The Marriage Arrangement

by Jennifer Probst

  Then he looked back down. Lifted his glass. And tipped the liquid down his throat in one long swallow. She watched the muscles of his neck tighten and relax, feeling as if a strange spell had been cast around them both. He slammed the glass down, refilled, and tapped his fingers against the cut rim, as if waiting for something big to happen.

  Caterina knew this was a man who was out of her league. She'd usually turn away and seek out a table in the light--where chatter and laughter and light-hearted conversation beckoned. Instead, the memory of the mysterious flowers and the love spell stirred something deep inside. An urge to move forward and push boundaries. An instinct to take a leap and talk with the mysterious stranger.

  Her fingers tightened around the stem of her wine glass. She hesitated only a few precious seconds.

  Then she walked over to his table.

  Chapter Two

  He hadn't expected her to notice him.

  For the past two days, Rip had gotten the lay of the land and noted where she lived. Her apartment was located in the expensive part of Brera. She wore designer clothes and carried expensive purses and wore glitzy jewelry, even in the afternoon. She walked like a high society woman who'd never been forced to make her own way in life, blinders firmly on, the typical rich white woman who led a cushy, protected life. She had no real job, no regular schedule, and basically did whatever she pleased.

  The woman had no grit.

  The first time something difficult had slammed her, she'd folded. Left her father and the business and took off to hide in Italy. While Winsor Winery struggled financially, and he and Edward had worked tirelessly to turn a profit, she'd traveled Europe for a year without a job or a care in the world.

  This was the woman he had to marry.

  Distaste shuddered through him. She was everything he disrespected in the opposite sex--a female with no heart, courage, or honesty. A selfish, silly socialite who worried about no one but herself.

  He realized immediately in order to get her attention, he needed to intrigue her. Get her off balance and interested. The roses were just a way to taunt her a bit. He figured she'd go crazy trying to find her secret admirer, and the note was his own private joke. Edward had given him a few hints at her usual routine. Her favorite place to stop in for a drink in the evenings was Bar Brera. She haunted a popular pastry shop called La Dolce Famiglia. And her favorite spot for relaxation was the Parco Sempione--a park situated behind the tourist attraction Castillo Sforzesco. Tonight, he figured he'd make his move and take a chance on the bar.

  He'd gotten lucky. He hoped he'd be able to engage her within the first few seconds, and somehow, charm her. There hadn't been a woman in his life who knew about his dark side, or would be able to handle it, but he'd gotten used to hiding the roughness beneath a more appealing exterior. The memory of the woman who'd betrayed him flashed in his mind--of her sweet words and smile that had been just manipulative lies. It'd been so much easier to embrace the numbness afterward. So much easier than messy emotion and raw pain.

  So much easier to accept he wasn't meant to be a man who was loved.

  He shoved the thoughts from his mind. Caterina Victoria Winsor was like all the other women he'd met, but he needed her. He'd offer plenty of money, social functions, and travel to keep her occupied, in exchange for marrying him and returning home. It would be a marriage in name only--one with little interaction between husband and wife. He would make it work.

  Steeling his shoulders, he watched her approach. His gaze collided with a pair of golden eyes, the color of the burning liquid in his rocks glass.

  Cat's eyes.

  Heat pulsed through his blood with a slow, heavy rhythm that made him clench his hand involuntarily around the bottle. He felt the old emotions explode deep inside, a primitive mixture of raw energy: rage, pain, desire. As he clawed back the dark, swirling mess that fought to surface, Rip realized this woman could be more trouble than he'd originally thought.

  His gaze ruthlessly swept her figure. The pictures on Edward's desk didn't do her justice. Blond hair was pulled back from her face. Shoulder length, medium thickness, nothing unusually striking to cause such an odd physical response. Of course, the color wasn't just blond, but ranged from a warm honey brown to the palest of champagne. Her mouth was too wide, her cheeks too plump, and her jaw too angular. Those golden eyes seemed huge in her face, way out of proportion to the rest of her features. Of course, her lips were lush and pale pink, with just a touch of shiny gloss to tempt. Her body had killer curves, emphasized by her tailored black trousers and tight fire engine red shirt. He pegged her at five feet six inches without those ridiculous four-inch designer shoes.

  No, she wasn't his usual type. He preferred brunettes with red lips and no princess attitude. He liked jeans and sneakers and a bawdy sense of humor in his women.

  But he hadn't counted on the explosive sexual chemistry that rocked through him. She walked forward with a clear intention etched on her face and a small, sexy smile on her lush lips. Those generous hips swayed as she teetered on her stilettos, clutching her glass in protection, and stopped by his table.

  "It won't banish the demons."

  Her voice poured over him like thick, sticky honey. The scent of decadence rose to his nostrils: chocolate, musk, and a hint of spice. Seizing on the opportunity, he regarded her with interest. "Are you looking to gain your wings?"

  She laughed, a low, husky sound that made his gut clench. "No. I'm sorry I don't have the power to show you what your life could be like." She glanced at the half-filled bottle. "But I do know this stuff is a trap. The demons will still be there, even after the liquid is gone."

  He dropped his gaze to hide his shock. This woman was concerned about a stranger in a bar who seemed to be drowning his sorrows in alcohol. Odd, how her concern touched something deep inside him he'd thought dead and buried. He shook off the disturbing feelings and motioned toward her glass. "I doubt white wine could banish even a tiny demon."

  Her lips curved in an easy smile. "You're right. I'm probably not one to set a good example. May I join you?"

  "Of course."

  She slid into the chair opposite him and placed her glass down carefully. The waitress glided over for their order, but he shook his head. Caterina also declined.

  "Are you on vacation?"

  This was a golden opportunity he refused to miss. Rip knew he had to be careful of how much he revealed. "No. I'm here on business. I'm researching a new project."

  She nodded, but didn't pry, and he didn't offer. "We're heading into tourist season."

  "You live here?"

  "Only temporarily. Been here about a year and a half. Every time I decide to return home, I delay my trip."

  Interesting. He shifted in the chair and studied her. "Did you run away from home?"

  Her laugh bubbled up from her chest. At least her laugh was real and not that fake giggle he despised. "I guess I did."

  "Running from your own demons?"

  She took a sip of wine, but her eyes danced with amusement. "You're sharp. Mr--?"

  He hesitated, then gave her only his middle name. "No Mister. Just Lee."

  She stuck out her hand as if conducting a business meeting. Her skin had a warm, pinkish tone, her fingers long and tapered. Cursing his hesitation, he took her hand and shook. Immediately, his palm prickled from the surge of warmth, and he watched while her eyes widened slightly, obviously experiencing the same jolt. Satisfaction surged. At least it wasn't just him. "Caterina Winsor. Most people call me Cat."

  "Caterina." Her name danced on his tongue. He caught the low catch of her breath and something primitive uncurled inside him. "Did running away help?"

  Curiosity stirred. What would she tell a stranger about her past? How easy was it for her to lie? She wet her lips in a telltale nervous gesture, and he waited for her to change the subject to safer territory.

  "It helped me," she said simply. "If I'd stayed, I would've ended up trying to bury the pain by pretending.
Pretending to be okay, pretending not to care that my heart was ripped up. I didn't know who I really was. So I left, even though it hurt some people I love." She seemed to take a fortifying breath, as if reminding herself to be strong. "I needed to figure stuff out, and I did."

  "Like what?"

  This time, she laughed off his question, probably realizing she'd already gone too deep. "I found I have a passion for good pastries and eat them on a regular basis. I discovered I'd been avoiding carbs for all the wrong reasons, and don't give a crap if I'm overweight because I'm happier eating pasta and bread. I love designing purses and being creative. I adore good leather shoes that cost a fortune and despise espresso and grappa. Is that what you were asking?"

  A rare smile curved his lips. She wasn't at all what he'd expected. "What about love?"

  She sipped her wine and regarded him with a tilted head. "That's a personal question," she said slowly.

  "Isn't that what we're doing?" He lifted his hands and shrugged. "Spilling secrets with strangers in an overcrowded bar?"

  "What about you?" she challenged. "What are you trying to drink away?"

  Nothing he had any intention of sharing with her. God knows, Rip tried not to think about those days he'd left behind, though the memories still haunted his dreams. "The consequences of my choices," he said.

  She frowned. He had the strangest urge to lean over the table and smooth his fingers over the furrow in her brow. "Are you running from them, too?"

  He looked deep into her eyes and told the truth. "No. I'm running toward them."

  She broke eye contact, but not before he caught the flare of wildness in her golden eyes, the dilation of her pupils, the tiny shudder that wracked her body. He could sense her attraction. Good. It would make things so much easier.

  Silence fell between them. She sipped her wine. He drank his whiskey. They shared a comfortable pause. He liked that she seemed content with quiet, didn't feel the need to fill it with idle chatter. A quality so rare in the women of his acquaintance. One that he admired greatly.

  "Where are you staying?" she asked.

  "At the Grande Hotel."

  "Fancy. Your company must be generous."

  "It is. And do you live close?"

  "Yes, right here in Brera. I love this location. I can hop on the metro, but everything's in walking distance. There are so many wonderful restaurants. Have you eaten dinner?"

  "No."

  He didn't offer her anything further, wanting her to make the next move.

  She paused. He waited, his gaze on her, willing the invitation to spill from her lips. But no invitation came.

  Instead, after a brief hesitation, she smiled and lifted her empty glass. "Well, I highly recommend Ristorante Santa Virginia. It was nice to meet you, and I hope you have a lovely stay."

  He blinked, watching as she unfolded herself from the chair and turned. No. He would not let her leave, not without taking full advantage of their chance meeting to begin his pursuit. Edward hadn't given him much time. "Caterina?"

  "Yes?"

  "Would you like to join me for dinner?" Those pale pink lips pursed, as if torn by her decision. He upped the stakes. "You were right. I was trying to drown some demons. But after meeting you, I'd rather drive them off with a meal and some conversation." He gave her a sheepish look and ducked his head. "But of course, only if you have time. I'm sure you have better things to do than entertain some stranger on a Friday evening."

  His heart pounded, hoping he'd seemed vulnerable enough to intrigue her.

  Unbelievably, she gazed at him with unexpected compassion, and sat back down. "I would love to share a meal with you."

  He grinned, letting his breath release, and motioned for the waitress. "By the way, I agree wholeheartedly with one of the lessons you learned here in Italy."

  "What's that?" she asked.

  "Carbs. There's something sexy as hell about watching a woman eat a piece of bread."

  A bubbly laugh burst from her lips. "I think we're going to get along just fine."

  He thought so, too. Which came as a huge, very welcome surprise. Maybe a marriage between them would be better than he imagined.

  Chapter Three

  She'd come so close to walking away.

  Cat finished her meal and leaned back in her chair to aid digestion. When she'd asked him about dinner, she'd had no intention of actually sharing a meal with him. But he'd seemed so...haunted. Vulnerable. This man intrigued her. He gave off a moody, distant vibe, but when he spoke to her, there was an energy that pulled her in and urged her to linger and look deeper. She craved to know more about him, and over dinner, he'd been the perfect companion. Besides his sharp wit, he was a good listener, holding eye contact and asking pointed questions about her lifestyle.

  So far, it had been the best date she'd ever had.

  He groaned and duplicated her movement. "I'm stuffed. Even if they came over and put the most perfect cannoli on this table, I'd have to say no."

  "Then we're going to need to walk it off," she announced. "Because I'm not letting you leave tonight without taking you to the best dessert place on Earth."

  His eyes widened. "You talk a big game, Ms. Winsor. You can't bluff with so much at stake."

  She preened with satisfaction. "Trust me, I don't bluff when it comes to pastries. I've been going there regularly for months, and it's become an almost religious experience."

  His gaze narrowed with intensity. "Now you're just turning me on."

  She laughed, but her cheeks flushed. She ducked her head and rummaged around in her purse. "We need a brisk walk first. Oh, unless you have to leave? I'm sorry, I didn't even check with you."

  "No, I don't have to leave," he said softly. His smooth, velvet voice shot tingles down her spine. "What are you doing?"

  "Oh, here's my half of the bill." She shoved some euros across the table, but his fierce frown stopped her.

  "This is my treat," he said. "You were my honored guest, and I appreciate your company."

  Pleasure swamped her. She nodded and put the money back in her wallet. "Then I'll just say grazie."

  "Prego."

  Her thighs tightened. His gaze seemed to delve deep into her soul and find all the hidden, empty spaces inside. Her body whipped to life, and her core softened, growing hot and damp. She hadn't experienced this type of chemistry in so long she wasn't sure what to do about it. She pulled her gaze from his, catching the glint of amusement dancing in those onyx eyes, and rose from the chair. He paid the bill and walked her out.

  The night was ripe with earthy scents and the soft glow of moonlight spilling from the dark sky. They fell into an easy stride, walking down the narrowed cobblestone paths, the beautiful lilt of Italian voices mingling in the air. "You never told me what your actual job is," she said. He stiffened beside her, as if he didn't want to answer the question. "I'm sorry, you don't have to tell me. I'm just curious."

  "No, it's okay. I'm here to do some research on an acquisition. I just can't discuss details."

  She nodded. "I get it. Maybe regarding a property opportunity? It's harder than people think to just visit Milan for a week and get everything done. Americans are so demanding about wanting things completed yesterday."

  "Are you full American? Or is there some Italian blood lurking?"

  "English, with some Scottish and French. Yet I feel as if I belong here in Italy. This country speaks to me. When I began my travel, I planned on visiting several places to get the full European experience, yet once I arrived here, I never left."

  "But you're from New York, correct? I can hear your accent."

  "Yes. You, too?"

  "How did you know?" he asked.

  "One Easterner can recognize another. Say coffee."

  He laughed. "Coffee."

  "Yep, definitely a New Yorker. We say it like cawfee. I get made fun of all the time."

  "It could be worse. I could be a Red Sox fan and talk like a Bostonian."

  "Ouch. Sorry, M
ets fan here. But I'd prefer Boston over the Yankees any day."

  "I guess this is the end of a beautiful friendship."

  She couldn't help it. She actually giggled, which wasn't like her at all, but it just spilled out from her mouth before she could stop it. He stared at her, a big grin on his face, and the energy hummed and danced around them, encircling them in a tight hug. Their arms swung close together, fingers barely brushing. Like a schoolgirl, her breath came out in a puffy rush, her skin prickling with awareness at the almost touch.

  "Do you plan on going back home?" he asked quietly.

  "I did. Time began slipping by faster than I expected. I have to make a decision if I'm going back to my old life, or if I've outgrown it."

  He seemed to consider her words. "Maybe you can go back but be different. Maybe it's not about the location, but how you've changed inside."

  "Maybe you're right. Here we are."

  The storefront sign was done in bold, bright red: La Dolce Famiglia. The window of the shop was better than a toy store. The display was lined with bright sunflowers, and endless displays of various pastries seduced onlookers--dusted with powdered sugar, shells crisp and firm, flaky with butter and rich with homemade creams. The little bell tinkled as they walked in. The scent of baked bread, rich chocolate, tangy lemon, and sweet sugar wafted in the air. Even at this late hour, the place was crowded, lines jamming the counters, and the back filled with chattering groups and families sipping cappuccino and snacking on pastries at high round tables.

  "Here, I'll take you around first before we get in line so you can decide."

  He turned to her, eyes wide. "I may never get out of here alive."

  She smiled with agreement. "That's why I can't seem to move out of Milan. Come on."

  She led him past the cases, joining him to kneel so they didn't miss the bottom rows of treats. From the torto al chocolato that held a touch of wetness from the decadent richness of chocolate, to the fresh fruit tartlettes lined up like mini soldiers with strawberries, blueberries, and lemon, to the boxes of firm, moist ricciarelli--the delicate almond cookies covered in powdered sugar, the choices were vast and the decision difficult. Cat watched him carefully. His dessert would tell her more about his personality than a dozen pointed questions.