Billionaire Brides: An Anthology

by Connelly, Clare

  “Right.”

  “You don’t.” His own grin was unknowingly charming. “You’ll have to trust me.”

  “I don’t trust easily.”

  Admiration shifted inside of him; he recognised the trait and appreciated it. He’d trusted easily once and it had burned him. He didn’t make a habit of it anymore. “Nor do I.”

  Her eyes shone like the sea on a sunlit day but when she spoke, the words were swallowed completely by the storm.

  “Better to trust me than this weather,” he shouted to be heard.

  She bit down on her lower lip then jumped as another slash of lightning burst through the sky. A few seconds later, the accompanying rumble of thunder growled overhead and a strong wind threatened to blow the hat right off her head.

  “Just until it passes.”

  “Bene.” He nodded approvingly at the resurgence of her common sense, leading the way back to the house. The timber deck was a little slippery so he held a hand out in an offer of support. She ignored it, side-stepping the boots and Dante’s leash with grace and ease, pausing just inside the door while she looked around. Her attention moved through the hall and into the living area, which caused him to do the same, viewing it as if through her eyes. It was unmistakably grand. White marble flooring that gave way to walls of glass framing spectacular views of the ocean in one direction and the countryside in the other. A grand piano sat down the far side of the room, and priceless art adorned the walls.

  “Nice place to wait out a storm,” she quipped, lifting her hat off and holding it in her hands. Her nails were bare of colour and cut short.

  “Grazie.” The door blew closed with a fierce bang before he could catch it and she flinched, whipping around to face him as though he’d purposefully made the noise. “Sorry,” he lifted his hands, her actions reminding him a little of Dante when he’d first inherited the dog and he’d been wary as a default setting.

  “What for?” She covered it so quickly that he wondered if he’d invented her response.

  “You’re soaking. Let me get you some clothes,” he offered.

  “That’s very thoughtful of you. Thanks.”

  He was glad she didn’t refuse, because he didn’t really want to argue with her, nor did he want her pneumonia on his conscience. He had only his own clothes to offer and there was a substantial size difference between them. He pulled out a sweater and a pair of board shorts that had a drawstring waist, as well as some socks. When he returned to the lounge room, she was staring at one of the paintings – a landscape of the area that had been done by a well-known impressionist. It had been turned into a print at some point, before his family’s acquisition, and the replication was sold all over the world.

  Her eyes flicked to his. “I’m making a puddle.”

  “Di niente. I have towels.”

  Her eyes held his in a way that was compelling and unnerving. “This is beautiful.”

  “Si.” He moved towards it. “It captures Ondechiara well.”

  She nodded. “It’s the original?”

  “Si.”

  “Wow.” The word escaped her lips so softly he barely heard it.

  “Here. There’s not much but at least it will keep you warm for now.”

  “Thanks.” She looked around. “Is there somewhere…?”

  “Of course,” he nodded crisply. “The door on the left.” He gestured down the corridor. As she walked towards the powder room, he found his eyes following her without his knowledge, studying the lithe grace of her step, the gentle curve of her rear, her neat waist. He dragged his gaze away with effort, turning his attention to the water she’d leaked onto the marble floor. Grabbing a towel from the linen press, he’d just finished drying it when she returned.

  Seeing her dressed in his clothes was his undoing. She was so petite and feminine, she was dwarfed by his shirt, and his socks came halfway up her calves, all wrinkled and thick. Out of nowhere, he imagined the feel of his fabric on her body and his whole body tightened in response. His desire now was no stealth-like whisper. It was a throb, a drum beating intensely in his gut, pulsing through his body in a way that was unsettling, given the promise he’d rendered in order to convince her to take shelter.

  “What are you doing so far from la villetta?” His voice was a little unnatural. He silently cleared his throat.

  “I told you,” she smiled, her wet clothes clutched in front of her. “Exploring.”

  He moved towards her, noting more details up close. She wore no make up – or perhaps she had at some point that day, but it had all been washed off now. She didn’t need cosmetics. She had a beauty that was completely natural, her bone structure so fine, her complexion stunning. She’d towel-dried her hair and pulled it over one shoulder and the size of his shirt meant the fine bones of her décolletage were displayed to him.

  “Can these go in the machine?” He gestured to her clothes.

  She pulled a face that was borderline teasing. “Yeah. But you don’t need to bother…”

  “We’re stuck here til the storm passes. It’s no trouble.”

  “If you’re sure.”

  He held a hand out by way of acceptance and she placed the clothes in them. The gesture was unconscious but it brought them nearer; up close, there was a hint of citrus surrounding her, as though she’d been kissed by the grove to the east of the house. Her eyes flared wide, as though she too felt this zip of awareness, this hum of need, and neither of them moved for several seconds. They stared at each other so he caught every detail of her response. Her lips parted and her breath was warm, fanning against his Adam’s apple. A hint of colour flared in her cheeks, and the fine pulse point at the base of her throat trembled visibly.

  Curiosity strangled him.

  “I…” Her voice was soft. She swallowed, as if struggling to grab the threads of her thoughts. “I didn’t realise this was a house. I wouldn’t have encroached on your privacy…”

  “Di niente.” He shook his head, and it was like breaking a spell – or postponing its hold at least. “I’ll be right back.”

  But she padded behind him, so that as he pushed the towels and her clothes into the washer, he was conscious of her leaning against the doorjamb watching him with an undisguised curiosity of her own. “You’re more domesticated than you look.”

  He added a tablet and shut the door, pressed some buttons then stood. “You don’t know that – I could very well have ruined your clothes by putting them on the wrong setting.”

  She shrugged. “That’s true.”

  And though he knew he should resist the temptation to flirt with her, he heard himself say, “And how do I look…?” He deliberately let his question taper off, realising he didn’t know her name.

  “Maddie,” she supplied.

  “Maddie,” he repeated. It suited her. Soft and sweet but somehow confident too. “Well?” He prompted.

  “You look like a man who’s never used a washing machine in his life,” she grinned, after a slight pause. “Or maybe it’s just that this place looks like it should come with an army of help…”

  He laughed at that. “True. But I prefer to be alone when I’m in Ondechiara.”

  “You don’t live here?”

  “No.”

  “Ah.” She nodded. “So you’re just renting the place? Like a holiday home?”

  He frowned. In the village he was well known, but beyond that, the Montebello name was a global one. That she hadn’t heard of him was a fascinating novelty. “No. It’s mine.”

  She narrowed her gaze speculatively and for a brief second he was reminded of his initial belief that she might be a journalist. “It’s truly lovely.”

  “Si.” He stepped towards her, intending to leave the usually light-filled laundry, but she didn’t shift, so his movement simply brought them close once more. “And what brings you to this tiny little town on the edge of Italy, Maddie?” He liked saying her name. It rolled off his tongue in a way that was addictive.

  For the b
riefest moment, her smile slipped and her eyes darkened. It was a striking contrast to the easy amusement he’d enjoyed seeing moments earlier. “That’s a long story.”

  He looked over his shoulder, to the rain that was lashing the window behind him, plunging the house into a state of gloom. “We seem to have a bit of time.”

  “True,” she murmured, straightening, but still not moving, and not answering his question. Their eyes were locked and though they weren’t touching, the look was intimate and unnerving, addictive and heated. She broke the spell this time. “I don’t mean to be rude, but would you mind if I have a warm drink? A tea perhaps? I think the rain’s seeped into my skeleton.”

  “Of course.”

  She stepped back now, allowing him to pass, but as he did so, their arms brushed and he felt a burst of awareness, so he tilted his head towards her. She was staring at him, stricken, and he understood. The tension bubbling between them was arcing two ways, a powerful electrical current that was somehow intensified by the storm raging beyond the house.

  She followed behind him – he felt her – into the large kitchen that opened off the lounge room. “Have a seat,” he gestured to the stools parked at the marble bench top.

  “I can make it. I really didn’t mean to put you out…”

  “It’s no trouble,” he repeated, flicking the kettle on and pulling a mug from the pantry. For himself, he scooped some coffee into the coffee cradle and pressed a button, watching as the dark liquid began to pool into his espresso cup. “You were telling me why you’re in Ondechiara?”

  “Was I?”

  She was intentionally evasive, he was sure of it. It sparked curiosity and a hint of caution – hadn’t he learned his lesson about women who were secretive by nature? He didn’t want to think of Claudette though. He’d promised himself a long time ago that she didn’t deserve his consideration after what she’d done.

  “You don’t have to if you’d prefer not to discuss it.” His words were unintentionally clipped, the ghost of Claudette filling him with reminders of disgust – at her easy deception and his gullibility.

  “Thank you.”

  Her response surprised him. She made no attempt to obfuscate, no attempt to lie. She simply chose not to answer him.

  He studied her more thoughtfully now, new possibilities opening up to him. Was she a runaway? A fugitive?

  “I’m not a criminal or anything,” she promised him, laughing now, the sound bursting into the room relaxing him, pleasing him, mending the tear Claudette had forced between them. “It’s just…something I’m still making sense of,” she offered. “And I prefer to keep to myself. You know?”

  He lifted one brow, her words echoing his own mantra. “I do.”

  She bit down on her lip so he had to ball his hands at his side to resist the temptation to reach across and smudge his thumb over the soft pink flesh.

  “How long have you been here? Or is this something you’d prefer not to answer, as well?”

  “No,” she shook her head, a smile playing about the corners of her lips. “About six months.”

  Surprise shifted inside of him. “I haven’t seen you around.”

  “No,” she lifted her shoulders.

  “Because you like to keep to yourself?”

  He put a teabag into the cup and poured the water over it.

  “I guess so,” but she was smiling. “Part of the appeal of the place I rented is that it’s secluded. I love that. I feel like I’m right on the edge of the earth.” She angled her face towards the window, staring out at the stormy view. “I go into town for supplies, but other than that, I like my own company.”

  “For six months?”

  “Uh huh.”

  “And you walk.”

  “Yep.”

  “Why here?”

  Her skin paled perceptibly and he wondered about that, about what she wasn’t saying.

  “I mean, my villa? Not Ondechiara.”

  “Oh.” She sipped her tea, her eyes holding his over the edge of the mug. “I remember seeing it the first day I arrived. This big, beautiful building high on the cliffs. I was fascinated by it – the way it seems to be cast from the stone that surrounds the town, yet totally modern at the same time. It’s a beautiful contradiction.”

  “But you haven’t been here before?”

  “No,” she shook her head. “I felt like a long walk today,” she shrugged. “I don’t remember even consciously deciding to set out for this place.”

  “There’s security fencing.” Admittedly, it wasn’t particularly robust, but it should have served as a deterrent, nonetheless.

  “I came up the steps. From the beach.”

  He swore under his breath. “They’re disused for a reason, Maddie. They’re incredibly dangerous. Didn’t you notice the fallen rocks?”

  She flinched – just a small, involuntary movement that had him softening his tone. “There’s a locked gate.”

  “It was an open gate when I got there.”

  “The wind must have blown it off its hinges.” He shook his head, because that shouldn’t have been possible and yet the only option was that she’d scaled a six foot construction – which didn’t seem likely.

  “I didn’t notice,” she admitted, a hint of guilt crossing her face.

  “I’ll have it fixed.”

  “So how do you get down to the beach?”

  “I would drive, if I wanted to go there.”

  “But you’re right here, above it. Why don’t you get the stairs fixed?”

  He frowned. “I would, if I used the beach.” He took a drink of his espresso. “By the way, that whole stretch of the beach is private too. There were definitely signs, right? Or had they also been blown away?”

  A hint of blush spread through her cheeks. “No, there were signs saying ‘private property’. I presumed they were placed in error. I mean, beaches shouldn’t be private, right?”

  He laughed. “Why do I get the feeling you’re trouble, Maddie?”

  “Because I don’t like to listen to bossy signs?”

  He made a growling noise of assent.

  “I truly presumed this was an art gallery or something.”

  “An art gallery that was only accessible by perilous steps from the beach?”

  “No. Naturally I thought there was a street somewhere too.”

  “There is.”

  “Let me guess, it’s gated though.”

  “Si.” He shrugged his broad shoulders, noting the way her eyes dropped to the gesture, following the outline of his body. “I like to keep to myself too.”

  “I’m sorry to have intruded,” she lifted her gaze to his face and he felt the same flash of electricity firing deep in his gut.

  Pleasure and anticipation stirred inside of him, even as he knew he should fight it. She was staring at him with those enormous blue eyes and his body was responding even as his mind was trying to retain control. She was staring at him and slowly he shook his head, and when he spoke there was a gruff resignation in his voice, as though he knew there was a game of fate afoot, one that would get the better of him.

  “I’m not.”

  Chapter 2

  BREATHE. JUST, BREATHE. Maddie wrapped her hands around the mug and tried not to stare at him. But she was fighting a losing battle because he was beyond addictive and she found her eyes inhaling him at every opportunity.

  She’d never really gone for the ‘tall, dark and handsome’ guys, or so she’d thought, but this specimen of masculinity was breath-takingly intoxicating. He was easily six and a half feet tall and his build was slim, but at the same time, muscular, his skin a deep tan, his hair brown with a hint of gold at the front from where he’d spent time in the sun. But it was his eyes that had her fixated. They were a spectacular blue, flecked with gold, and the lashes surrounding them were thick and dark. His jaw was squared, but covered in the hint of stubble that made her fingertips itch with a desire to lift up and touch.

  What the heck was hap
pening to her?

  She’d been stupid to keep walking when it had started to pour with rain, but it had been light enough and she’d presumed it would pass. Then, she’d got a little lost and before she’d known it she was on the beach beneath the enormous construction she’d been wondering about since she’d come to Ondechiara.

  “You’re warm enough now?”

  “I’m fine, thanks,” she nodded, forcing herself to hold his eyes even when the intensity of his stare spread wildfire through her veins. “So what do you do when you’re not rescuing stray tourists from cliff tops?”

  The briefest hint of a frown crossed his face. “I’m in finance.” The words were a little uneasy. She wondered if there was a problem with his job. The global finance industry had been in turmoil lately, it was possible he’d been caught up in that. She didn’t want to pry, particularly if he’d recently been made redundant or similar.

  She was lucky to be immune from that kind of consideration in her line of work. “I’ve always admired people who are good with numbers,” she said, instead. “I’ve never had much of a head for them.”

  “Everyone has a head for numbers.”

  She pulled a face. “I beg to differ.”

  “Maths is everywhere,” he pointed out, finishing his coffee and placing it in the sink.

  “And I use it as little as possible.”

  “It’s hard to avoid.”

  “I’ve made it an art form,” she winked, and wished she hadn’t when he formed a slow, sensual grin in response.

  “What do you do then - when you’re not avoiding numbers like the plague?”

  She sipped her tea. “I’m a writer.”

  For the briefest moment, something shifted in his expression, so he was stern and alert. “As in a journalist?”

  She shook her head. “No. As in a fiction writer. A novelist.”

  “Seriously?”

  She nodded.

  “Would I have read anything you’ve written?”

  She bit down on her lip. “I doubt it. I sell okay in the UK and Australia, but not anywhere else yet.” She lifted her shoulders. “It’s a labour of love, but at least the hours are flexible and I can do it from anywhere in the world.”