His Virgin Bride: The Fiorenza Forced Marriage / Bought: For His Convenience or Pleasure? / A Night With Consequences. Margaret Mayo
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had only been ten years old at the time. The large rooms, though beautiful, were formal and rather ostentatious, the many priceless paintings and objets d’art clearly not conducive to the presence of a young child.
As she had guessed, Rafaele had chosen not to occupy his father’s suite and instead had placed his things in one of the suites on the third level. For days Emma had felt uncomfortable even walking past his private domain, although she felt inexplicably drawn to the room every time she walked past to her own suite further along the hall. Finally she could stand it no longer, and, once she was confident she was alone in the villa, she opened the door and went in.
The huge bed was neatly made and several books were sitting on the bedside table, all but one of them in English. She could smell the trace of citrus in his aftershave lingering in the air and her nostrils automatically flared to take more of it in.
The sunlight slanted in at the windows, the dust motes rising like tiny wraiths in the air. Before she was even aware of what she was doing Emma moved across the room to sit on the bed, the creak of protesting springs sounding like a warning in the silence. She ran her hand over the pillow, smoothing out the indentation where his head had lain the night before.
She wondered if this had been his room while growing up at The Villa Fiorenza, but if it had been it held no trace of his previous occupation. His brother’s room on the nursery floor, on the other hand, was like a shrine. When she had gone in there for the first time a few days ago she had been more than a little taken aback to find the wardrobe still contained his clothes; his shoes were still lying at the bottom with his socks stuffed inside as if at any moment he were coming back to claim them. His toys and junior soccer trophies lined every available surface and, even more disturbingly, the urn with his ashes held pride of place on the mantel above the fireplace. Emma had found it a little creepy being in there. She felt as if the house wasn’t quite ready to let Giovanni Fiorenza leave even though, according to the inscription on the urn, he had died twenty-three years ago.
She looked at the photograph hanging on the wall; Giovanni had been as dark as his brother with the same deep brown eyes, but there was a relaxed and friendly openness about his features that wasn’t present in his brooding older brother’s. The photograph portrayed Rafaele as a rather serious young boy who looked as if he were carrying the weight of the world upon his thin shoulders.
Even though Emma had been in every room in the villa by now she had seen not a single photograph of Rafaele in the years since his brother had died.
She couldn’t help wondering why.
Emma was in the salon falling asleep over a book the following evening when Rafaele came into the room. She put the book to one side and got to her feet, suddenly feeling uncomfortable in case he somehow sensed where she had been mooching around earlier.
‘That looks like a riveting read,’ he remarked dryly.
She gave him a sheepish look. ‘I guess I must be a little tired. I should have been in bed an hour ago.’
His brow creased slightly. ‘I hope you are not overdoing things,’ he said. ‘I noticed you have taken all the covers off the furniture in the spare rooms. Surely that can wait until the new housekeeper starts in a day or so?’
‘I thought the place needed airing,’ Emma said. ‘Some of those rooms look like they have been shut for years.’
He studied her for a moment. ‘What are you up to, Emma? Making an inventory of all the valuables for when we finally divorce?’
‘I am merely trying to make this place habitable,’ she said, frowning at him crossly. ‘It’s a huge villa and too much work for one housekeeper. I don’t know how Lucia had managed for as long as she has. No wonder she wanted a break.’
He held her fiery look for a tense moment. ‘Were you waiting up for me, Emma?’ he asked.
‘No, of course I wasn’t,’ she said, annoyed with herself for the creep of colour she could feel staining her cheeks. He was so worldly and in control while she always felt so flustered and out of her depth in his presence.
‘Actually, I am glad you are still up,’ he said. ‘Do you fancy a nightcap?’
‘Um…OK…’
‘What would you like to drink?’ he asked, turning to the well-stocked drinks cabinet.
‘A small sweet sherry…if you have it,’ she said.
He poured himself a cognac after he’d handed her the sherry and came and sat beside her on the sofa, touching his glass briefly against hers. ‘Salute.’
‘Salute,’ Emma said and took a tiny sip.
‘I thought only grey-haired Sunday-school teachers drank that stuff,’ he said with a crooked smile.
Emma felt a little stung at what she perceived was a criticism. ‘I suppose I must seem terribly unsophisticated to someone like you.’
‘On the contrary, I find you rather intriguing.’
‘I thought you said I was a money-hungry slut who was intent on making herself a fortune, or words to that effect,’ she returned with a tart edge to her tone.
‘I may have been a little hasty in my judgement,’ he acceded. ‘Although I guess only time will tell.’
‘You can’t quite accept there are still people in the world who genuinely care about others, can you?’ she asked.
‘You were being paid to care, Emma,’ he pointed out. ‘My father obviously did not know the difference. He fooled himself into thinking you were worthy of half of his estate. How does it feel now you have achieved your goal?’
‘I told you before I did absolutely nothing to encourage your father’s decision,’ she insisted.
‘He only changed his will once you had come into his life,’ he said. ‘How did you do it, Emma? How many times did you have to crawl into his bed to sweeten him up a bit?’
‘That’s a disgusting thing to say,’ she said.
His top lip curled. ‘My father always had a thing for women young enough to be his daughter,’ he said. ‘He liked to show them off like a trophy. It used to sicken me to see them fawning all over him. None of them had any time for my brother and I. They were after my father’s money just like you.’
Emma got to her feet. ‘I don’t have to listen to this.’
His flashing dark eyes raked her mercilessly. ‘So how did you manage it, Emma? Could he still get it up towards the end or did you have to give him a bit of encouragement with that pretty little mouth of yours?’ he asked.
Emma lifted her hand to his face, but he blocked it with one of his, the grip of his strong fingers almost brutal around her slender wrist.
‘I don’t think so, poco moglie di miniera,’ he said. ‘Not unless you want to face the consequences.’
She ground her teeth as she pulled at his hold. ‘It’s no wonder your father stripped this house of every single photograph of you,’ she said with uncharacteristic spite. ‘He must have hated being reminded of the sort of person you turned out to be. I have never met a more hateful despicable man.’
His fingers tightened even further. ‘Perhaps I should give you an even better reason to hate me,’ he said and tugged her towards him, her breasts pressed tight to his chest. ‘After all, that is what you really want me to do, is it not? You have wanted it from the start. My father cannot have been much use to a young nubile woman like you. How long has it been since you had a real man in your bed?’
Emma threw him a heated glare. ‘I wouldn’t dream of demeaning myself by spending even a second in yours.’
His mouth tilted mockingly. ‘Now that is very interesting you should say so, for you spent a whole lot longer than that on it this afternoon, did you not, Emma?’ he asked.
Her