Her First-Date Honeymoon
Katrina Cudmore
Honeymoon…with her new boss!Emma Fox always dreamed of a honeymoon in Venice…she just never expected to experience it alone! After discovering her fiancé is a scoundrel, runaway bride Emma vows to be independent—starting by securing a job with billionaire Matteo Vieri for a week.Sparky Emma is nothing like the preened women Matteo usually meets and, working with her in his palazzo, he finds she warms his guarded heart. They’ve already shared a honeymoon, but will Matteo ask Emma to walk down the aisle…?Romantic GetawaysEscape to Paradise!
Honeymoon...with her new boss!
Emma Fox always dreamed of a honeymoon in Venice...she just never expected to experience it alone! After discovering her fiancé was a scoundrel, runaway bride Emma vows to be independent, starting by securing a job with billionaire Matteo Vieri for the week.
As they work together in his palazzo, Emma’s warmth and natural beauty capture Matteo’s guarded heart. They’ve already shared a honeymoon, but what will it take for Matteo to persuade Emma to go back down the aisle?
Romantic Getaways
Escape to Paradise!
This Valentine’s Day, escape to four of the world’s most romantic destinations with these sparkling books from Mills & Boon Romance!
From the awe-inspiring desert to vibrant Barcelona, and from the stunning coral reefs of Australia to heart-stoppingly romantic Venice—get swept away by these wonderful romances!
The Sheikh’s Convenient Princess
by Liz Fielding
The Unforgettable Spanish Tycoon
by Christy McKellen
The Billionaire of Coral Bay
by Nikki Logan
Her First-Date Honeymoon
by Katrina Cudmore
Her First-Date Honeymoon
Katrina Cudmore
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
A city-loving book addict, peony obsessive KATRINA CUDMORE lives in Cork, Ireland, with her husband, four active children and a very daft dog. A psychology graduate, with a MSc in Human Resources, Katrina spent many years working in multinational companies and can’t believe she is lucky enough now to have a job that involves daydreaming about love and handsome men! You can visit Katrina at katrinacudmore.com (http://www.katrinacudmore.com).
For Ben
See, the middle child isn’t always forgotten!
Love, Mum
Contents
Cover (#ud9385084-efb0-5cf1-a074-03d3982d069e)
Back Cover Text (#u08632b05-2e75-5be8-b44d-c5ed4fa4726d)
Introduction (#u64e87bca-453d-58e3-b41c-368679b8aaaf)
Title Page (#u3dfe0341-179a-577f-b2fc-bcc89a6d4cde)
About the Author (#u270c93e0-e356-5280-91ea-f2f81bfe352f)
Dedication (#u21a4994b-68ac-50b5-9963-17a3519f43d0)
CHAPTER ONE (#ulink_74c60f28-52c5-5ebe-adc9-ff7be35a7abc)
CHAPTER TWO (#ulink_5aae3d55-9755-5aff-93a2-65e767cac76f)
CHAPTER THREE (#ulink_a25db6ef-fe80-5efd-b5be-e4f805c994fd)
CHAPTER FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
EPILOGUE (#litres_trial_promo)
Extract (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ONE (#ulink_0aca365b-6cf1-5750-803c-dd2fd5f5a72b)
‘I ADMIRE YOUR TENACITY, cara, but I meant it when I said no.’
Matteo Vieri lay down and spread his body behind the woman already warming his bed. His hand curled around her slim waist. The only light in the room came from the corridor, and in the dark shadows, with her head tucked low into the pillow, he struggled to see her in detail. But beneath his fingers he felt her body edge towards him.
Irritation bit into his stomach and refused to let go, but he forced his voice to remain a low playful tease. ‘The last woman who crept into my bed wasn’t seen for days. Leave now, or I swear you won’t see daylight for a very long time.’
He wanted nothing but to sleep. Alone.
Earlier, when she had phoned him while he was en route to Venice, she had told him she was leaving tomorrow for her home city of New York, but she had promised him a night to remember. They had dated intermittently in the past, when their paths had crossed. It had been fun. But recently he had realised that beneath her cool sass lay fantasies of a future together, so he had good-humouredly turned down her offer. Again. But she obviously hadn’t listened and now she lay in his bed.
He stifled a curse.
It was past midnight. His bones ached for a shower and the oblivion of sleep.
‘Cara, it’s time for you to leave.’
Beneath the silk of her nightgown her ribcage jerked.
His hand stilled.
Something was wrong. Her scent was wrong. The dip of her waist was wrong. The endless curls in her hair, brushing his hand, making him itch with the desire to thread it through his fingers and pull her towards him, were wrong.
His breathing, his heart, his thoughts went on hold. The red traffic lights of confusion waited to switch to the green of clarity.
Her head inched upwards until wide eyes met his: perplexed, scared, startled.
His own disbelief left him speechless.
Caspita! Who was this stranger lying in his bed?
And then he wanted to laugh. Could this week get any worse?
His starved lungs sucked in air. He could barely make out her features, but still a lick of attraction barrelled through him. Her scent—the clean low notes of rose—the enticing warmth of her body, the mass of hair tumbling on the bed sheets made him want to draw her into him. To take solace in her softness, her femininity, from the craziness of his life.
Her mouth opened. And closed. She swallowed a cartoon gulp. Her mouth opened again. Her lips were full, the hint of a deep cupid’s bow on the upper lip. A dangerous beauty.
Her body stiffened beside him. Seconds passed. Two strangers. In the most intimate of settings.
A tiny sound of disbelief hiccupped from her throat.
Then, in a shower of rising and falling sheets and blankets, she flung off the bedclothes and darted towards the door.
In one smooth movement he followed her and yanked her back.
Long narrow bones crashed into him, along with a tumble of hair, a scent that left him wanting more.
‘Who are you? What do you want?’
Her voice was a husky rasp, heavily accented, sexy, English. A voice he had definitely never heard before.
Attraction kicked again. Strong enough to knock him out of his stupor. His earlier frustration lit up inside him. Bright and fierce.
He pulled her towards the wall and flicked on the bedroom chandelier. She winced, but then hazel eyes settled on his, anger mixing with shock.
She attempted to jerk away but he gripped her slim arm tighter.
A flare of defiance grew in her eyes. ‘If you don’t let me go I’m going to scream until the entire neighbourhood, all of Venice, is awake.’
A growl of fury leapt from his throat. ‘Scream away. My neighbours are used to hearing me entertain.’
A blush erupted on her cheeks. She dipped her head.
Satisfaction twitched on his lips. He lowered his mouth towards her ear. ‘Now, tell me, do you make a habit of breaking into homes? Sleeping in strangers’ beds?’
* * *
Emma Fox knew she should be scared. But instead an anger, a rebellion, surged in her. She was not going to be pushed around again. Her heart might be doing a full drama queen routine in her chest, but the pit of her stomach was shouting, Enough! Enough of false accusations. Enough of people telling her what to do. Enough of the mess that was her life.
She grabbed the hand clinging to her upper arm and tried to prise his fingers away. ‘What on earth are you talking about? I haven’t broken in. I was invited to stay here by the palazzo’s owner.’
Her captor took a step back to stare down at her, but his grip grew tighter. For the first time she saw his face. Her heart went silent. Why couldn’t he be on the wrong side of handsome? A few blemishes here and there, a little cross-eyed, perhaps. Instead she faced a gulp-inducing, knee-knocking magnificence that stole all her composure.
His golden-brown eyes flared with the incredulous impatience of a man used to getting his way. ‘Signorina, that is impossible. I own Ca’ Divina. This is my property.’
He let go of her arm and moved to the door. He slammed it shut and stood guard in front of the large ancient door, arms crossed.
‘Now, tell me the truth before I call the carabinieri.’
The carabinieri. He couldn’t. Her stomach tumbled. She had spent a nightmare morning in police custody only yesterday. She couldn’t go through that again. The disbelieving looks. Then the impatient pity when they’d realised she was nothing but a patsy in the whole debacle.
Fear tap-danced down her spine and she began to shiver. She was wearing only a barely there nightdress and longed to cover up. To walk away from this fully clothed man, armoured in an impeccable dark navy suit and maroon tie, and from the way his eyes were travelling down her body critically. Something about him triggered a memory of seeing him before—but where? Why did he seem familiar?
She backed towards the bed, away from him, and spoke in a rush of words. ‘I’m telling the truth. But how do I know who you are—perhaps you’re the one who has broken into the palazzo.’
He threw her an are you being serious? look. ‘And I’ve woken you up to have an argument? Not the usual behaviour of a thief, I would expect.’
‘No, but—’
He rocked on his heels and inhaled an exasperated breath. ‘In my bedside table you’ll find a tray of cufflinks with my monogram—MV.’
She opened the top drawer of the lacquered and gilt carved bedside table with trembling fingers. Beside a number of priceless-looking Rolex watches sat a platoon of silver, gold and platinum cufflinks, all bearing the letters MV.
A sinking feeling moved through her body, draining her of all energy. ‘I don’t understand...I was in a café earlier today and a lady... Signora...’
Her mind became a black hole of forgetfulness. Across from her, her prison guard scowled in disbelief. Flustered, she tried to zone him out. She had to concentrate. What had her saviour’s name been?
‘Her name was Signora... Signora Ve... Vieri... Yes, that was it—Signora Vieri.’
He unfurled his arms and walked towards her across the antique Oriental rug covering the terrazzo floor. A treasure perhaps imported when the Venetian Republic had been the exploration and commercial powerhouse of Europe centuries ago.
His mouth was a thin line of frustration, his already narrow lips tight and unyielding. ‘What did this Signora Vieri look like?’
His words were spoken in a low, dangerous rumble and she became unaccountably hot, with flames of heat burning up her insides at the menace in his words and the way he was now standing over her, staring down, as if ready to murder the nearest person.
Her vow to toughen up, to refuse to kowtow to anyone ever again was going to be tested sooner than she had anticipated. She squared her shoulders and looked him right in the eye. Which was a bad idea, because immediately she lost herself in those almond-shaped golden-brown eyes and forgot what she was going to say.
The anger in his eyes turned for the briefest moment into a flare of appreciation. Her heart swooped up her throat like a songbird.
But then the appreciation flicked to exasperation. ‘I don’t have all night.’
Toughen up. That was her mission in life now. She had to remember that. She clenched her fists and tossed her head back, ready for battle. ‘I have no idea what’s going on here but, despite what you obviously think, I have not been involved in anything untoward. Signora Vieri offered me a place to stay. I accepted her offer in good faith.’
He loomed over her, tension bouncing off his huge, formidable body. ‘Tell me what she looked like...or is this just a convenient story? Perhaps you’ll be more co-operative for the carabinieri.’
Alarm shot down through her and exited at her toes, leaving a numb, tingling sensation behind. She began to babble. ‘She’s in her early fifties...animated, kind, concerned...full of energy. Brown bobbed hair. She has the cutest little dog called Elmo.’
He exhaled another loud breath and walked away.
She spun around to find him standing before the bedroom’s marble fireplace. The huge gilt mirror on the mantel reflected his powerful tense shoulders, the glossy thickness of his brown hair.
‘My grandmother.’
‘Your grandmother! She mentioned that her grandson sometimes stays here...I was picturing a toddler. Not a grown man.’
For a few long seconds he stopped and glared at her, leaving her in no doubt that she had said something wrong. What, she had no idea, but the temperature in the room had dropped at least ten degrees.
‘Nonnina is sixty-seven. And she has a soft spot for waifs and strays. Although this is the first time she has actually brought home a human one.’
‘I’m not a waif or a stray!’
‘Then what are you doing in my bed?’
Memories of his hand burning through the material of her nightdress, of the shaming stream of pleasure that had flowed through her dreams until she had woken fully taunted her, causing her confusion to intensify.
‘Who did you think was in your bed when you climbed in beside me?’
Her question earned her a tight-lipped scowl. ‘A friend.’
Unease swept over her at the prospect of that huge, frankly scary-looking lion’s head brass knocker on the front door sounding at any moment, and having to explain her presence to another person tonight.
‘Are you still expecting her?’
His eyes swept over her lazily. ‘No.’
Every inch of her skin tingled. For a moment she gazed longingly towards her suitcase, propped open beside an ornately carved walnut dressing table. She hadn’t had the energy to unpack earlier, but had fallen into bed after a much needed shower instead.
She moved towards the suitcase, aware he was following her every move. She grabbed the first jumper from the messy jumble spilling from it and pulled on the thick-knit polo neck. A shiver of comfort and relief ran down her spine; she no longer felt so susceptible to his dangerous gaze.
He moved back across the room towards the door. ‘I need to speak to my grandmother.’
‘She isn’t here.’
He pulled up short. ‘What do you mean, she isn’t here?’
‘She said she had to return home to Puglia. That there was an emergency.’
He shook his head in disgust and twisted away. He rolled his shoulders and then his spine in a quick, impatient movement, the fine wool of his suit jacket rippling in a fluid motion. He moved with the ease of the super-rich. Even his hair—a perfect one-inch length, tapering down in a perfect straight line to hug the tanned strength of his neck—looked as though it had been cut with diamond-encrusted scissors by a barber to the nobility of Europe.
This room—this palazzo, this stunning city La Serenissima—all so grand and overwhelming, proud and mysterious, suited him. Whereas she felt like an alien amongst the wealth and elegance.
Wealth. Elegance. A grandmother with the surname of Vieri...
Her brain buzzed with the white noise of astonishment while her heart jumped to a thumpety-thumpety-thump beat. No wonder he looked familiar.
‘You’re Matteo Vieri, aren’t you?’
The owner of one of the world’s largest luxury goods conglomerates.
He unbuttoned his suit jacket and popped a hand into his trouser pocket. ‘So you know who I am?’ His casual stance belied the sharp tone of his response.
Did he think she had engineered her stay here because of who he was? Engineered being in his bed for his arrival? Did he think she had designs on him romantically? That possibility, if it hadn’t been so tragic, would have been laughable.
‘I used to work at St Paul’s Fashion College in London. One of your companies—VMV—sponsors its graduation show.’
‘Used to work?’
‘I left last week to move to Sydney.’
Well, that had been the plan anyway. Until it had all fallen apart. When was life going to start co-operating with her, instead of throwing her endless grenades of disastrous calamity?
Yet more uncomfortable heat threaded along her veins. She had slept in Matteo Vieri’s bed. He was one of Europe’s most eligible bachelors. She needed to clarify how all this had happened.
‘Your grandmother told me I was welcome to use any room I wanted. I didn’t realise this room was yours.’ She paused and gestured around the room to the walnut four-poster bed, the pale green silk sofa—all so beautiful, but without a trace of him. ‘None of your belongings are on display, no clothes...I had no idea it might be someone’s bedroom.’
‘When this palazzo was built in the fifteenth century not much thought was given to adjoining dressing rooms...my clothes are further down the hallway.’ He spoke like a bored tour guide, tired of the same inane tourist questions.
‘But your bathroom is full of...’ She trailed off, not sure how to say it. It was full of delicious but most definitely girly shampoos and conditioners, bath and shower gels, lavish body lotions...
He gave her a don’t push it frown. ‘I do own those companies.’ His lips moved for a nanosecond upwards into the smile of a man remembering good times. ‘Those products are there for my dates to use.’
She tugged at the collar of her jumper, feeling way too hot. The image of a naked Matteo Vieri applying one of those shower gels was sending her pulse into the stratosphere.
She went to her suitcase and squashed the lid down, fighting the giddiness rampaging through her limbs, praying it would zip up without its usual fight.
‘I’ll move to another room.’
He stood over her, casting a dark shadow over her where she crouched. ‘I’m afraid that’s not an option. You’ll have to leave.’
She sprang up, her struggle with the suitcase forgotten. ‘But I have nowhere to go! I spent all of today searching for a hotel, but with it being Carnival time there are no rooms available. I’ve tried everywhere within my budget. Meeting your grandmother...her kind offer of a room was like a miracle.’
‘I bet it was—an invitation to stay in a palazzo on the Grand Canal in Venice!’
Did he have to sound so cynical? ‘I appreciate this situation is far from ideal, but I have nowhere else to go. I promise I’ll stay out of your way.’
He adjusted the cuffs of his shirt beneath his suit jacket with a stiff, annoyed movement. His cufflinks flashed beneath the light of the crystal chandelier. ‘I apologise for my grandmother’s behaviour. She shouldn’t have given you a room without my authorisation. I have a busy week ahead, with clients from China coming to Venice for Carnival. It does not suit me to have a house guest.’
‘Are they staying here?’
‘No, but—’
‘Honestly—I’ve tried every hotel in Venice.’
He glared at her, and for a moment she was transported back to her pointe classes as an eleven-year-old, when she used to shake with fear about getting on the wrong side of the volatile ballet master.
‘Why are you in Venice, Signorina...?’ His voice trailed off and he waited for her to speak.
‘Fox. Emma Fox. I’m here because...’ A lump the size of the top tier of her wedding cake formed in her throat. She gritted her teeth against the tears blurring her vision. ‘I was supposed to be here on my honeymoon.’
* * *
His stomach did a nosedive. Dio! She was about to cry.
Something about the way she was fighting her tears reminded him of his childhood, watching his mother battle her tears. Unable to do anything to stop them. To make life okay for her. Not sure why she was crying in the first place when he was a small boy other than having a vague understanding that she was waiting for his father to come back. The father he’d never known.
And then in later years, when she had accepted that his father was never going to return, her tears had been shed over yet another failed relationship. But he hadn’t even tried to comfort her in those years. His own pain had been too great—pain for all the men who had walked out of his life without a fight, father figures, many of whom he had hero-worshipped.
People let you down. It was a lesson he had learned early in life. Along with coming to the realisation that he could only ever rely on himself. Not trust in the empty promises of others.
A loud sniffle brought him back to his present problem. To her lowered head he said, ‘On your honeymoon?’
She emitted a cry and bolted for his bathroom.
This time his grandmother had gone too far. To the extent that he was tempted to follow her down to Puglia and give her a piece of his mind, this time not falling for her apologies and pledges to behave. Nor, for that matter, being diverted by plates of her legendary purcedduzzi—fried gnocchi with honey.
He understood her compulsion to help the poor and homeless—but to invite a stranger into his home!
He knocked at the bathroom door. ‘Are you okay?’
‘Yes...sorry. I’ll be out in a few minutes.’
Her voice went from alto to soprano, and several notes in between. A muffled sob followed. He winced and rubbed at his face with both hands.
He leaned in against the door. ‘We both need a drink. Join me downstairs in the lounge when you’re ready.’
He hurried down the stairs. Memories chased him. Those nights when he was seven...eight years old, when he would crawl into his mother’s bed, hoping he could stop her tears.
In the lounge, he threw open the doors onto the terrace. Venice was blanketed in a light misty fog. Sounds were muffled. He saw the intermittent lights of a launch moving on the water, its engine barely audible. Technically it was spring, but tonight winter still shrouded the city, and the cold, damp air intensified its mysterious beauty.
He spent most of his year travelling between his headquarters in Milan and his offices in New York, London and Paris. Always moving. Never belonging. The nomadic lifestyle of his childhood had followed him into adulthood. He had hated it as a child. Now it suited him. It meant that he could keep a distance from others. Even acquaintances and those he considered friends would never have the opportunity to hurt him, to walk away. He was the one in control instead. It was he who could choose to walk away now.
Venice was his one true escape. It was why he had no regular staff here in Ca’ Divina. He liked the calm, the peace of the building, without sound, without people awaiting his instructions. Here was the one place he could be alone, away from the intensity of his normal routine. Away from the constant expectations and responsibilities of his businesses, his family.
But tonight the calm serenity of both Venice and Ca’ Divina were doing little to calm his boiling irritation. The maverick, eccentric, brilliant chief designer for his fashion house Ettore had thrown a hissy fit—no doubt fuelled by alcohol—whilst being interviewed by a Chinese news team last night. He had not only insulted the reporter but also implied that the exclusive department store chain that sold his designs in China was not worthy of doing so.
The exclusive department store chain Matteo was delicately negotiating with over contracts for the extensive expansion of product placement for all his brands.
The company quite rightly had not taken kindly to the designer’s words, and had seen it as a huge public insult to their honour. This loss of face—known as mianzi in China—might have damaged their relationship beyond repair.
The chain’s president and his team were arriving in Venice tomorrow evening. He had a lot of apologising to do and reassurances to make to ensure they understood how much he valued and respected them as a partner. It was vital the trip went well. Or else several of his lines would be in serious financial trouble.
He twisted around to the sound of footsteps on the terrazzo flooring. The last thing he needed was to have to deal with a stranger’s problems.
She reminded him of a Federico Zandomeneghi portrait in Ca’ Pesaro, the International Gallery of Modern Art located further along the banks of the Grand Canal. Delicate, elegant features, a cupid’s bow mouth, a perfect nose, porcelain skin, long thick brown curls almost to her waist, tucked behind her ears.
Below the cream polo-neck jumper she was now wearing a pair of skinny jeans and tan ankle boots. She’d tugged the neck of the jumper up until it reached her ears. The tears were gone, but despite the resolute set of her mouth she looked worn out.
Almost as worn out as he felt.
‘What can I get you to drink?’
‘A whisky, please.’
He poured her whisky and a brandy for himself into tumblers, trying to ignore how physically aware he was of her. Of her refined accent, her words clipped but softly spoken. Of her long limbs. Of the outline of the tantalising body her nightdress had done little to conceal earlier. Of her utter beauty.
He brought their drinks over to the sofas at the centre of the room and placed one on either side of the coffee table in between them. He sat with his back to the canal.
She perched on the side of the sofa and stared out through the terrace windows with an unseeing gaze, the hands on her lap curled like weapons ready to strike out. Eventually her eyes landed on his, and the sudden flare of vulnerability in them delivered a sucker punch to his gut.
Despite every fibre of his being telling him not to—she might start crying again—he found himself asking, ‘Do you want to talk about it?’
She took a sip of her whisky. Depositing the glass back on the table, she reached down to her left ankle and gave it a quick squeeze. Sitting up, she inhaled deeply, her chest rising and falling. A flash of heat coloured her cheeks. The result of the whisky or something else?
‘Not particularly.’ Her clipped tone was accompanied by a haughty rise of her chin.
‘In that case I’ll go and make some phone calls to arrange a hotel room for you.’
He was at the door before she spoke.
‘My fiancé...I mean my ex-fiancé...was arrested early yesterday morning—at four o’clock, to be precise—for embezzlement.’
She tugged at the neck of her jumper. He returned to his seat and she darted a quick glance in his direction. Pride in battle with pain.
‘He stole funds from the company he worked for; and also persuaded his family and friends to invest in a property scheme with him. There was no scheme. Instead he used the money to play the stock exchange. He lost it all.’
‘And you knew nothing about it?’
She stared at him aghast. ‘No!’ Then she winced, and the heat in her cheeks noticeably paled. ‘Although the police wouldn’t believe me at first...’ She glanced away. ‘I was arrested.’
‘Arrested?’
She reached for her glass but stopped halfway and instead edged further back into the sofa. ‘Yes, arrested. On what was supposed to be my wedding day.’ She gave a disbelieving laugh. ‘I was let go eventually, when they realised I was his victim rather than his partner in crime.’
Her eyes challenged his; she must be seeing the doubt in his expression.
‘By all means call Camden Police Station in London, if you don’t believe me; they will verify my story. I have the number of the investigating officer.’
His instinct told him she was telling the truth, but he wasn’t going to admit that. ‘It’s of no consequence to me.’
That earned him a hurt glance. Remorse prickled along his skin. But why was he feeling guilty? None of this was his doing. What on earth was she doing in Venice anyway?
‘Do you think it was wise, coming to Venice? Without a hotel booking? Wouldn’t you be better off at home?’
She crossed her legs with an exasperated frown that told him he wasn’t getting this. ‘I did have a hotel booking. Or so my ex told me. But he never transferred the funds so the booking fell through. He also cleared out our joint bank account. Anyway, I don’t have a home. Or a job. I moved out of my apartment and resigned from the college because my ex was being transferred to Sydney with his work and I was joining him.’
‘And your family?’
A flicker of pain crossed her face. But then she sat upright and eyed him coolly. ‘I don’t have one.’
Despite all the hurts and frustrations of the past, and the fact that he had far from perfect relationships with his emotional and unpredictable mother and grandmother, he could never imagine life without them. What must it be like to have no family? Had she no friends who could take their place?
‘Your friends...?’
With her legs crossed, she rotated her left ankle in the air. Agitated. Upset.
‘I appreciate your concern, but I’m not going back to London. I have no home to go to. I can’t go back...I can’t face everyone. I need some time away. After I was released from police custody I checked out of the hotel we’d been staying in...’ She paused and bit her lip, drank some whisky, grimaced. ‘I ran away.’
‘You’re a runaway bride?’
Her generous full mouth twisted unhappily. She refused to meet his eye.
‘I’m not putting my friends out by sleeping on their sofas. My closest friend Rachel has just had a baby; the last thing she needs right now is a lodger. This is my mess—it’s up to me to sort it out. My ex might have stolen everything from me, but he isn’t going to stop me from living my life. I’ve always wanted to see Venice during Carnival. And I fully intend doing so.’
Her mouth gave a little wobble.
‘We had organised our wedding for this week so that it coincided with Carnival.’
She was putting up one hell of a fight to keep her tears at bay. He felt completely out of his comfort zone.
‘I’ll pay for your hotel room by way of compensation for any inconvenience my grandmother’s actions may have caused.’
‘I don’t want your money.’
Old memories churned in his stomach at her resolve. He knew only too well that it masked vulnerability.
He remembered throwing guilt money from Stefano, one of his mother’s boyfriends, who had just shoved it into his hands, off the balcony of Stefano’s apartment. He had got momentary satisfaction seeing Stefano’s shame. It had been short-lived, though, when he and his mother had been forced to sleep in a homeless hostel that night.
He had stayed awake all night, unable to sleep, vowing he would never be in that position again. Vowing to drag his mother out of poverty and to protect her. Even if her behaviour had led them to sharing a room with eight strangers. He would be a success. Which meant he would no longer be held hostage by poverty, by the lack of choices, the motives of other people.
It was an ambition he was still chasing. He still needed to leave behind the spectre of hunger, the fear of not being in control, still needed to prove himself, still needed to make sure he protected his family...and now the tens of thousands who worked for him.
He looked at his watch and then back at her. She was blinking rapidly. Unexpected emotion gripped his throat. He forced it away with a deep swallow. ‘It’s late. We can talk about this in the morning.’
‘I can stay?’
The relief in her face hit him like a punch. This woman needed compassion and care. His grandmother should be here, finishing the task she’d started. Not dumping it on him. He was too busy. In truth, he didn’t know how to help her. He didn’t get tangled up in this type of situation. He kept others at arm’s length. No one got close. Even his mother and grandmother. And that was not going to change.
‘You can stay for tonight. Tomorrow I will organise alternative accommodation for you.’
* * *
Half an hour later Emma lay on cool sheets in the bed of another bedroom, her mind on fire, wondering if the past few hours had actually happened.
A knock sounded on the door. She sat up and stared at the door dubiously.
‘Emma—it’s Matteo.’
Her heart flipped in full operatic diva mode. Did he have to speak in a voice that sounded as if he was caressing her? And what did he want? Had he changed his mind about her staying?
She cautiously opened the door and drank in the sight of Matteo, freshly showered, his thick brown hair damp, wearing nothing but pyjama bottoms. The golden expanse of his hard sculptured torso instantly left her tongue-tied. And guilty. And cross. She should be on honeymoon right now. Not staring at a stranger’s body, trying to keep lustful thoughts at bay.
She folded her arms. ‘Can I help you?’
Her ice-cool tone did little to melt the amusement in his eyes.
An eyebrow—a beautiful, thick eyebrow—rose. Without a word he raised his hand and held out a toy polar bear, barely the size of his palm, grey and threadbare.
‘Snowy!’ She grabbed the bear and held it to her chest.
‘I found it under my pillow.’
‘I forgot about him...thank you.’
His head tilted to the side and for a tiny moment he looked at her with almost affection, but then he looked back at Snowy with an exasperated shake of his head. Probably questioning the wisdom of allowing a grown woman who slept with a diseased-looking toy polar bear to stay in his home.
He turned away.
She should close the door, to signal that his appearance was of little consequence, but instead she watched him walk back to his room—and almost swooned when he ran his hand through his hair, the movement of the powerful muscles in his back taunting her pledge to give men a wide berth.
He swung back to her. ‘I’m sorry about your wedding.’
A thick wedge of gratitude landed in her chest. She wanted to say thank you, but her throat was as tight as a twisted rag.
He nodded at her thank-you smile.
Her heart beat slow and hard in her chest.
They stood in silence for far too long.
He seemed as unable to turn away as she was.
Eventually he broke the tension and spoke in a low, rolling tone, ‘Buonanotte.’
Back inside the room, she climbed into bed and tucked Snowy against her. She was fully aware, of course, that the first thing she should do in her bid to toughen up was to banish Snowy from her bed. But when she had been a child, alone and petrified at boarding school, he had brought her comfort. And, rather sadly, over fifteen years on she needed him more than ever before.
So much for Operation Toughen Up. An hour in the company of Matteo Vieri and all her vows and pledges to be resilient and single-minded had melted into a puddle of embarrassing tears and ill-advised attraction.
But tomorrow was going to be different.
It had to be.
CHAPTER TWO (#ulink_1eaa7862-fc18-5fde-bbdc-150ca049fa4a)
THE FOLLOWING DAY, mid-morning sunshine poured into Matteo’s office. He stood up from his desk and stretched his back, grimacing at the tightness at the bottom of his spine.
They said bad things came in threes. Well, he had just reached his quota. First, his exasperating but gifted designer had publicly insulted his most valued clients. Then his grandmother had invited a stranger into his home. And now his event co-ordinator for the Chinese clients’ trip had gone into early labour.
His designer was already in rehab.
He would have to put in extra hours to ensure the China trip ran perfectly...which meant even less sleep than usual.
And as for Signorina Fox... Well, he had news for her.
He walked down the corridor of the palazzo’s first floor, the piano nobile, his heels echoing on the heritage terrazzo flooring. He hadn’t seen or heard from Signorina Fox all morning. He had a sneaking suspicion that she was deliberately staying out of his way in the hope that he might let her stay.
The lounge balcony windows were open. Shouts of laughter and passionate calls tumbled into the room from outside. Stepping into the early springtime sunshine, he came to an abrupt halt.
Crouched over the balcony, her chin resting on her folded arms Emma was focused on the canal, oblivious to the fact that her short skirt had risen up to give him an uninterrupted view of her legs. Legs encased in thick woollen tights that shouldn’t look sexy. But her legs were so long, so toned, that for a brief moment the ludicrous idea of allowing her to stay and act as a distraction from all his worries flitted through his brain.
He coughed noisily.
She popped up and twisted around to look at him. A hand tugged at her red skirt. Over the skirt she was wearing another polo-necked jumper, today in a light-knit navy blue. Her chestnut hair hung over one shoulder in a thick plait.
‘I hope you found my note?’
‘Thank you—yes...it was a lovely breakfast.’
The exhaustion of last night was gone from beneath her eyes. She gave him a can we try to act normal? smile and then gestured to the canal.
‘There’s the most incredible flotilla sailing up the canal—you must come and see.’ Her smile was transformed into a broad beam, matching the excitement in her eyes. She beckoned him over.
He should get back to work. But it seemed churlish to refuse to look. The canal was teeming with boats, and onlookers were crowding the fondamente—the canal pathways.
‘It’s the opening parade of the Carnival,’ he explained.
For a few minutes he forgot everything that was wrong in his life as he joined her in watching the parade of gondolas and ceremonial boats sail past. Most of the occupants, in flamboyant seventeenth-and eighteenth-century costume, waved and shouted greetings in response to Emma’s enthusiastic waves.
Seeing the contrast between her upbeat mood now and the sobs that had emanated from his bathroom last night twisted his stomach, along with the memory of his grandmother’s words this morning. He had called her with the intention of lambasting her, only to be pulled up short when he’d learned that she had gone home because one of the homeless men she helped had been involved in an accident, and that she had helped Emma because she had found her in a desperate state in a café yesterday.
He pushed away the guilt starting to gnaw a hole in his gut. He had enough problems of his own. Anyway, he didn’t do cohabitation. He had never shared his home with anyone. And he wasn’t about to start with an emotional runaway bride.
Below them, the regatta started to trail off.
‘I have found alternative accommodation for you in the Hotel Leopolda.’
Her smile dropped from her face like a stone sinking in water. ‘Hotel Leopolda? The five-star hotel close to St Mark’s Square?’
‘Yes.’
She stared back at the canal, a small grimace pulling on her mouth. ‘I can’t afford to stay there.’
‘I’ll take care of it.’
She stepped away from him before meeting his eye. ‘I said it last night—I’m not taking your money.’
‘I can appreciate how you feel. If it makes you happier, you can repay me some time in the future.’
‘No.’ Those hazel eyes sucked him in, dumped a whole load of guilt on his soul and spat him back out again.
‘I’ll make some calls myself—check the internet again. I’ll find somewhere suitable,’ she said.
This woman was starting to drive him crazy. He had had to use all his influence to secure her a room. He doubted she would find anywhere by herself.
‘I want to resolve this now. My event co-ordinator for the Chinese trip has gone into early labour. I’ll be tied up with organising all the final details for the visit for the rest of the day.’
She stepped back towards him, her crossed arms dropping to her sides. Concern flooded her eyes. ‘I hope she’ll be okay. How many weeks pregnant is she?’
He had no idea. It had been a sizeable bump. Once he had even seen a tiny foot kick hard against the extended bump during a meeting. It had been one of the most incredible things he had ever seen.
That image had haunted him for days afterwards. Catching him unawares in meetings, distracting his concentration. Bringing a hollow sensation to his chest, a tightness to his belly, knowing he would never see the first miraculous stirrings of his own child. Knowing he would never be a father. Knowing he would choose the empty feeling that came with that knowledge over the certain pain of letting someone into his life, of risking his heart in a relationship.
‘I’m not sure...eight months?’
Did she have to look at him so critically? Suddenly he felt he had to defend himself. ‘I asked for flowers to be sent to her.’
‘I don’t think flowers are allowed in hospitals these days. Anyway, I reckon flowers are the last thing on her mind right now.’ She threw him another critical stare before adding, ‘I hope she and her baby will be okay.’
Why, all of a sudden, was he the villain in all of this? ‘Of course I do too. My employees’ welfare is of great importance to me. It’s why they all receive a comprehensive healthcare package.’
‘I’m glad to hear it.’ Her tone didn’t match her words. Her tone implied he was a close relative of Wall Street’s Gordon Gekko.
‘About your accommodation...’
‘How long are your clients here for?’
Hadn’t she heard him? This conversation was supposed to be about her leaving. ‘Why do you ask?’
‘Have you someone to take over from your event planner?’
A tight dart of pain prodded his lower back. He stretched with a quick movement, but it brought little relief. ‘No. My event management team are already stretched, co-ordinating the upcoming spring/summer shows. Most of the team are already in New York, getting ready for the shows there.’
She pulled her lips between her teeth as if in thought. When they popped back out they formed an even fuller pout, had turned a more sensual red than usual. Emphasising their cupid’s bow shape. She had a beautiful mouth...
A sudden urge to take her in his arms and taste those lips gripped him. Maybe he was more stressed than he’d realised?
* * *
Emma’s mind whirled. Could she drum up the courage to suggest she take over the event planner’s role? Work for Matteo Vieri? Without question it was what every ambitious marketing assistant dreamt of. She should be genuflecting right now in front of this business legend; this marketing genius, instead of deliberately trying to antagonise him. What was that about?
A niggling thought told her that not only was she trying in vain to ignore how attracted she was to him—especially when he openly stared at her with interest, as he was doing right now, with particular attention focused on her mouth—but that it would hurt to have another person reject her. Which, rationally, she knew was crazy. They barely knew each other. But even after so many rejections it still hurt when others turned her away.
Working for him would be the kick-start her career needed. Even a week of working with him would open doors for her.
But she was a mess.
She had come to Venice to heal and to get her game plan together. She felt hollow and abused. She was in no position to deliver the best performance of her career.
A mocking voice echoed in her head. You said you were going to toughen up. Time for action and a lot less talk.
And having a purpose, being busy, might stop the stream of guilt and sadness that was constantly threatening to break through her defences—defences of shock and numbness, of a determination to tough it out. Being in control, having a structure to her days, was what she needed.
She spoke before she had time to talk herself out of it. ‘I’ll do it.’
His gaze moved from her lips to her eyes. Very slowly. So slowly that time seemed to stand still while her cheeks spontaneously combusted.
‘You?’
Did he have to sound so appalled by her proposal?
‘In my role at the fashion college I often helped pull events together—from the graduation show to organising the visits of academics and sponsors. Last year I co-ordinated the visit of some members of a faculty from a Chinese fashion college. I’m in need of a place to stay...you need an event co-ordinator.’
‘But you’re on holiday.’
‘My career is more important. I’ll be frank: having the Vieri name on my CV will be priceless.’
He seemed to be considering her proposal. For a moment hope danced before her eyes. But then he cut that hope off at the legs with a single determined shake of that movie-star-meets-roman-emperor head.
‘It’s not a good idea.’
‘Why?’
‘This trip is of critical importance to my companies. The delegation is coming to negotiate contracts which would see the large-scale expansion of our product placements in China’s most prestigious department stores. Nothing can go wrong.’
For a moment she considered backing down, admitting that she was probably the wrong person for the job. But she had to believe in herself.
‘You can brief me on it this morning, and then I’ll liaise with the travel agents and hotels involved. I’ll also double-check that all the protocols involved with hosting Chinese guests are followed. If there are any issues I will notify you immediately.’
He leaned one hip against the balcony and folded his arms. ‘It’s not a nine-to-five position. You would need to attend all the scheduled events with me.’
‘That’s no problem.’
Those brown eyes darkened. ‘We will be working closely together.’
‘That’s fine.’
Liar! Why is your belly dancing with giddiness if that is the case?
‘Please understand I never mix business with pleasure.’
Why was he telling her that? Was her attraction to him so obvious?
‘Of course. Exactly my sentiments.’ She took a deep swallow and forced herself to ask, ‘So, can I have the job?’
‘Tell me why I should give it to you.’
This would be so much easier if he wasn’t so gorgeous—if he wasn’t so self-assured, so ice-cool.
‘I will work myself to the bone for you because I have so much to prove. To you—but especially to myself.’
He stared at her as though she was a discount store garment made of polyester. It looked as if she would be packing soon. A heavy sensation sat on her chest—embarrassment, disappointment.
‘As I’m stuck, I’ll let you take on the position—but any mishaps and you’re gone.’
His scowl told her he wasn’t joking. Her ankle and heart began to throb in unison.
He came a little closer. Studied her for far too long for her comfort.
‘You will need to stay here...’
For a moment he paused, and a heavy boom of attraction detonated between them. She fell into the brown sultry depths of his eyes. An empty ache coiled through her. Heat licked against her skin. She pulled the neck of her jumper down, suddenly overheating.
Matteo stepped back, tugged at his cuffs and cleared his throat. ‘I will require frequent briefings from you, so you will need to stay here. I’m hosting a reception in the ballroom on Thursday night, which I will want you to co-ordinate and host alongside me.’ He flicked his hand towards the palazzo. ‘If you come with me to my office I’ll brief you on the event schedule and then pass you the files.’
Emma walked alongside him, her enflamed skin welcoming the shade of the palazzo. But her mind continued to race, asking her what on earth she had just done.
Could she keep her promise that nothing would go wrong? What if she slipped up and he saw even a glimpse of how attracted she was to him? An attraction that was embarrassingly wrong. Humiliatingly wrong. Shamefully wrong. She had been about to marry another man yesterday. What was the matter with her?
They walked side by side into the deeper shadows of the palazzo, and she felt guilt and sadness closing over her heart.
* * *
Later that afternoon, his phone to his ear, Matteo walked into the temporary office Emma had set up for herself in the palazzo’s dining room.
Sheets of paper were scattered across the table. He tidied the paper into a bundle. A long navy silk crêpe de Chine scarf dotted with bright red gerbera daisy flowers was tossed across the back of a chair, the ends touching against the terrazzo flooring. A bright exclamation against the dark wood. He folded it quickly and hid it from view by placing it on the seat of the dining chair.
His call continued to ring unanswered.
Where was she?
He had told her to be back at the palazzo by four so that he could take her to see his stores on Calle Larga XXII Marzo. She needed to be familiar with his companies and their products before her interactions with the clients.
Before lunch they had spent two hours running through the visit’s itinerary. Two hours during which he had questioned his judgement in agreeing to her taking over the event co-ordinator role.
With her every exclamation of delight over the events planned, with every accidental touch as they worked through the files, with every movement that caused her jumper to pull on her breasts he had become more and more fixated with watching her.
And throughout the morning she had progressively impressed and surprised him with her attention to detail. Impressed him because she had picked up on some timing problems he hadn’t spotted. Surprised him because, tidiness-wise, the woman was a disaster.
Obviously timekeeping wasn’t a strength either.
The Chinese delegation were arriving in Venice this evening. He had to be at Hotel Cipriani at eight to greet them on their arrival. Emma had travelled over there, at her suggestion, after lunch to meet with the hotel co-ordinator and the interpreter employed for the duration of the visit.
He hit the call button again.
After yet more infuriating rings, she eventually answered.
He didn’t wait for her to speak, ‘Dove sei? Where are you?’
‘I’m not sure.’ There was a hint of panic to her voice. ‘After my meetings in Hotel Cipriani I decided I would visit the restaurant booked for the clients later this week on Giudecca. I found the restaurant and spoke to the owner and the chef. But when I left I must have gone in the wrong direction, because I’m totally lost. I can’t find my way back to the vaporetto stop.’
Now he really was regretting his decision to employ her. ‘Can’t you ask someone to help you?’
‘I have! But each time I follow their directions I end up even more lost down another narrow alleyway.’
Dio! ‘Can you see a street name anywhere?’
‘Hold on...yes, I see one! Calle Ca Rizzo.’
‘Stay there. I’ll come and get you.’
‘There’s no need. I’ll—’
He hung up before she had time to start arguing with him. It was already past four.
* * *
Emma placed her phone back into her padded jacket’s pocket, her already racing heart now acting as if it was taking part in the international finals of the one hundred metre sprint. The day had been going so well until she had gone and got lost in this warren of laneways or, as they were called locally, calli that made up Giudecca, an island suburb of Venice.
Her meetings in the opulent surroundings of Hotel Cipriani had gone smoothly, all the little extras she’d requested had been accommodated, and she had then made her way to Ristorante Beccherie, excited at the stunning views across the water to St Mark’s Square, the Basilica di San Marco and the Campanile clearly visible under the clear blue sky.
After her meeting at the restaurant she hadn’t minded getting lost at first. She had been enchanted by the three-and four-storey medieval red-brick houses on deserted narrow alleyways, by the washing hanging between the houses like bunting, the endless footbridges crossing over the maze of canals. The lack of the sounds of the twenty-first century because of the absence of cars.
But as she’d grown increasingly disorientated, her uneasiness had increased. She’d ended up in dead-end alleyways, silent and beautiful courtyards with no obvious signage.
Matteo was annoyed with her. No—scratch that. He’d sounded ballistic. Would he fire her on her first day?
She walked over to the canal that ran diagonally to the start of Calle Ca Rizzo and moved down onto the canal steps. The temperature was dropping and the cold stone bit against her skin.
Matteo was like Venice. Utterly beautiful but completely frustrating. All morning she had tried to remain professional, but she had been constantly distracted.
Distracted by his deep, potent musky scent when he moved closer to her to point something out in the file sitting between them.
Distracted by the perfect fit of his grey trousers on his narrow hips when he stood.
Distracted by the sight of his large hand lying on the table beside her: golden skin, wide palm, smooth knuckles, long, strong fingers tapering off into pale pink nails, all perfectly clipped into smooth ovals. Several times she had lost her concentration to those hands, dreaming about them on her skin, removing her clothes...
She had been glad of an excuse to get away from the palazzo, needing some space to pull herself together.
She dropped her head into her hands. What was she doing? Why was she having these thoughts? She wasn’t interested in men. In any form of relationship. She had a job to do. And falling for the boss was not only out of the question it was beyond stupid. Well, she hoped she still had a job to do. Maybe not when he arrived...
Fifteen minutes later she saw him stop on a footbridge further down the canal and stare towards her. His hip-length black wool pea coat was topped with a dark grey woollen hat. The pull of attraction tugged on every cell in her body. His mouth was turned downwards in a you’re in big trouble scowl.
She jumped up and tried to match his stride in her direction, but her legs were too wobbly so she careened her way along the canal bank, probably looking as if she had recently consumed a considerable amount of Chianti.
When they met her words of apology became lost. His hat hugged his skull, emphasising the intensity of his golden-brown eyes framed by thick black eyelashes, the beauty of his honey-coloured skin, the proud straight nose, the no-nonsense mouth softened by the cleft in his chin.
That gorgeous mouth hardened. ‘We are late for our appointments.’
Did that mean he wasn’t going to fire her?
Without another word he walked away and she followed alongside him, over countless bridges and through a maze of calli. They passed few people, and in the tight confines of the laneways he seemed taller and more powerful than she remembered.
She gave a quick summary of her meetings, updating him on any changes. Hoping his mood might improve. He made no comment but gave an occasional nod. At least he was listening.
Eventually they arrived at the broad reach of Canale della Giudecca and he led her to a sleek, highly polished wooden motor boat moored at a landing stage.
After untying the two mooring ropes he held the stern tight against the wooden stage. He held out his hand to her. ‘You need to climb aboard.’
She hesitated for a moment, suddenly wary of touching him. But, with the boat swaying in the choppy waters, she decided she’d risk holding his hand over the chagrin of being crushed against the landing stage.
His hand encased hers, and his powerful strength guided her on board. For a crazy few seconds she was engulfed by the sensation that she would always be safe with him in her life.
With practised ease Matteo pulled the boat away from the stage and was soon heading across the canal towards St Mark’s Square.
‘I’m sorry I got lost. I didn’t mean to inconvenience you.’
He gave that ubiquitous continental shrug that might mean he accepted her apology with some reservations or was so irritated by her that he couldn’t speak.
At first she thought he was going back up the Grand Canal to Ca’ Divina, but just west of St Mark’s Square he turned right and slowly motored up a smaller canal. The canal was busy with gondolas, the majority of their passengers embracing and kissing couples.
She plucked her phone out of her pocket and pressed some buttons mindlessly. She had thought she wouldn’t mind seeing couples together, enjoying this city of romance. Boy, had she been wrong.
A heavy pain constricted her chest.
She was supposed to be here with her husband. Not with a man who was clearly irritated with her. Not with a man who in truth she was more attracted to than she had ever been to her fiancé.
That truth was shaming.
That truth was bewildering.
* * *
‘As I explained this morning, five of my companies have a presence here on Calle Larga.’
Matteo came to a stop outside the type of store Emma would window shop at when walking along Bond Street in London but would never dare to enter, knowing her monthly salary wouldn’t even buy her a set of barely there but, oh, so gorgeous underwear.
He pointed along the bustling street. ‘Verde for handbags, Marco for shoes, Osare is the label for our younger urban clients... Gioiello stocks daywear, and...’ Gesturing to the store behind them, he added, ‘And VMV for the discerning.’
Was he aware of the constant looks of appreciation he received from passers-by? How within the VMV store a bevy of model-like assistants were flapping their arms in excitement at his imminent entrance?
‘I had hoped to take you into each store so that you could familiarise yourself with our product range.’ He threw her a reproachful frown. ‘But that will not be possible now. We only have time for your fittings.’
With that he turned, and the door of the store was magically opened by a stealthy doorman Emma hadn’t seen lurking behind the glass pane.
Matteo gestured for her to enter first.
She took a step closer to him and in a low voice asked, ‘What do you mean, “fittings”?’
‘You will need dresses and gowns for the various events you will be accompanying me to during the week.’
‘I have my own clothes.’
With a raised critical eyebrow he ran his gaze down over her body. Okay, so her black padded jacket and red skirt mightn’t be the most glamorous, but she did own some nice clothes.
‘I mean I have suitable dresses back at the palazzo.’
He stepped closer, his huge body dwarfing hers. His head dipped down and he glared into her eyes. ‘I don’t have time for this. Let me be clear. You are representing my companies this week. You have to wear clothing from the lines. It’s not negotiable. If you don’t like it then I’m happy for you to leave.’
Emma gave a quick nod and, with dread exploding in her stomach like fast-rising dough, stepped inside the store and sank into plush carpet. She opened up her padded jacket and yanked at the collar of her jumper. She was burning up. Not only from the heat of the store but from the unfriendly gazes being thrown in her direction by the models.
Matteo walked through the store, pointing out garments which were immediately whisked away to the rear of the store.
‘Bene. I’ve selected the gowns which I think will suit you.’ He exchanged some rapid words with the woman who had accompanied him in his selection of dresses. ‘Andreina will help you try them on.’
Emma smiled warily at the six foot ash blonde diva standing before her. In return she received a cool blue stare. Boy, was she glad she had been waxed to within an inch of her life in preparation for her wedding.
The fitting room was like nothing she had ever seen. A bottle of Prosecco on ice sat on an antique side table, with velvet grey chairs at either side. The floor was tiled in marble, and giant gilt-edged mirrors filled three walls.
She looked at the row of dresses awaiting her. And then at Andreina, who was staring down at her ankle boots, her forehead pinched in obvious disbelief at the water stains on the suede. Yeah, well, maybe Andreina should try walking from Camden Police Station to Highgate in icy slush.
Her stomach lurched. She felt like a gauche fourteen-year-old again, facing her mother’s critical stare. Forced to wear only what her mother approved of.
Time for Operation Toughen Up again.
She propelled Andreina by the elbow towards the door. ‘I’ll call you if I need any help.’ She closed the door on a stream of Italian protest, adrenaline pumping.
She approached the dresses warily. She would get this over and done with as quickly as possible. She stripped off her clothes and grabbed the first dress to hand. Her stomach lurched again. She pulled the silk bodice over her head, felt layer upon layer of fine tulle falling from her waist down to the floor. She twisted her arms around to her back in an attempt to tie the bodice but it was hopeless. She needed help.
She fought against the tears stinging her eyes. She couldn’t bear the feel of the material on her skin.
A knock sounded on the door. She ignored it.
‘Emma, what are you doing?’
Matteo.
She called out, ‘None of them suit. I’ll just have to wear my own clothes.’
The door swung open.
‘For crying out loud, Matteo, I could have been undressed!’
He crossed the room towards her, his eyes darkening. ‘I see near-naked models backstage at fashion shows all the time.’
‘Well, I’m not a model, am I?’
His mouth pursed, and then he asked with irritation, ‘Why are you upset?’
‘I’m not.’
He threw her an exasperated look. ‘That dress is perfect for you—what do you mean, it doesn’t suit? Look in the mirror and see for yourself.’
She turned her back on the mirrors, refusing to look, unable to speak.
He came closer, and she gave a yelp when she felt his fingers on the back of the bodice, tying the tiny fastenings.
‘Please don’t.’
He ignored her protest and continued to work his way down the bodice. Her spine arched beneath his touch as startling desire mixed with the upset dragging at her throat.
At first his movements were fast, but then he slowed, as though he too was weakened by the tension in the room—the tension of bodies hot and bothered, wanting more, wanting satisfaction.
Finished, he settled one hand on her waist while the other touched the exposed skin of her back above the strapless bodice.
‘Cosa c’e’? What’s the matter?’
She couldn’t answer. She longed to pull on her skirt and jumper again. To cover every inch of herself. To not feel so exposed. So vulnerable. So aware of him.
‘Look into the mirror, Emma. See how beautiful you are. I wasn’t comparing you to models.’
She could not help but laugh. ‘God, it’s not that...it’s just.’
His hands twisted her around until she was staring at herself in the mirror.
Sumptuous silk on brittle bones.
She spun back to him, her eyes briefly meeting his before looking away. ‘I’m sorry...it’s just these dresses remind me of my wedding dress.’
CHAPTER THREE (#ulink_b8eb2fef-12e1-5696-aa74-dc6a2025642f)
HOW COULD HE have been so stupid? Stupid to have agreed to let her work for him. Stupid not to have foreseen how these dresses might remind her of her wedding. Stupid to feel a responsibility towards this stranger. It was all so illogical. He barely knew her. He had too many other problems, responsibilities, in his life. But something about this woman had him wanting to protect her.
His hand moved to touch her, to lift her chin so that he could gaze into her eyes. To offer her some comfort. But he stopped himself in time. She was an employee. She was a runaway bride just burnt in love. He had to keep away from her.
‘I will ask Andreina to help you undress. You do not need to try on any more.’
‘No. It’s okay. I’m sorry...this wasn’t supposed to happen.’
He needed to get away. Away from the close confines of this dressing room. Away from how stunningly beautiful she looked in the gown, pale skin against ivory and purple silk. Away from the pain in her eyes he didn’t know how to cope with, didn’t know how to ease.
‘I’ll get Andreina.’
Her hand shot out and her fingers encased his wrist. She gave it a tug to halt him. ‘Not Andreina. Please will you help me untie the bodice?’
Why was she so adamant about Andreina?
He untied the clasps of the bodice, saw her shoulder blades contract into a shrug above the bodice.
‘All the dresses are stunning. I would be very proud to wear them. I just need to get used to the idea.’
Her voice shook just like her body.
More than ever he needed to get away.
‘Let’s talk about it outside.’
He walked out of the fitting room, wanting to get away.
Wanting to go back and take her into his arms.
Five minutes later she joined him outside the store.
Instead of guiding her back to his boat, he led her towards Campo di San Moisè. At the footbridge that led to the square and the baroque façade of Chiesa di San Moisè he found what he was looking for—a street vendor selling frittelle, the Venetian-style doughnuts only available during Carnival. He ordered a mixed cone.
They stopped at the centre of the footbridge and he offered Emma a frittella before biting into a frittella veneziana. The raisins and pine nuts mixed into the dough were the sugar hit he badly needed.
* * *
Emma bit into her frittella crema pasticcera, filled with thick custard cream, and gave a little squeal. The custard escaped from the doughnut and dripped down her chin.
Desire, thick and desperate, powered through his body.
They stood in silence, eating the frittelle, and he wanted nothing more than to kiss away the grains of sugar glittering on her lips.
The deep upset in her eyes was easing.
He needed to get this over and done with.
‘This isn’t going to work. I should never have agreed to it.’
She touched her fingers to her mouth and brushed the granules away, heat turning her pale cheeks a hot pink. ‘I’m really embarrassed...about getting lost and about what happened in the store. It was unprofessional of me. I promise it won’t happen again.’
‘You need time to recover from what you have gone through; you shouldn’t be working.’
She drank in his words with consternation in her eyes. ‘But I need to work—I want to work.’
Why couldn’t she see that he was doing her a favour? That this attraction between them was perilous.
‘Why?’
She crumpled the empty frittella cone in her hands. ‘Because I need the money. Because I want to focus on my career and forget the past year.’
Her jaw arced sideways, as if she were easing a painful tension in her jawline.
‘He really hurt you, didn’t he?’
Her thick dark eyelashes blinked rapidly, her mouth tensing. She angled away from him to face the canal.
She turned back before she spoke. ‘Because of his lies and deception, yes. Because of how he hurt other people.’
How had she not known what he was like? Why had she allowed herself to get hurt like this?
Anger swept through him. Together with the recognition that everything she was going through represented every reason why he would never marry, never give his heart and trust to another person. People always let you down, ultimately.
He had trusted, loved, hero-worshipped Francesco, Marco, Simone, Arnaud, Stefano... All his mother’s boyfriends. And they had all walked away from him. Showing just how little significance he’d held in their lives. Blood, family—that was all you could trust in. Nobody else.
‘Why were you marrying him?’
She jammed her left heel against the bottom of the bridge rail and rotated her foot. ‘You mean why didn’t I realise what he was really like? I met him last summer. It was a whirlwind romance. We got engaged after four months. He was charming and outgoing. He seemed to care for me a lot. He worked crazy hours and sometimes he didn’t turn up for dates... He always had a plausible excuse and I’d eventually forgive him. When we were together he was kind, if a little distracted...but I never saw the other side to him—the lying, the fraud.’
‘Four months isn’t a long time to get to know one another.’
Behind them a group of tourists walked by, their guide speaking loudly. Suddenly they all laughed in unison. The guide looked pleased with his joke.
Emma looked at them, taken aback. The tips of her ears were pink from the cold. For a moment he considered giving her his hat. Why did he keep forgetting she was his employee? Was it because they had already lain together in a bed? Even if it had been only for a few crazy minutes of misunderstanding?
She went to speak, but stopped. Her mouth quivered and she looked at him uncertainly. Her chest rose on a deep inhalation. ‘I wanted a family of my own...to belong.’
She spoke with such loneliness.
He stamped his feet on the ground. The cold was already stiffening his back. ‘Did you love him?’
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