by Jane Porter
“I’m sorry for being late,” she said a little breathlessly.
He shook his head. “Not late.”
“I think I am, by about ten minutes.”
“It’s just an aperitivo, a predinner drink. Our schedule is not set in stone.” He nodded at the tray with the crystal decanters and glasses. “What can I pour for you?”
“Do you have any wine, or is that not a suitable aperitivo?”
He smiled faintly. “Sparkling wine is definitely suitable. Would you prefer Prosecco, Fragolino, or perhaps Brachetto?”
She moved slowly toward him, expression shy. “Are they all wine? Will you think me terribly gauche when I say I don’t know the difference?”
“They’re all wine with bubbles. And does my opinion matter? Earlier today you said you didn’t care what I thought of you.”
Her shoulders twisted. “I was feeling defensive earlier.”
“And you aren’t now?”
“I’ve had a chance to nap and relax, and gain a little more perspective.”
“And what is that?”
“If we’re to be allies, not adversaries, we need to get along, right?”
For a long moment he just looked at her. “We shall see what you have to say after I show you the papers.”
“What’s in the papers?”
“Let’s have that drink first.” He saw her quick glance, and the worry in her brown eyes. She wouldn’t like what she saw. He wasn’t surprised at the newspapers. It’s what he’d intended, but it changed everything. For him. For her. For all of them.
“It sounds as if a quick lesson is in order,” he said casually. “Prosecco is Italian, it’s a sparkling wine made here in Veneto from Glera grapes. Fragolino is a sparkling red wine, also made in the Veneto, from the Isabella grape, while Brachetto, also a sparkling red, comes from the Piedmont region.” He looked at her. “What sounds good?”
She wrinkled her nose. “Too many choices.”
“Let us simplify. Red or white?”
“White, please.”
“Prosecco it is.” He opened a bottle and filled a flute for her. “I think you made a good choice. This comes from the Marcello vineyard.”
“You have a winery?”
“It’s a small one, but I’m proud of it. The wines are beginning to win awards and receive international recognition.”
“Are you very involved?”
“I bought the ailing vineyard six years ago. We’re just starting to turn a profit. Winemaking is a labor of love. You don’t do it to get rich.”
“Is the Marcello vineyard your labor of love?”
“More than I expected.”
“Now I’m even more embarrassed that I knew nothing about Italian wine.”
“I don’t pretend to be a vintner. I’m an engineer. I build things.”
She took the flute from him, and then looked up into his eyes. “I’d like to see the papers. You have me worried now.”
He walked her to the long table behind the couch. He’d cleared the table of everything but the newspapers and pages he’d printed from various digital media sites.
Every story ran with one or more photos, and every story had a shot of Rachel with Michael, but there were far more photographs of Rachel in Giovanni’s arms than of Michael himself. The baby was a secondary story to Giovanni Marcello passionately kissing the mother of his child.
He watched Rachel lean over the table to get a better look at the different pages, her lashes lowering as she scanned the headlines, and then glanced over the photos. As she studied the papers, color suffused her cheeks, turning her pale ivory skin to a hot pink.
“I can’t read the headlines since they seem to be in every language but English,” she said quietly. “Can you please translate for me?”
“‘Marcello’s Love-Child! Gio Marcello’s Secret Affair! Mystery Mistress and Mother to His Child! Is This the Marcello Heir?’”
As he read the translated headlines to her, the pink color receded, leaving her face pale. “Is there no mention of Antonio? Do they all think that the baby is yours?”
“They all seem to think that Michael is ours.”
“But I told them the baby was the Marcello heir—” She broke off, lips tightening. She gave her dark head a shake, the coiled knot at her nape glossy in the soft lighting. “The kiss. That changed everything, didn’t it?” She looked up at him, frustration etched on her face. “You said it would, and you were right.”
“I had to control the story.”
“But we’re not a couple, and he’s not our child, which makes every bit of this a lie!”
“The tabloids don’t care. They just want to sell copies and increase their advertising.”
She began to quickly stack the pages. “Thankfully these are not stories on the front page of the papers,” she said, irritably. “And these are not serious newspapers—”
“Well, two of the papers are national newspapers. The story and photos are not on the front page, but placed inside the lifestyle and society pages.”
Papers stacked, she folded them in half, and then folded them again, hiding all the headlines and incriminating photos. Once she’d finished hiding the headlines, she reached for her flute and gulped the fizzy white wine as if she, too, could disappear into the crisp bubbles. “No one will take me seriously at work if this story gets traction.” She shot him a desperate look. “You must smash this story, before I no longer have a job.”
“You were the one that contacted the media. You started this.”
“I didn’t start this, I shared the truth. Facts—”
“Facts that could wreck the Marcello name and reputation. I couldn’t have that.”
“But my name and reputation doesn’t matter?”
“One’s reputation always matters, but you’ve far less invested in your name and brand than I do.”
“No, I’m not a billionaire. No, I don’t head up a huge corporation. But my name is also very important. Maybe not to you, but it is to me.” She exhaled hard. “I’m going to correct them.”
“We’re not going to correct them. This is what I wanted.”
“Even though the stories are false?”
“We know that, but the public doesn’t, and in this instance, fiction is preferable, because these are headlines we can shape and control.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
RACHEL SET HER half-empty flute down and walked away. She’d only had a couple of sips but the wine was going to her head, making her emotional, which of course didn’t make it easier to think.
It was also easier to be logical when she wasn’t standing close to Giovanni. He was too beautiful, too much like a model she might have admired in the pages of a glossy magazine with his high cheekbones and strong chin and firm mouth that kissed far too well. He had a face that made her melt, but unlike Antonio who was laid-back and friendly, Giovanni was hard and reserved. Shuttered. He exuded intensity, confidence and power, things she could handle when sitting at a conference table or on the phone in a long-distance call, but not close to her, not when Giovanni made the power feel physical, masculine, sensual.
Even now, standing across the room, she could still feel him, his energy hot and simmering, electrifying the room. Electrifying her.
She didn’t think she’d ever met a man who’d filled a room the way he did, owning the air and space, swallowing all the oxygen so that she couldn’t breathe.
Most troubling of all was that a small part of her had almost enjoyed the intensity, and that same part of her was humming with awareness. She’d never admit it to anyone but she’d been drawn to his energy and the shimmering heat surrounding him—even though the heat and energy could obliterate her.
Her brain was warning her off, telling her that he was too much for her. Too hard, too confident, too dangerous. Her practical side understood that he didn’t care for her, and that he wouldn’t protect her, that nothing good would come of allowing herself to be intrigued by him.
; But she was already intrigued. She was fascinated and curious and drawn to him...
Standing next to him moments ago, she wanted him to touch her again. She’d wanted him to reach for her and cover her mouth with his and make her feel what she’d felt earlier.
If that wasn’t crazy, she didn’t know what was.
No, crazy was the fact that she didn’t like him, or admire him, and yet she still wanted him to touch her again. She wanted to feel more. Even now, with sofas and tables and armchairs between them, she was still responding to him, the very thought of him kissing her again making her shiver inwardly, making her ache.
“Why do you want the paparazzi to think the baby is ours?” she asked, her voice low and husky.
“It’s simpler.”
“It’s actually not. It is going to be far more work trying to convince people that we were a couple and we had a baby—”
“They already believe it.”
“But I don’t like that story!” Heat rushed through her, the heat so strong that her skin prickled and burned.
“I don’t like it, either, but given our choices, it’s the better one.”
“Why? How?”
“This version deflects attention away from Antonio and Juliet. We can protect and preserve their memory, allowing the mistakes of the past to fade—”
“Antonio and Juliet had a baby. Why is that such a travesty?”
“They weren’t married, or even serious. It was a brief affair, a sexual fling—”
“I disagree. Juliet loved your brother, deeply.”
“I’m sure she wanted to be convincing.”
“She really did care, Giovanni.”
He shrugged. “Maybe as much as she could care, but either way, she was ultimately selfish and destructive and not someone I want associated with my family.”
Rachel recoiled. “That is incredibly harsh,” she breathed, putting a hand to her middle, trying to calm herself, not easy when her stomach did wild flips. Juliet hadn’t been an angel. She didn’t have many altruistic bones in her body, and yet she wasn’t the devil incarnate. She’d been complicated and had had aspirations—aspirations Rachel didn’t understand—but when all was said and done, she was her sister, her younger sister, and it was painful to hear Giovanni’s brutal denouncement. “You met her then?” she asked.
“No. But I know a great deal about her, and women like her.”
His scathing tone made her see red. Her chin jerked up. “Juliet loved him—”
“There was no love. I can promise you that.” Gio’s light blue eyes narrowed, his full mouth firming. He looked hard and darkly handsome, arrogant and utterly unapproachable. “Your sister saw her opportunity to make a fortune and took advantage of the situation.”
“I am absolutely certain Juliet didn’t know he was ill. I didn’t know he was ill, and I was the one that introduced them.”
“You’re responsible.”
She thought for a moment he was joking, or teasing, but there was no softening of his features, or flicker of warmth in his eyes. “Do you need to blame someone? If so, yes, blame me. It’s all my fault. I did it. The love affair, the pregnancy, the tragic loss of two beautiful people—”
“You’re not helping.”
“I’m not helping? What about you? Have you no responsibility at all, to anything other than your business, and your name, and protecting your brand? You say my sister was selfish—well, you are every bit as calculating and self-serving. It’s a shame you didn’t meet her. You and Juliet would have been a perfect match!”
“You are not that innocent, Rachel. You have played a significant part in this drama.”
“Did I? How fascinating.”
“I’d use the word despicable, rather than fascinating, and it makes me wonder how many other men did you introduce her to? How many of your clients did she date?”
“That has no bearing on Juliet and Antonio’s relationship.”
“I think it does. You were her matchmaker, weren’t you? You’d introduce her to your wealthy clients, helping her to land a rich husband.”
“I never played matchmaker. Not once. Antonio and Juliet met because your brother and I were out discussing the plane delivery schedule over a drink and she walked in, and so yes, I introduced them, but it wasn’t planned.”
“So she never dated any other of your clients? And think carefully about your answer, as your credibility is on the line. You weren’t the only one to hire a private investigator. I know all about her dating history.”
Rachel drew a rough breath, shaken. “What do you mean?”
“She’d been on the hunt for a rich man for years, and she used you fairly frequently for introductions—”
“It may have happened once or twice, but it was by chance. I never set out to introduce her to any of my customers. It was always by accident.”
“You expect me to believe that?” He crossed the room, closing the distance in long livid strides. “Come on. Be serious. Tell me how it really worked. Did you get a percentage? Were you ever offered a piece of the action?”
She backed up into a bookshelf, and then could go no farther. “How can you say such a thing? What is wrong with you?”
“It struck me just now that you are part of the game. I suspected it—”
“You’re wrong. I’m not playing a game. There is no game. There is just a baby boy that needs our help.” She drew a short sharp breath, face hot, her heart hammering so hard she felt like throwing up. He was awful. Beyond awful. “Good night,” she choked, putting down her glass and racing from the room to climb the white Carrera marble stairs as quickly as she could.
She heard Gio’s oath as he followed.
She ran faster, but his legs were longer and he reached her just before she reached the next floor, his hand circling her wrist, stopping her progress. She teetered on her heels.
He put his hand on her waist, turning her around. “Where are you going? What are you doing?” he growled.
She was out of breath and close to tears. “I’m not going to stand there and listen to you make ugly accusations. You have a twisted view of the world, and I refuse to be dragged into—”
His head dropped, his mouth covering hers, silencing the words. She stiffened, but he pulled her closer. Her lips parted to protest and she tasted the warm sweet wine on his breath and could smell his fragrance and the mixture was delicious. He smelled delicious.
Funny how she disliked Giovanni so much and yet she loved his kisses...
He made her feel beautiful and desirable, and in his arms, with his mouth on hers, his body pressed against her, she felt wonderfully alive. Almost too alive. Fire streaked through her veins, making her hum.
She’d always felt this way on the inside, deep down, but no one had ever brought it out in her, or seen her as anything but practical and pragmatic. And cold.
But she wasn’t cold. Her feelings were strong and they went so deep. She’d spent her life trying to hide the intensity of those emotions, but Giovanni had somehow discovered them and he knew just how to use them against her.
She didn’t know if he felt her shudder, but he drew her even closer, his lips parting hers, his tongue caressing the softness of her lower lip, and then stroking deeper, sweeping her mouth, electrifying her nerve endings, making them dance.
Was it terrible that she liked the way he touched her? That she welcomed his arm around her waist and his hand sliding low on her hip?
She welcomed the crush of his chest and the sinewy strength of his legs. He was hard and commanding, and nothing had ever felt so exciting, or quite so right.
No kiss had ever felt so good. She felt good. Brilliant, and beautiful, and fiercely alive, tingling everywhere. It wasn’t real; it couldn’t be real. Men loved Juliet, not her. Juliet fascinated men with her physical perfection. And Rachel was so far from perfect...
The thought stopped her, ending the magic, reminding her of who she was, and who he was, and why he was here.
/> She pulled back, breathing heavily, body still exquisitely sensitive, to look up at Gio. “We shouldn’t do this.” She struggled to speak, her voice low and hoarse. “It won’t help.”
He stared down at her, his brilliant eyes studying her intently, taking in every inch of her face before reaching out to trace one of her eyebrows and then the other. “Bella donna.”
She blinked, unable to think of anything but the stroke of his finger along the arch of her brow. It felt good to be touched. Everything inside her was warm and aching, tingling with need. She’d forgotten that she could feel need. And desire.
Maybe that’s why the desire was so strong. Maybe she’d gone too long without feeling anything, and now she was feeling, and it was intense. Her entire body trembled. Her lashes closed as he caressed her jaw, his thumb stroking along the jawbone and then over the fullness of her mouth. Waves of pleasure rippled through her and she couldn’t suppress the shudders. It was embarrassing, feeling so much, wanting to be kissed and touched and pleasured.
She swallowed hard and opened her eyes, her gaze locking with Gio’s. His eyes were hot, bright, and the intensity in the depths burned her. He wanted her, too.
It was a heady realization and it rocked her, bumping up against her confidence, or lack of. She could maybe pass as a decent kisser but she wasn’t experienced, and she didn’t have the first idea how to please a man.
Furthermore, she shouldn’t be thinking of how to please a man if that man was Michael’s uncle, billionaire Giovanni Marcello.
“We’ll both regret this tomorrow,” she said, keeping a hand on his arm because she didn’t trust her legs, or her balance. “It’ll make the discussions more difficult.”
“You were the one that said it would be better if we liked each other.”
“I didn’t mean physically.”
“You can love a child, and still be a beautiful woman.”
“I don’t have affairs and flings, Gio. I’m not looking for a relationship, either.”
