In less than a week she’d lost her heart to him. And she was terrified because she was swiftly becoming emotionally dependent on a man, just like her mother. Marco had been so dominating, so aloof, yet so passionate with her.
That fear that she would repeat her mother’s hell had been the one thing that kept her on edge, that stopped her from fully trusting him, even though her body loved his touch, his kiss.
And that wounded look in his eyes had melted something in her. Left her wanting to hold him. Heal his hurts.
Now she saw how wrong she’d been. How she’d let fear cloud her vision. Marco was ruthless, able to mete out vengeance to those who deserved it. But he wasn’t mean. Wasn’t abusive. Wasn’t vindictive.
Marco Vincienta was the direct opposite of her father. And she loved him still, maybe more than ever before.
Now he pressed his hand to the small of her back, hot and possessive. She gasped and whirled around, skin on fire.
Big mistake, she realized a heartbeat later. The cold rough stone wall was at her back, a massive pillar to her right, and filling the narrow void was Marco.
“You’re lying, cara mia,” he said, hands bracketing her shoulders to hem her in, head bent close so only she heard him. “You remember those first days together when we gave and took equally, just like I remember them.”
Her heart raced, her mind spun those memories of when she’d fallen in love with Marco to life. When their passion had terrified her. When she’d thought she could hold back from surrendering all to him and still hold on to the man.
She’d convinced herself Marco could do business with her father and keep their relationship separate. That beside him, she could continue to protect her mother. How very wrong she’d been.
Yes, she remembered the joy, the passion. A tingle raced up her spine as she focused on the beautifully masculine sculpt of his mouth. How she’d struggled the first time to hold a part of her from him. How she’d failed then.
Now she was stronger. Resisting him should be easy. But her knees quaked and her blood hummed the longer she stared into his eyes, reading the passion, the promise, the purpose. Was he going to kiss her? Out here on the street? Was she going to let him?
No, she couldn’t let herself go again. She slammed both palms against his chest and shivered at the power and heat radiating from him into her. Moisture gathered under her breasts and between her thighs.
“What difference does it make if I do remember?” she asked at last. “Nothing has changed.”
“Hasn’t it?”
How could he ask such a thing? “Not the things that mattered. You are still holding back, as I must.”
She ducked under his arm and ran up the steps on legs that shook, every nerve in her body humming with the awareness that he was right behind her. That he could, if he wanted to, catch her again. That she was right there on the verge of surrendering to passion. All over again.
This time she wasn’t sure if she had the strength to stop herself from getting lost in his passion again. From losing her independence. Her sense of self-worth.
Dammit, she wouldn’t be an emotional puppet like her mother, letting a man rule every aspect of her life. This was why she feared she would never be able to have that type of relationship again.
The photographer’s gallery was the fourth level up and she pushed inside without waiting for Marco. But she knew the instant he entered the shop behind her because her skin tingled, craving his touch again.
She shook off thoughts of him and took in the cramped gallery. Ivory plastered walls were covered with a multitude of framed photos ranging from breathtaking landscapes to the most realistic portraits she’d ever seen.
None were staged. In fact, the majority were candid shots. The range of emotion captured on the people’s faces spoke to the feelings trapped inside her. Longing. Fear. Love.
“Look. That’s Bella.” Marco pointed to a framed photo set apart from the others as if it held a place of honor.
The young girl in the portrait stared down at them with guarded eyes. Eyes that looked far too old for her age.
Delanie pressed a hand to her heart, mouth dropping open. Marco had told her Bella had come from poverty but she’d never truly considered what that meant. She hadn’t realized Bella had had to work as a child.
The picture showed stained clothes that hung on her small frame, her thin arms holding a large tray of fish draped with linen, the burden seeming too great for one so young and frail.
Heat swept up Delanie’s cheeks, a burning wash of shame such as she’d never felt before. She hadn’t had the ideal childhood, but she had been given every material convenience available. She hadn’t had to work. Hadn’t wanted for anything but frivolities.
“I just want to cry when I stare into her eyes,” she said.
His palm rested on her lower back, softly, but this time she didn’t jolt. Didn’t pull away. This time she wanted this connection to him, wanted to share the agony and anger that coursed through him.
“Bella was twelve when Cabriotini’s lawyer found her living with the fishmonger.” His fingers splayed on her back and she couldn’t help but lean into him. “Her mother had died three years before and he was her stepfather, the closest thing she had to family. He’d remarried but kept Bella, allowing her room and board in exchange for helping him in his shop.”
She faced him, and her heart ached at the bleakness etched on his handsome face. He cared more than she’d thought possible. And if he was capable of caring that much for his sister …
As quickly as the thought popped into her head she pushed it away. She didn’t dare let herself hope for more with him no matter how much compassion he showed his sister.
“At least they found her and got her out of that life,” she said, her palm stroking the line of his clenched jaw, content for now to share this special moment with him. “What you’ve done for her, though, is wonderful. You gave her a home and family.”
He knew Bella was his daughter yet he did nothing to help her.”
“Why?”
“Because she was female and a young unschooled one at that,” he said.
Exactly what her own father would have done. Delanie had spent her whole life feeling second-rate because of her sex. Because her father had believed only a man could run his corporation.
But not Marco. He’d set his sister up as co-owner of Cabriotini Vineyard. He gave her the mansion, preferring his villa nestled in the hills.
And another misconception about Marco fell away, revealing a man with a big heart. With compassion. A man she could trust?
“May I help you?” a young man asked.
“I have an appointment with Carlo Domanti,” she said.
The young man speared Marco an assessing look before turning back to her. “Delanie Tate, I presume?”
“Yes,” she said, suddenly beset with nerves by the way this man boldly scrutinized her.
Marco thrust his hand out and introduced himself, offering no more than his name. If it rang a bell with Carlo, he didn’t let on.
“That picture,” Marco said, pointing to his sister. “I want it.”
Carlo locked his arms over his chest. “It’s not for sale.”
“Everything has a price,” Marco said.
She winced, all too aware that he’d found her price and used it to gain her compliance—in and out of bed.
The photographer’s gaze narrowed on Marco. “Why do you want it?”
“That girl is my sister.”
Carlo flung a hand in the air and spat out a stream of curses. “That is a lie! She does not have a brother.”
“Bella didn’t know about me then.” Marco got right in the photographer’s face. “I was unaware of her as well until several years after that picture was taken.”
Carlo studied him, brow furrowed, arms locked over his chest. Finally he gave a nod, and Delanie blew out the breath she’d been holding.
“I will consider your offer,” Carlo allow
ed, but it was obvious by his scowl that he wasn’t convinced.
Marco’s mouth hinted at a smile. “I assure you it will be a profitable deal for you.”
If the photographer was tempted by money, he certainly hid it well. But at least the throbbing tension had eased enough for her to finalize this business.
“Mr. Domanti, I take it you know Bella?” Delanie asked.
The photographer bobbed his head. “We were born in the same village in the same questionable circumstances.”
Bella’s insistence that Delanie find this particular photographer made sense now. “Then you’re long-time friends.”
“I remember when she was born. As she was the only girl, I made it my duty to watch her the best I could. But she was rebellious. Stubborn. Proud. The last time I saw her, spoke to her, was when I took that photo.” His gaze narrowed on Marco again. “I left her as she wished but I never forgot her. Where is she? Is she all right?”
“She is well and about to become a married woman,” Marco said.
“That’s why we’re here. Bella wants you to photograph her wedding,” Delanie said.
The photographer threaded long lean fingers through his mop of curly hair. “You work for Bella?”
“I do,” Delanie said. “Now if we could sit down and negotiate the terms, number of photos …”
Carlo slashed the air with a hand, a gesture so reminiscent of Marco in a mood that she nearly laughed. It must be a universal language for Italian men.
“I would do it for free for Bella,” Carlo said.
“Bella wouldn’t want that,” Delanie said before Marco could interject anything.
Without further delay she quoted a figure well above the normal rate, all the while removing the contract from her portfolio. “If you would just read and sign this, we’re all set to go.”
Carlo didn’t hesitate, giving her very straightforward contract a quick read. He signed it with an artistic flourish.
Moments later Marco was ushering her out the door, but not before he offered the photographer a staggering sum of money that was reluctantly accepted. All for that one poignant picture of Bella.
“It’s touching that you want that portrait so badly,” she said as they started down the stone stairs.
“There is nothing endearing about it. I don’t ever want to forget the wrong done to us both,” he said. “And I sure as hell don’t want to risk it falling into the wrong hands either.”
“Paparazzi?”
He gave a crisp nod. “In her condition, she doesn’t need bad press and neither does her fiancé.”
“I can’t argue with that logic.”
He stopped, forcing her to do the same. His mouth quirked in an utterly charming grin that sent her senses somersaulting.
“What? We are in agreement?”
She couldn’t stop her smile, couldn’t find a reason to pull away from him. “Surely it’s a quirk of fate.”
He laughed, a deep rich sound that coaxed her to do the same, to let loose with him. There had been few times when they’d laughed together, when they’d been this free and light of heart.
But as much as she reveled in his smile, his touch, as much as she yearned for his kiss, she knew she was treading on dangerous ground with him. She wasn’t a starry-eyed young girl any longer.
She knew heartache followed sweet bliss, that as much as they meshed in bed, out of it they clashed. Now that she’d glimpsed another side of Marco, she was even more vulnerable to him.
“I’m anxious to tell Bella the news,” she said, hoping he readily took her hint to leave Florence.
His smile was wide and totally unexpected. “You are making her dreams come true effortlessly. Bravo.”
“Thank you.”
They fell into step on the street, making their way through the growing crowd toward the Bugatti. Delanie smiled to herself. For a man who wanted to blend in, he certainly missed the boat by driving such a flashy car.
“What amuses you so?” he asked as he assisted her into the low passenger seat.
She spread her arms. “This. It’s the red flag you wave in defiance of your attempt to remain the anonymous billionaire. Deep down you want to be noticed.”
His smile fled, his body going painfully stiff in a blink. “You’re wrong. Italian men adore performance cars. I own it because I can.”
He shut the door soundly on the car and his emotions as well. Shutting her out.
She wet her dry lips, hesitant to follow him into his dark place. That had been their pattern but she was tired of it.
“You dreamed of owning a car like this when you were a boy working in the fields,” she said after he slid behind the wheel and sent the Bugatti whizzing down a warren of narrow streets.
He cut her a look that was so boyish and charming she smiled. “It is true. The precise make and model don’t matter but the flashy cars were always red. Always fast and always driven by the man who was in charge of his world.”
“Then you have achieved your goals,” she said.
He shrugged. “Not all.”
What else could he want? A wife? Children? Love?
She refrained from probing. She didn’t want to know how he intended to live his life after she returned to England. Didn’t want to think about him losing his heart to another woman.
With effort, she focused on the reason she had come to Italy. Bella and her wedding. He would move mountains to please his sister and it was her job to make sure all went smoothly.
“Traditionally the father of the bride gives his daughter a special token on her wedding day,” she said, sliding him a look to gauge his reaction. “It would be nice if you stepped into that role for her.”
“I am giving her a vineyard and a villa,” he said, jaw set.
She flexed her fingers when she longed to curl them into fists and pound the dashboard. “I was thinking of something more personal.”
“It is that important?”
“Marco! Of course it is. This is your sister and she will hope to have a personal token from you to remember this special day.”
“Ah, a memento.” He frowned, nodded. “Very well. What should this gift be?”
She just caught herself from reaching out to him, from laying a commiserating hand on his arm. “A piece of jewelry would be lovely. Something for her to treasure.”
“Good idea. We will visit Ponte Vecchio,” he said.
Moments later he whipped the car down a narrow cobbled street and parked. But he didn’t budge, save for the tightening of his fingers on the steering wheel as he stared at the gray buildings stacked neatly on top of each other. She wondered if he even noticed the people traversing the street, or if he was lost in some memory again.
What bothered him about this place? she wondered, seeing nothing remarkable or disturbing about Florence. It was a fairly large city but not nearly as hectic as London or Paris.
“Change your mind?” she asked.
“No, just thinking. Come.”
He helped her leave the car and escorted her down the walkway toward the bridge. The closer they got to it, the more people they encountered. Yet his tension seemed to ease.
“What is this place?” she asked at last.
“This is the home of the most renowned goldsmiths in all of Italy. You will help me choose a gift,” he said, smiling.
“I would be happy to.”
The shops on the bridge were stuck together as if glued. It seemed as if no attempt had been made to make the buildings uniform in size, and several protruded over the deep blue river as if hanging on for dear life.
Delanie knew the feeling as she clung to Marco’s hand, aware he was a powerful yet very tentative lifeline. As they strolled along the walkway with the stone wall to her right and shops clustering the Ponte Vecchio ahead, he told her the fascinating history of the goldsmiths of Florence extending back four hundred years.
She smiled, the sun warm on her face while a cool breeze from the river whispered around he
r shoulders. Coupled with the enthusiastic man beside her it was a perfect moment, one she’d never thought she would share with him.
“I feel as if I’m in the company of a tour guide,” she said, half teasing, but it coaxed another smile from him.
Her heart skipped a beat and warmed. Ah, such a very sexy, very handsome tour guide.
“How is it that you know so much about Florence?”
He shrugged, not that tense lifting of broad shoulders that he’d affected the past week, that she hated. No, this was the boyish hike that she found endearing and that hint of old pain she saw in his eyes showed a glimpse of the man she’d fallen so desperately in love with years ago.
And heaven help her but she was doing it again. She was utterly helpless to stop her heart from melting.
“My grandfather Vincienta owned a decanting shop on the edge of Florence. It was beyond the new bridge to the left.” He pulled her to the wall and pointed downriver, but to her the land blended, all looking the same. Besides, she was more fascinated watching the emotions flickering like a movie on Marco’s face, a face that was for once open and relaxed.
“Nonno wasn’t a savvy businessmen. If a friend or a kind face wanted vino or olio and promised to pay later, he would give it to them on good faith. The debts mounted, so much so that my papa couldn’t hold on to the shop after his father’s death.”
Marco gave a deprecating laugh, but it was the hand tightening on hers that made her flinch, not from pain but from the frustration that coursed from him into her. She sensed whatever change had happened then hadn’t been a good one.
“Mama’s father, Nonno Toligara, offered Papa a job in his small olio press and vineyard, but Papa got a better offer from Antonio Cabriotini. My mother begged Papa to refuse the offer but he took it anyway because he never wished to work for family again, especially not my grandfather who had not wanted him for a son-in-law in the first place.”
“Was your father aware that you … I mean that you weren’t his child?” she settled for, her voice hushed as they started across the bridge.
“According to my nonna, it was a year or more after he went to work for Cabriotini when Father discovered the truth, though my family still kept it from me. I did not understand why life at home changed. Why my parents fought more. Why my papa purposely spent less and less time in my company.”
Innocent of His Claim Page 12
