If only Salvatore hadn’t gone into such a tailspin after Giancarlo’s death. He hadn’t coped well when his father was alive and he’d been in even worse shape these last few months. Now he was right in the middle of this new drama and it had to be managed.
Where Salvatore was concerned, damage limitation was a full-time occupation, but at least Giancarlo wasn’t around to see it. He was barely cold in his grave, and he would not have approved of this fast-track wedding at all.
Kyla wasn’t right for the family. She stood for everything Giancarlo hated—with her second-by-second social media presence, telling the whole world what she’d had for breakfast, turning pouting and preening into a full-blown career.
It was a useful lesson, though, and it had made him even more determined to keep his own women at a distance. Life was messy enough without consciously opting for an emotional double suicide. Especially with someone who was so clearly digging for gold.
Anyhow, he had Romano Publishing to take care of. And the Di Visconti empire to babysit until Salvatore learned which way was up. So what time did he have for women, gold-diggers or not?
‘Oh, this is too lovely! Would you mind?’
He turned to see the young woman who had charmed him into this volte-face. He rarely went back on a decision, but there was no time to get anyone else. Plus, she was principled. And smart. He had a good feeling about her. In more ways than one...
It could all work out, he mused. He’d had no intention of having any downtime this weekend, but he’d just hit a home run of increased turnover in the digital wing of Romano, and—even better—started some pretty interesting talks with MacIver Press. If he added them to his portfolio he would be one happy CEO.
‘I can’t let it pass—I have to...’
She had stopped suddenly on the narrow path that linked the old villa with his house. Her eyes, dark as charcoal, widened with joy as she grabbed her bag and started rummaging for her camera.
‘Honestly, if I lived here I’d get nothing done. It’s amazing!’
She stood back, checked what she’d photographed, then put the camera back to her eye and took another shot.
‘I suppose you must take it for granted, but...’
She was totally in the zone, oblivious to the world. It was always interesting to watch creatives at work, but she was so refreshingly, achingly lovely that he found himself slipping back into the trance she had begun to work him into over lunch. A trance that had him imagining kissing that wide, sensual mouth and unbuttoning the little pearl buttons that held her full, high breasts snug in that dress. Undressing her and holding her in his arms and—
She turned suddenly, beaming. ‘Isn’t it absolutely lovely?’
He smiled back. ‘Absolutely.’
She turned around, giving him another perfect view. In that sundress she was so evocative of someone. A young Sophia Loren? Maybe... Feline, but incredibly fresh.
‘You must thank God every day that you live here.’
‘All day long,’ he said.
‘Mmm, yes. How amazing to call this home.’
‘Third home,’ he corrected. ‘I live in London and Rome. But this is my favourite family retreat.’
‘Of course,’ she said, continuing to snap pictures with her camera. She turned to take one of him. ‘It’s like being on holiday in heaven.’
‘Avanti,’ he said. ‘There will be plenty time to take pictures of heaven later.’
‘Hang on. Is that Salvatore?’ She had stopped again and was pointing out to the bay.
Their yacht, Silver Spirit, was berthed some way off, tagged by the trail of a speedboat. Salvatore’s speedboat. He had stopped and was waving up at him.
‘Si. The man himself. He’ll be heading over to meet the team. Let’s go, Coral.’
She had her hand to her eyes and with the other began to wave back at Salvatore.
‘Coral,’ he said again, more sharply.
‘Sorry!’ She laughed.
As he started down the path, he struggled again to place just who it was she reminded him of. She had such an Italian look—wide-eyed, wide-mouthed, with auburn hair and creamy skin. An exotic, sensual cocktail. He couldn’t think of any famous starlet that she resembled, now or in the past, but there was something, someone that jarred in his mind.
‘Just getting some background,’ she said suddenly, jolting him out of his reverie. ‘It’s not every day you get to wander along the cliffs of Hydros.’ She grabbed up her bag and ran to catch up. ‘Does Salvatore have a third home here too?’
‘Salvatore would count here as his fifth home, I think. At a push. Kyla has plans for it. I don’t think they will be here much, though. They prefer Sydney, where she is from.’
‘You don’t like her, do you? This Kyla? I can tell. I’m getting a definite vibe that she’s not your cup of tea.’
They’d reached the paved area that marked the boundary of the old villa. He stopped, and she almost ran into the back of him.
‘Oh—sorry!’
She stumbled into his chest. He scooped his arm around her and held her against his side until she’d regained her balance. She tucked neatly under his arm, soft and warm and...
Not yet, Raffaele. Take it easy.
He let her go.
‘OK. Before we take another step—the ground rules.’
‘Right,’ she said, smoothing the wide skirt of her dress and looking up at him, those big dark eyes so earnest, so honest. Unflinching. He was used to people looking away from him, nervously avoiding eye contact. So many men were intimidated and so many women coquettish. She was unashamedly neither.
‘Professional questions only from now on. And keep your personal opinions to yourself.’
‘You don’t, do you?’
What was it with this girl? Why did she speak to him like this?
‘Coral, what I think about Kyla or anyone else is not your business and should not even enter your head. You’re here to do a job. Capisce?’
She nodded. ‘Si—capisco.’
‘Parli italiano?’
‘No, not really. I’ve picked up a few words from films.’
He looked at her again and frowned.
‘We will meet Salvatore and Kyla. You will propose your ideas, chat them through with the team, and I will give you the final decision.’
‘You do know that Mariella has already decided that the shoot with Kyla will be done on the loggia? That does limit our options.’
‘She has? We’ve spent over an hour discussing this and you didn’t think to say?’
‘You were a little busy biting off my head,’ she said, smiling.
This woman was beyond infuriating. No one ever spoke back to him and here she was, staring him down and firing back with the most exhilarating confidence. She was easily the most attractive woman he’d met in a very long time.
‘Are you normally this difficult?’ he asked, turning back to the path.
‘I’m normally honest, if that’s what you mean. It wasn’t my idea to play it safe.’
They emerged from the cliff path onto the driveway. Before them stood the old villa in all its majesty, its secrets about to be shared with the public for the first time ever. A Di Visconti home for centuries, but now just the backdrop for Kyla’s vanity.
He led on across the terrace, helping Coral to step carefully on the worn marble. He knew too well the feeling of the hard slap of bone on stone, the trickle of blood from split knees, the sound of Salvatore’s voice, laughing. He knew the feeling of the housekeeper’s arms around his young shoulders and the ache of wanting to be comforted. Wanting but never having. Because his own mother hadn’t been able to.
Sometimes he felt as if his heart was as cold and hard as that marble.
He pushed the he
avy door open, feeling the calming press of the brass handle on his palm. The relief of air-conditioning washed over his skin, cool and fresh. A buzz of voices caught his ear and he frowned, turning to catch the source.
Behind him the squeak of Coral’s sandals told him she was right at his back.
‘Sounds like it’s all kicked off without us.’
He led on through the lounge areas that led from the pool into the main part of the villa.
Kyla had changed too much already. The oil paintings and eighteenth-century Italian furniture—heirlooms that as an eight-year-old boy he’d been taught to treat with respect—had all been replaced with squat sofas in white leather and black and white portraits of supermodels in various poses.
On through the house, he heard the buzz and thump growing louder as they passed stucco-panelled walls, repainted cream over the elegant duck-egg-blue that he and Salvatore had been warned never to touch with muddy fingers.
Salvatore.
Since Giancarlo’s death their relationship had been more and more strained, and disputes about the will were adding to that. It had been such a blow for Salvatore to learn that Giancarlo had left Raffaele in charge of the cruise line. It had been the last thing he’d wanted too, and as the empire’s main trustee he would do his best to pass it on to Salvatore when the time was right.
‘Darlings! She’s here! We have our photographer!’
They stepped out on to the loggia and there was the team, flanked by muslin-draped walls and a haze of chatter and noise. On one side rails of clothes and racks of shoes waited to be rifled through. On the other side lights, screens and men on ladders attaching flowers to the loggia’s ancient columns.
And, in the middle of it all, Kyla.
‘Raffa! You’ve kept this angel all to yourself!’
Raffaele felt his jaw clench as Kyla walked towards him, fluttering her fake lashes and pouting. She was hot for him and made no attempt to conceal it—even in front of her fiancé.
And he, Raffaele, was going to be part of this charade.
He should be at work, focussing on Argento instead of slumming it with the B-list. Raffaele felt his patience snap. He wanted the whole thing to end. Now.
‘Keeping to what we agreed, Kyla. I see you’ve made some interior design choices already. I assume they’re temporary?’
She looked hurt, but that was an irrelevance. She was wearing a four-carat diamond and in less than a week would be joint owner of this ancient home. That would salve any wound.
He felt the light touch of a hand on his arm and a whisper in his ear.
‘I’d be happy to get involved from here. It’s all looking good so far, and I guarantee that everyone will be happy with the results.’
He looked down at Coral’s face, the un-made-up, unflinching eyes gazing up at him. Again he felt the tug of something he knew, something he trusted. He thought of her confidence during their little interview, her direct, no-nonsense attitude. He thought of the stills that had excited Mariella so much that she’d dreamed up this commission as a prize. She’d rarely seen talent like it—sympathy with the subject, intelligence with the design. Exactly what Kyla needed to bring her back down to earth.
Giancarlo would be turning in his grave.
‘You’re in charge. You have the veto—whatever you say goes.’
‘You’re clear that this must—?’
‘Reflect well on the Di Visconti name? Absolutely. There is nothing I understand more than that. The lineage, the heritage, the legacy—I’m all over it.’
‘“All over it” is not what I want to hear. That sounds messy.’
She swallowed and closed her eyes as if—damn her—she were dealing with a recalcitrant toddler.
‘I know what you want to hear. I’ve figured it out. Your family brand is “class”.’ She walked around him where he stood in the centre of the melee, lowering her voice. ‘Kyla’s is “trash” and you want me to change that. You want the bored housewives and the media snoopers to open up their copies of Heavenly and see nothing but a perfect airbrushed and back-lit image of the ancient famiglia Di Visconti. An illusion.’
‘La famiglia Di Visconti is not an illusion. It is solid and serious.’
‘It’s classy. I will deliver classy. That’s what the readers want, too. They want a glimpse into this fairytale world. They want to see beauty and elegance and style. They want to feel as if you’ve welcomed them into that world for the five minutes it takes them to read the feature.’
She was electrifying in her pitch. As he watched her he knew that he could stand her in front of any board of directors and they would hang on her every word. Whatever happened with these photographs, this young woman had a fire in her that would light up more than just this photo shoot. She had a fabulous career ahead of her. He recognised the signs.
‘And I will deliver that. I will.’
He folded his arms over his chest, looked down at her upturned, earnest face. ‘Yes, you will,’ he said.
‘Si, signor!’
And, dammit all, he found himself smiling. Just for a second. Caught up in her infectious words.
Then he watched as she headed straight for Kyla, greeting her like some long-lost sister. Beaming round at Mariella. Quirky. Confident.
That hair... Those curves...
Yes, maybe this would all turn out OK.
All around about him people got busier and busier. Raffaele wandered outside to take some calls and keep an eye on Salvatore. Every five minutes or so he’d glance over his shoulder to see what was happening inside.
He shouldn’t have to do this. He should be able to let Salvatore run his own life. They were the same age, had more or less had the same upbringing, but they were miles apart in terms of values. In terms of direction.
If he could walk away from all this right now he would. But he’d made a promise. He didn’t need a penny from Argento. He had more than enough from Romano. But Giancarlo hadn’t been stupid. He’d known exactly how quickly it would all unravel as soon as Salvatore was let loose with all those millions. Tying him in through the will had been a cast-iron guarantee of keeping Argento afloat.
But how much more of this could he stomach? He couldn’t watch over every move Kyla made. He’d have to let them sink or swim some time. Legally, he was tied to Giancarlo for three more years. But morally he had him for life.
He glanced back inside the loggia. It seemed that order was descending.
The adorable Coral was looking through the clothes rails with Kyla and Mariella. Then she was organising assistants to move screens and lights. Laughing with the hair guy, consulting with the fashion editor as clothes were ruthlessly discarded. She was ‘all over it’ and no mistake.
‘Is everything all right?’
He was still standing at the side, checking his emails, when she walked towards him, a glass of water in her hand.
‘Only you look at little preoccupied.’
‘Just waiting to hear good news, Coral.’
‘OK. I think I’ve got it down. It’s not going to be a pastiche or a pantomime. It’s a simple studio shoot—nothing too exciting. I’m afraid you were right about the princess trope. That’s what Kyla wants to be. But I’ve talked her into nineties glamour rather than eighties pop. Those prints we passed in the hallway—the Testinos—gave me an idea. I said I’d do an homage to the supermodel. She loved it.’
She was chatting to him as if he was an old friend. The glints in her hair were warm and rich and he itched to feel the heavy tresses in his hand.
‘The team are amazing. I can’t believe how fluidly they work together. I’m learning so much. I can’t tell you how grateful I am for this.’
She dipped her head and looked at him with those bewitching eyes. Those bewilderingly familiar, bewitching eyes.
‘OK, so I’d better get back to work. Phew. It’s hot.’
She reached her arms up and twisted her hair into a knot. Her breasts thrust forward and his groin was shot with pleasure at the sight.
‘Come here,’ he said, putting his hand around her arm and drawing her towards him.
He took her jaw in his hand, gently moving her face this way and that.
‘What is it about you? I can’t take my eyes off you. There’s something so familiar... Have we met before?’
It was possible. Shorter hair? Different clothes? He looked at her again. There was something so engaging and compelling about her—and, still at the back of his mind, something so familiar.
She stepped back out of his reach and he dropped his hand.
‘Sorry, but I don’t think so.’
He had to laugh at that. ‘You don’t think you’d remember?’
‘Maybe. Maybe not. I’m not sure.’
Her eyes dipped, and for the first time he thought he saw the coquette. She was either the most naturally sensual woman he’d ever met or she was playing little games. Either way, he was beginning to get more and more turned on by her.
‘Look at me.’
She lifted her eyes slowly, flicked him a quick glance and then dropped her gaze to the side.
‘What’s wrong?’
‘I’m sorry, but would you mind if I got back to the shoot? I’ve only got one shot at this and I don’t want to blow it.’
He put his hand on her jaw again and her eyes widened.
‘You really are genuine, aren’t you? You’d rather hang out at the pantomime than flirt with me.’
‘Signor Rossini, my future is in photography—not in flirting.’
At that he laughed. A proper laugh. The sound of it startled him.
‘I like you flirting. You have a very promising career in flirting.’
She smiled too. And it was beautiful. So beautiful that he couldn’t stop himself. He wanted this woman. Now.
The Consequence She Cannot Deny Page 3
