The Fiorenza Forced Marriage. Melanie Milburne
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gave her a humourless smile. ‘Life goes on, eh, Emma? Death and disorder and disease happen to us all at one time or another. The trick is to pack as much enjoyment in your life before one or all of them get their claws into you.’
‘Life is certainly harder on some people than others,’ she responded quietly.
He came across to where she was standing and, before she could do anything to stop him, lifted her chin with the blunt end of one long, tanned finger. ‘Those grey-blue eyes of yours are full of compassion,’ he said. ‘But then I wonder if it is for real?’
Emma could barely breathe. The pad of his thumb was now moving back and forth against the curve of her cheek, his dark mysterious gaze mesmerising as it held hers within the force field of his. She could smell the cleanness of his freshly showered skin and the citrus spice of his aftershave, a heady combination that was intoxicating. She could see the sculptured perfection of his mouth and thought again of how it would feel to have those very experienced lips imprinted on hers. She ran her tongue out over her mouth, her heart kicking like a tiny pony behind her chest wall and her stomach doing little jerky somersaults as his thighs brushed against hers.
‘Is this how you worked your magic on him, sweet, shy, caring little Emma?’ he asked. ‘Making him so mad with lust he promised you the world?’
Emma shook herself out of her stasis and stepped back with a glowering glare. ‘I-I would prefer it you would keep your hands to yourself,’ she said, annoyed that her voice shook.
He smiled in that taunting way of his. ‘I will keep my hands to myself if you stop looking at me like that,’ he said. ‘It gives me all sorts of wicked ideas.’
She frowned at him furiously. ‘I’m not looking at you with anything but disgust at your insufferable behaviour. You are one of the most obnoxious men I have ever had the misfortune to meet.’
He was still smiling at her in that mocking way of his. ‘Has anyone ever told you how cute you look when you are angry?’
She swung away from him, her face flaming. ‘I’m going to see to dinner,’ she said and, stalking out, clicked the door shut behind her.
Rafaele waited until she was well out of earshot before he let out his breath in a long, tired stream. He sent his hand through his hair and turned and looked down at his father’s antique leather-topped desk. His gaze went to where a gilt-edged photograph frame was sitting next to a paperclip dispenser, but he didn’t pick it up. He didn’t need to turn it around and look at his younger brother’s face to summon the pain.
He still carried it deep inside him…
* * *
After Emma had transferred her things to the Pink Suite she made her way back downstairs to the massive kitchen, where through one of the windows she saw Rafaele out on the lower tier of the garden. He was standing with his hands in his trouser pockets, looking out over the expanse of verdant lawn fringed by silver birch trees, their lacy leaves quivering in the faint breeze. The same light breeze was wrinkling the surface of the lap pool, and a peahen and her vociferous mate were nearby, but it looked as if Rafaele hadn’t even noticed their presence.
He stood as still as a marble statue, his tall, silent figure bathed in a red and orange glow from the fingers of light thrown by the lowering sun. The Villa Fiorenza was perhaps the most tranquil setting Emma had ever seen and yet she couldn’t help feeling Rafaele Fiorenza did not find it so.
She opened the French doors leading off the terrace, the sound of her footsteps on the sandstone steps bringing his head around. She saw the way his expression became instantly shuttered, as if he resented her intrusion.
‘I was wondering if you would like to eat outside,’ she said. ‘It’s a warm evening and after such a long plane journey I thought—’
‘I will not be here for dinner after all,’ he said in a curt tone. ‘I am going out.’
Emma felt foolish for feeling disappointed and did her best to disguise it. ‘That’s fine. It was nothing special in any case.’
He took the set of keys hanging on a hook on the wall. ‘Do not wait up,’ he said. ‘I might end up staying overnight in Milan.’
‘Did your mistress travel with you from London?’ she asked.
‘No, but what she does not know will not hurt her.’
Emma knew her face was communicating her disapproval. ‘So faithfulness in your relationships isn’t one of your strong points, I take it?’
‘I am not sure I am the settling-down type,’ he said. ‘I enjoy my freedom too much.’
‘I thought most Italians put a high value on getting married and having a family,’ she said.
‘That may have been the case for previous generations, but I personally feel life is too short for the drudge of domesticity,’ he said. ‘I have got nothing against children, but I like the sort you can hand back after half an hour. I have no place in my life for anything else.’
‘It sounds like a pretty shallow and pointless existence to me,’ Emma said. ‘Don’t you ever get lonely?’
‘No, I do not,’ he said. ‘I like my life the way it is. I do not want the complication of having to be responsible for someone else’s emotional upkeep. The women I date know the rules and generally are quite willing to adhere to them.’
‘I suppose if they don’t you get rid of them, right?’
He gave her a supercilious smile. ‘That is right.’
Emma pursed her mouth. ‘I feel sorry for any poor woman who makes the mistake of falling in love with you.’
‘Most of the woman I know fall in love with my wallet. What they feel for me has very little to do with who I am as a person. As you have probably already guessed, I am not the type to wear my heart upon my sleeve,’ he said, and then with a rueful twist to his mouth added, ‘Perhaps I am my father’s son after all.’
‘Your father liked to give the impression he was tough, but inside he was a very broken and lonely man,’ Emma said. ‘I could read between the lines enough to know he had some serious regrets about his life and relationships.’
‘What a pity he did not communicate that to what remained of his family while he still could,’ he said with an embittered set to his mouth.
‘I think he would have done so if you had made the effort to come to see him,’ Emma said. ‘Towards the end I couldn’t help feeling he was lingering against the odds on the off chance you would visit him.’
His lip curled up in a snarl. ‘He could have made the first move. Why was it left to me to do so?’
‘He was dying,’ she bit out with emphasis. ‘In my opinion that shifts the responsibility to those who are well. He couldn’t travel; he could barely speak towards the end. What would it have cost you to call him? These days you can call someone from anywhere in the world. What would it have cost you to give a measly five minutes of your time to allow a dying man to rest in peace?’
He stabbed a finger at her, making her take an unsteady step backwards. ‘You know nothing, do you hear me? Nothing of what it was like being my father’s son. You came into my father’s life horizontally. You know nothing of what passed before. You were his carer, for heaven’s sake. You were paid to wipe the dribble from his chin and change the soiled sheets on his bed, not to psychoanalyse the train-wreck of his relationships.’
Emma took a shaky breath. ‘I realise this is an emotionally charged time for you, but I think—’
‘I do not give a toss for what you think.’ He raised his voice at her this time, his dark eyes flashing with anger. ‘As I see it you exploited a dying man to feather your own nest. I find it particularly repugnant to be subjected to your lectures on what constitutes appropriate behaviour from his son when you clearly have no