Italian Prince, Wedlocked Wife. Jennie Lucas
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He held out a crystal flute of champagne. “And the success of my company.”
She stared at the champagne he was holding out to her. As a college student, she’d been too focused on her studies to bother with alcohol; as a single mother, she hadn’t had the money or inclination. “Look, I know it’s New Year’s and everything, but I’m just not in the mood. If you want to celebrate, why don’t you ask one of the princesses outside?”
His dark eyebrow lifted in amusement. “Surely you’re not jealous?”
She looked away. “I just feel sorry for them, that’s all.”
“Esmé and Arabella have influence in certain circles, and though I’ve lost personal interest I see no reason to cut off ties with them. I trade in luxury. And that is what I celebrate. The takeover of a small leather-goods company for my conglomerate. I have desired this company for many years,” he said softly. “And it will be mine within the hour. Perhaps you’ve heard of it. Ferrazzi.”
He watched her from beneath heavily-lidded eyes.
Ferrazzi. She’d admired their three-thousand-dollar handbags, even sold a few of them to wealthy customers. They were lovely bags, impossibly stylish, with leather as soft as cashmere and hardy as steel.
But worth that price? The bags weren’t big enough to live in, nor did they magically mop her floor, cook her dinner or wash her clothes. Three thousand dollars for a handbag? That was insane!
But Maximo seemed to be waiting for a response, and it seemed rude to criticize the company he would soon own. She cleared her throat, struggling to be polite. “Ferrazzi. Yes.”
His large hand tightened around his delicate champagne flute. “What do you know about it?”
“Um.” She bit her lip—literally—then finally said with a sigh, “I once worked in the accessories department at Neiman Marcus. Of course I know Ferrazzi handbags. That’s like asking me if I’ve ever heard of Chanel or Prada. You’re buying the company?”
“Sì.”
“But it must cost millions!”
He gave her a cold smile. “Hundreds of millions.”
She gaped at him, then snapped her mouth closed, muttering, “You obviously have more money than sense.”
“And you obviously have greater regard for truth than tact. Here.” At a discreet knock on the door, he pushed the flute into her hand. Swiftly downing his own champagne, Maximo answered the door. A slender man in a suit handed him a folder.
“What is it?” she asked, taking a tentative sip of champagne. Not bad, she thought in surprise. It was a bit sweet and fizzy like soda.
Closing the door behind him, Maximo opened the folder and glanced over the papers. He handed her the folder. “This if for you to sign.”
Setting the champagne flute down on a glass table, she opened it with a puzzled frown. “What is it?”
“A prenuptial agreement.”
“But—who’s getting married?”
“You are. To me.”
CHAPTER FIVE
LUCY looked up from the folder to the handsome prince in front of her. “What are you talking about?” she croaked. “Married? To you?”
“Correct.”
“I don’t even know you!”
His sensual lips curved. “An excellent start for marriage.”
“You said you’d never settle down with one woman—and you want to marry me?”
“Sì.”
“But why?”
“Let’s start with why you’d want to marry me,” he said smoothly. “My palatial homes all over the world. My vast fortune. You can buy whatever you want without question. You will never need to work again. You will travel in the most exclusive circles of society. Your daughter will go to the best schools.” He took a step toward her. “And then there’s the title.”
“The title?” she repeated faintly, aware of how close he was to her.
He stroked a dark tendril of her hair, still wet from when he’d crushed her into the snow. “Wherever you go, for the rest of your life, you will be accepted and admired. As my princess. My bride,” he said. “The Principessa Lucia d’Aquilla.”
Lucy—a princess?
Suddenly alcohol seemed like a terrific idea. Snatching up her champagne flute, she drank it all down in a gulp. The expensive bubbles might really have been soda for all she noticed. But when she was finished, her mouth was still dry. She licked her lips, then felt his searing blue gaze. She looked up.
His hot glance plundered her mouth. As if he’d seized her, kissed her, possessed her by force of his will. She was suddenly aware of her every breath—and his.
“But people don’t get married for money,” she whispered. “They do it because they care about each other…”
“Oh, do they?” He ran his hands on her shoulders, tracing upward with a finger along her neck to her jawline. He gently lifted her chin. He looked at her slowly, as if assessing the shape of her face beneath her glasses and messy hair, analyzing the shape of her body beneath her clothes. Finally he met her eyes.
“Perhaps you are right,” he said abruptly. “Perhaps this will be for more than money. Perhaps I will take you to my bed.”
“You what?”
He smiled, a cruelly sensual smile. “This will be even more enjoyable than I thought. I will make you feel as you’ve never felt before. Make you moan and gasp with pleasure until you forget your own name.”
She closed her eyes. She knew he could do it. Just hearing him threaten to seduce her, feeling his touch against her skin, was nearly enough to make her forget her name already.
“Would you like that?” His lips brushed against the tender flesh of her ear. “Would you like, at last, to feel the sensations you’ve only read about in books?”
A quiet shiver rocked her from her toes.
Startled, she looked up at him. His expression was arrogant. Knowing. As if he could read into her very soul. As if he somehow knew that her only lover had left her deeply unsatisfied.
“But you said—you said you didn’t want me,” she stammered. “You said I’m not your type.”
“I see now that I was wrong.” He gently stroked down her neck with his forefinger and his thumb. “You have your own beauty, different from any I’ve seen before. There is no reason not to enjoy our short marriage. I can show you what love is truly like—show you how passionate love can be.”
Her heart turned over. “Love?”
“Marry me, and your feet will barely touch the ground.”
Oh. That kind of love. Of course, what else could he mean? A playboy like Prince Maximo d’Aquilla would not get emotionally entangled in relationships. He had too many of them.
“But you said you’d never settle down,” she whispered. “So why now, Maximo? Why me?”
“You think little of yourself.” He ran his hands down her arms, from her neck to her bare wrists. “You do not know your own worth, Lucia.”
Lucia. Every time he called her that it was a caress, making her feel exotic, beautiful, desired. She loved the feeling—almost as much as she feared it…
She took a deep breath.
If a handsome man seems too good to be true, she repeated to herself fiercely, he’s lying.
So