twenty years you’ve not shown one symptom, so let’s assume the results are negative until otherwise proven, okay? Like it or not, marriage is still a respectable option. You’ll be pregnant with my child. Once the cyclone news dies down, the press will be on the lookout for the next big story, and they’re going to love this. The attention they give it will be off the charts. They’ll hound you, your family, and when they find out I’m the father, they’ll come after me.” He held up a hand, cutting her off. “The papers are going to rehash every romantic involvement, including our marriages and divorces. And you can bet they’ll find a way to bring my father into it. Someone at my network is going to listen to all that crap, and there’ll probably be repercussions because I do have a code-of-conduct clause in my contract. Grace will probably demand an exclusive. The attention will drag on and on. Even better, they’ll bring the romantic ‘holed up during a cyclone’ angle into it.”
“Marco—”
“Now think about the alternative. We get married in a private ceremony then put out a press statement. The deed is done. Everything’s announced how we want it, when we want it. The media have their story for a week, two, max. We’d have to tell Grace, of course, but there’ll be no backlash for me at the network, no comparisons to the past. And everyone returns to their normal lives.”
She stared at him for a moment and then slowly placed her fork on the plate. “It’s not that simple.”
“Well, obviously not.” He followed with a frown. “It won’t stop the attention, but it will lessen the time we’ll spend on the front page. Then they’ll go back to real news.”
She shook her head slowly. “You would seriously marry me?”
He shrugged. “Why not?”
She said nothing, just stared at him for the longest time. She’d be Marco’s wife. Mrs. Corelli. For one second her heart swooped, an alarming response that sent her into a panic before she swallowed and it all crashed back down to reality. He wanted to marry her, but for all the wrong reasons. Duty. Respectability. To avoid publicity. Not because of love.
Wait, what?
This was Marco here. He didn’t think of her in that way. Oh, she knew he loved her, but he wasn’t in love with her, which was a huge difference.
Anyway, she didn’t want him in love with her. Not at all.
“You know it makes sense,” he said, chewing on the last piece of toast.
There were those annoying words again. Sensible. Smart. Logical. Everything she’d wished for after Ezio’s betrayal. Everything Marco was offering.
She drew in a slow breath. “I don’t want to get married.”
“What, ever again?” His brow went up. “Or just to me?”
“I’ve done it twice already.”
“I know, chérie. I was there to pick up the pieces, remember?”
Her heart squeezed. Yeah, he was. He was always there. Through the divorces, the horrific tabloid attention. Through the aftermath of her mother’s illness. He was her rock, more dependable than any of her girlfriends or family. He’d dropped everything to listen to her rant, then cry, then get solidly drunk and make a complete fool of herself at some swanky French nightclub. Then he’d dragged her backpacking around Europe in blissful anonymity.
And now he was offering again, stepping up and taking on the responsibility for their one lapse in judgment.
“I can’t marry you, Marco,” she said now. “That would be selfish.”
“Why? I suggested it. And it’s not as if we have anyone else lined up.”
“Oh, that makes me feel so special.”
He laughed, much to her chagrin. “You are. You’re my closest friend.”
“What about Grace?”
He sighed. “What about her? We’re over, I told you. It’s all in her head.”
She crossed her arms and leaned back in the chair, trying to get a grip on her jumbled thoughts. “Marco, this isn’t the solution. I don’t want to force you into something
“Marco—”
“Now think about the alternative. We get married in a private ceremony then put out a press statement. The deed is done. Everything’s announced how we want it, when we want it. The media have their story for a week, two, max. We’d have to tell Grace, of course, but there’ll be no backlash for me at the network, no comparisons to the past. And everyone returns to their normal lives.”
She stared at him for a moment and then slowly placed her fork on the plate. “It’s not that simple.”
“Well, obviously not.” He followed with a frown. “It won’t stop the attention, but it will lessen the time we’ll spend on the front page. Then they’ll go back to real news.”
She shook her head slowly. “You would seriously marry me?”
He shrugged. “Why not?”
She said nothing, just stared at him for the longest time. She’d be Marco’s wife. Mrs. Corelli. For one second her heart swooped, an alarming response that sent her into a panic before she swallowed and it all crashed back down to reality. He wanted to marry her, but for all the wrong reasons. Duty. Respectability. To avoid publicity. Not because of love.
Wait, what?
This was Marco here. He didn’t think of her in that way. Oh, she knew he loved her, but he wasn’t in love with her, which was a huge difference.
Anyway, she didn’t want him in love with her. Not at all.
“You know it makes sense,” he said, chewing on the last piece of toast.
There were those annoying words again. Sensible. Smart. Logical. Everything she’d wished for after Ezio’s betrayal. Everything Marco was offering.
She drew in a slow breath. “I don’t want to get married.”
“What, ever again?” His brow went up. “Or just to me?”
“I’ve done it twice already.”
“I know, chérie. I was there to pick up the pieces, remember?”
Her heart squeezed. Yeah, he was. He was always there. Through the divorces, the horrific tabloid attention. Through the aftermath of her mother’s illness. He was her rock, more dependable than any of her girlfriends or family. He’d dropped everything to listen to her rant, then cry, then get solidly drunk and make a complete fool of herself at some swanky French nightclub. Then he’d dragged her backpacking around Europe in blissful anonymity.
And now he was offering again, stepping up and taking on the responsibility for their one lapse in judgment.
“I can’t marry you, Marco,” she said now. “That would be selfish.”
“Why? I suggested it. And it’s not as if we have anyone else lined up.”
“Oh, that makes me feel so special.”
He laughed, much to her chagrin. “You are. You’re my closest friend.”
“What about Grace?”
He sighed. “What about her? We’re over, I told you. It’s all in her head.”
She crossed her arms and leaned back in the chair, trying to get a grip on her jumbled thoughts. “Marco, this isn’t the solution. I don’t want to force you into something
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