The Italian Billionaire's New Year Bride. Scarlet Wilson
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and handed it over. She had a long list of fabrics she wanted to find. A color palette already existed in her head, but would she find a match in this warehouse? That was always the danger of getting too carried away with one idea. Sometimes color trends and seasons just didn’t match. So, she’d prepared some sketches with one set of colors, and prepared some more as a backup plan.
The assistant walked back over and held out the credit card as if it had the plague. “I’m sorry. Your credit line doesn’t seem to be approved. Do you have another card you can use?”
Phoebe felt her cheeks flush. She did have another credit card. Unfortunately it was maxed out with her mother’s medical expenses, and the amount of money she’d likely spend in here today could never be covered by the small amount of money in her current account.
She’d had a bad start already this morning, tangling herself up in her sheets when the alarm had gone off, falling out of bed and catching the side of her cheek on the bedside cabinet. She was just hoping it wouldn’t bruise.
“Give me a minute,” she said, trying not to seem embarrassed. She pulled her phone from her pocket and dialed Matteo’s number. Please answer. She didn’t want to have to walk out of here after presenting a dud card. She’d never be able to show her face again, and this place was every interior designer’s dream. She couldn’t afford to have a bad rep in here.
“Matteo Bianchi.” His reply was curt. But he couldn’t hide that wonderful Italian accent that sent tingles down to her toes. Every time she called she forgot about it and spent the first few seconds of their conversation lost in a little fog.
Right now she didn’t have time for a fog. She cut to the chase. “Matteo, the credit card you gave me isn’t working.”
It took a few seconds for a reply. She could almost picture him staring at the name on the phone. How many people did he give credit cards to? “Phoebe?”
“Of course, Phoebe. Who else would it be?”
“Where are you?”
“I’m at a warehouse on the outskirts of New York. I need to buy fabrics, leathers—a whole host of things for the house.” She lowered her voice as the assistant glared at her, obviously labeling her as a time waster. “This place is expensive and you’ve given me a limited amount of time.”
“Let me speak to them.”
Phoebe sighed and handed over the phone to the assistant, pacing at the side while Matteo obviously had a curt conversation with her.
“No, Mr. Bianchi. Your personal guarantee is not good enough.”
Phoebe tried not to smile at the thought of Matteo’s response.
“You’ll need to speak to your credit card provider.”
The assistant rolled her eyes and held the phone a little away from her ear. Phoebe walked over to some large rolls of fabric and started to study them closely.
“The only way around things is for you to come down yourself and bring your alternative credit card. No, we can’t just take the number over the phone. We need to see the card, along with your signature.” The woman let out a sigh. “Yes. That’s the only way.”
She replaced the receiver and gave Phoebe a fake smile. “Mr... Bianchi will be with you shortly.”
“Great,” Phoebe muttered as every little hair on her arm stood on end. Just what she needed, an angry Matteo.
This day was getting better and better.
* * *
Matteo tried not to curse at his driver as they took another wrong turn. It seemed the sat-nav had decided not to work properly and this industrial estate had dozens of identical giant warehouses, along with no map at the entrance to the site.
He was annoyed at himself. He was sure he’d activated that card. But in amongst the family discussions at Christmas it was possible he might have forgotten. And he should have kept a copy of Phoebe’s signature on record so it could be verified, but visiting the house in the Hamptons again had scrambled his normally precise brain.
He hadn’t expected to be hit by the wave of emotions. How much could a five-year-old really remember? But being back in that environment had swamped him in a way he hadn’t expected. And having the unconventional Ms. Gates with him had probably been a blessing. She’d distracted him from too much melancholy. Too much emotion. Too many flashbacks he hadn’t counted on.
And now? Now, more than ever he just wanted to finalize the sale of the house. In his head this was the only way to push all these feelings back into the box where they belonged.
“It’s this one,” said the driver as they pulled up.
Matteo gave a nod and stepped outside onto the frost-covered ground. This shouldn’t take long. He had work to do.
The warehouse was massive, cavernous with an echo that seemed to reverberate all around him. But the first thing that struck him was how methodical everything seemed. The fabrics were stored by color, stacked for what seemed like miles. Large trolleys were pushed around by assistants, who guided customers around the warehouse.
He could pick Phoebe out easily. She was wearing a bright pink coat with matching furry hat and leather gloves. She gave him a rueful smile as he approached. “You might have checked the card worked before you gave it to me.”
He tried to hide his annoyance as he pulled his own from his wallet. He glanced around him. “What do you need me to pay for?”
Phoebe wrinkled her nose. “Nothing...yet. They wouldn’t let me start shopping until I had a credit line.”
“You mean you haven’t even started shopping?” His voice echoed louder than expected.
Phoebe pulled back a little and gave him a frown. “No. I haven’t started.”
Matteo strode over to the counter and thrust his card in front of one of the assistants. “Here’s my card. Can you take the details, so I can leave?”
The assistant gave him an icy stare. It was clear she didn’t like being treated so dismissively. She gave him a haughty smile. “I can take your details now—but you have to produce your card and match the signature to complete your purchases.” She gestured to the side. “You can always get yourself a coffee while your wife shops.”
Matteo started. She thought Phoebe was his wife? He stared at the boutique-style coffee shop housed inside the warehouse. While the smell of coffee was tempting, the waste of his time was not.
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