room that was kept for newlyweds.
    Sandro opened the door first, ushering her in, and Liana didn’t look at him as she walked into the room. She took in the huge stone fireplace, the windows open to the early evening sky, the enormous four-poster bed piled high with silken pillows and seeming almost to pulse with expectation.
    She resisted the urge to wipe her damp palms against the narrow skirt of her wedding gown and walked to the window instead, taking in several needed lungfuls of mountain air. The sun was just starting to sink behind the timbered houses of Averne’s Old Town, the Alps fringing the horizon, their snowy peaks thrusting towards a violet sky. It was all incredibly beautiful, and yet also chilly and remote. As chilly and remote as she felt, shrinking further and further into herself, away from the reality—the intimacy—of what was about to happen between them.
    Behind her she heard the door click shut.
    ‘Would you like to change?’ Sandro asked. He sounded formal and surprisingly polite. Liana didn’t turn from the window.
    ‘I don’t believe I have anything to change into.’
    ‘There’s a nightdress on the bed.’
    She turned then and saw the silk-and-lace confection spread out on the coverlet. It looked horribly revealing, ridiculously romantic. ‘I don’t see much point in that.’
    Sandro huffed a hard laugh. ‘I didn’t think you would.’
    She finally forced herself to look at him. ‘There’s no point in pretending, is there?’
    ‘Is that what it would be?’ He lounged against the doorway; while she’d been gazing out of the window he’d shed his formal coat and undone his white tie. His hair was ruffled, his eyes sleepy, and she could see the dark glint of a five o’clock shadow on his chiselled jaw, the hint of chest hair from the top opened buttons of his shirt. He looked dissolute and dangerous and... sexy .
    The word popped into her head of its own accord. She didn’t want to think of her husband as sexy. She didn’t want to feel that irresistible magnetic pull towards him that already had her swaying slightly where she stood. She didn’t want to feel so much . If she felt this, she’d feel so much more. She would drown in all the feelings she’d suppressed for so long.
    ‘You weren’t pretending the last time I kissed you,’ Sandro said softly, and to Liana it sounded like a taunt.
    ‘You’re as proud as a polecat about that,’ she answered. Sandro began to stroll towards her.
    ‘Why fight me, Liana? Why resist me? We’re married. We must consummate our marriage. Why don’t we at least let this aspect of our union bring us pleasure?’
    ‘Because nothing else about it will?’ she filled in, her tone sharp, and Sandro just shrugged.
    ‘We’ve both admitted as much, haven’t we?’
    Yes, she supposed they had, so there was no reason for her to feel so insulted. So hurt . Yet as Sandro kept moving towards her with a predator’s prowl, she knew she did.
    He stopped in front of her, close enough so she could feel the heat of him, and he could see her tremble. She stared blindly ahead, unable to look at him, to see what emotion flickered in his eyes. Pity? Contempt? Desire? She wanted none of it, even as her