His Virgin Bride: The Fiorenza Forced Marriage / Bought: For His Convenience or Pleasure? / A Night With Consequences. Margaret Mayo
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on as a child. That was when he had—she had thought jokingly—suggested she marry his wealthy, successful son and fill the villa with Fiorenza babies. It was one of the few times he had mentioned Rafaele’s name. She had tried on several occasions to get him to talk about his son but he had remained tight-lipped, and, sensing the subject was painful to him, Emma had decided it was better left well alone.
‘I have made a start on some dinner,’ she said. ‘I wasn’t sure what your plans were so I made enough for two.’
He gave her a sardonic smile. ‘Are you rehearsing the role of devoted wife for our temporary marriage?’
‘You can interpret it any way you like, but the truth is I was merely trying to be helpful,’ she said, a little stung by his attitude when she had made an effort to understand his point of view.
He held her gaze for several heartbeats. ‘I noticed when I was upstairs your things are in the room connected to my father’s,’ he said. ‘If you were not sleeping with him as you claim, why did you use that particular room when there are numerous other suites you could have occupied?’
‘I was planning to move out of there as soon as you informed me of your sleeping arrangements,’ she said tersely. ‘I wasn’t sure if you would feel comfortable sleeping in the bed in which your father died.’
A shadow flickered briefly in his eyes, like the shutter of a camera opening and closing. ‘Were you with him when he passed away?’ he asked.
‘Yes, I was,’ she answered. ‘He asked me to stay with him. He told me he didn’t want to die alone.’
He turned and, walking over to the bank of windows, looked down at the view of the sparkling waters of the lake, his long, straight back reminding Emma of a drawbridge being pulled up on a fortress. She had seen a lot of grief in her time; it seemed as if each member of a family had a different way of expressing it. But something about Rafaele Fiorenza made her think, in spite of his obvious anger and hatred towards his father, somewhere deep inside him was a little boy who had loved him once.
‘Signore Fiorenza?’ she said after a long silence.
He turned and faced her, his expression giving no clue of what was going on behind the screen of his coal-black gaze. ‘Rafaele will be fine,’ he said with a stiff on-off smile. ‘I do not think we need to stand on ceremony given the circumstances.’
‘Um…I’ll just go and move my things into one of the other rooms, then…’ Emma said, moving towards the door.
‘The Pink Suite is probably the most comfortable,’ he said. ‘It was my mother’s favourite. She decorated it herself. It was one of the last things she did before she died. I remember helping her with the wallpaper.’
Emma turned back to look at him. His expression had softened, as if the memory of his mother had peeled off the hard layer of cynicism he usually wore. ‘The housekeeper told me your mother died when you and your brother were quite young,’ she said. ‘That must have been very difficult for you.’
He 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