Penniless Virgin To Sicilian's Bride (Conveniently Wed!)

by MELANIE MILBURNE

  Frankie folded her arms and gave him a look that threatened to wither the fresh basil lying on the bench. ‘I thought a man with your amount of wealth wouldn’t bother with doing anything domestic. That you’d have servants running after you all the time.’

  He began slicing off an onion’s skin, his crooked smile fading. ‘You know what they say about growing up with too many silver spoons.’

  Frankie pulled out one of the kitchen stools to sit opposite him. Is that what he thought she was? A spoilt little rich girl who didn’t know her way around a kitchen? ‘No. What do they, whoever they are, say?’

  He pushed the skin to one side and began chopping the onion like he was a celebrity chef on a cooking show. And surprise, surprise—there wasn’t a tear in sight. If that had been Frankie she would have been panda-eyed by now.

  ‘It’s not wise to become so waited upon that you become completely useless.’ He met her gaze briefly and then reached for a bulb of garlic, expertly separating it into cloves, which he preceded to crush with the flattened blade of the cooking knife.

  Frankie chewed at her lower lip. ‘Is that how you see me? As a spoilt brat who doesn’t know one end of a tea towel from the other?’

  He frowned at her injured tone. ‘No. Your father told me you’re an excellent cook.’

  ‘One of the housekeepers taught me when I was about ten or so. I really missed her when she left.’ Frankie shifted her gaze and toyed with the fresh green tops of the bunch of baby carrots lying close to her. ‘Who taught you to cook?’ She glanced up at him. ‘Your mother? One of the servants?’

  He picked up another clove of garlic and crushed it with the same dexterity as before. His expression was focused in concentration but she sensed an underlying tension at the mention of his family. ‘We didn’t have servants until I was twelve.’ He picked up the chopping board and used the knife to scrape off the crushed garlic into a small bowl ready for cooking later.

  ‘So, your mother taught you?’

  Gabriel rinsed the knife under the tap and then met her gaze. ‘Remember my rule? No questions about my family.’

  Frankie frowned. ‘Do you think it might be reasonable for me to ask a few questions of the man I’m marrying tomorrow? I hardly know anything about you other than the little my father told me and what I’ve read in the press.’

  He placed his hands on the bench either side of the chopping board, his expression as tightly closed as one of unpeeled onions. After a moment, he let out a harsh-sounding sigh. ‘My mother died when I was nine. She was there one minute and then she wasn’t. End of story.’

  ‘How did she die?’

  The landscape of his face tightened as if every muscle had gone into lockdown. An emotionally parched landscape where no tears would ever be allowed to fall. But a wick of pain briefly flickered in his gaze as if the devastated child he had been was still somewhere deep inside him. Hidden. Hurting. Unhealed.

  Gabriel pushed away from the bench and picked up a bottle of red wine he had set out earlier. ‘Drink? Or would you prefer white?’ His tone was casual. Too casual. Cool and casual masking an undercurrent of raw unspoken grief.

  ‘Red is fine.’

  Frankie watched as he poured the wine into the glasses, his movements measured and steady. He handed her a glass of ruby-red pinot noir with a closed-lipped smile. ‘Cheers.’ He touched his glass against hers and raised his glass to his mouth. He took a sip and his strong tanned throat moved up and down convulsively, as if it wasn’t just the wine he was swallowing but something much less palatable. Something thick and rough and choking.

  ‘It’s okay, Gabriel,’ Frankie said into the silence. ‘If you don’t want to talk about it then don’t. I understand, really I do. I hate talking about my mother. I hate thinking about all I have missed out on in not having her all my life. I hate knowing that my life came at the expense of hers and my twin brother’s.’

  Gabriel put his glass down on the bench, his gaze suddenly dark with concern. ‘No, cara. You mustn’t blame yourself.’ His voice was deep and rough around the edges.

  Frankie pushed her own wine glass away and sighed. ‘Hard not to when every time I looked at my father I could see how much her death had broken him. I’ve had to live with it all my life. The crushing, gut-churning guilt. I sometimes wonder if it’s my fault he got cancer. All that stress has to do something negative to you, doesn’t it?’

  He came around to her side of the island bench and took both her hands in his. His thumbs stroked over the back of her hands in a soothing rhythm, his eyes meshing with hers. ‘It’s not your fault. None of it. Your father would be sad to hear you blame yourself.’

  Frankie looked down at their joined hands, trying to ignore the way her body was reacting to his touch. Her skin felt as if every nerve was on high alert, every muscle and sinew and tendon in her hands vibrating with longing. A longing that travelled deep throughout her body, in her breasts, her belly, between her thighs. She lifted her head, her heart skipping a beat when she made eye contact. The atmosphere crackled with invisible waves of desire. Male desire. Hot urgent male need colliding with restless female hunger.

  His gaze went to her mouth, lingered there for a pulsing moment and then came back to her eyes. He gave her hands another quick squeeze and released them, his expression shifting back to neutral as if a mental gear had been clicked into place. ‘I’d better get on with this meal. Take your drink out to the terrace. The outdoor heaters are on. I’ll join you soon.’ His back-to-business tone was jarring given she was so certain just a moment ago he was going to kiss her. Even more jarring was the realisation that she wanted him to.

  ‘Don’t you want some help with dinner?’ Frankie asked. ‘I could slice those mushrooms for you if you—’

  ‘I’m better left alone.’ He softened it with a wry smile. ‘Too many distractions put me off my game.’

  Frankie wandered out to sit on the terrace where the moon was just rising in an egg-yolk-yellow ball, casting a shimmering beam of gold across the water. There was a slight breeze, not cold but with just enough of a chill to make her glad of the warm rays of the gas heaters Gabriel had lit earlier. The looming spires of the majestic mountains beyond the shores of the lake were a rich indigo blue.

  How many generations of her family had sat out here and looked at that stunning vista? Had her mother sat here and dreamed of her future? Dreamed of her and her brother?

  It was impossible not to feel grateful for what Gabriel had done to save her family home. What he was doing to save her from public humiliation.

  But it was also impossible not to worry that the step she was taking tomorrow in becoming his wife for a year was a step on the wrong side of safety.

  A step too far.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  GABRIEL CAME OUT to the terrace once he’d put the meal in the oven to simmer. Frankie was sitting in one of the outdoor chairs facing the view of the moon rising over the lake. She was dressed in dark blue skinny-leg jeans and an emerald green boyfriend sweater that clung to the lush curves of her breasts. Her curly dark brown hair a few shades lighter than his own was scooped up in a casual knot at the back of her head, highlighting the regal length of her neck. She was moon goddess meets girl-next-door and it was all he could do to keep his distance.

  It had been a close call inside earlier. He had looked at her plump rose-pink mouth and had to call on every ounce of willpower he possessed not to kiss her. Her cool aloofness had always intrigued him. But he knew beneath that ice princess mask she was a deeply passionate woman. Why she seemed so unwilling to express it made him wonder if something or someone in her past had hurt her. Had she had her heart broken by a past lover?

  Her father had been vague about his daughter’s love life—not that Gabriel had pressed him too much on it. He had always played it cool when it came to the topic of Frankie. He hadn’t wanted to put any silly ideas in
Marco Mancini’s head about him having a permanent future with his only daughter.

  Gabriel wasn’t the settling-down-for-ever type. He had seen too much of the heartache of family life to want it for himself. Heartache and mistakes that couldn’t be undone. Mistakes he had made—was probably still making—with Carli. Why would he invite any more responsibilities into his life?

  Frankie must have sensed his presence for she turned her head and smiled. ‘It’s so beautiful out here. I’d almost forgotten how beautiful...’

  Gabriel took the seat next to her, stretching his legs out in front of him. ‘I don’t suppose you got much time to sit and look at the view over the last couple of months nursing your father.’

  She breathed out a jagged sigh, a frown pulling at her forehead. ‘No...’ Her fingers toyed with the stem of her wine glass. She had only drunk a third of her wine, if that. ‘I had help, of course. There was a nurse who came to administer the drugs and help me bathe him.’ She turned to glance at him, her frown deepening. ‘Why did you only visit him once during that time? And was it deliberate that you timed your visit when I was out doing errands that day?’

  Gabriel’s visit had been fleeting because of his concerns over Carli, who had been staying with him at his villa in Milan at the time. His little sister had been in one of her down moods and he’d had to judge when or if it was safe to leave her. He currently had no idea where Carli was after yet another failed attempt at an exclusive and expensive eating disorders clinic he’d organised for her in South America. She popped in and out of his life when it suited her and gave little or no regard to the gut-wrenching worry she caused him.

  He hadn’t been able to get to Marco’s Mancini’s funeral because Carli had taken an overdose of prescription drugs. She had never done anything so desperate before and it rocked him to the core. He had spent days by her hospital bedside, his sense of failure never more acute. He had paid for the best therapist—one of many he had engaged for her over the years—but she was just as likely to do a no-show at the appointments. Weeks could go by and he would hear nothing and then she would appear and he would have to handle whatever state she was in.

  It was the stuff of gut-ripping nightmares.

  He shifted his gaze to the view. ‘I figured you didn’t need me hanging around stealing what little time you had left with him.’

  ‘But you were close to him, weren’t you?’

  Gabriel lifted one shoulder in a shrug. ‘Yes and no. I’ve always been grateful for his help early in my career and for the nomination for the board last year. We caught up now and again at various business functions and board meetings. But we talked about business, not so much about personal stuff.’ He glanced at her and added, ‘If he had considered me a close friend, wouldn’t he have told me about your twin brother?’

  She frowned and nodded as if that made perfect sense. ‘I sometimes wonder if he was close to anyone after my mother died.’ She gave another sigh. ‘He was a hard person to get close to. Even when I hugged him he held me slightly aloof. He had a wall around him. An invisible wall that I could never seem to get through.’

  ‘Perhaps he was always like that,’ Gabriel offered. ‘Some men find it difficult to express emotion even to those they love.’

  ‘Do you find it difficult?’ The moonlight was reflected off her eyes as they met his, making them shimmer like the lake in the distance.

  The sound of a message coming in on his phone was perfect timing...or so he thought until he saw his sister’s name come up on the screen. He rose from the chair, a chill of unease prickling over his scalp like a flow of iced water. ‘Will you excuse me? I have to get this.’

  * * *

  Frankie sipped her wine and tried not to feel disappointed their conversation had been interrupted. Gabriel’s insights into her father were comforting on one level. But they didn’t stop her feeling she hadn’t been enough for her father. Didn’t stop her feeling that, if given a choice, her father would have chosen her brother over her.

  Gabriel came back out to the terrace. ‘I’m sorry, Francesca, but I have to shoot back to Milan tonight.’

  Frankie frowned and got to her feet. ‘Tonight? Why?’

  ‘Don’t worry, I’ll be back in time for the ceremony tomorrow.’ He gave her an on-off smile that was too fleeting to be the right side of genuine. ‘It will give you time to get ready. The celebrant is coming at ten. Dinner is ready—just help yourself. I’ve turned the oven off.’

  She followed him back into the villa. ‘But surely whatever it is can wait until Monday. Don’t you ever take time off work even to get married?’

  He snatched up his car keys from the table in the foyer, his features a road map of tension. ‘Some things can’t wait. This is one of them. Ciao.’ And with that he was gone.

  Frankie went back to the kitchen but her appetite had deserted her. Just like her father’s funeral, she hadn’t realised how much she wanted Gabriel to be with her until he wasn’t. The villa seemed so empty. Full of shadows and regrets wandering around like lost ghosts.

  * * *

  Gabriel got back to his villa in Milan an hour later to find his sister in situ as if she owned the place. He only hoped she hadn’t brought any rag tag mate home with her. It wouldn’t be the first time. He had given her a key—one of several which she had promptly lost or given to one of her erstwhile friends. He’d had to change the locks so many times he had the locksmith on speed dial.

  Carli turned down the volume of his flat screen television and unfolded her coltish figure from the leather sofa. Coltish was probably too generous a term. She had lost even more weight since the last time he had seen her and he wondered if she was relapsing again. She see-sawed between bingeing and starving and his heart ached to see her unable to enjoy food the way he did. Food was either her friend or her enemy. ‘What took you so long?’ Her mouth was turned down in a pout that wouldn’t have looked out of place on a three-year-old.

  ‘You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.’ Gabriel tossed his jacket over the back of the sofa. ‘But more to the point—where have you been? I’ve been trying to contact you for three weeks. I was about to engage another private investigator.’

  Carli’s dark brown eyes gleamed with mischief. ‘Ooh, please do. I enjoyed the last one. He was absolutely dynamite in bed.’

  Gabriel rolled his eyes and headed to the kitchen. ‘Have you eaten?’ Dumb question. His kitchen looked like a cooking show had got out of hand. Food scraps, packing and dirty dishes were strewn about.

  He turned to look at Carli when she followed him into the kitchen. ‘By the way, I’m getting married tomorrow.’

  Her eyebrows shot up. ‘No way. Really? It’s not that blonde chick you were seeing when I was in that clinic in Rio? That snooty social worker—what was her name again?’

  ‘No. It’s not her.’ He couldn’t even remember the woman’s name now, neither could he recall her features. The trip to get his sister in an expensive clinic was still something he chose not to remember in any detail. Mostly because it had failed and the one thing he hated was failing. Especially when it came to his kid sister. ‘It’s Francesca Mancini.’

  Carli’s eyes danced like there were auditioning for the Bolshoi ballet. She pulled out one of the stools and sat down, her ankles wrapping around the base like a vine. ‘No joke? Little Miss Ice Princess?’

  ‘I’d prefer you not to call her that.’

  She filched a crisp from a packet on the bench and popped it into her mouth. ‘So, am I going to meet her?’

  ‘It depends.’

  ‘On what?’

  ‘On whether you can behave yourself.’

  His sister scowled at him and tipped the crisp packet upside down so the contents fell out on the bench. She chose another crisp from the pile and bit into it. ‘Don’t be such a control freak, big bro. I know how to behave.’

  Ga
briel had seen too much of his sister’s behaviour to want to expose Frankie to it. To expose anyone to it. Few people knew he even had a sister. He had gone to great lengths to keep her out of the public eye for her own protection. He was worried that if the press got a photo of Carli during one of her bad phases it would destroy her. But trying to take care for his sister was impossible. He wanted to bang his head against the nearest wall in frustration. He wanted to snap his fingers and have this nightmare over.

  He wanted his sister to be normal, happy, healthy. But no matter how hard he tried to help her, she threw it back in his face. She was intent on self-destructing but he couldn’t let her do it. He wouldn’t let her do it.

  Not while he still had breath in his body and money in his bank account.

  ‘I worry about you, Carli. I do nothing but worry about you and what do I get in return? You trash my house and abuse my trust when I say anything, you storm off and disappear for weeks or months on end.’ He stopped to draw breath, his chest aching with the pressure of years of built-up guilt and regret. He had tried his best to keep his siblings safe. He’d blown it with his younger brothers but Carli was his last chance.

  He was her last chance.

  No one else loved her enough to help her. His father and brothers and cousins were incapable of it.

  Carli shrugged as if he’d just told her the latest weather report. ‘You worry too much. I can take care of myself.’

  He glanced at the fine white scars on her forearms. Thankfully there didn’t seem to be any new cuts but how long before there were? ‘Do you need a place to stay? I have to go back to Milan tomorrow but I can organise someone to stay with you here if—’

  ‘I’m staying with a friend.’

  ‘Which friend?’

  She jumped off the stool she was perched on. ‘No one you know.’