Italian Prince, Wedlocked Wife. Jennie Lucas
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gentleman,” she huffed. “Can’t you tell that they’re in love with you?”
“I doubt that very much.”
“They were ready to scratch my eyes out just for being with you!”
“You exaggerate. And in any case—” his blue eyes caressed hers “—if any woman chooses to love me, she has only herself to blame. I am always very clear. I am not a man to settle down or give my heart to just one woman. I am faithful to only three things.”
“Those are?” she spat out, folding her arms.
“Justice for my family. My own freedom.” 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.”
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