Soft music played the wedding march and for some unknown reason his heart accelerated just a little. That made no sense at all. Emmanuelle had agreed to act as a witness and she came up the aisle first, dressed beautifully in a long burgundy gown. Her brother Vittorio was also a witness and stood beside Elie in his tuxedo. The Ferraros were out in force to support him. Valentino and Dario were there. No one was there for his bride. He detested that. He caught sight of Emmanuelle casting little glances around the chapel with a slight frown on her face. She also didn’t like the fact that his bride had no one supporting her.
Elie was many things, including a demanding, arrogant, very dominant bastard, but he was also loyal, protective and faithful. His woman would have a balance in her life, regardless of the demands he put on her. And she would have all the support she needed from his friends and the family he’d surrounded himself with. They might not be his blood, but the Saldis and the Ferraros had made room in their hearts for him. They would for his bride as well. He could give her that.
Emme made it to the altar and they turned to watch his veiled bride start toward him on Stefano’s arm. Stefano was a tall man, but even so, Elie’s woman looked half his size. He had always dated tall runway models in Paris, his native home. This woman looked as though he could break her in half at the first touch. For a moment his heart clenched hard in his chest and he couldn’t help pressing his hand over it.
For years, he’d seen Brielle in the café where she worked. He’d had no right to look at her. She’d been a young teen. Then she’d worked in the restaurant where he’d brought the models he dated. Mainly, he brought them there so he could catch glimpses of Brielle. It was wrong, and he knew it, but it was a compulsion he couldn’t stop. He was careful never to date anyone who looked like her. He didn’t do substitutes, not even in his mind.
He’d been a fool not to put a height requirement in the paperwork for the arranged marriage. He didn’t want to ever cheat the woman he married by thinking of Brielle when he was with his wife. Shit. Here he was, the woman was walking up the aisle toward him, and he was thinking of Brielle. The way she moved, her diminutive size, even veiled, reminded him of her. It was so wrong. He tried to concentrate on other things. The dress. The veil.
Her dress was from a French designer he recognized. Very elegant, see-through champagne-colored glitter tulle covered a formfitting silk underslip. Long sleeves of the same glitter tulle encased slender arms, coming to elegant, beaded points over his bride’s delicate, finely boned hands. Strings of luxurious crystals and pearls ran around the neckline and over the sleeves. There was a slit in the A-line skirt where her leg occasionally peeked out as she walked toward him.
In her wedding dress, his new bride appeared very fragile. A stirring of unease went down his spine. He had stated very plainly that looks didn’t matter—he didn’t have a preference. He definitely should have thought that through and not just because she reminded him too much of Brielle.
Elie preferred rough sex. This little tiny pixie looked as if he might injure her holding her hand. This could be a disaster. He just kept himself from groaning aloud. The truth was, he deserved what he got. He’d lost his chance at the woman he was meant to be with through his own careless arrogance. He’d said hurtful, ugly things that he couldn’t take back.
He had made promises to this woman and he meant to keep them. She had her head bowed, looking down at her feet, as if she wasn’t used to walking in heels. He couldn’t believe the heels added two or three inches to her already diminutive height. Suddenly, she looked up, her eyes meeting his through the lace of her veil. He felt the impact, although he really couldn’t see her. She stopped abruptly right there in the middle of the aisle, forcing Stefano to stop as well.
“No. Absolutely not.” Her voice was pitched low, but it carried to him. “Is this some kind of monstrous joke?” She tried to turn away from the altar, but Stefano held her firmly. “I didn’t agree to this.”
Elie didn’t wait to find out why his bride was rebelling, not with his entire family waiting. He strode down the aisle to confront his wife. Technically, they were already married. This ceremony was just a formality. If she didn’t want it, that was too damn bad; he wasn’t letting her out of the marriage. They had an arrangement. They both signed the papers. There was no getting out of it unless both parties agreed and he damn well didn’t agree.
He walked right up to her, caught her veil and shoved it back over her head. His breath caught in his throat. Brielle Couture. His Brielle. He would know her anywhere. He dreamt about her nearly every night. She didn’t look the same; she’d lost weight until she was almost a thin shadow of herself. Before, when she was eighteen, she had generous breasts and hips. Now the curves were there, but the rest of her was very slight. She was beautiful, just as she had been those years earlier, but she definitely didn’t look the way she had before.