Giovanni lifted her hand and kissed it. “You don’t feel cold to me,” he murmured as they came to a stop before an entrance portico.
A great medallion motif hung above the brass door and the busts of Italian statesmen stood sheltered in the arched niches. But Gaby couldn’t appreciate their splendor because Gina’s rules about avoiding Italian men had come back to haunt her with a vengeance.
She could have sworn that Giovanni didn’t have amorous feelings for her, so why was he acting this way now? Was he just having some fun in front of his brother? At times Giovanni could be a terrible tease, like a couple of her brothers.
Each day when her classes were over, they’d laugh their way through their walks to galleries and old churches, anything free. “Tell me the truth. Are you two the sons of the chauffeur or the gardener? Is that how you got a job in the museum, how your brother drives this expensive car?”
His brown eyes danced before they flashed to the taciturn man at the wheel. “You hear that, Luca? She wants the truth. I have an idea. While I run in and inform Mama that we have company, you be the host and reassure my lovely guest.”
“Giovanni—” she cried, and hurried to get out of the car to stop him. By the time she was on her feet, he’d disappeared. To her chagrin she’d been left alone with his brother, whose forbidding nature didn’t quite mask his devastating sexuality.
Compelled by an urge she was helpless to fight, her vagrant blue eyes wandered over this imposing man who was Italian from the hand-sewn leather loafers cushioning his feet to the small gold cross nestled in the dusting of black hair on his chest.
When he breathed, she could see it glint through the neck opening of the black silk shirt where his skin appeared to be as darkly tanned as the rest of his hard-muscled body clothed in black trousers.
Unlike the other Italian men she’d met, however, her presence seemed to irritate him in some way. She almost felt as if he disliked her.
Most men, Italian or American, found her attractive to the point that they became obsessive about it. At times their unsolicited advances made her defensive.
She’d dated a few nice boys in college, and she adored her father and brothers. But it was a fact of life that she’d been fending off older men and unwanted admirers since she was fifteen years old. Giovanni’s brother was proving the exception.
He made her feel that she’d trespassed on his private person. Otherwise his veiled black gaze wouldn’t have returned the compliment by sweeping over her face and curves with a boldness she wasn’t prepared for.
Gaby looked away, confused and shaken.
“Why pretend that you didn’t know this was Giovanni’s home, signorina?”
His question shocked her. Her gaze flew back to, his. “You think I’m pretending?”
A long silence ensued. “My brother tells me you two met when you came to visit the palazzo museum.”
“Yes, but he was a guide and—”
“He gave you a personal tour of the rooms housing the jewelry collection, did he not?” he broke in.
“Yes, but-”
“Then you know that the House of Provere has been in existence for over five hundred years.”
Her arched brows drew into a delicate frown. Certain facts she’d been learning in her history class about Urbino came back to her. It was in this city that the Renaissance reached heights to rival Florence and Rome. During that period, there was a very important fourteenth-century pope who was of the lineage of Provere, endowing his family with riches beyond her comprehension.
A cry escaped her throat. “You don’t mean that you and Giovanni descend from that Provere?”
He fingered his cross absently. “Your reaction almost convinces me that you know nothing of my little brother’s responsibilities or his vast bank account.”
“What?”
Confounded, her eyes searched the inky darkness of his for verification that he was telling the truth.
“You truly didn’t know that he is the most important person in Urbino?”
Incredulous, she cried, “Giovanni?”
Her thoughts darted back to the pleasant, studious young man with whom she’d been spending her free time. She’d assumed he was as poor as she was. He walked everywhere and never spent money except to buy them a drink. Often she insisted they go Dutch treat, and he went along with it.
Through new eyes she surveyed the castle walls, the grounds and enclosed garden filled with topiary trees and flowering bushes of every hue. She tried to picture Giovanni as master of this ambience, and couldn’t.
The only person she could imagine fitting such a role was the disturbingly masculine figure trapping her between the car and the entryway.
Their gazes held until she could hardly breathe from the tension stretching between them.
“When our mother dies, he’ll inherit the title of Duke.”
A hand went to her throat. “Your mother is titled?”
Another troubling silence enveloped them. “Though titles aren’t used today, our mother is the veritable Duchess of the House of Provere.”
She shook her head. “I had no idea. He’s only ever said that he had a family, but he’s never talked about anyone in particular. I—I know nothing about you.” Her voice throbbed.
A tiny nerve throbbed at the corner of his sensual mouth. Her oldest brother, Wayne, had a similar tick that only showed when his emotions were in upheaval.
“One day Giovanni’s word will be virtual law. He’ll command the respect of everyone in the Marches province. So will his wife,” he added in a grating tone.
“Why do you suppose Giovanni has been so secretive?” Her voice pled with him.
His answer was a long time in coming. “Every man wants to believe that the woman he has chosen for his bride loves him for himself, and no other reason.”
“His bride?”
Luke’s lean body tautened. “Surely by now you must have guessed that our mother is inside the palazzo waiting to be introduced to the future Duchess of Provere.”
When his words finally computed, she groaned aloud, unable to take it in. “Tell me you’re not serious.”
His dark brows furrowed. “I assure you I would never lie about something as crucial as my brother’s happiness.”
“But I’m not in love with Giovanni,” she replied in complete honesty before she broke down and buried her face in her hands.
“He hasn’t asked you to marry him? The truth now!” came the sharp demand.
Her head flew back, revealing tear-stained cheeks. “No! The subject has never come up. He’s a dear friend, but that’s all.”
A grimace marred his dark features. “Then he must be the last person to know it. It appears you’ve captured his heart, something no other woman has been able to accomplish,” he murmured in thick tones.
“Did Giovanni tell you we were getting married?”
His eyes wandered over her upturned face. “He has gone so far as to assemble the family to meet you, which is virtually the same thing. He phoned me in Rome, insistent that I come home for the occasion even though he knew that I had—” He paused. “Well, let’s just say I had other pressing commitments.”
Though the night breeze was warm, she shivered. “I can’t imagine what he’s thinking. Even if I were in love with him, I’m totally unsuitable and he must know it.”
Giovanni had been born into a royal house linked to the papacy, had been brought up in these incredible surroundings, enjoying luxuries most people couldn’t even imagine.
Their family name was held in the highest repute, one of the greatest houses of Italy. Their family crest was emblazoned on the pages of the country’s textbooks, not to mention their fleet of cars.
If she were in Luke’s place, she’d be more than skeptical about his brother bringing home a foreigner to meet the family. No wonder she’d felt that hint of animosity.
She was from America, that upstart nation from across the Atlantic, as the Europeans viewed it.
A penniless college student who was still having trouble pronouncing Prego correctly. The only girl among five brothers sadly lacking in the polish and education of a woman fit to be Giovanni’s wife and chatelaine of such a dynasty.
Clasping her hands to keep them from shaking, she asked, “Do you think you could find Giovanni and tell him I have to talk to him right away?”
Before his eyes narrowed, she saw anguish in those black depths.
“I love Giovanni more than my own life, signorina. Under the circumstances, I’m going to insist that you allow him to keep his fantasy until after dinner when you are alone with him. I refuse to see him destroyed before the festivities begin.”
“But that would be dishonest to everyone!”
“No more than he has been with you,” came the retort .
She shook her head. “I couldn’t do that to your mother. It wouldn’t be fair.”
“Our mother will survive. It’s Giovanni I’m concerned about,” he said in bleak tones.
“Luke?” she called to him without thinking. His head reared. back as if she’d struck him. “Signore—” she amended, embarrassed for the faux pas, “I’m sor—”
“It is not necessary to apologize,” he interjected on a terse note. “I’m not used to hearing my first name pronounced in that way. What were you going to ask me?”
For a moment Gaby couldn’t think. Heavy perfume from the roses filled the night air, making her senses swim. Luke had been talking to her about his brother. Yet her mind couldn’t concentrate on anything but the virile man standing in front of her. In his presence, new inexplicable yearnings were coming to life.
A soft breeze had sprung up, disturbing his luxuriant black hair. It overlapped his tanned forehead. There were stray tendrils at the base of his bronzed neck, as well. She wondered what they would feel like if she touched them, touched him…
“Signorina?” he prompted.
Gaby was thankful for the darkness. Otherwise he would have seen the blood rush to her face.
“It’s possible you’ve misunderstood Giovanni’s actions. Maybe he got tired of the responsibility, he decided to play the pauper and give the prince a rest.”
When Luke didn’t say anything she started talking faster. “I—I’m sure this was part of his plan for the Renaissance Fair—To spring a surprise on me by visiting the ruling family of the province, a family who just happens to be his own flesh and blood. With his sense of fun, it’s the kind of thing Giovanni would do, don’t you think?”
Still he said nothing, only watched her mouth with unnerving intensity.
“If he wanted me for his wife, I would have known about it long before now, and then none of this w—”
Luke’s grim countenance choked off the rest of her words. “Giovanni wants my consent before he marries you. It’s the only reason I came home. As it is, I must return to Rome in the morning.”
“You’re leaving so soon?” she blurted, her disappointment more acute than she would have believed.
Luke’s chest heaved, revealing its definition through the thin silk material, making her more aware of him than ever. Her mouth had gone so dry it hurt to swallow.
“Poor Giovanni. He won’t want you to go. I can tell he loves you very much. I have a feeling he always listens to you.”
He stood closer to her now. She could feel the shudder that passed through his taut physique. “Yes,” came the haunted reply.
“Then before it’s too late, go inside and tell him you don’t approve of me, which is only the truth. Please, Luke—” she appealed to him in an agonized whisper.
“Per Dio.” The muttered imprecation sounded torn out of him. “What you are asking of me is impossible. No, signorina. Giovanni has made his plans. I won’t shatter his dreams and turn the occasion into a nightmare. Neither will you,” he warned in a voice of unquestioned authority. “It appears we are both doomed to play a part until he takes you home.”
Much as she hated to admit it, Luke was right. She could never hurt Giovanni intentionally. But she didn’t know how she was going to make it through this dinner, let alone confront him later.
“My brother is without guile,” he murmured thickly. “That is why everyone loves him and would never want to cause him pain. When he phoned to tell me about the American girl I must meet, there was such joy in his voice, I couldn’t bear to disillusion him until after I’d met you in person.”
Her instincts hadn’t been wrong. “I knew you Her instincts hadn’t been wrong. ”I knew you disliked me.” How she hated the tremor in her voice. It couldn’t help but let him know the depth of her hurt.
There was a sharp intake of breath. “Not you, signorina. The idea of you. I’ve never felt that any woman was good enough for my brother. Ironically, I now find that I must revise that opinion.”
His admission was the last thing she would have expected to hear. It filled her with wonder.
“If this were several hundred years ago, I would. ignore your feelings and force you to marry my brother to give him his ultimate happiness.”
She raised startled blue eyes to him. “You mean, if you had been duke, your word would have been law. How is it that Giovanni is going to inherit the title when you’re the firstborn son? I don’t understand.”
Even though night had fallen, she could see his expression close. With a new sense of loss she watched him retreat to that inner part of himself where he was impregnable. The intimacy they’d shared for those few, brief minutes was gone.
Devastated, she said, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pry.”
“You wouldn’t be human if you didn’t ask. Unfortunately, now is not the time to discuss it. Giovanni will be looking for us and I haven’t yet fulfilled my duties as host.”
When he started toward the entry, she hung back. He paused on the step, a magnificent figure in black. Perspiration broke out on her brow. “I’m frightened, Luke.”
He raked through his hair. “Then you’re not alone,” came another of his shocking confessions. “I’ll meet you inside.”
CHAPTER TWO
SOMEWHERE in the huge palazzo Giovanni was talking to his family, but the enormous rooms swallowed sound. Like wandering into a church when no one was about, Gaby had that same isolated feeling now.
Luke had given her a moment alone to compose herself. He must have needed some time to himself, as well, but she wished he were here so she wouldn’t feel like an intruder.
Her misgivings slowly changed to awe however as she found herself surveying the gallerylike foyer that had been part of Luke’s home since birth. Above her head, the fantastic frescoes on the vaulted ceiling represented an allegory of the triumph of spiritual love. Gracing the walls were important scenes of the Provere family history.
Through one set of double doors she saw into another room devoted to the sun-god, Apollo. Over the head of the twenty-foot-high statue dominating its center, she grew dizzy studying the frescoes depicting one of the most famous legendary Greek myths.
Dazzled by the palazzo’s priceless artwork and treasures, she moved to a sitting room containing trompe l’oeil panels with eighteenth-century Gobelin tapestries and Savonnerie rugs. Like a sleepwalker, she moved from room to room until she came to one which she claimed for her favorite.
Square in shape rather than rectangular, the floor gleamed of pure white marble. Every wall-covering, the richly hued draperies, the antique porcelain urns filled with fresh cut flowers, the Louis XV furniture and bracket clock, the frescoed ceiling with its depiction of heavenly angels surrounding God, all were a blend of red and white.
So exquisite was the harmony of design and color, so charming were the various appointments of the room, she had difficulty believing this was the work of human hands. If her eyes didn’t deceive her, the central medallion over the doors was the work of one of the great Italian masters.
“Like you, my mother prefers this room to the others, signorina.”
The deep, vibrant voice brought a su
rprised gasp to her throat. She whirled around to face the charismatic man responsible for the rhythmic change of her heart. He’d been following her.
Propped negligently against the door, his hands in his pockets, he murmured, “My father called her his testarossa. Perhaps there’s a correlation.”
“I don’t know what that word means.”
“She has red hair, too.”
His hooded gaze took in her braid and everything else in between until it reached her sandals. Such a frank appraisal couldn’t have been any different than the one she’d given him by the car. But now her palms grew moist and her body ached with inexplicable longings she’d never had to combat before.
“If I had known all this was Giovanni’s heritage, I would have begged him to bring me here much sooner. I can’t claim to have seen very many palaces, but this must be the most gracious, glorious home in Italy, if not Europe.”
He gave a barely perceptible nod of his dark head. “Let’s say it’s one of the few.”
“Am I right in thinking the medallion is Michelangelo’s creation?” She must look such an anachronism against the bygone splendors of this room.
“You are,” he murmured at last. Hearing his voice made her realize he was answering her last question rather than her own tortured thoughts.
“Cardinal Alessandro commissioned Francesco Salviati to create the gallery frescoes. Cardinal Odoardo employed the genius of the Carracci brothers who were responsible for the frescoes in the rest of the rooms.
“Many of the drawings are by Lagrenee, the statuary by Glycon. The palace architecture itself is the work of Sangallo, Giacomo della Porta, Vignola, and Michelangelo, not necessarily in that order.”
Some of the most illustrious names in Italian art history. No wonder Giovanni was such a fountain of knowledge on the subject.
“Do you have any other questions?”
She wrung her hands. “Dozens, actually, but I can’t think of one when I know I’m going to be meeting your mother in a few minutes. Is she happy for Giovanni?”
A mask slipped into place, wiping any expression from his arresting features. With negligent grace, he pulled away from the door. “Giovanni is the child she almost lost in childbirth. The son she worships.”
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