My Bought Virgin Wife

by Caitlin Crews

  Her lips parted as if she was having trouble believing what she was hearing. “You can have any woman you choose.”

  “I chose you!” I thundered. “Don’t you understand? All I ever wanted was to collect. To win. You don’t have to feel anything to do these things, you just have to have the money. And I always had the money. That is why, whatever the thing is, I have the best of it. But then you stormed out of a bathroom in Venice ranting about love and nothing has been the same since.”

  “Because I love you,” she said again, in that same absolutely certain way she had in Italy.

  Those words had chased me around the world. And back to her side again.

  “I don’t know what that is,” I told her, the emotion in my own voice nearly taking me to the floor. “But I do know that a collection is not a life. And I want to live. I want to know my own child. I want to raise him. Not the way my parents raised me, feral and grasping and out of their minds. And not the way your father raised you, shut up behind one set of walls or another. I want to live, Imogen. And I think that must be love because I cannot come up with any other name for it.”

  That had come out like another accusation, but she only whispered my name. And it sounded like a prayer.

  Maybe that was why I found myself on my knees before her after all, my hands on that sweet belly of hers that I had tasted and touched, and now held the start of our very own family. The future. All the hopes and dreams I’d told myself I was far too jaded to allow.

  “I cannot live with lies,” I told her, tipping my head back so I could look up at all those curls. And her shining eyes. Her lips like berries, trembling now. “But I do not know how to feel.”

  “But you do.” She held my face between her hands and made me new, that easily. “You call it sex. You dismiss it. But it isn’t just sex, Javier. It never was.”

  “How would you know this? You have never had anyone but me.”

  “Because I know.”

  And again, she struck me as a creature far wiser than her years. Far more powerful than the sheltered girl she had been.

  I understood then.

  She was all those things and more. She was everything I needed.

  I had bought a bride, but she had given me life.

  “I think I looked up to that balcony and lost myself,” I told her, fierce and sure.

  “I married a monster,” she whispered in return, her face split wide by that smile of hers that made the floor seem to tilt beneath me, “but it turned out, he was actually the very best of men. And better yet, mine.”

  “Yours,” I agreed. “Forever.”

  She sank down before me, wrapping her arms around my neck, and something inside me eased.

  “Forever,” Imogen said solemnly. “And you can leave me alone if you must, Javier. I am quite happy with my own company—”

  “I have wandered the world alone and without you for quite long enough. I do not plan to do it again.”

  “I love you,” she whispered.

  There was a truth in me then. I had been denying it for a long time. And I couldn’t pretend that it didn’t unnerve me, but the truth of it haunted me all the same.

  It had chased me all over the world. It had never let me go.

  Just as she wouldn’t, I knew. Marriages like ours were built to last.

  And ours was far better than most.

  “I love you, too, Imogen,” I said in a rush.

  But when she smiled, brighter than the Mediterranean sky outside, I said it again.

  And found it got easier every time.

  “I love you,” I said as I fit my mouth to hers in wonder.

  “I love you,” I told her as I smoothed my hands over the belly where our child grew, and pressed my lips to her navel.

  And then I showed her what it was to love her, inch by beautiful inch, all across that beautiful body of hers.

  I loved her and I’d missed her and I showed her all the ways that I would never, ever leave her again, right there on the floor of the library.

  And when she was shaking and laughing and curled up against me, her face buried in my neck as she tried to catch her breath, I understood at last.

  The Dos Santos marriage was a love match, not merely good business, and it would confound them all. It would add to our legend. It would make me more powerful and it would make Imogen an icon, and none of that would matter half so much as this. Us.

  The way we touched each other. The children we would raise together. The life that we would live, hand in hand and side by side, forever.

  This was love. It had always been love. This passion was our church, these glorious shatterings were our vows.

  And we would say them, every day and in every language we knew, for the rest of our lives.

  * * *

  If you enjoyed My Bought Virgin Wife by Caitlin Crews, you’re sure to enjoy these other Conveniently Wed! stories!

  Claiming His Wedding Night Consequence

  by Abby Green

  Bound by a One-Night Vow

  by Melanie Milburne

  Sicilian’s Bride for a Price

  by Tara Pammi

  The Prince’s Wedding Night Heir

  by Lucy Monroe

  Available now!

  Keep reading for an excerpt from Awakening His Innocent Cinderella by Natalie Anderson.

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  Awakening His Innocent Cinderella

  by Natalie Anderson

  CHAPTER ONE

  BRUSHING BACK A lock of hair, Gracie James entered the last three digits into the discreet keypad and paused expectantly. An electronic beep sounded and the heavy iron gates smoothly swung back. She wheeled her bike through the opening and leaned it against the nearest of the tall trees that formed a guard of honour the length of the driveway. She walked the rest of the way, making the most of her opportunity to see one of Lake Como’s luxury hideaways and cooling down from her ride at the same time. The grounds were stunning enough, but she still gasped when the building came into view.

  Oh...yes.

  In the gorgeous Italian village of Bellezzo, where she’d been living for the last four months, Gracie had thought she’d become immune to the stunning architecture Italy had to offer. So wrong. Villa Rosetta was an eighteenth-century masterpiece of symmetry and style with its precisely spaced archways, three floors of warm-coloured stone with large, gleaming windows and that perfectly placed turret on top. The luxury looked all the more magical thanks to the golden hue from the setting sun.

  ‘Amazing,’ she whispered as she walked to the edge of the marble patio to get a better look. ‘Amazing, amazing, am
azing.’

  The villa had long been an exclusive holiday home for wealthy families seeking privacy and luxury during the Italian summer, but for the last month it had been closed. Apparently the new owner had undertaken refurbishment work—upsetting the locals by shutting off access and shipping in city contractors.

  No one in Bellezzo knew what he had planned now the work had been completed. But Gracie had heard whispers that he might not lease it out any more, which worried the villagers—the spending power of the beautiful people was of huge benefit to the community. Now, according to one gossip, Rafael Vitale, billionaire broker and reckless playboy, planned to have orgies there. Gracie inwardly giggled at the ridiculous thought—though the villa was certainly armed with all the privacy required for decadence and sinful delight.

  Not that she knew much about either. But it didn’t seem right to her that just one person would enjoy this. She’d feel like a peanut rattling around in a shoebox if she lived here alone. So, yes, bring on the nymphs and satyrs.

  She glanced along the villa’s private beach and saw the narrow hidden channel behind the wall through which boats could reach the lavish boat shed. She turned to the gardens—the reason for her visit. On the first terrace a swimming pool and a spa were set into crisply manicured lawns, with a half-dozen sun loungers evenly placed along the side. The azure water was another temptation—no one would ever know if she had a quick, secret dip. She glanced at her watch and reluctantly walked past to that springy, lush lawn.

  Hidden beyond the trimmed hedges up on the next terrace was the famous tangled rose garden—dozens of heirloom roses planted in a deceptively ‘careless’ manner that formed a sweet-scented lover’s knot—entrancing and romantic and utterly gorgeous. No wonder her elderly neighbour Alex Peterson had been desperate for her to check on them.

  She’d met the widower on her first day in Bellezzo. He lived on the ground floor of the small apartment building in which she’d rented a small unit. She’d stopped to enjoy the roses growing in the container garden by the gate. They’d started talking—in English—a heavenly treat given her appalling Italian.

  Like her, Alex was an import. He’d married an Italian woman and had lived lakeside with her for fifty years until her death eleven months ago. His son lived in Milan, while his daughter and grandchildren lived in London. His life now was all about his hybrid roses as he aimed to create delicately scented flowers with masses of petals, while at the same time avoiding the matchmaking attempts of half the village.

  It had become Gracie’s habit to bring him a pastry in her afternoon break from the café where she worked—Bar Pasticceria Zullo. But he’d been knocked down with the flu in the height of summer, which was unfair, and given his age she was worried. In turn, he was overly agitated about the precious flowers that he’d been tending for decades.

  Despite the villa’s sale, Alex had refused to relinquish responsibility for the rose garden. Seeing it in full bloom now, she wasn’t surprised. With the amount of work that he’d put in, she knew he wanted them perfect for the new owner. He’d been desperate for her to ensure they weren’t wilting in the intense heat. Even now, at nightfall, the temperature was a touch too hot.

  Tucking that loose strand of hair back again, Gracie fossicked for the hose and spent five minutes figuring out how to attach the thing to the tap. Natural gardener she was not. But finally she got it sorted. Then she phoned her friend because she’d already taken longer than planned.

  ‘Alex, it’s me, Gracie. I’m at the villa. The roses are beautiful. I’ll just water them and come back.’

  ‘How are they looking?’

  ‘Amazing. I’ll take a picture for you.’

  ‘Don’t worry about bringing me a picture. You just go into the village.’

  She smiled at his bossiness. ‘I’m not leaving you alone for any longer than necessary. You’re not well.’

  ‘I’m not alone. Sofia arrived ten minutes ago with six pints of minestrone and won’t leave until I’ve eaten it all. I don’t know why she’s fussing. I’m not that sick.’

  Sofia was the cousin of Francesca, Gracie’s boss at the pasticceria, and she was formidable. ‘Hide some in the roses.’ Gracie laughed.

  Her stomach rumbled in outrage, reminding her she’d not eaten since grabbing a small roll before the rush had begun. Six pints of Sofia’s minestrone sounded fantastic to her.

  ‘Are you crazy?’ Alex muttered.

  Gracie laughed again. ‘I’ll still—’

  ‘Go into the village,’ he interrupted. ‘Enjoy the festival. It’s your first. The fireworks are good.’

  Gracie hesitated. She would like to go to the festival, especially seeing she’d spent all day baking a million pastries to be sold at the pasticceria’s stall, and Francesca had insisted she not work the evening shift in return. But Gracie was conscious of how horrible it was to be alone—especially when sick. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Of course I’m sure.’ He sighed. ‘Sofia has settled in. I won’t get rid of her for ages.’

  ‘Well, I’ll check on you in the morning.’

  ‘Not too early,’ he said gruffly. ‘You get up even earlier than I do.’

  Gracie winced. Such were the perils of working both the early morning and the evening shifts at Bar Pasticceria Zullo, but working this hard to gain respect and a foothold was worth it, and she was happier than she’d ever been. ‘I’ll see you after my first shift, then.’

  ‘I look forward to it. Thank you, Gracie.’

  ‘My pleasure, Alex.’

  Happy that he sounded so much better, she quickly snapped a picture to show him in the morning anyway. As soon as she got to the village she would be visiting the pasticceria for some sustenance. Tonight was Bellezzo’s annual festival—featuring lanterns on the lake, music and dancing. Fireworks. Food. Families. Fun. All the things she’d never experienced.

  There’d be tourists, of course, plenty of tourists, but Gracie refused to consider herself one. She was a local with a home and she was determined to remain. After a childhood of upheaval and constantly having to rebuild, her spirits soared at the pleasure of now having a place to call hers. And while she might not have family here, she had a friend who needed her. She loved that.

  Finally she flicked on the hose. The power of it caught her unawares. With a laugh she gripped it more tightly, giving each rose bush a big drink.

  A hand suddenly slammed on her shoulder from behind—hard and heavy and so unexpected she screamed and whirled, brandishing the hose like a machine gun. All she could make out in the blurry spray was a massively large masculine frame and that simply made her aim all the more accurate.

  ‘What are you doing?’ she shrieked at him.

  ‘What are you doing?’ he shouted back—matching her English—but his accent had an American tang.

  He wrenched the hose from her but it twisted as he grabbed it, spraying a shockingly cold streak across her stomach before he flung it to the ground, the water gushing harmlessly across the lawn. Gasping, Gracie stared at her assailant.

  He was stunning. Wet. Angry. Soaked to the skin, the tuxedo he was wearing was now ruined. Tuxedo. Her stunned feeble brain attempted some computations.

  ‘Why the water cannon?’ He wiped one hand over his face, the other down his front. Droplets of water splattered from his fingers.

  That tux was saturated and this was no intruder. Instinctively—unthinkingly—she reached out to help sweep the streaming rivers of water from his suit. She brushed frantically, her hands sopping, until she realised that he was no longer attempting to do the same thing. He was standing utterly still. She froze too, mortification finally sinking in.

  Slowly—reluctantly—she glanced up. She encountered glittering eyes so brown they were almost black and they were fringed with unfairly long lashes. Of course he had lashes like those. Superlative, to match the rest of him
. As for the cheekbones? You could slice steak on them they were so high and sharp and, oh, goodness...

  ‘Sorry.’ She whipped her hands behind her back and wished for another cold shock of water from that hose, because now she was so hot it was amazing her blouse wasn’t steaming. She stared up at the masculine magnificence towering several inches above her. She knew who this was. Francesca had flashed her a picture printed in the local newsletter when she’d told her about the sale of the villa. Gracie hadn’t understood a word of the accompanying text but that quick glimpse of those cheekbones had been unforgettable. Rafael Vitale. The billionaire orgy man himself.

  ‘You’re not supposed to be here,’ she said shakily.

  ‘I think that’s my line. Again.’ He watched her coolly, decidedly unimpressed. ‘This is my house. You’re the invader.’

  ‘I’m so sorry.’ She pulled on a smile and hoped he’d forgive her. ‘Wasn’t expecting you to be home.’

  ‘Clearly not.’ He didn’t smile back. Definitely not seeing the funny side yet.

  She was dying...and was...uh...stunned.

  Rafael Vitale was so much more than anyone she’d ever met—more tall, more good looking, more well dressed, aside from—

  ‘You’re very wet. I’m so sorry.’ She glanced at the water still streaming from his muscular frame and died all over again. ‘Will it be...okay?’

  ‘No,’ he answered bluntly, and peeled off the sodden jacket.

  Paralysed, Gracie stared, slack-jawed. His shirt was glued to his skin. Glued. She could see the ridges of his muscles—of which there were many. Hot, hard muscles. He was the most strapping man. Panty-dropping gorgeous but so intimidating that she actually giggled. He looked up from shaking out the jacket and shot her another less than impressed look.