The Italian Billionaire’s Christmas Bride

by Mollie Mathews

  Suddenly she was angry with him. And she was angry with herself. It was embarrassingly unclassy to have a morning-after encounter, especially when she was half-naked and he appeared so nonplussed.

  'You don’t have to run me off the island. I’m leaving anyway.' She said, hoping he didn’t notice her voice quiver.

  ‘Leaving?' his expression revealed nothing of his thoughts.

  There was no "It’s not your fault,” to take the sting out of rejecting her. No fake romantic words—“you’re a lovely girl. I’m sure you’ll meet a lovely man one day."

  None of that. De Nada. And he wasn’t about to offer up some false hope of happily ever after. He wasn’t about to give her anything except a flippant compliment about her childish painting that she doubted he even meant.

  She’d been right. What happened last night meant nothing. Perhaps she should be grateful. Perhaps she could learn a lot from such a consummate master of cold selfish, indifferent detachment. She could mirror the same indifference. Well, if he wasn’t going to mention the pink elephant in the room she bloody well would.

  ‘Last night was a mistake. One that I intend paying for,’ her voice was rougher than she intended and instead of being nonplussed Max looked at her as though she was quite mad.

  ‘I’m leaving—on your jet plane. Here's my bill for the time I've spent already and my letter of resignation,' she said handing both to him. She’d earned her money and then some, brushing aside a tiny voice telling her she had a nerve asking him for a dime.

  He arched an eyebrow. His eyes widened. His lips pressed into a firm line as he looked at her, making no effort to take what she held in her hand.

  The pages dangled limply as she kept her arm outstretched.

  The only thing breaking the awkward silence was the whirring of the wooden fan above their heads, and the shrill chorus of birds flying through the humid morning air.

  She anchored her feet to the tiled floor, digging in her resolve. Her arm throbbed, aching with the effort of keeping it straight.

  Still he did not move. He did not speak. He did not cede.

  Finally his command splintered the silence.

  'No!' His voice was raw and ragged, not controlled and measured like it normally was, which threw her.

  'I'm sorry, my mind's made up,' she said, making a Herculean effort to keep her voice steady.

  'I do the firing,' he said, his tone made it clear that in this matter all things were non-negotiable.

  Anger licked at her throat, flaming a rage she fought to suppress. A rage she wished for one reckless minute she could give voice to, but she never did. Never had. Never would. Growing up in a house filled with anger and shouting, hiding under the bed, forcing her fingers in her ears, she'd vowed she would never inflict that kind of torture on another. No matter how well deserved.

  Boy, would she like to yell back, and wipe that control right off his face. Instead she smiled, as she always did, and imagined a soft, spongy bubble in sparkly pink surrounding her. The kind that was infused with violet and yellow and all the colors of the rainbow when the sunlight caught it. She imagined herself far away, as she had as a child, far away from disagreement and unpleasantness. But instead of feeling happy all she saw was her horrid little bedsit and the flashing light on her phone telling her that her mother and her toad of an ex were expecting her for Christmas.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  'I didn’t take you for a quitter,' Max said in the voice he only ever had to use once with his staff, never twice. Her eyes flashed as he hoped they would.

  'I’m not a quitter,' she said, with a fierceness that surprised him. It was fighting talk, which he admired, but her warrior words only sat on the surface of her delectable face. Beneath the bravado she looked as vulnerable as if he had just ordered her to drop her towel and parade in front of him stark naked.

  But she had already done that. And for that he felt terrible. He would never subject her to that indignity again. He wouldn’t tell her that. But he’d expected her to fight to stay, to cling to false hope—not to run away.

  Once again she’d surprised him. But there was something else, something, a vulnerability he’d seen once before, which made him feel surprisingly protective. He wanted to wrap her in a soft robe.

  Her fingers gripped the edge of the toweling, her knuckles white. 'I don’t leave people, they leave me,' she said softly. Then as though thinking she’d said too much she added, 'But in this case my professionalism requires I leave you. Everything would just be awkward if I stayed.'

  ‘No,’ Max thundered. ‘I can’t allow you to leave.’ He needed her. But he couldn’t tell her that. He wouldn’t tell her that. He had never needed anyone before. Self-reliance had kept him safe.

  'I’m sorry? You can’t allow me to leave? Are you forcing me to stay?'

  'And if I were? Would that be so bad?'

  She gazed toward the airfield as though wondering how she would get off the island, then turned toward him looking directly at him as though trying to fathom what was going on in his mind. Good luck trying, he had no idea himself. He just knew he needed her.

  'I won’t, I can’t—let you go. You have something.' Something I need.’

  'What? What could I possibly have that with all your wealth, all your connections, all the choices that your money can buy, you can’t import from somewhere else?'

  You. It’s you. There’s something about you, he wanted to say but didn’t. He didn’t know what it was about her or why she and no other woman had made him feel the way he did. All he knew was that for the first time in far too long his creativity was back. And there was no way he was going to let her know that she could take credit for that. Not without her realizing she had some power over him.

  'I can recommend someone else…’ she said in that innocent voice of hers that was etched into his soul, as much a part of him as his own.

  'I need you,' he thundered at the rawest level.

  Her gaze touched his, then moved away as she turned from him, 'I’m sorry—I can’t. It’s better if I go.'

  The woman was impossible. Did he really have to beg?

  'Chiedo scusa. I’m sorry.'

  Sorry. Words she’d never heard from any man. His brutal apology was as surprising as the hammering in her chest.

  'No, I’m sorry,' she said. 'I crossed the line. It was my fault.'

  'Do you always apologize when it’s others that should take the blame?'

  Yes. She always played peacekeeper, she always tried to make others feel better. Growing up everything was always her fault.

  'It was unprofessional of me. You didn’t know what you were doing. Stress makes people do things out of character—'

  He gave a humorous laugh, 'Isabella, I knew exactly what I was doing. Escaping. Taking ruthless advantage of a kind, caring young woman who ordinarily wouldn’t have found herself anywhere near a man as damaged as me. And it wasn’t out of character. I’ve been pulling that stunt most of my life. Pushing people away. But I don’t want to push you away.'

  'You don’t?' she stammered.

  'I used you. For that I apologize. But something happened last night. I don’t know—' He drew a deep breath as though wrestling with what he wanted to say and what he felt he should say. 'It’s just that for the first time I felt inspired. Not at first,' he corrected. 'At first I felt rotten for pouncing on you like that. I shouldn’t have done it. I was being selfish.'

  Issy’s heart skipped. It was progress. As much as she would have liked to blurt out that she enjoyed every minute of being pounced on she kept her trap shut. Finally he was opening up to her. A tiny hairline crack, but a glimmer of light, nevertheless.

  'I’d like to make it up to you. If you’re still determined to go, I can’t stop you. But at least let me show you the real Fiji.' His voice was much too hoarse and he saw that she sensed it. 'Bring your paints.'

  *

  'You’re missing everything, Max,' Issy said through wind-blown hair that caught in he
r mouth as she spoke. She stuck her head out of the Land Rover as they sped past authentic Fijian villages devoid of the trappings of western life.

  Potted dirt roads led to homes whose walls formed a tapestry of natural woven panels, wooden planks and corrugated iron painted in peony pink and banana yellow. Outhouses billowed smoke as daily meals were cooked over open fires while chickens roamed and children played.

  'Look!' Issy cried, pointing towards two plump birds. 'Oh my God, aren’t they beautiful.'

  'Ah, these are Flame Doves, also known as the Orange Fruit Dove,' said Tukana, gripping the steering wheel with one hand, his other pointing to the trees where the birds were nesting.

  'They’re so cute. They have rock-melon orange feathers and lime feather heads—as though they really are what they eat,' Issy giggled.

  Max felt his heart tug. It was extraordinary how much pleasure this woman got out of life. Her exuberant spirit was infectious and he found himself relaxing.

  'They take a long time to find a mate, but once united they never part,' Tukana said, winking at Kerela, his wife, who was riding up front beside him.

  'Oh, that’s so adorable.' The delectable freckles sprinkled over the bridge of Issy’s nose like hundreds and thousands on fairy bread crinkled as she grinned. God, he’d like to eat her.

  He already knew she tasted delicious. Max took a deep breath and thrust his head out of the window inhaling giant gulps of fragrant air. But the spellbindingly seductive scent of frangipani and hibiscus affected him, like an aphrodisiac.

  Increasing his sexual desire was not what he needed at all. What he needed was a freezing cold shower. Max dredged illicit thoughts of her from his mind, and fixed his gaze firmly out the window. It was not the grey humorless jungle of towering formidable high-rises of his New York offices, nor the analytical, linear, meticulously ordered grid of Milan’s streets. Nor was it the frantic scramble of fashion week, everyone fighting to conquer each other. It was a golden Eden, an organic and unstructured melody of shapes and colors which blended effortlessly together.

  Just like Issy, he mused, dizzied by the chaotic blaze of tropical fruit trailing in a riot of blistering yellows and over-ripe oranges across her shapeless ankle length kaftan. There was something hopelessly enchanting about her. He found himself wondering whether the blaze of creativity that had infused his dreams after they’d first slept together would accelerate if they slept together again.

  It would be fun trying were it not for the lingering feelings for her that deepened as they spent more time together, feelings that were as foreign to him as they were addictively unnerving.

  No doubt about it, he was in trouble. He pondered his situation while gazing at the ominous clouds quickly building up across the sky.

  *

  A chorus of cries, accompanied by a wave of giggling and a sea of flailing arms and skinny legs, followed the Land Rover as it rattled down the lumpy dirt road, driving deeper and deeper into virgin rainforest. Children with huge glistening brown eyes ran alongside them as they approached the village.

  'Bula!' a large man shouted at the top of his lungs, grinning as he emerged from a simple thatched building. Women glanced up from their weaving, waving and laughing as Max got out of the car and went to the boot.

  'Toys and things for school,' he said, pulling out exercise books, pens and pencils and passing them to the Fijians. 'And gifts too. For Christmas.'

  Issy looked at him, unable to stop herself from smiling.

  'It’s difficult to get books in the islands,' Max said, thrusting his hands in his pockets.

  'That’s very generous,' she said, looking at the sack overflowing with goodies, respect deepening. James had hated children. And he was stingy. Even though he had buckets of money he never gave anyone anything. His was a Scrooge’s Christmas.

  But Max was a modern day Santa Claus, she thought, smiling as the children swarm ed around him. Pride, or something surprisingly comfortable, swelled her heart. She was seeing a different side of him and it felt dangerously good. He was dressed in leather loafers, cotton loose-fitting trousers, which fit snugly over his firm to-die-for butt. And a black polo shirt that clung to his steel-honed chest, ridged and muscled in ways that defied belief—that made her mouth water and her knees feel shaky. He was gorgeous. He was something far more intoxicating than merely gorgeous, more overwhelming than simply handsome, and yet he was a complicated melody of thoughtfulness and powerful male abstraction besides.

  Jolted back to awareness she realized he was looking at her. And it took every bit of self-preservation not to let out the high-pitched sound that clamored for release in her throat. Mirrored glasses hid his eyes but it was as if he was looking right into her soul. Her chest fluttered—in his shades she saw her future. Or dreamed she did, she told herself, climbing out of the jeep. She needed air—lots of it. She needed to shake her traitorous feelings from filling her head with silly nonsense, unattainable fantasies.

  Gripping the fan she’d fashioned out of paper, she fluttered it in front of her face. He was Mr Cool and Detached—where she was Ms Hot and Totally Enamored, she mused wiping beads of perspiration from her brow.

  He was getting to her in a way she knew would only end disastrously. She was Plain Chalk and he was Mr Unattainable, she reminded herself as she lifted her camera from around her neck and fixed the lens on the children. Keep busy, she told herself, focus on everyone but him.

  'Beautiful,' cried one of the children.

  'Handsome man,' giggled several of the older women.

  Issy smiled at the children encircling him as he handed out gifts. She envied the way the Fijians just said what they felt about him. No inhibition. No pretense. He was a terrifically good-looking man. If she wasn’t working for him and wasn’t so afraid of his rejection, she would cry out to him too. "Handsome, sexy, thoroughly irresistible man."

  Instead she hovered in the background taking photos, pretending not to be interested in him one little bit.

  The village sat on the fringe of the coast. On the hill above them sat a simple white church, with a large white wooden cross, overlooking the village. Even though the cross itself had nothing to do with Christmas itself, it was for some reason, it was a comforting reminder of what Christmas was really meant to celebrate—a tradition that many people had forgotten.

  She took a few photos of the building and the surrounding landscape and turned her attention back to the children gathering around Max. She felt her heart tug as she watched the man she’d only ever seen as remote and aloof suddenly spring to life. Taking a rugby ball from the sack of toys he ran through the village kicking it ahead of the clutch of giggling children who followed him as though he was the Pied Piper.

  Issy put the camera into Shutter Priority mode, choosing a fast shutter speed, and captured him having fun. No matter how important he believed his job was, looking at the photos would remind him that there was more to life than adoring fans and wealth. For the first time since they’d met he looked relaxed and happy.

  She watched him through the lens. That beautiful, impossibly strong body could definitely not have been the product of a squad of personal trainers, and surely he would never squander time away from work toiling on modern gym equipment. He employed every part of his extreme physicality in everything he did. He was a sleek, powerful machine.

  Suddenly her feelings overwhelmed her, pummeling her from all angles. Her past and the present twisted together into a tense knot that she couldn’t begin to unravel, — and was afraid to prod lest she fall apart and show him too much. She lifted the camera from her face, glancing at Max as she turned to walk away.

  She watched as one of the older boys tackled him, wrapping taut muscular arms around his ankles. Max fell to the dirt. She braced herself for a torrent of rage, imagining he’d be angry that his beautiful clothes were soiled. But there was no sound. No movement. No sign of life.

  She held her breath as he lay unmoving on the dusty earth. The boys held their
breath too. They leaned closer. And still he didn’t move.

  Fear knotted her gut.

  She was about to run to him when he let out a roar like a lion, and then laughed as he reached up with one perfectly chiseled arm and pulled the boys to the ground.

  Laughing, Issy clicked off a line of photos, following his movement as he rolled in the dirt gripping the ball tightly, refusing to cede it to the growing group of boys descending upon him. Then with an incredible display of strength he soared to his feet. The boys sprung away, in awe of his power. With formidable agility, clutching the ball to his side, he ran toward the goal posts at the far end of the field, near at the edge of the village.

  A little girl who Issy guessed was about four-years-old, with a spray of curls and dark chocolate eyes, tugged at her skirt tearing her attention away. The little girl pointed at the camera. Issy knelt down and showed her the photos she had taken. The girl nestled in her lap, and was quickly joined by several other children.

  'Funny man,' Issy said, her pulse fluttering as she swiped though the screen with her finger, sliding through the photos. 'Silly,' she giggled. Pinching the image with her fingers she zoomed closer, savoring for one delicious moment the tempered steel of his marvelous body.

  'I’m glad you find me amusing.' The deep velvet voice held just a trace of humor and the sound sent quivers running through her skin.

  Issy's face flamed. Sprung again. She fixed her eyes on his sleek loafers as his powerful frame cast a shadow over her. She lifted her head. Her eyes met his and she was lost in a chorus of sensation too bewildering to understand. She felt his power sing through her. The desire to be held in his arms almost overwhelmed her.

  Dazed, Issy rose to her feet. Something hot and dangerous burned between them.

  'I need to take off my clothes.' His voice was so muffled it almost disguised the cut of his words, the way they cleaved into her, through her.