The Borghese Bride

by Sandra Marton

  “Of course we did. You and Arianna…”

  “There is no me and Arianna. I never said I would agree to your proposition!”

  “You never said you would not.”

  “You overstepped yourself, madam,” Dominic said sharply. “I have no intention of asking your granddaughter to marry me.”

  “Well, you should have spoken sooner,” the marchesa said in icy tones. “Not that it matters now. Arianna laughed when I told her she was to become your wife.”

  A muscle knotted in Dominic’s cheek. “Did she, indeed?”

  “Yes. It was as if I had told her the world’s best joke.”

  “I see.” The pot was filling with coffee. Dominic shoved a mug under the black, almost viscous stream. “Your granddaughter finds the idea of marriage to me amusing?”

  “More than that. She said… Never mind. It does not matter.”

  “No. It doesn’t.” Dominic paused. “But I’d like to hear it anyway.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  His hand tightened on the cup. “Tell me what she said, Emilia.”

  “She said—she said that she would sooner marry a Martian.”

  “A charming image,” Dominic said coldly.

  “I am sorry, but you insisted on knowing.”

  “I did, yes.” Hot coffee sloshed over the rim of the cup onto Dominic’s fingers, but he didn’t feel it. “And an interesting choice, since I doubt that your beloved granddaughter would be happy as the wife of a creature with alien anatomy.”

  “I do not understand.”

  “You don’t have to.”

  “No,” the old woman said, as if his rudeness was to be expected. “I suppose not. I should have left this to you, Dominic. Perhaps you would have been able to convince her.”

  “I just told you I was not going to propose marriage to Arianna. Do you understand?”

  “What I understand is that I am going to lose La Farfalla.”

  “We will discuss that,” Dominic said coldly, “when we all meet this morning.”

  “You and I shall meet. Arianna will not be there.”

  “What do you mean, she won’t be there? Your granddaughter is a part of this, Marchesa. I expect her to attend the meeting.”

  “I would have assumed she would want to attend, but she refuses.”

  Dominic gripped the phone more tightly. “And I insist. I’m not offering her a choice. Tell her that.”

  “I cannot.”

  “Then I’ll tell her.”

  “You can’t, signore. My granddaughter and I had words. I said some harsh things. I accused her of having forgotten the importance of honor.”

  “And you were right.”

  “The point is, after our quarrel Arianna decided to leave.”

  “Leave? Leave?”

  “She went to her house in the country late last night.”

  Dominic scraped his hand through his hair. This was impossible. How could a straightforward plan become so complicated?

  “Give me her telephone number. I’ll call and make it clear that she must return to the city.”

  “I don’t know it. I didn’t even know she had a country house.” The marchesa’s words were touched with acid. “It would seem there’s a great deal I did not know about my granddaughter. For instance, until yesterday I thought you and she were strangers.”

  “Believe me,” Dominic said brusquely, “we are.”

  “That is not what Arianna says. She admitted that she remembers meeting you, but she won’t discuss it because she says it was a brief, unpleasant encounter.”

  “Indeed.” Dominic’s tone was silken. “What else did she say?”

  “Only that she has no wish to see you again.” The marchesa’s sigh whispered through the telephone. “Truly, I regret saying these things, but how else can I convince you that she would not change her mind about attending the meeting even if you could reach her…which you cannot.”

  “Your granddaughter has lived in America too long, Emilia. You’re right. She needs a lesson in deportment and a reminder of her obligations.” Dominic reached for a pad and pencil. “Where is this country house?”

  “I don’t know its precise location. Outside the city. That is all I can tell you.”

  Outside the city. That certainly narrowed things down. Arianna Cabot’s house could be anywhere within three states and God only knew how many hundreds of miles.

  “Is this a problem? Is there a reason my granddaughter must be present today?”

  Dominic almost laughed. Could a man’s battered pride be called a problem?

  “Actually,” he said calmly, glancing at the clock, “now that I think about it, neither of you has to be present.”

  “What a relief! My quarrel with Arianna exhausted me. I will be very happy to leave this place.”

  “I can arrange that right now, if you wish.” Dominic spoke quickly, as if taking the time to consider what he was about to do might be a mistake. “My driver can pick you up and take you to the airport. My pilot will fly you home.”

  “I do not wish to inconvenience you, Dominic.”

  “It’s not an inconvenience. I’m going to stay on for a few days. I have some business here, but that needn’t affect you.”

  “Well, if you’re certain…”

  “I am.”

  “Thank you, Dominic. And again, my apologies for spoiling your plans.”

  “No, no. My apologies for my bad temper. You had no way of knowing I didn’t intend to ask your granddaughter to marry me.”

  “To be honest, I’m not surprised. I thought it was too much to hope for.”

  Dominic nodded. He was calmer, as was the marchesa. Now was the time to tell her he wasn’t going to call in the loan, either….

  But he didn’t.

  “My driver will contact you, Emilia. You can tell him when to come for you.”

  “Mille grazie.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  Dominic hung up the phone. He drank more coffee, black as sludge and with the same consistency. Why hadn’t he told the marchesa that she didn’t have to worry about the loan? The Butterfly was all the old woman had. He wasn’t going to take it from her, he simply wanted to give Arianna a scare. Just a settling of scores to make up for the endless nights he’d spent thinking about her.

  His hand tightened around the coffee cup.

  She’d laughed at the idea of marrying him. But she hadn’t laughed when he made love to her. She’d made the soft, breathless sounds of a woman being pleasured by a man, sounds that still drove him half out of his mind when he remembered them.

  The message was clear. He was beneath the princess’s notice, except in bed. She’d sooner marry a creature with three eyes and eight tentacles, marry anybody, than him.

  Dominic dumped his coffee in the sink.

  Arianna needed another lesson in humility. And he had time for that before heading home.

  Back in his bedroom, Dominic stripped off his shorts and stepped into an icy shower. It didn’t cool his anger but he hadn’t expected it to. What he wanted was to get himself under control so that he could hone his rage and use it efficiently.

  There was always a way to defeat an enemy. You just had to calm down enough to determine what it was.

  Dominic got out of the shower and wrapped a towel around his hips. What was the name of Arianna’s assistant? Tim. No. Tom. Tom what? Berg. Berger. Bergman, he thought, snapping his fingers. That was it. Bergman.

  The number was easy to find in the directory. The phone rang half a dozen times before Bergman answered.

  No sir, he didn’t know a thing about his employer’s country place. Yes sir, he had an emergency phone number for her, but he couldn’t—

  A few well-chosen words and it turned out that he could. Dominic could almost see the man jump to attention, and this was one of those times jumping to attention was exactly what he wanted.

  Bergman gave him a number, Dominic scribbled it down and made a call to
a private detective in Manhattan that Borghese International sometimes employed.

  It took slightly more than an hour to get the necessary information, more than enough time to put on jeans, a blue short-sleeved soccer shirt and moccasins, and to arrange for the delivery of a car.

  Finally, he called his pilot and told him to ready the plane, and his driver to tell him he’d be taking the marchesa to the airport.

  “By the way, George…” Dominic frowned at the address he’d written down during his conversation with the detective. “Do you happen to know the quickest route to Stanton, Connecticut? Yes? Great. Uh-huh. I don’t suppose you’d know where Wildflower Road is… No, that’s fine. I’ll find it.”

  Dominic hung up the phone and headed for the door.

  Moments later, he was in a rented black SUV, racing toward a small town in the rolling Connecticut hills.

  * * *

  Arianna loved her house.

  It dated back to the 1930s, which made it completely unfashionable. The celebrities who bought property in this part of New England preferred authentic colonials, even if they were falling down.

  Her house was sturdily built. It had wooden floors and a brick fireplace, and was tucked against a stand of pine trees at the end of a long, unpaved road. Hardly anybody ever drove up that road except for Jonathan’s nanny and an occasional delivery van.

  This was a world far removed from the hustle and bustle of Manhattan, and Arianna loved it. She hadn’t expected to: she’d only bought the place so she could raise her son in privacy, but after a couple of months the house felt more like home than anyplace she’d lived since she was a little girl.

  The quiet of the woods always soothed her soul.

  But not today, Arianna thought as she tore leaves of Bibb lettuce into a wooden bowl. Jonathan wasn’t here. He’d gone fishing with a friend and the friend’s father. A good thing, too, because her little boy could read her like a book. She didn’t want him to see the anger she’d suppressed…anger at the man he would never know was his father.

  Arianna tore a leaf in smaller pieces with more force than necessary.

  She was almost as furious now as she’d been driving here. Except for the hour she’d sat beside her sleeping son last night and the time they’d spent together at breakfast this morning, the blood still pumped hot and fast through her veins.

  Had Dominic really thought she’d marry him? Had her grandmother thought it, too?

  Incredibly, the answer seemed to be yes. Bad enough Dominic imagined she’d trade herself for the Butterfly, but that the marchesa should have thought she’d do it…

  “I’m an innocent bystander, Arianna,” her grandmother had insisted. “I am simply transmitting a proposition. Surely, you do not think this was my idea.”

  Arianna plunged a paring knife into a tomato.

  Maybe not. But the marchesa didn’t seem all that offended by the message she’d brought from Dominic.

  “What message?” Arianna had asked. “Has he decided that taking the Butterfly from us isn’t enough? Does he want a pound of flesh, too?”

  Her grandmother had ignored the outburst. “Signore Borghese says to tell you he will forgive the loan under certain conditions.”

  The shock of those words, the hope they’d offered, had made her heart skip a beat. Maybe Dominic Borghese wasn’t quite the rat she’d thought.

  “What conditions?”

  “He wants you to agree to become his wife,” her grandmother had said bluntly.

  Arianna’s mouth had dropped open. “He wants what?”

  “Dominic wishes to marry you.”

  “What kind of joke is this, Nonna?”

  “I thought it was a joke, too. But the signore is quite serious.”

  “I should marry him? That—that walking collection of conceits? A man I don’t know, don’t like, don’t want to see again in this lifetime?”

  She’d said a few more things, most even less polite, and only stopped when she realized it wasn’t fair to blame the message on the messenger. But when her grandmother used the pause to drop in some words explaining why it might be a smart idea rather than a foolish one, Arianna had exploded.

  “Foolish doesn’t even come close! It’s idiotic, insane and impossible.”

  “Signore Borghese could give you a comfortable life,” her grandmother had said quietly.

  “I am quite comfortable in my life already, thank you very much. How could you even think—”

  “And you are the last of our line. We need an heir.”

  That hurt. There was a del Vecchio heir, but the marchesa didn’t know it. Not yet.

  “I’m sure there will be,” Arianna said stiffly. “Someday.”

  “Someday,” the marchesa scoffed. “When? A woman your age should have a husband.”

  “A woman my…? For God’s sake, Nonna, I’m only twenty-nine!”

  “Having a man in your life and in your bed would be good for you.”

  A picture flashed in Arianna’s mind of Dominic, taking her in his arms. Moving over her, kneeling between her thighs, his body naked and strong and breathtakingly beautiful…

  “I don’t need a man in either place,” she’d said coldly. “I’m doing fine as I am.”

  “Think of the Butterfly. You would keep it.”

  “Do you really imagine I want the Butterfly so badly I’d sell my soul to the devil or my body to his emissary? I’m sorry you’re losing the Butterfly, Nonna, of course, but—”

  “In times past,” the marchesa had said with a regal lift of her chin, “a merger between powerful families was desirable. Our name is old and our lineage proud. Dominic may not carry the blood of the ancient Borgheses but he is dynamic and powerful. Can’t you see the benefits of merging the two?”

  “Are you saying you’d be happy if I accepted this ridiculous proposition?”

  “Certainly not. I am simply reminding you that there are things one does for reasons that go beyond one’s own desires.”

  “I won’t trade our name for his bank account.”

  “The combining of the Borghese and del Vecchio houses would not be as crass as you make it sound.”

  “You do want me to do this! Well, I won’t. I’d sooner rot. I’d sooner—I’d sooner marry a creature from Mars!”

  “As you wish, child. I’ll give Dominic your answer, but more diplomatically.”

  “You tell it to him exactly as I phrased it,” Arianna had said furiously. She’d gone on for a few more seconds before she’d suddenly remembered her grandmother’s fragile health and advanced age. “Nonna,” she’d said, “I love you with all my heart and I don’t want to argue with you or upset you. Perhaps it would be best if I didn’t come to tomorrow’s meeting. Actually, there’s no reason for me to be there.”

  Her grandmother had sighed. “You’re right. Perhaps you should stay away.”

  Arianna sliced a scored cucumber into the bowl.

  That was when she’d slipped up and said she’d go to her country house for the weekend. For the first time, the marchesa had seemed surprised.

  “You never mentioned a country house before.”

  “Didn’t I?” Arianna had said, as casually as she could. “I guess the subject never came up.”

  They’d chatted about inconsequential things long enough to heal the breach in their relationship. Then Arianna had left her grandmother’s hotel, phoned Susan and begun the long drive to the country, which she’d hoped would calm her.

  It hadn’t.

  One way or another, she had to get the anger out of her system by midafternoon. Jeff Gooding had promised he’d have the boys back by then.

  “With lots of big fish for supper,” Jonathan had said.

  “Real big fish,” Jeff’s son had echoed.

  Jeff had winked over the boys’ heads. “You might want to figure on something for standby, just in case the fish don’t cooperate.”

  Arianna smiled. What he’d meant was that the kids never caught anything
at the pond. Jeff did, sometimes, but he’d told her the boys always made him release his catch. Fishing was an excuse to dangle lines in the water and talk man-talk. It had nothing to do with anything as awful as actually hauling fish out of the water and killing them.

  Jeff Gooding was a widower, a nice guy who was generous with his time and often included Jonathan in his plans.

  He’s got a thing for you, Susan always teased.

  But Arianna didn’t have a “thing” for him. He wasn’t complex, like Dominic, or strong, like Dominic, or exciting, like…

  Dammit! Arianna scowled as she quartered a tomato. She had Dominic on the brain. Jeff wasn’t cold, selfish and egotistical like Dominic, either. He was a pillar of the community and a good role model for Jonathan. If there was one thing her little boy lacked, it was a male role model.

  If she married Dominic Borghese, her son would have a role model. He’d have the man who was his very own father.

  “Arianna.”

  Arianna’s head snapped toward the screen door. Dominic stood on the porch, his tall figure limned by the sun.

  The forgotten paring knife sliced into her finger. Bright red blood splattered over the white marble cutting board. She stared blankly at the blood, at the knife…

  “Il mio Dio!”

  Dimly, like the background noise of a radio turned low, Arianna heard the splinter of wood as Dominic put his shoulder against the frame. The door flew open.

  “Do you make a habit of fainting?” he said gruffly, as his arms closed around her.

  No, she wanted to tell him, only when I’m with you. But she wasn’t foolish enough to say that as he carried her from the kitchen to the parlor, where he eased her onto the old-fashioned love seat near the fireplace.

  “I’m fine,” she said in a thready voice. “Just let me sit here for a minute.”

  “Apply pressure against the cut and put your head down.” She felt his hand guide her fingers to the wound. “Like that. And don’t move,” he added as he left her.

  He sounded like a man accustomed to giving commands and having them obeyed. Arianna was a woman who never took commands, but she did now. Following a sensible order was better than falling on her face, especially since she’d already done that once in his presence.