Catherine Spencer - Sicilian Millionaire, Bought Bride

Desperate to keep her grief private, she flushed the toilet, hoping the sound would disguise the sobs tearing at her, then mopped at her face with a handful of tissues. She didn’t need to look in the mirror to know her makeup was ruined. The mascara stung her eyes, adding insult to injury.

“Oh, Lindsay,” she mourned softly, “you know I’d do anything for you…anything at all. Except this.”

CHAPTER TWO

SHE RETURNED to the main room to find the moon casting an icy swath across the ink-black waters of the harbor. Within the suite, a floor lamp poured a pool of warm yellow light over the love seat next to the window, but at the linen-draped dining table, candles now shimmered over the crystal and silverware, and lent a more subtle blush to a centerpiece of cream roses. She was glad of that. Candlelight was much kinder, its subdued glow helping to disguise her reddened eyes, bereft now of any trace of mascara.

Raffaello Orsini held out her chair before taking a seat opposite, and nodding permission for the hovering waiter to pour the wine, a very fine sparkling white burgundy. Still shaken from rereading Lindsay’s letter, Corinne could barely manage a taste, and was sure she’d never be able to swallow a bite of food. She deeply regretted having accepted her host’s imperious invitation. Quite apart from the fact that her composure lay in shreds, she knew she looked a mess, and what woman was ever at her sharpest under those circumstances?

At least he had the good grace not to comment on her appearance, or her initial lack of response to his conversation. Instead, as braised endive salad followed a first course of crab and avocado pâté served on toast points, with foie gras-stuffed quail bathed in a sherry vinaigrette as the entrée, he regaled her with an amusing account of his tourist experiences earlier in the day. And almost without her realizing, she was coaxed into doing at least some justice to a meal he’d clearly taken great pains to make as appealing as possible.

By the time dessert arrived, a wonderful silky chocolate mousse she couldn’t resist, a good deal of her tension had melted away. The man oozed confidence, and reeked not so much of wealth, although he clearly had money to burn, but of the power that went with it. A heady combination, she had to admit. Watching him, enjoying his dry wit and keen observations, and more than a little dazzled by the smile he allowed so sparingly, she was almost able to push aside the real reason for their meeting and pretend, just for a little while, that they were merely a man and woman enjoying an evening together.

Lulled into a comfortable haze induced by candlelight, and a voice whose exotic cadence suggested an intimacy worth discovering, if only she dared, she almost relaxed. He was a complex man; an intriguing contradiction in terms. His wafer-thin Patek Philippe watch, handmade shoes and flawlessly tailored suit belonged to a CEO, a chairman of the board, a tycoon at his best wheeling and dealing megamillions in the arena of international business. Yet the contained strength of his body suggested he could sling a goat over one shoulder and scale a Sicilian mountainside without breaking a sweat. Despite that, though, there was absolutely nothing of the rustic in him. He was sophistication personified, and much too charming and handsome for his own good.

Or hers. Because, like a hawk luring a mouse into the open, he suddenly struck, diving in for the kill before she realized she’d left herself vulnerable to him. “So far, I’ve done all the talking, signora . Now it’s your turn. So tell me, please, what is there about you that I might find noteworthy?”

“Not much, I’m afraid,” she said, disconcerted by the question, but not yet suspecting where it would lead. “I’m a single, working parent, with very little time to do anything noteworthy.”

“Too occupied with making ends meet, you mean?”

“That about covers it, yes.”

“What kind of work do you do?”

“I’m a professional chef.”

“Ah, yes. I remember now that my wife once mentioned that. You were snapped up by a five-star restaurant in the city, as I recall.”

“Before my marriage, yes. After that, I was a stay-athome wife and mother. When my husband died, I…needed extra income, so I opened a small catering company.”

“You’re now self-employed, then?”

“Yes.”

“You hire others to help you?”

“Not always. At first, I could handle the entire workload alone. Now that my clientele has increased, I do bring in extra help on occasion, but still do most of the food preparation myself.”

“And offer a very exclusive service to your patrons, I’m sure.”

“Yes. They expect me to oversee special events in person.”

“A demanding business, being one’s own boss, don’t you find? What prompted you to tackle such an undertaking?”

“It allowed me to be at home with my son when he was a baby.”

“Resourceful and enterprising. I admire that in a woman.” He steepled his fingers and regarded her sympathetically. “How do you find it, now that your son’s older?”

“It’s not so easy,” she admitted. “He’s long past the age where he’s content to play quietly in a corner while I create a wedding buffet for sixty people.”

He allowed himself a small, sympathetic smile. “I don’t doubt it. So who looks after him when you’re away taking care of the social needs of strangers?”

“My next-door neighbor,” she replied, wincing inwardly at his too-accurate assessment of her clientele. “She’s an older woman, a widow and a grandmother, and very reliable.”

“But not quite as devoted to him as you are, I’m sure.”

“Is anyone ever able to take a mother’s place, Mr. Orsini?”

“No, as I have learned to my very great cost.” Then switching subjects suddenly, he said, “What sort of place do you live in?”

Bristling, she snapped, “Not a hovel, if that’s what you’re implying,” and wondered how much Lindsay had told him about her straitened circumstances.

“I didn’t suggest that it was,” he returned mildly. “I’m merely trying to learn more about you. Paint the appropriate background to a very attractive portrait, if you like.”

Mollified enough to reply less defensively, she said, “I rent a two-bedroom town house in a gated community several miles south of the city.”

“In other words, a safe place where your son can play in the garden without fear that he might wander away.”

She thought of the narrow patio outside her kitchen, the strip of lawn not much bigger than a bath towel that lay beyond it and her neighbors on the other side, the Shaws—a crusty old couple in their eighties, who complained constantly that Matthew made too much noise. “Not exactly. I have no garden as such. I take him to play at a nearby park instead, and if I’m not available, my sitter takes him for me.”

“But there are other children he can visit in this gated community, boys his own age, with similar interests?”

“Unfortunately not. Most residents are older—many, like my baby-sitter, retired.”

“Does he at least have a dog or cat to keep him company?”

“We aren’t allowed to own pets.”

He raised his elegant black brows. “ Dio , he might as well be in prison, for all the freedom he enjoys.”

In truth, she couldn’t refute an opinion which all too closely coincided with her own, but she wasn’t about to tell him so. “Nothing’s ever perfect, Mr. Orsini. If it were, our children wouldn’t be growing up with one parent standing in for two.”

“But they are,” he replied. “Which brings me to my next question. Now that you’ve had time to recover from the initial shock, what is your opinion on the content of the letters?”

“What?” She raised startled eyes to his and found herself impaled in a gaze at once penetrating and inscrutable.

“Your opinion,” he repeated, a sudden hint of steel threading his words. “Surely, Signora Mallory, you haven’t forgotten the real reason you’re here?”

“Hardly. I just haven’t given the matter…much thought.”

“Then I suggest you do so. Enough time has passed since my wife wrote of her last wishes. I do not propose to delay honoring them any longer than I have to.”

“Well, I do not propose to be bullied, Mr. Orsini, not by you or anyone else. Since you’re so anxious for an answer, though, let me be blunt. I can’t see myself ever agreeing to Lindsay’s request.”

“Her friendship meant so little to you, then?”

“Save the emotional blackmail for someone else,” she shot back. “It’s not going to work with me.”

His smoky-gray eyes darkened. With suppressed anger? Sorrow? Frustration? She couldn’t tell. His expression gave away nothing. “Emotion does not play a role in this situation. It is a business proposition, pure and simple, devised solely for the benefit of your child and mine. The most convenient way to implement it is for you and me to join forces in marriage.”

“Something I find totally unacceptable. In case you’re not aware, marriages of convenience went out of fashion in this country a long time ago. Should I ever decide to marry again, which is doubtful, it will be to someone of my own choosing.”

“It seems to me, Signora Mallory, that you’re in no position to be so particular. By your own admission, you do not own your own home, which leaves you at the mercy of a landlord, you’re overworked and your son spends a great deal of time being cared for by someone other than yourself.”

“At least I have my independence.”

“For which both you and your boy pay a very high price.” He regarded her silently a moment, then in a seductively cajoling tone, went on, “I admire your spirit, cara mia , but why are you so set on continuing with your present lifestyle, when I can offer you so much more?”

“For a start, because I don’t like having charity forced down my throat.” And calling me cara mia isn’t going to change that .

“Is that how you see this? Do you not understand that, in our situation, the favors work both ways—that my daughter stands to gain as much from the arrangement as your son?”

Absently Corinne touched a fingertip to the velvet-soft petals of the nearest rose. They reminded her of Matthew’s skin when he was a baby. Before he’d turned into a tyrant.

… Raffaello will do his best to keep me alive in her heart , but having you to turn to would be the next best thing to having me , Lindsay had written, or words to that effect. I’m entrusting you with my daughter’s life, Corinne ….

Seeming to think she was actually considering his proposal, Raffaello Orsini asked, “Are you afraid I’m going to demand my husbandly rights in the bedroom?”

“I don’t know. Are you?” Corinne blurted out rashly, too irked by the faint hint of derision in his question to consider how he might interpret her reply.

“Would you like me to?”

She opened her mouth to issue a flat denial, then snapped it closed as an image swam unbidden into her mind, shockingly detailed, shockingly erotic, of how Raffaello Orsini’s naked body might look. Her inner response—the jolt of awareness that rocked her body, the sudden flush of heat streaming through her blood—appalled her.

She’d moved through the preceding four years like an automaton, directing all her energies to providing a safe, stable and loving home for her son. As breadwinner, the one responsible for everything from rent to medical insurance to paying off debts incurred by her late husband, she’d had no choice but to put her own needs aside. To be assaulted now by this sudden aberration—for how else could she describe it?—was ridiculous, but also an untimely reminder that she was still a woman whose sexuality might have been relegated to the back burner, but whose flame, it seemed, had not been entirely extinguished.