Книга - His Merciless Marriage Bargain

His Merciless Marriage Bargain
Jane Porter


The Italian’s shock heir…Raising her sister’s child has left Rachel Bern penniless and desperate. Her orphaned nephew’s family have ignored her attempts at contact, so she has no choice but to bring him to the Marcellos' Venetian door.Losing his brother has devastated Giovanni Marcello. Rachel’s news is another bombshell, and he can’t believe that she doesn’t have an ulterior motive. One kiss should unravel her deception—until their smouldering chemistry has Gio reconsidering…Gio exacts a high price for acknowledging his heir, but Rachel cannot help but succumb to his outrageous demands. Even if it means walking down the aisle!







The Italian’s shock heir...

Raising her sister’s child has left Rachel Bern penniless and desperate. Since her orphaned nephew’s family has ignored her attempts at contact, she has no choice but to bring him to the Marcellos’ Venetian door.

Losing his brother devastated Giovanni Marcello. Rachel’s news is another bombshell, and he can’t believe that she doesn’t have an ulterior motive. One kiss should unravel her deception, until their smoldering chemistry has Gio reconsidering...

Gio exacts a high price for acknowledging his heir, but Rachel cannot help but succumb to his outrageous demands. Even if it means walking down the aisle!


“This is my city and my home, and you are the outsider here. If there is to be a story, it’s going to be my story, not yours,” Gio answered, reaching out to lift a dark glossy tendril of hair from Rachel’s cheek.

He felt carnal and hungry. Desire ran hot in his veins.

“The only story is the truth. You have a nephew you refuse to acknowledge, never mind support.”

“But is he my nephew?”

“Yes, you know he is. I’ve sent you the birth certificate and we can do a DNA test while I’m here—”

“Proving what?” he retorted. Before she could answer, he reached for her again, his hand coiling in her long dark hair, tilting her head back to take her mouth in a long, searing kiss.

She didn’t stiffen or resist. If anything, she leaned into him and he wrapped an arm around her slender frame holding her against him as he deepened the kiss, his tongue sweeping her mouth, tasting her, weakening her defenses. By the time he lifted his head, she was silent, no fight left in her. Her wide brown eyes looked up into his.

“You should never underestimate your opponent, Rachel,” he said quietly, running his thumb lightly across her soft flushed cheek. “And you most definitely shouldn’t have underestimated me.”


Conveniently Wed!

Conveniently wedded, passionately bedded!

Whether there’s a debt to be paid, a will to be obeyed or a business to be saved… she’s got no choice but to say, ‘I do!’

But these billionaire bridegrooms have got another think coming if they think marriage will be that easy…

Soon their convenient brides become the objects of an inconvenient desire!

Look out for these Conveniently Wed! stories

Bought with the Italian’s Ring by Tara Pammi

Bound to the Sicilian’s Bed by Sharon Kendrick

Imprisoned by the Greek’s Ring by Caitlin Crews

Coming soon!


His Merciless Marriage Bargain

Jane Porter






www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


New York Times and USA TODAY bestselling author JANE PORTER has written forty romances and eleven women’s fiction novels since her first sale to Mills & Boon in 2000. A five-time RITA® Award finalist, Jane is known for her passionate, emotional and sensual novels, and loves nothing more than alpha heroes, exotic locations and happy-ever-afters. Today Jane lives in sunny San Clemente, California, with her surfer husband and three sons. Visit janeporter.com (http://janeporter.com).

Books by Jane Porter

Mills & Boon Modern Romance

Bought to Carry His Heir

At the Greek Boss’s Bidding

A Dark Sicilian Secret

Duty, Desire and the Desert King

At the Greek Boss’s Bidding

Hollywood Husband, Contract Wife

The Disgraced Copelands

The Fallen Greek Bride

His Defiant Desert Queen

Her Sinful Secret

A Royal Scandal

Not Fit for a King?

His Majesty’s Mistake

The Desert Kings

The Sheikh’s Chosen Queen

King of the Desert, Captive Bride

Visit the Author Profile page at millsandboon.co.uk (http://millsandboon.co.uk) for more titles.


Contents

Cover (#ubd9237de-bf61-560b-83b3-8ed7429a46e8)

Back Cover Text (#u9c3bb4ad-1202-5c1f-8060-e48aa171db13)

Introduction (#u12fbafd7-d709-5f0a-999c-cb7d5506a7a5)

Conveniently Wed! (#u0bb56a21-412b-5808-ad09-96074bab2938)

Title Page (#ud8d05542-34de-5eb2-8b85-665bdb5ee8a0)

About the Author (#ub4dbeec2-7f4b-58a1-bba1-532721b13e5a)

CHAPTER ONE (#u202cb9a8-d0d1-5ffc-af43-07b6fcdd8116)

CHAPTER TWO (#u638b8d64-06ba-5916-985d-abb37affa954)

CHAPTER THREE (#ua550a3fa-7f24-5250-b187-eb9c2ce9bcd7)

CHAPTER FOUR (#u8ac462a4-6de2-5738-9fe7-cbb0c6e0f663)

CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER THIRTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER FOURTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER FIFTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

EPILOGUE (#litres_trial_promo)

Extract (#litres_trial_promo)

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)


CHAPTER ONE (#u41bd77cf-e2f4-5484-877e-505bbd97b916)

RACHEL BERN STOOD outside the imposing doors of the Palazzo Marcello shivering, the wind grabbing at her black coat and ponytail, sending both flying.

Overhead, thick gray clouds blanketed the sky and the rising tides sent water surging over the banks of the lagoon, wetting the streets of Venice, but the stormy weather wasn’t so different from her weather in Seattle. She’d grown up with rain and damp. This morning she wasn’t shivering from cold, but nerves.

This could go so very wrong. It could blow up in her face, leaving her and Michael in an even worse situation, but she was at her wit’s end. If this didn’t get Giovanni Marcello’s attention, nothing would. She’d tried everything else, tried every other form of communication, but every attempt resulted in silence and the silence was destructive. Crushing. She was taking a huge risk, but what else could she do?

Giovanni Marcello, an Italian billionaire, was also one of the most reclusive businessmen in Italy. He rarely socialized. He had no direct email or phone, and when Rachel finally reached Signor Marcello’s front office management, they were noncommittal about relaying messages to the CEO of the holding company, Marcello SpA. And so she was here, at the Palazzo Marcello in Venice, the family’s home for the past two hundred years. Until the turn of the twentieth century, the Marcellos had been a shrewd, successful manufacturing family that had earned its place in society through hard work and wealth, but in the past forty years, the family had expanded from manufacturing and construction into real estate and, under the helm of Giovanni Marcello, investing in world markets. The Marcello fortune had quadrupled through Giovanni’s management, and they had become one of the most powerful and influential families in Italy.

Thirty-eight-year-old Giovanni continued to head up the holding company based in Rome, but she’d just discovered through her hired investigator that he rarely put in an appearance at the office, choosing instead to work from Venice. Which was why she was now here on his doorstep, exhausted and jet-lagged from traveling with a six-month-old baby, but determined. He couldn’t ignore her any longer. There would be no more shutting her out, or more importantly, Michael.

Heart aching, eyes stinging, she glanced down at the bundle in her arms, the baby thankfully finally sleeping, and silently apologized for what she was about to do. “It’s for your sake,” she whispered, bringing him close to her chest and giving a light squeeze. “And I’m not going far, I promise.”

Even in his sleep, the baby wriggled in protest. She smiled ruefully, easing her hold, but she couldn’t ease the guilt. She hadn’t slept since they left Seattle, but then, she hadn’t slept in months, not since she’d become his full-time caregiver. At six months he should be ready to sleep through the night, but maybe he felt how unsettled she was, or maybe he was missing his mother...

Rachel’s eyes stung and her heart smarted. If only she’d done more for Juliet after Michael’s birth, if only she’d understood how distraught she had been...

But Rachel couldn’t turn back time, and so she was here, about to hand him over to his father’s family. Not forever, of course, just for a few minutes, but to make a point. They needed help. She was broke and about to lose her job, and it wasn’t right, not when his father’s family could, and should, help.

Swallowing, she raised her hand and knocked firmly on the door, and then, in case the knock couldn’t be heard inside, she pressed the button for the doorbell mounted on the wall. Did the bell even work, she wondered? Had anyone heard her?

Between the wind and the lapping of water and the voices of tourists and travelers on the lagoon, she wasn’t sure if anyone was stirring within the palazzo. She knew she was being watched, though, and not from within the building, but from the photographers stationed outside. There was one across the lagoon and another on a balcony of an adjacent building, as well as another parked in a tethered gondola. She’d seen the cameras as she stepped off the water taxi and was glad to see them as she’d been the one to tip them off, teasing the various media outlets that something significant was happening today, something to do with a Marcello baby.

It was easy enough to accomplish when one’s job hinged on publicity, marketing and customer relations for AeroDynamics, one of the largest airline manufacturers in the world. Normally her PR efforts were to attract new, affluent customers—sheikhs, tycoons, sports figures, celebrities—by showcasing AeroDynamics sleek jet designs and luxurious interiors, but today she needed the media because they could apply pressure for her. Their photos would draw attention, and subsequent public scrutiny, and Giovanni Marcello would not like it. He valued his privacy and would take immediate steps to curtail the attention. But before he did that, she needed to make sure that she got the right action and the proper results. She didn’t want to shame the Marcellos, or alienate them. She needed them on her side—correction, on Michael’s side—but her actions now might do the opposite and push them further away—

No, she couldn’t go there. She wouldn’t think that way. Giovanni Marcello had to accept Michael, and he would, once he saw how much his nephew looked like his brother.

Rachel lifted her hand to knock again, but the door swung open before she could rap a second time. A tall thin elderly man stood in the doorway. Shadows stretched behind him. From the doorstep, the space appeared cavernous, with a glinting of an ornate chandelier high overhead.

She looked from the grand light fixture to the elderly man. He wore a plain dark suit, a very simple suit, and she suspected he wasn’t family, but someone who worked for the Marcellos. “Signor Marcello, per favore,” she said calmly, crisply, praying her Italian would be understood. She’d practiced the phrase on the flight, repeating the simple request over and over to ensure she could deliver the words with the right note of authority.

“Signor Marcello non è disponibile,” he answered flatly.

Her brows furrowed as she tried to decipher what he’d said. Non was not. Disponibile could mean just about anything but she sensed it was a negative, either way.

“È lui non a casa?” she stumbled, struggling to remember the words, not at all sure she was getting the tense right, or the correct words, never mind the words in the proper order. Her little phrase book only gave her so many options.

“No. Addio.”

She understood those words. No, and goodbye.

She moved forward swiftly before he could close the door on her, using her low-heeled boot to keep the door ajar.

“Il bambino Michael Marcello,” she said in Italian, before switching to English as she thrust the infant into the old man’s arms. “Please tell Signor Marcello that Michael will need a bottle when he wakes.”

She drew the diaper bag strap from her shoulder and set the bulging bag down on the doorstep at the man’s feet. “He will also need a diaper change, probably before the bottle,” she added, fighting to keep her voice even, almost impossible when her heart raced and she already itched to reach out and wrench the baby back. “Everything he needs is in the bag, including his schedule to help him adjust. If there are questions, my hotel information is in the bag, along with my cell number.”

And then her voice did break and her throat sealed closed and she turned away, walking quickly before the tears could fall.

It’s for Michael, she told herself, swiping tears as she hurried toward the canal. Be brave. Be strong. You’re doing this for him.

The baby wouldn’t be away from her for more than a few minutes because she fully expected Giovanni Marcello to come after her. If not now, then surely at her hotel, which was less than five minutes away by water taxi, as she’d left all her contact details in the diaper bag.

And yet, every step she took carried her farther from the palazzo and closer to the water taxi waiting for her, and now with Michael out of her arms, she felt hollow and empty, every instinct in her screaming for her to turn around and go back and have this out with Giovanni, face-to-face.

But what if Giovanni refused to come to the door? How was she to force Giovanni out for the necessary conversation?

The old man shouted something, his voice thin and sharp. She didn’t understand, but one word did stand out. Polizia. Was he threatening to call the police? She wasn’t surprised if he was. It’s what she’d do if someone just abandoned a six-month-old infant to her care. Numb and heartsick, she kept her focus on the water taxi tethered in the canal. The driver was watching her and she waved, signaling that she was ready to go.

Seconds later, a hand seized her upper arm. The fingers gripped her tightly, the hold painful. “Ouch!” Rachel winced at the painful hold. “Let go.”

“Stop running,” the deep male voice ground out, the voice as hard as the punishing grip, his English perfect with just the slightest accent.

She turned around, the persistent wind having loosened dark strands from her ponytail, making it hard to see him through the tangle of hair. “I’m not running,” she said fiercely, trying to free herself, but he stood close, his grip unrelenting. “Can you give me some space, please?”

“Not a chance, Miss Bern.”

She knew then who this tall man was, and a shiver raced through her as she pushed long strands of hair behind her ears. Giovanni Marcello wasn’t just tall, he was impressively broad through the shoulders, with thick black hair, light eyes and high cheekbones above a firm, unsmiling mouth. She’d seen pictures of him on the internet. There weren’t many, as he didn’t attend a lot of social events like his brother Antonio had, but in every photo he was elegantly dressed, impeccably groomed. Polished. Gleaming. Hard.

He looked even harder in person. His light eyes—an icy blue—glittered down at her and his strong, chiseled features were set. Grim.

She felt a flutter of fear. It crossed her mind that beneath the groomed exterior was something dark and brooding, something that struck her as not entirely civilized.

Rachel took a step back, needing her distance even more now.

“You said you weren’t running,” he growled.

“I’m not going anywhere, and there’s no need for you to be on top of me.”

“Are you unwell, Miss Bern? Are you having a breakdown?”

“Why would you ask that?”

“Because you’ve just abandoned a child on my doorstep.”

“He’s not being abandoned. You’re his uncle.”

“I strongly suggest you retrieve the child before the police arrive.”

“Let the police come. At least then the world will know the truth.”

He arched a black brow. “So you are unwell.”

“I’m perfectly well. In fact, I couldn’t be better. You have no idea how difficult it has been to locate you. Months of investigation, not to mention money I couldn’t afford to spend on a private investigator, but at least we are here now, face-to-face, ready to discuss new responsibilities.”

“The only thing I have to say to you is collect the child—”

“Your nephew.”

“And return home before this becomes unpleasant for everybody.”

“It’s already unpleasant for me. Your help is desperately needed.”

“You, and he, are not my problem.”

“Michael is a Marcello. He’s your late brother’s only child, and he should be protected and provided for by his family.”

“That is not going to happen.”

“I think it will.”

His eyes narrowed, the icy blue irises partially hidden by dense black lashes. “You are deliberately trying to provoke me.”

“And why not? You’ve done nothing but irritate and provoke me for the past few months. You had many opportunities to reply to my emails and phone calls, but you couldn’t be bothered to reach out, so now I’m returning to you what is yours.” Which wasn’t actually true—she wasn’t leaving Michael here, but she didn’t have to let him know that.

“You’re definitely not sound if you’re abandoning your sister’s son—”

“And Antonio’s,” she interrupted tautly. “If you recall your lessons in biology, conception requires a sperm and an egg, and in this instance it’s Juliet’s and Antonio’s—” She paused, grinding down to hold back the rest of the hot painful words, words that ached and kept her from sleeping and eating. Juliet had always been foolish and impractical, her dreams littered with hearts, flowers, expensive sports cars and wealthy boyfriends. “The DNA paperwork is inside his diaper bag,” she continued. “You’ll find his medical records and everything you need to know about his routine in there, too. I’ve done my part. Now it’s your turn.” She gave him a brittle nod and turned away, grateful for the water taxi that still waited for her.

He caught her once more, this time by the nape, warm fingers sliding beneath her ponytail to wrap around her neck. “You’re going nowhere, Miss Bern, at least not without that child.” His voice had dropped, deepening, and she shuddered at the sensation burning through her.

His grip was in no way painful but her skin tingled from head to toe. It was almost as if he’d plugged her into an electric socket. As he turned her to face him, goose bumps covered her arms, and every part of her felt unbearably sensitive.

She looked up into his cool blue eyes and went hot, then cold, feeling a frisson of awareness streak through her. She wasn’t afraid, but the sensation was too sharp, too intense to be pleasurable. “And you really must stop manhandling me, Signor Marcello,” she answered faintly, her heart thudding violently.

“Why is that, Miss Bern?”

She stared up into his face, her gaze locking with his. There was nothing icy about his eyes now. No, they glowed with intelligence and heat and power. There was a physicality about him that stole her breath, knocking her off balance. She tried to gather her thoughts but his energy was so strong she felt it hum through her, lighting her up, making her feel as if he’d somehow stripped her bare.

Gulping for air, she looked down at his strong straight nose and the brackets on either side of his mouth. His face was not a boy’s but a man’s, with creases and lines, and if she didn’t dislike him so much, she would have found the creases beautiful. “You are giving the paparazzi quite a show, you know,” she whispered.

His strong black brows pulled.

“All the manhandling won’t look well in tomorrow’s papers. I’m afraid there are too many incriminating photos.”

“Incriminating photos—” He broke off abruptly, understanding dawning.

His hand dropped even as his gaze scanned the wide canal and the narrow pavement fronting the water and old buildings. She saw the moment he spotted the first of the cameras, and then others. His dark head turned, his gaze raking her, the blue fire blistering her. “What have you done?”

His voice was deep and rough, his accent more pronounced. Her pulse drummed and her insides churned. She’d scored her first hit, and it scared her. She wasn’t accustomed to battling anyone, much less a powerful man. In her work, she assisted, providing support and information. She didn’t challenge or contradict.

“I did what needed to be done,” she said hoarsely. “You refused to acknowledge your nephew. Your family falls in step with whatever you say, and so I’ve pressed the issue. Now the whole world knows that your brother’s son has been returned to your family.”

* * *

Giovanni Marcello drew a slow deep breath and then another. He was shocked as well as livid. He’d been played. Played. By a manipulative, money-hungry American no less. He despised gold diggers. Greedy, selfish, soulless. “You contacted the media, inviting them here today?”

“I did.”

Rachel was no different from her sister. His fingers curled a little, the only sign that he was seething inwardly. “You’re pleased with yourself.”

“I’m pleased that you’ve been forced out of hiding—”

“I was never hiding. Everyone knows this is my home. It’s common knowledge that I work here, as well.”

“Then why is this the first time I’ve had a conversation with you? I’ve reached out to your company staff again and again, and you’ve never bothered to respond to anything!”

Who was she to demand anything from him? From the start her family had only wanted one thing: to milk the Marcellos. Her sister, Juliet Bern, wasn’t in love with his brother, rather she wanted Antonio’s money. And once she could no longer blackmail Antonio, Juliet turned on his family, and then once Juliet was gone, it was Rachel’s turn. Disgusting. “I owe you nothing, and my family owes you nothing. Your sister is gone. Well, my brother is gone, too. Such is life—”

“Juliet said you had a heart of ice.”

“Do you really think you’re the first woman to try to entrap Antonio?” Or me? Gio silently added, as he’d been played for a fool once, but he’d learned. He knew better than to trust a pretty face.

“I didn’t entrap anyone. I didn’t sleep with anyone. I find no pleasure in this, Signor Marcello. If anything, I’m horrified. I am not reckless. I do not fall in love with strangers, or make love to handsome wealthy Italian men. I have scruples and morals, and you are not someone I admire, and your wealth doesn’t make you appealing. Your wealth, though, can help a little boy who needs support.”

“So I’m to applaud you?”

“No. Just have a conscience, please.”

From the corner of his eye, Giovanni saw a photographer move, crouching as he crept forward, snapping away. His gut tightened, his chest hot with barely leashed anger.

He couldn’t believe she’d managed to draw him out of the palazzo and into this scene, a very public scene with witnesses everywhere.

With his position at the helm of the family business, he’d worked hard to keep personal affairs out of the news. It’d taken nearly a decade to restore his family’s fortune and his family’s reputation, but finally the Marcellos were a name to be proud of and a brand that garnered respect. It hadn’t been easy to redeem their name, but he’d managed it through consistent, focused effort. Now, in one reckless moment, this American was about to turn the Marcellos into tabloid fodder once more.

He wasn’t ready. He was still struggling to come to terms with his brother’s death and refused to have Antonio’s memory darkened, his name besmirched, by those consumed with greed. “This isn’t a conversation I intend to continue on the streets of Venice,” he ground out. He was usually so good at avoiding confrontations. He knew how to manage conflict. And yet here they were, staging an epic soap opera, just a block off the Grand Canal. It couldn’t be more public. “Nor am I about to let you abuse my family. If there is to be a story, I shall provide the story, not you.”

“It’s a little late for that, Signor Marcello. The story has been captured on a half-dozen different cameras. I guarantee within the hour you’ll find those images online. Tabloids pay—”

“I’m fully aware of how the paparazzi works.”

“Then you’re also aware of what they have to work with—me handing the baby to your employee, you chasing after me and now us arguing in front of my water taxi.” She paused. “Wouldn’t it have been so much easier to have just taken my phone call?”

His gaze swept her face. He felt an uneasy memory of another woman who looked very much like this American Rachel Bern...

Another beautiful brunette who had been exquisitely confident...

He pushed the memory of his fiancée, Adelisa, from mind, but her memory served a purpose. It reminded him of his vow that he’d never let a woman have the upper hand again. Fortunately, he knew that stories could be massaged, and facts weren’t always objective. Rachel had come to give the photographers a fantastic shot, something they could take to every newspaper and magazine, and Gio could help her with that. He could ensure the paparazzi photographers with their telephoto lenses had something significant to capture, something that would derail her strategy.

Giovanni pulled her to him, one arm locking around her waist, the other hand free to lift her face. Holding her captive, he cupped her chin and jaw, angling her face up to his. He saw a flare of panic in her eyes, the brown irises shot with flecks of green and gold, before he dropped his head, capturing her mouth with his.

She stiffened, her lips still, her breath bottling. He could feel her fear and tension and he instantly gentled the kiss. Although he’d reached for her in anger, he wasn’t in the habit of kissing a woman in anger.

Her mouth was soft and warm. Despite her tension, she was soft and warm and he pulled her closer, tipping her head farther back to tease her lips. He stroked the seam with the tip of his tongue, her mouth generous and pliant. A quiver raced through her, her body shuddering against him and he stroked the seam again, playing with the full upper lip, catching the bow gently in his teeth.

She made a hoarse sound, not in pain, but pleasure, and a lance of hot desire streaked through him, making him hard all over.

He deepened the kiss, her lips parting for him, giving him access to the sweet heat of her mouth. It had been months since he’d enjoyed a kiss half so much, and he took his time, the kiss an exploration of taste and texture and response. His tongue traced the edge of her upper lip and he felt her shudder, her mouth opening wider.

She tasted sweet and hot, but also surprisingly innocent, and his body throbbed, blood drumming in his veins. With his arm in the small of her back, he pulled her even closer, stroking her mouth, over her lower lip, and then finding her tongue, making her shiver again.

Her breathless sighs and little shivers whetted his appetite. It’d been a long time since he felt hunger like this. It had been a year and a half since he’d broken things off with his last mistress, and he’d spent evenings with different women since, but he hadn’t slept with any of them. How could he when there was no desire? Antonio’s death had numbed him to everything, until now.

Abruptly Gio released Rachel and took a step back, his pulse thudding hard and heavy, echoing the hot ache in his groin. She stood dazed and motionless, her brown eyes cloudy and bemused.

“That should give your photographer friends something intriguing to sell.” His voice sounded harsh even to his own ears. “It will be interesting to see what story the papers run with the addition of these news shots. Is it really about the baby? Or is this more? A lover’s quarrel, their passionate encounter, an emotional goodbye?”

She exhaled, her cheeks flushed with color, her eyes overly bright. “Why?” she choked.

“Because this is my city and my home, and you are the outsider here. If there is to be a story, it’s going to be my story, not yours.”

“And what is that story, Signor Marcello?”

“Let’s make this easier. It’s always best to keep the story simple. I am Giovanni—close friends and family call me Gio, and you may call me Gio—and I shall call you Rachel.”

“I prefer the formal.”

“But it rings false,” he answered, reaching out to lift a dark glossy tendril of hair from her cheek and carefully smooth it back from her face. Her skin was soft and so very warm and he was reminded of the kiss, and the heat and the sweetness of her mouth. Such a mouth. The things he could do to her mouth. He still felt carnal and hungry. Desire still ran hot in his veins. It was a novelty after so many months of grief and emptiness. “We are no longer strangers. We have a history. A story. And the media, I think, will be enamored with our story.”

“The only story is the truth. You have a nephew you refuse to acknowledge, never mind support.”

“But is he my nephew?”

“Yes, you know he is. I’ve sent you the birth certificate and we can do a DNA test while I’m here—”

“Proving what?” he retorted. Before she could answer, he reached for her again, his hand coiling in her long dark hair, tilting her head back to take her mouth in a long, searing kiss.

She didn’t stiffen or resist. If anything, she leaned into him and he wrapped an arm around her slender frame holding her against him as he deepened the kiss, his tongue sweeping her mouth, tasting her, weakening her defenses. By the time he lifted his head, she was silent, no fight left in her. Her wide brown eyes looked up into his.

“You should never underestimate your opponent, Rachel,” he said quietly, running his thumb lightly across her soft flushed cheek. “And you most definitely shouldn’t have underestimated me.”


CHAPTER TWO (#u41bd77cf-e2f4-5484-877e-505bbd97b916)

RACHEL COULDN’T THINK. Her brain was foggy, and her body had gone to mush. She could barely control her limbs much less her wild emotions. What had just happened? And how had she lost power so quickly?

It was the kiss. The kiss had been her undoing. It was that good. He was that good. And if Antonio had kissed Juliet this way, Rachel almost understood why Juliet lost her head.

“Now you’re going to wrap your arm about my waist,” Giovanni said, his hand settling low on her back, hand warm against the base of her spine, “and we’re going to retrace our steps and we’ll return to my house together.”

“I’m not going to—”

He captured her face, kissing her again, deeply, teasing, stroking her lips and the inside of her mouth, setting her body on fire, destroying her resistance. She reached for his sweater, clinging to the softness, needing support, but the cashmere stretched, yielding, and she leaned against his chest, unable to stand.

“Stop fighting me, and put your arm around me,” he murmured, his deep voice in her ear. “You’re making this more difficult than it needs to be.”

Her hand turned into a fist and she pressed it against his torso, pushing back at him, angry and off balance, not sure how he’d flipped everything around, seizing control from her. His body was so warm, heat emanated from him, making her want to step closer, not farther away. It was so confusing. She pressed her fist into him, pressing against the lean, hard muscle of his torso. “You’re the one playing a game, Giovanni.”

“Oh, yes, and it is my game.”

She licked the swollen fullness of her upper lip. Her mouth still tingled and throbbed from the kisses. “The rules don’t make sense.”

“That’s because you’re not thinking clearly. Later it will be clear to you.”

“But that could be too late.”

He stroked her hot cheek. “Very true.”

That light caress made her pulse jump. Her legs still weren’t steady. “You need to stop touching me.”

His head dipped, his lips against her brow, and then another light kiss high on her cheekbone, his deep voice humming through her. “You shouldn’t have started this.”

She closed her eyes as his lips brushed her earlobe, the touch warm and light, making her skin tingle. “Stop. This is about Michael, and only Michael,” she protested, but her voice was weak and she didn’t sound convincing, not even to herself.

He knew, too. She could tell by the glint in his eyes, a bright fierce flash of triumph. He thought he’d won, and maybe he had won this one battle, but it was an isolated battle and he hadn’t won the war. At the same time, she couldn’t secure Michael’s future by remaining outside, bickering.

Or kissing. Because she didn’t kiss strangers. She wasn’t free with her affections. If anything, she was a little nervous around men, not having a lot of confidence in herself as a woman. It’d been years since she’d been out on a proper date, and Juliet used to say that men would like her better if she’d just relax and not take herself so seriously.

It wasn’t that Rachel took herself so seriously, but she didn’t know how to flirt, and she wasn’t about to resort to flattery just to make a man feel good. Fortunately, in her job she didn’t have to flatter and charm, she just needed to know her aircraft, and she did. It was easy to be enthusiastic about luxury planes and all the different ways one could customize an AeroDynamics jet interior.

“Ready to go in?” Giovanni asked, placing a kiss on the top of her head. “Or do we need to give our photographer friends another passionate embrace?”

“No!” Reluctantly she slid her arm around his waist, shuddering as he drew her close to his hip, and then they were walking, but she couldn’t even feel her legs.

This was crazy. She couldn’t wrap her head around everything that had just happened. Perhaps he was crazy. Perhaps she’d just thrown herself from the fire into the frying pan. Was that the expression? In her dazed state, she couldn’t be sure of anything right now. His kisses... They’d wrecked her. His touch absolutely baffled her.

No one touched her. No one wanted to kiss her. And she knew he didn’t really want to kiss her, but he’d done it to shift the power, seize control. It had been a shocking move but surprisingly effective. That’s the part she didn’t understand. When had kissing someone become the way to handle a situation? And why had it worked so well on her? She should have been able to resist him. She should have been outraged and offended and not melted.

And she had melted. Into a puddle of boneless, spineless sensation.

But now she needed to gather herself and focus and think. Think. She needed a new plan, and quickly.

They were crossing the pavement, approaching the palazzo, and while she dreaded entering Giovanni’s home, she’d at least have Michael back.

Rachel suddenly stumbled, tripping over her own feet. His arm tightened around her, and he drew her firmly against his side. “Too close,” she protested.

“I can feel you trembling. If I let you go, you’ll fall.”

“Blame yourself. You had no business kissing me.”

“Has it been that long since you’ve been properly kissed?”

“I wouldn’t call it a proper kiss. In America we don’t manhandle women.”

“Yes, I’ve heard that American men don’t know how to handle women. Such a shame.” They paused several feet from the door. He tilted her face up, stared into her eyes. “You look better now that you’ve been kissed, though. Less pale and pinched.” He smiled into her eyes but there was a predatory gleam in the blue depths. “Do you want to thank me now, or later?”

She knew what he was doing, striking a pose, giving the photographers more pictures with different angles for a wide variety of shots, but it infuriated her that he’d taken her big moment and turned it into his. “This is going to end badly,” she said tightly.

The corner of his mouth lifted, and he stared down into her face for a long, tense moment, before laughing shortly. “Are you just now figuring that out?”

The front door suddenly swung open, and he kept her close as they entered the palazzo, passing through the high wooden doors and into the cavernous central hall lit by an enormous Murano chandelier, at least seven feet tall, a masterpiece of sparkling glass leaves, flowers and fruits all set amongst intricate, delicate glass rods and fanciful, fragile arabesques.

A member of his staff had obviously been at the front door watching and waiting for them, as the front door opened before Giovanni could touch it, and then closed quietly behind them. Rachel turned her head, craning to see if it was the old man who’d answered the door earlier, but Giovanni was urging her forward, moving her toward the stairs.

Think, she told herself. She needed to clear her head and follow a thought all the way through instead of this—this capitulation of reason and control.

“You can let me go now,” she said, shrugging to free herself. “There are no cameras here.”

His arm fell away but his fingers remained low on her spine, creating insistent pressure as he marched her up the sweeping marble stairs to a formal salon on the second floor. The doors again magically closed behind them and only then did Giovanni’s hand leave her.

She felt more than a little lost as she glanced around a room that could only be described as magnificent. More glittering chandeliers lined the ceiling, with matching sconces on the wall. Tall windows overlooked the canal while massive framed mirrors covered portions of the walls, the antique mirrors reflecting the gray light outside, highlighting the frescoed and plasterwork ceiling.

Rachel was out of her element but she’d never let him know. It was bad enough that he thought she’d enjoyed his kiss.

“Who has Michael?” she asked, standing stiffly in the center of the room. “Can you send for him?”

“No.” Giovanni gestured for her to sit. “We have quite a lot to discuss before he joins us.”

“We can talk once he’s back with me.”

“You left him here. I’m not about to just hand him over as if he were a lost wallet or umbrella.”

“You know why I did that.”

“I know you’re an impulsive woman—”

“You could not be more wrong. I am a very calm person—” She went quiet as she saw the lift on his eyebrow. “You’re making me upset. You’ve been impossible from the start.”

“We’ve only just met, and it was not an auspicious first meeting, with you abandoning an infant on my doorstep, and then running from the scene.”

Rachel clamped her jaw tight to keep from speaking too quickly, aware that every word could and would be used against her. She fought to control the pitch and tone of her voice. “I did not abandon him. I would not ever abandon him. I love him.”

“Odd way of showing it, don’t you think?”

“I was trying to get your attention.”

“And now you have it.” He gestured again toward the silk upholstered chair and sofa. “May I help you with your coat?”

“No, thank you. I won’t be staying long.”

He gave her an odd look, his lips twisting as if amused. “Are you sure you won’t be more comfortable?”

“I’ll be more comfortable when I have the baby.”

“He’s in good hands at the moment, and we have a great deal to discuss before he joins us. So I do suggest you try to be comfortable, since the conversation probably won’t be.” Gio’s gaze rested intently on her face before dropping to study the rest of her. “It’s been an unusually eventful morning. I’m sending for a coffee. Would you like one?”

She shook her head, and then changed her mind. “Yes, please.”

He reached for his phone from a pocket and shot off a message. “Coffee should be here soon,” he said, sitting down in the pale blue silk armchair facing the upholstered sofa. He stretched his legs before him, looking at ease. “Are you quite certain you wish to stand for the rest of the day?”

His tone was lazy, almost indulgent, and it provoked her more than if he’d spoken to her sternly. She felt her face flush and her body warm. “I certainly have no intention of being here more than a half hour at most.”

“You think we can sort out Michael’s future in thirty minutes or less?”

He sounded pleasant and reasonable, too reasonable, and it put her on guard, hands clenching at her sides, knuckles aching with the tightness of the grip. He was easier to fight when he was defensive and angry. Now she felt as if she were the difficult one.

It wasn’t fair but clearly he didn’t play by any rules but his own.

Drawing a quick breath, she sat down on the edge of the small wood framed sofa, the elegant and delicate shape popular hundreds of years ago, the silver silk fabric gleaming with bits of red and pale blue threads.

She folded her hands in her lap, waiting for him to speak. It was a tactic that worked well with her wealthy clients. They preferred being in control, and they felt most in control when they could dictate the conversation. She’d let Gio direct the conversation. He’d think he was in charge that way and she could use the time to regroup and plan.

But Giovanni was in no hurry to speak. He leaned back in his chair, legs extended, and watched her.

There was no sound in the grand room. No ticking clock. No creaking of any sort. Just silence, and the silence was excruciating.

Her pulse quickened as time stretched, lengthening, testing her patience. Her nerves felt wound to a breaking point. She exhaled hard. “If we don’t speak it will definitely take longer than a half hour to sort out Michael’s future,” she said shortly, irritated beyond reason with Giovanni. He was playing a game with her even now, and it made her impossibly angry.

“I was giving you time to compose yourself,” he answered with a faint smile. “You were trembling so much earlier I thought you could use a bit of time for rest and reflection.”

“It was cold and damp and windy outside. I was freezing, thus the shivers. It’s a natural reaction when chilled.”

“Are you cold now?”

“No, this room is heated. It’s quite nice in here.”

One of his black brows lifted ever so slightly but he didn’t speak, and her stomach did a nervous flip-flop.

He was toying with her deliberately. She was certain he wanted to make her uneasy. But why? Did he think she’d collapse into tears? She didn’t like the silence but it was preferable to being held and touched. She had an excellent head for business and had proven herself remarkably good at establishing and maintaining professional relationships, but personal relationships, those were problematic.

She hadn’t dated enough when she was younger. Although it’d be tempting to blame the opposite sex for failing to notice her, it wasn’t entirely true. She lacked confidence and had failed to put herself out there. Dating seemed to require too much energy and effort, with too many ups and downs to make the dashed dreams and rejection worthwhile.

Instead she focused on work, pouring herself into the job, earning promotions and bonuses as well as praise from senior management. While other young women her age were busy falling in love and needing time off for romantic weekends and holidays, she closed deals and made AeroDynamics money and found tremendous satisfaction in being the one everyone could count on for being there and doing what needed to be done.

Which was all very good and well at the corporate office, but sitting here in this enormous room, facing a tall, handsome, charismatic Italian, she was secretly terrified. She could sell a man a thirty-million-dollar airplane, but she fell apart when kissed, especially if the kiss was dark and sexual, destroying all rational thought.

“The silence is soothing, is it not?” she asked, struggling to sound as relaxed as he appeared.

He seemed to check a smile, grooves bracketing his firm mouth. “Indeed.”

“I hope we can drink our coffee in silence. Silence makes everything better,” she added, frustration growing. “Especially when it’s in such an impressive room.” She glanced around the salon, the proportions alone overwhelming, never mind the grand paintings and light fixtures. “I suppose you hoped to intimidate me by bringing me here to your grand salon.”

“This is not by any means my most impressive room. It’s actually one of the smaller salons on this floor, considered by most to be intimate and welcoming.” His lashes dropped, concealing the intense blue of his eyes. “It’s my mother’s favorite. If she were here, she’d serve you coffee here.”

Embarrassed, Rachel bit her lip and glanced away, more self-conscious and resentful than ever. Two weeks ago, when her private investigator gave her Giovanni’s address and she realized she’d have to come to Venice to get him to meet with her, she’d pictured meeting him somewhere neutral and public, perhaps at her hotel in one of the cheerful pleasant rooms downstairs, or maybe a quiet restaurant tucked away off the more public thoroughfares.

She’d imagined he’d be proud and arrogant, possibly grim and unsmiling. It hadn’t once crossed her mind that he’d kiss her, and then walk her into his home and shut the door and create this awful air of privacy. Intimacy. She swallowed hard and struggled to think of something to say. “Does your mother live here?”

“Part of the year. During the winter she likes to go to her sister’s in Sorrento.” He rose from his chair and walked toward the wall of tall windows, pausing before one window, his gaze fixed intently on a distant point.

She wondered if he was looking for the photographers, or if there was something else happening on the lagoon. She used the opportunity to study him. He was easily six-two, maybe taller, and his shoulders were broad, his spine long, tapering to a lean waist and powerful legs. Even from the back he crackled with authority and power. He was not the recluse she’d imagined.

Still staring out, Gio added, “I confess, I’m surprised you never reached out to her. I would have thought that in your desperation you would have approached her. Who to better love and accept a bambino than the grandmother?”

She folded her hands in her lap. “I did reach out.”

He turned to look at her. “And?”

“She wasn’t interested.”

“Is that what she said?”

“No. She never responded.”

“She probably didn’t get your messages then.”

“I didn’t just call. I wrote letters, too.”

“All sent to the Marcello corporate office in Rome?”

Rachel nodded.

His shoulders shifted. “Then that is why she didn’t receive them. Anything to my mother would go to my assistant, and my assistant wouldn’t forward.”

“Why not? It was important correspondence.”

“My assistant was under strict instructions to not disturb my mother with anything troubling, or upsetting. My mother hasn’t been well for a while.”

“I would imagine that she’d be delighted to discover that Antonio had left a piece of him behind.”

“I can’t—and won’t—get her hopes up, not if she is being used, or manipulated.”

“I wouldn’t do that to her.”

“No? You wouldn’t have asked her for money if she’d responded? You wouldn’t have demanded support?” He saw her expression and smiled grimly. “You would have, and you know it. I do, too, which is why I had to protect her, and shield her from stress.”

“I would think that having a beautiful grandson—Antonio’s son—in her arms would help her heal.”

“If the child in question really was Antonio’s...maybe.”

“Michael is Antonio’s.”

“I don’t know that.”

“I have proof.”

“DNA tests?” he mocked, walking again, now prowling the perimeter of the room. “I’ll do my own, thank you.”

“Good. Do them. I’ve been waiting for you to do your own!”

He paused, arms crossing over his chest. “And if he is Antonio’s, what then?”

“You accept him,” she said.

His dark head tipped as he considered her. “Accept him. What does that even mean?”

She opened her mouth to answer, and then closed it without making a sound. Her heart did an uneven thump and suddenly it hurt to breathe. Michael needed support—not just financial, but emotional. She wanted to be sure Michael wasn’t forgotten, not by her family, or Antonio’s.

It was bad enough that Michael had been left an orphan within months of his birth, but the way Juliet died... It was wrong, and it continued to eat at Rachel because she hadn’t understood how badly Juliet was doing. She’d been oblivious to the depth of Juliet’s despair. Rachel could now write an entire pamphlet on postpartum depression, but back in November and December she hadn’t understood it, and she hadn’t been properly sympathetic. Instead of getting Juliet medical help, she’d given her sister tough love, and it was absolutely the wrong thing to do.

It had only made everything so much worse. It was without exaggeration, the beginning of the end. And it was all Rachel’s fault.

Rachel had failed Juliet when her sister needed her most.


CHAPTER THREE (#u41bd77cf-e2f4-5484-877e-505bbd97b916)

GIOVANNI WATCHED RACHEL’S eyes fill with tears and her lips part, then seal shut, her teeth biting down into the soft lower lip as though she was fighting to stay in control.

He didn’t buy the act, as it was an act.

Adelisa had been the same. Beautiful, bright and spirited, she’d captured his heart from the start. He’d proposed before the end of the first year, and delighted in buying her the pretty—but expensive—trinkets her heart desired.

Her heart desired many.

Diamonds and rubies, emeralds and sapphires—jewels she ended up liquidating almost as quickly as he gave them to her. Not that he knew what happened to them until much later.

His family warned him that Adelisa was using him. His mother came to him privately on three different occasions, sharing her fears, and then reporting on rumors that Adelisa had been seen with other men, but he didn’t believe it. He was sure Adelisa loved him. She wore his engagement ring. She was eagerly planning their wedding. Why would she betray him?

Six months later he heard about a pair of stunning diamond earrings for sale, a pair rumored to come from the Marcello family. He tracked down the earrings and the jeweler, and they were a pair of a set he’d given Adelisa the night of their engagement party. They were worth millions of dollars, but more than that, they were family heirlooms and something he gave with his heart.

He was stunned, and worse, humiliated. His mother had been right. He’d been duped. And everyone seemed to have known the truth but him.

It’d been ten years since that humiliation, but Gio still avoided love and emotional entanglements. Far better to enjoy a purely physical relationship than be played for a fool. And now his narrowed gaze swept over Rachel, from the classic oval shape of her pretty face to the glossy length of her ponytail with the windswept tendrils. She was neither tall nor petite, but average height and an average build, although in her dark coat, which hit just above her black knee-high leather boots, she looked polished and pretty.

He didn’t want her to be pretty, though. He didn’t want to find anything about her attractive or desirable, and yet he was aware of her, just as he was aware that beneath her winter coat, there were curves, generous curves, because he’d felt them when he’d drawn her against him, her body pressed to his. “So what is your plan?” he asked tautly. “Have you sorted out how you intend to get us to accept the child? Because a family is not just DNA. A family is nurture, and relationships, and those develop over years. You can’t simply force one to accept an outsider—”

“Michael is not an outsider. He’s Antonio’s son.” She’d gone pale, her expression strained. “And my sister’s son,” she added after a half beat, “and I know you have no love for my sister, but she cared for your brother, deeply—”

“We’re in private now. You can drop the script. There’s no need for theatrics.”

“You don’t even know the facts.”

“I know enough.”

“Well, I thought I did, too, but I was wrong, and Juliet’s no longer here because I got it wrong. Michael has no one but us and you can think what you want of Juliet, and me, but I insist you give him a chance—” She broke off as the door opened and a young, slim, dark-haired woman entered carrying a huge, ornate silver tray filled with silver pots and smaller sterling silver dishes along with a pair of china cups and saucers.

Rachel was grateful for the interruption. She needed a moment to compose herself. She still felt so rattled by his kisses. There had been nothing light or friendly in the way he took her mouth, claiming her as if she belonged to him, shaping her to his frame. She did not belong to him, and to have his tongue stroke the inside of her mouth, creating the dark seductive rhythm that made her body ache—

The sound of Giovanni speaking to the maid broke her train of thought. Heart thudding, Rachel knotted her hands in her lap, realizing she hadn’t just gotten Giovanni’s attention, she’d given him control. She’d wanted his assistance, but clearly help would be on his terms, not hers.

The young maid placed the silver tray on a table next to the couch, not far from where Rachel was sitting, before leaving.

Giovanni crossed to take one espresso and handed her the other.

Rachel took the small cup and saucer. “When will you permit Michael to join us?”

“As soon as he’s finished his bottle.”

“He’s awake then?”

“Yes.”

“And he’s okay?”

“Apparently my staff is already besotted with him. Anna said the girls are fighting over who is to hold him next.”

“Allow me to resolve the argument. Send for him, and I’ll hold him.”

“You haven’t had your coffee yet.”

“I can multitask.”

“And deprive my staff of the opportunity to kiss and cuddle a baby?”

“But by keeping him from me, you deprive me.”

“Is it such a deprivation?” Gio’s voice was pitched low. “I would think it’s a relief. Your letters made it sound as if you were at your wit’s end—exhausted, and overwhelmed, close to breaking.”

She flushed. “You read my letters.”

“As did my attorneys.”

Heat rushed down her neck, flooding her limbs. “So you were stonewalling me.”

“I had my own investigation to do.”

“You took your time.”

“I don’t respond well to threats.”

“I never threatened you!”

“Your letters demanded I act before I was prepared to—”

“This isn’t about you! It’s about a child who has lost both his parents. It’s selfish to deny him a chance at a better life.”

“We’ve returned to the material demands, haven’t we?”

“Material is only part of it. There is the cultural aspect, as well. The baby might have been born in Seattle but he is only half-American, and he needs to know you, his father’s family. He needs to be part of you.”

“Why aren’t you enough?”

“I’m not Italian, or Venetian.”

“And you think that’s important?”

“Yes.”

His lips compressed, his jaw firming “I doubt you value his Venetian ancestry and heritage as much as you value the Marcellos’ wealth and clout.”

“Can’t I want both for him?”

“But I don’t think you really want both.”

“That’s not true. I’ve worked hard to get to where I am now, but even with an excellent job, I barely make ends meet. And as a single woman, not yet twenty-nine, I’m in no position to raise a child on my own, much less a Marcello—”

“What does that even mean to you? A Marcello?”

“Your family is old, and respected. Your history goes back hundreds of years. The Marcellos have contributed significantly to modern Italy, but you personally have done so much for Italy’s economy that just last year you were awarded the Order of Merit for Labor.” She saw his black eyebrow arch, his expression almost mocking. “And yes,” she added defiantly. “I did my homework. I had to in order to find you.”

“Fourteen years ago the Marcello holding company was on the verge of bankruptcy. No one wanted to do business with us. No one trusted us. I have poured myself into the company to rebuild it, sacrificing a personal life in order to make the business my focus. And so, yes, I know manufacturing, construction and real estate, but I’m not interested in expanding the family.”

“But the family has been expanded,” she said quietly. “With or without your consent.”

“You’re revealing your hand,” he replied. “I see where you’re going with this. How we all owe him, because he is my brother’s son. His heir.”

“That’s not where I’m going.”

“No? You’re not about to play the Marcello heir card?”

She dampened her lips, trying to hide her sudden flurry of nerves because she had played that card, and she’d played it with the press. “I’m not asking for a piece of your company. I’m not wanting Michael to inherit Marcello shares or stock, but I do believe you can, and should, give Michael a proper education and the advantages I could not provide for him.”

Giovanni’s lip curled. “You didn’t ever want to leave Michael here. In fact, you never intended to actually let him go. How could you? You wouldn’t be able to justify the child support you feel you deserve.”

“This isn’t about me.”

“Isn’t it? Because let’s be honest, a six-month-old has very few material needs. Milk, a dry diaper, clean clothes—”

“Time, love, attention.”

“Which you want to be compensated for.”

“No,” she said sharply, before holding her breath and counting to ten. She had to stay calm. She couldn’t get into a fight, not now, not before anything was settled, and certainly not before Michael had been returned to her. “I wish I didn’t need your money. I’d love it if I didn’t need help. I’d love to be able to tell you to go fly a kite—” She hesitated as she saw him arch a brow. “It’s an expression.”

“I’m familiar with it.”

“I was trying to be polite.”

“Of course.”

His sarcasm made her want to take a poker iron from the fireplace and beat him with it, which was something, considering the fact that she was not a violent person, and did not go through life wanting to hit things, much less human beings. “I don’t want to be compensated. But I can’t work and care for Michael at the same time, nor does AeroDynamics provide an on-site nursery. The fact is, there is no solution for child care for someone in my position.”

“That problem disappears, though, if you claim Antonio’s assets in the Marcello holding company, allowing you to retire from your job and raise the child in the comfort and style he deserves.” Giovanni’s blue gaze held hers, his mocking tone matching his cynical expression. “Have I got it right?”

Offended, she stiffened. “You’ve created a fascinating story, but it’s not true.”

“Do you share the same father and mother as your sister?”

“Yes.”

“So you were raised in the same...struggling...blue-collar household?”

She heard the way he emphasized struggling and winced. “We were not a blue-collar household. My father was a respected engineer for Boeing. He was brilliant. And my mother managed the front office of a successful Seattle dental practice.”

“Not Seattle, but Burien.”

So he had done some research, and he’d found her family wanting.

She battled her temper, not wanting to lose control again. It was one thing to become muddled by a kiss, but another to allow his words to stir her up. “Yes, Burien, just a few miles south of downtown Seattle. Living in a suburb was a lifestyle choice. That way my mother could work and be available to see us to the school bus before school, and then meet our bus afterward. She juggled a lot, especially after our father died.”

“Money was an issue.”

Her smile was gracious. She would be gracious and serene. “Being middle class is not a crime, nor does it reflect badly on my family. Wealth doesn’t make one superior.”

“It does give one advantages...physically, socially, psychologically.”

“But not morally.” She held her smile, hiding her fury. She’d met many arrogant, condescending men at AeroDynamics but they’d never shamed her for having less. “Morally you are not superior in any way. In fact, I’d say morally you are inferior because you’ve refused so far to do what is right. You’re more concerned about protecting your corporation than your nephew—”

“We were discussing wealth and its advantages, and you’ve turned it into an attack.”

“Not attacking, just stating my position.”

“That you are morally superior because you’re of the working class?”

“If I’m morally superior it’s because I didn’t turn my back on my nephew like you!” She drew a shallow breath, stomach churning. “I knew your brother. He was my client and he’d be devastated that you’ve rejected his son—”

“I haven’t rejected my nephew, and you could not have known my brother well if you thought he was pleased in any way about your sister’s pregnancy. Her pregnancy devastated him. It hastened his death, so before you lecture me about moral superiority, why don’t you look at your own family?”

Her lips opened and closed but she couldn’t make a sound.

Giovanni rose. “Your sister is a classic gold digger. She wanted a rich man and she found one in Antonio. She didn’t care that he was ill and dying. She didn’t care that she was making excessive demands. All she wanted was her way, and she got it. So save your speeches, Rachel. I know just who you and your sister are. Master manipulators, but I won’t be played. Good day. Addio.”

He walked out, leaving the door open behind him.

* * *

Giovanni climbed the staircase two steps at a time, anger rolling through him, anger and outrage that a stranger would try to tell him who his brother was and what his brother wanted.

Growing up, Antonio had been Giovanni’s best friend. They’d had a younger sister but she’d died at six, which had only brought Antonio and Gio closer together. Antonio and Gio were so close that Gio, an introvert, didn’t feel the need to have a lot of other friends.

They ended up attending the same boarding school in England, and then the same university. Antonio loved business and finance while Giovanni preferred engineering and construction, which made them a good pair, and they both looked forward to working together at the Marcello corporate office, which is what Gio did right after graduating from university. But Antonio went on to graduate school, earning an MBA from Harvard. Giovanni had been the one to convince their father that it was a smart investment, sending Antonio to America for the prestigious program, as he’d be able to bring his knowledge back to Marcello corporate office afterward.

It didn’t work out that way, though. While at Harvard, Antonio was introduced to a big financial firm on Wall Street and they were impressed with his mind and his linguistic ability—Antonio, like Giovanni, spoke five languages fluently. The firm courted him, wanting him to work for them in their Manhattan office. Antonio accepted the offer as it was extremely lucrative and involved a great deal of travel and perks that he wouldn’t get working for the family business.

Giovanni was shocked by his younger brother’s decision. It’d felt like a betrayal. Marcello Enterprises was in trouble. Their father had made years of bad decisions, and Giovanni, the practical, pragmatic engineer, needed his brother to help save the company. Without Antonio they could lose everything. But Antonio wasn’t eager to work for a company that was floundering—even if it was his family’s.

Gio met Adelisa right after Antonio accepted the position in Manhattan, and he’d shared with her his disappointment, and his frustration. She’d been a good listener. Too good a listener, actually, as she would later share company secrets with others, undermining everything Gio had worked so hard to accomplish.

Of course, not all women were like Adelisa. But when you were one of the wealthiest men in Italy, it was hard to trust any woman’s motives.


CHAPTER FOUR (#u41bd77cf-e2f4-5484-877e-505bbd97b916)

FOR A LONG moment after Giovanni walked out, Rachel sat frozen on the couch, thoughts blank, heart on fire, Gio’s sharp words ringing in her head preventing her from thinking or feeling anything other than pain and shame.

Gio was right, and wrong. But more right than wrong. Juliet had wanted a wealthy boyfriend. She’d wanted to marry a very rich man and it had been her goal since she was in junior high school.

Juliet felt she deserved better than everyone else. She wasn’t ordinary like Rachel. She was beautiful. She’d been a pretty baby and had grown into a little girl who turned heads. Juliet knew it, too, and from the time she was small she dazzled everyone she met.

It started with their parents, and then Juliet turned her charm onto her teachers, and she went through life wrapping everyone around her little finger.

It seemed to Rachel that she was the only one Juliet couldn’t manipulate, and over the years it created tension between them and friction in the family. Juliet would have a tantrum when Rachel refused to capitulate to her demands, and then Mother would intercede, and inevitably she took Juliet’s side. Mother had been firmly on Juliet’s side last spring when Juliet began dating Antonio and needed loans to buy new clothes and pay for expensive hair and skin appointments.

Rachel had refused to give her sister money for a new wardrobe, telling Juliet to do what everyone else did and look for employment so she could buy new clothes with money she’d earned. “She’d have more self-respect,” Rachel told their mother when Juliet had the expected meltdown. “It’s not right to give Juliet everything she wants.”

“Why are you so hard on her?” Mother answered. “She’s not cut out for business the way you are.”

“That’s not true. She’s smart, Mom. She’s just really lazy.”

“You’re so grumpy all the time, Rachel. Where’s your sense of humor?”

“I have a sense of humor, but it’s hard to feel like laughing when Juliet can’t hold down a job. She lives off loans from you and me.”

“It’s been months since we’ve floated her any money. She’s getting better at managing her funds.”

“Because her bills are getting paid for by one boyfriend or another.”

“At least she has a boyfriend.”

“Wanting a boyfriend isn’t exactly aspirational!”

“Oh, yes, that’s right, Rach. You’re far too intelligent to fall in love.”

“No, Mom. I’m not too intelligent to fall in love. But I’m too intelligent to turn a man into a meal ticket.” She paused but her mother was silent now and Rachel pressed on. “I should think you’d be uncomfortable with Juliet always trying to cash in from her looks. She doesn’t think she should have to work because she’s beautiful but good looks can only take one so far—”

“You’re jealous.”

“Mom, I’m too old for this. I might have been jealous when I was fourteen and she was twelve and Juliet stole my first boyfriend, but I’m twenty-eight and I have great friends, a job I love and a life I enjoy.”

“Then why care that Juliet is doing life her way? Don’t resent her happiness. She’s sure she’s found the one, and I fully expect an engagement announcement any day now.”

But Mrs. Bern was wrong. There was no engagement, but there was an announcement. Juliet was pregnant and her rich boyfriend, Italian businessman, Antonio Marcello, had broken things off with Juliet and returned to Italy without her.

It had been a terrible time in Seattle afterward. Juliet had been heartbroken, and then not even two months later, Mother died. They hadn’t known she was unwell. Mother hadn’t even known. If there was a blessing, it was that Mother went quickly, without months of suffering. She was there one day and then gone the next.

Not even three weeks later, they learned through a newspaper article that Antonio Marcello had died in Rome, at home, with his family at his side.

Juliet never really recovered after that. First Mother, then Antonio, and Juliet still had the third trimester to get through, but there had been too many hits and shocks. She went into labor depressed and didn’t bounce back after delivery.

Rachel had been impatient with Juliet in the months following Michael’s birth. She’d tried to hide her irritation, and she’d given her pep talks, perhaps more vigorous than necessary, but Rachel was overwhelmed by Juliet’s depression and her sister’s inability to care for the baby. Work was stressful with rounds of layoffs due to the economic downturn, and God knows, they needed Rachel to be employed. She was the only one keeping the family afloat.

But Rachel was barely coping herself. Mom was gone, Juliet wouldn’t get out of bed, the baby needed looking after and Rachel didn’t know what had happened to her life.

It wasn’t her life anymore.

A light knock sounded on the open door. Rachel looked up to see the young maid, Anna, standing in the doorway.

“Please, follow me,” Anna said in stilted English.

“Where?” Rachel asked, unable to move.

“I am to...walk you...to the door.”

“Where is my baby?”

Anna frowned.

“Michael. The bambino,” Rachel said, setting the cup down. “I cannot leave without him.”

“Sorry. Signor, he said the bambino he stays here. You...go.” She gestured to the door. “You come with me, please?”

“No. Absolutely not. I’m not leaving Michael here. Bring me the baby. Now.”

“I am sorry. I cannot. Signor will telephone you later, yes?”

Rachel was on her feet, crossing the room. “Where is he? Where is Signor Marcello?”

“He has gone to his office. I will show you to...down the stairs. Please come—” Anna broke off as Rachel brushed past her, stepping into the hall.

“Where is his office? Which direction?” Rachel demanded.

“No. Sorry.”

Rachel’s gaze swept the hall, certain that there were only more formal rooms on this floor. She glanced right, to the marble stairs they’d climbed earlier. The wide gleaming steps continued up at least another two floors.

She headed for the stairs and quickly climbed up. Anna chased after her, speaking in a stream of broken English and Italian.

Rachel ignored the girl. “Giovanni,” she called, her voice echoing in the stairwell. “Gio! Where are you?”

Her voice bounced off the marble and the high ceiling, but she wouldn’t stop until she found him. “I’m not leaving here, not without Michael. So if you want me to go, Gio, give me Michael and I’ll go, but there is no way I’d leave—”

“Enough.” A door at the end of the hall opened abruptly, and Giovanni appeared, expression dark. “You’ve done nothing but create a circus since you arrived this morning. My staff is not accustomed to screaming and shouting.”

“They are Italian. I seriously doubt they are shocked by genuine emotion,” she retorted, marching down the hall toward him. “And you... How could you just go and leave me there like that?”

“I said goodbye. You were the one who refused to leave.”

“You knew I wouldn’t go without Michael.”

“You didn’t seem to have a problem leaving him here earlier.” He stared down at her, blue eyes snapping fire. “Are you sure you and your sister are not twins?”

He couldn’t have said anything more hurtful if he’d tried. Her eyes smarted and her throat sealed closed.

Giovanni was arrogant and condescending and lacked even the smallest shred of human compassion. Thank God he didn’t intimidate her. She’d worked with dozens of powerful men over the past five years, men who had incredible power and staggering fortunes and egos to match. They all liked to be flattered. They all felt entitled. They all needed to be right. Giovanni was no different. She’d never get what she wanted if she fought him. If she angered him. If she continued to alienate him.

Alienating him would just hurt Michael, and that wouldn’t be fair or right. Juliet had made mistakes. Her life had become such a mess. But Michael wasn’t a mess. Michael was pure and innocent, and that innocence had to be protected. Yes, she’d failed Juliet, but there was no way she’d fail Michael.

And so, even though a dozen different things came to mind, protests and rebukes, in the end her feelings didn’t matter. She didn’t matter. This was about her nephew, who’d been left without a mother or a father and needed someone to champion him. And that someone was her.

“I don’t care what you think of me,” she said unsteadily, “but I do care what you think about Michael. He did not ask to be born. He is innocent in all this. And whether you like it or not, he carries your brother’s name, and DNA, and if I have to go to your court to get him proper child support, I will.”

“I don’t doubt you would, but you’d find that our courts move at a snail’s pace compared to your courts. You could be waiting for six or eight, or even ten years, for any type of legal decision.”





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