The Italian Billionaire’s Christmas Bride

by Mollie Mathews

  She pushed up the sleeves of the yellow shaggy pile of her jumper as two women sauntered past, tanned from crown chakra to pink toenails, their double d-cups jiggling like caramel panacottas.

  Surrounded by an ocean of virtual nakedness Issy felt prudish dressed head-to-toenails in winter discomfort. Certainly less chic than the five-year old meandering past, resplendent in streaming caftan and matching overly bejewelled sandals, snapping the sunset with her iPhone.

  'Yes. First time anywhere overseas, actually,' she ran her fingers over the roll of her turtleneck, wishing she'd thought to wear a tee-shirt so she could peel the jumper off.

  As always she'd left things too late. She'd been in a mad panic to get to the plane and hadn't even thought to pack spare clothes to change into once she'd arrived at Nadi airport.

  Taking refuge beneath a palm tree Issy momentarily relaxed as a choir of Fijian men and women dressed in flowing white gowns began to sing in the open area just beyond the pool. Their voices soared through the humid air. Then suddenly realizing they were singing Christmas carols tension knotted her shoulders.

  Christmas.

  When she'd offered to help her business partner Nancy, and take this last minute client, she'd thought she could escape the festive season, dripping with tinsel and baubles, and the promise of happiness.

  Her fingers tightened around the note the receptionist had passed her when she'd checked in. At least work meant she wouldn't have to spend the holiday season at her mother's with HIM—the traitorous, lying, three-timing control-freak of a fiancé. Make that ex-fiancé, she corrected. She had dumped him immediately, but that didn’t stop her heart from taking a hit.

  Issy stared into the distance her attention diverted by a huge Christmas tree blazing with a rainbow of coloured lights. She closed her eyes and sighed. Why couldn't she find a promise-keeper?

  Married by Christmas? Nope. Once again the bus of happily-ever-after failed to pull up at her stop, but to find out on Facebook that James was cheating on her weeks before their wedding? No one deserved that humiliation.

  Even if her mother still thought James was the best thing since sliced toast, at least Issy had the balls to shut down his lies, the courage to confront the truth, the strength to face life on her own again. She swallowed hard as the sharp edge of betrayal ran a ragged line through her chest. She'd had a lucky escape.

  The porter smiled stiffly as though sensing her discomfort. 'Holiday?'

  Issy looked longingly at people relaxing by the pool, her gaze hovering over a loved-up couple entwined on a sun-lounger. She felt a tug of disappointment. Would she ever trust enough to fall in love again? She crushed the note from her client in her hands, pressing her lips together as she turned away. 'Business.'

  All the men in her life, even her father, had let her down terribly. Work was a most welcome distraction. She didn't need a man in her life, she reminded herself. Not anymore.

  A riot of shouts from the beach pulled her attention toward a group of men jabbing at something writhing on the sand at the edge of the lagoon. Whether it was an instinctive sense of brutality etched in the men’s postures or the impact of the powerful figure brushing past her, she didn't know, but every whisper of her body hair stood erect.

  Issy watched mesmerized, adrenaline lapping her body as a 6 foot 3 Adonis with olive toned six-pack abs and a bod that could easily grace a billboard strode toward the men on the beach, clad only in tiny trunks.

  He looked strangely familiar in an unfamiliar sort of way, like a celebrity in a magazine, the same handsomeness and aloof assurance, although she knew she'd never met him before. He looked like a movie star, only tougher? Certainly not a man anyone would forget.

  His muscles rippled gold fire under the heat of the fading tropical sun as, with powerful, lithe steps like a panther about to lunge, the titan advanced upon the men on the beach. Fear shadowed their faces as they turned to each other, eyes widening, aware this was no normal man approaching but a warrior, a leader of men, a man not to be defied.

  'Allora! Stop!' His rich honey-toned voice, edged with a deep sultry Italian accent, sent shivers coursing through her body.

  Tearing her eyes away from this perfect specimen of a man Issy perched on her toes, squinting under the bright sun to see what the titan was so vigorously trying to protect.

  'Sea snake. Very poisonous,' the porter said.

  Danger.

  The warning flashed red in her mind and jackknifed through the air. Was it the snake she was afraid of or the rush of molten emotion the stranger incited?

  'Come and see,' the porter beckoned.

  She hesitated, torn between fear and fascination. Her pulse hammered, pummelled by the unexpected handsomeness of the man and stricken with curiosity. What sort of person would go to a snake's rescue?

  For the first time in forever she felt excited, alive, her body on edge, ablaze. Why, when she was officially off men, and as she walked toward him did every whisper of hair on her body stand alert?

  She frowned, trying to remember any man ever having inflamed such a reaction, as his muscular arms took the sticks from the assailants. Arms that could crush an opponent or protect a woman against his powerful lean body.

  'We're only trying to protect the resort guests from danger,' the men shouted.

  'Che cavolo! Can you not see the baby snake?' he jabbed his finger towards the rocks. 'Would you deprive it of its mother?' His eyes were a lethal shade of gunpowder blue, his gaze unyielding, freezing the men in a chilly silence. 'She will not strike unless provoked.'

  Issy's breath caught in ragged gasps as she glanced at the tiny snake lingering in the distant shadows. Was this guy for real? Someone like her, who cared nothing for the senseless killing of animals.

  'We didn't see it. We didn't think,' they said, stepping back. 'Sorry, Sir.'

  Issy smiled, her body flooding with something that felt uncomfortably like admiration. She dragged her eyes from him and focused on the snake lying washed ashore, exposed in its vulnerability.

  As dangerous as the snake was alleged to be the artist in her was captivated by the beauty of its iridescent pearl and obsidian stripes. But she was wary too of its potent power. Was the snake feigning death or was it spellbound, against its will, offering herself to the giant of a man before her?

  Issy’s heart seemed to freeze then pounded like the sea crashing on the distant reef. She could relate to feeling out of her depth. She stole a glance at the knight without armour standing in far too skimpy trunks as with soft, deft movements that belied his powerful physique, he gently nudged the snake toward the sea.

  Issy kept her gaze firmly on the snake as it uncoiled slowly, writhing in the wet sand as Issy drew closer to its rescuer. She stood a body's length away from him, agonisingly aware of the rich lustre of his full head of blue-black wavy hair, his impeccably shaven jaw, and the intoxicating aroma of his cologne coiling through the balmy air. Earthy, sensual, exhilarating.

  What was up with that, she wondered bamboozled by the commotion clanging through her mind. Her eyes recklessly savoured every contoured edge of the Adonis's body as he stood at the water’s edge watching the snake slither to freedom. She traced his broad, bronzed, well-oiled chest, before sliding down the tantalisingly playful coils of soft dark hair dividing his sculptured six pack and marching a confident line from his navel, before vanishing below the rim of his tiny 'spray on' trunks.

  Suddenly the Adonis turned toward her and she was immediately captured in the web of his intense blue eyes.

  Issy looked away quickly. Too quickly.

  Sprung!

  Her face flamed carmine red as she studied her feet, wishing the escaping waves of rose pink hair that fell over her face as she did so would hide her indefinitely. After a brief moment she glanced up, hoping he had not read her mind when she'd gawked at him. The smirk on his face and the intensity of his gaze left her in no doubt he'd registered her attraction.

  'Thank you for saving the snake
Mr Johnstone,' said the porter, offering him a towel as he went to his side.

  'Johnstone?' her voice eked out. Her eyes ping-ponged between the stranger and the porter. Thrusting her hand in her pocket, she unfurled the note the receptionist had given her. Issy’s stomach dived a nervous somersault that would have done an Olympic swimmer proud as she re-read the message, studying the words forged in firm, confident handwriting—no sign of weakness anywhere. “Meet me by the pool. (Signed) Mr. Johnstone.”

  Oh, God. Mortification coiled through her body. 'You can't be that Mr Johnstone.'

  He stared at her as if she was insane.

  She bit her lip, holding back any attempt at an explanation for her earlier behavior that she knew would only dig a deeper hole. 'There must be some mistake.'

  CHAPTER TWO

  The Mr Johnstone she was expecting was a middle-aged, totally non-threatening paunchy Scotsman with middle aged spread. Not a head turner with a licence to thrill. Issy glanced back to the hotel lobby hoping to make a hasty retreat in search of the real Mr Johnstone. The plain, non-threatening one. The one who didn't make her loins quiver ridiculously and her face blaze with heat.

  'This is the lady you wanted,' the porter said, gesturing to her.

  He stood motionless, his eyes fixed firmly on her with the languid gaze of a panther.

  Issy smiled tightly. As if a man who looked like an underwear model would want someone like her, a woman so organic and nonplussed about what was fashionable and what wasn't.

  His eyes narrowed beneath perplexed brows as he surveyed the pink waves of hair rippling over her shoulders. She braced herself for criticism. Okay, maybe she was going overboard with the pink hair and the clashing array of colors, but it was her way of rebelling – of shouting out loud, “I don't care”. If she said it enough, hopefully and eventually the fact she cared too much would be erased from her consciousness. And then, on that miraculous day she'd never feel unworthy again.

  'Mr. Johnstone,' he said, stretching out his hand. His voice was pure sex, sending shivers scuttling down her spine. It was more honeyed Italian, than Scottish in origin, as his name suggested. 'And you are, Miss—?’ the Adonis asked, glancing at her hand.

  Suddenly her left ring finger felt bare. It was a strange feeling to be conscious of. Nearly a year had passed since she'd thrown her engagement ring back in James' face after his humiliating betrayal.

  Issy thrust her hand in her pocket, swallowing hard, before moving her hand to meet his. 'Issy Riley, from Passion Down Under Tours,' she said, injecting her voice with a tone she hoped sounded sufficiently serious.

  Passion Down Under—what had she and Nancy been thinking? The name they’d made up for their business sounded fun on paper, but now she had to say it out loud in front of a virtually naked, excruciatingly sexy man it just sounded wrong.

  His right eyebrow grew into a slight peak at the centre, giving him an expression of mischief, though his firm mouth held no trace of amusement. 'Che cavolo! You are Passion Down Under?'

  Was she just being overly sensitive or did something in his tone make it clear he'd expected someone better? Of course he did. He'd expected Nancy. But he needn't look quite so thrown. Issy pushed her shoulders authoritatively back and consciously injected her voice with a sombre tone of propriety.

  'As far as the rest of the world is concerned anything below the equator is down under,' Issy said, doing a near impossible job of ignoring her loins flaming pure fire under the heat of his inquisitional gaze.

  'And we're passionate about our belief in the power of creativity to transform peoples lives, making them feel refreshed, inspired, courageous and playful.' Her words usually imbued with confident purpose when talking to the parents of the kids she helped at Issy's Centre trailed into a faint whisper, then disappeared on a balmy breeze.

  The gentle lapping waves washing ashore did little to restore calm. Something about the way his eyes smouldered told her he didn't look in the least like a man needing more passion or courage. And he'd definitely mistaken what she meant by play. However the tell-tale signs of stress: dark rings under the eyes, tightness of the jaw, shoulders as rigid as mountains, told her he wasn't a man who knew how to relax without an agenda.

  'You are not who I expected,' he studied her with microscopic intensity, his face unreadable as his gaze crawled along her purple and yellow striped footless tights, inched along her canary jumper, then rested for an uneasy moment as he read the word “breathe” tattooed in blue running the length of her forearm. His gaze met hers, taking her in with wide-eyed astonishment as though he thought she was certifiably insane.

  'There was an accident,' she said, yanking down her sleeve. 'My business partner, Nancy—‘ she stammered. 'I thought you'd been informed.'

  His frown confirmed the worst.

  'An accident?'

  'Her father—‘

  'Family must always come first.' His eyes softened as he stared into the vast sea, as though oblivious to her, before turning and staring at her. 'Allora, so you are her replacement?' His lips pressed together as though suppressing something unpalatable.

  'You seem disappointed,' she said, steeling herself from his reproachful stare.

  His penetrating gaze stripped her bare. 'I had expected someone more—conservative. Isn't that what counsellors look like?'

  'I'm not a counsellor, I'm an art therapist.' She slid her hand down her neck, wishing like mad she could strip herself of her suffocatingly hot jersey as she wiped away a stream of sweat.

  'I don't like surprises,’ he said with sardonic derision.

  ‘Breathe’, Issy said under her breath, refusing to quake at his steely tone. Breathe. Don't screw this up. 'Oh, whoops. I’m sorry. I don't know why the message never reached you. But we offer a money back warranty, your satisfaction is guaranteed,' she said, instantly regretting the implied promise. 'What I mean is, you won't be disappointed.' She was babbling, over-talking like she always did when she was nervous.

  Something about the way he smirked at her communicated white-hot fire, as though for a brief period he might accept the novelty of being with someone so plainly unsuitable. Or was he playing with her? Well, if he thought they were on a sex tour she would dissuade him of that idea.

  'I understand you don't know how to relax,' she said, trying to turn the focus back to why they were both here rather than continue to be unsettled by his come-and-get-me sculpted torso and chiselled biceps.

  'I know how to relax, mia cara.’ His voice was husky, the timbre of a low tenor. A sensual shiver shot through her body. Would that voice never stop affecting her this way? Would she ever be able to find his presence bland?

  'I'm sorry, I don't understand, my brief was...' She rummaged through the bag slung from her shoulder, and felt the steady almost appalled air of his disapproving gaze as he looked at the chaotic, disordered state of what she sensed to him was less of a handbag and more of a hand-sack. 'I know I have the email somewhere.'

  He stepped toward her, the full impact of his virile masculinity leaving her nearly breathless. 'Sex.'

  'Excuse me?' she stammered.

  'Sex is my relaxation strategy, mia cara.’

  He was being deliberately provocative, she was sure of it now, but if he was determined to unnerve her he would find a worthy opponent. 'How charming for you,' she said coolly, flourishing the note. 'You summoned me.'

  'Tomorrow we will leave for my private island. My chauffeur will pick us up at 7 sharp to take us to the airport. Please do not be late.'

  Something cold slid down the back of Issy's neck. Private island? Nancy hadn't mentioned this. 'I don't like surprises either,' she said, caught between apprehension and curiosity. 'Look, I'm sure you're legit and everything, but I really don't feel comfortable taking off to goodness knows where with a man I've only just met. What's wrong with sticking to the itinerary? A week here, at this very nice,'and very public,' resort?'

  'I prefer the comfort of home,' he said, barely answeri
ng her question. ‘It was never my intention to stay on the mainland longer than I needed. Oh, and be sure to bring some clothes better suited for the climate,’ he said, as he turned from her.

  Fine hairs bristled on her neck. Okay, so she was sweltering hot, but that wasn't the point. Not only was he changing the whole agenda, but now he had the arrogance to tell her how to dress.

  The two slim-legged blondes in barely-there bikinis she'd seen earlier sauntered past, flicking their hair coyly as they smiled in Max’s direction. Whatever tenuous hold Issy had had on him quickly disappeared as his gaze combed their bodies with primal appreciation. Irrational jealously sloshed through her body, mixing with painful memories of the fickleness of men.

  'Enjoy your evening, Mr Johnstone.' Excusing herself, she choked back a defiant retort, stealing a backward glance as she strode away.

  What do I care, she reminded herself? He was a client, not her lover. She should be focusing on the task ahead, figuring out how she was going to get through the next week rather than allowing herself to become stupidly distracted by a man. A man completely off limits. A man totally out of her league.

  *

  Casting the bimbos prancing before him a dismissive glare Massimilliano turned his attention back to the irritatingly intoxicating, beguiling woman who had in one sweeping touch managed to pierce every impenetrable fortress he'd erected.

  She had walked away from him, her manner clearly dismissive. He was not accustomed to being dismissed, especially by someone technically in his employ. Women usually followed him around and worshipped his every movement. Somehow he didn't imagine Issy Riley doing anything of the sort.

  He ran his hand over his thumping chest. Two months ago he'd suffered a minor heart attack and now this proud woman was giving him palpitations. It was not the speed of his attraction that frightened him most, although this was indeed worrying, what frightened him most was the irrationality of her appeal.