The Fiorenza Forced Marriage. Melanie Milburne
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‘What a multi-talented little nurse you are,’ he said. ‘I wonder what else you can turn a hand to.’
Emma fumbled through the collection of keys, conscious of his dark satirical gaze resting on her. Her heart nearly jumped out of her chest when his hand came over hers and removed the keys.
‘Allow me,’ he said with a glinting smile.
She stepped to one side, trying to get her breathing to even out while her fingers continued to buzz with sensation from the brief contact with his.
He opened the heavy door and waved her through with a mock bow. ‘After you, Miss March.’
Emma brushed past him, her nostrils flaring again as she caught the alluring grace notes of his aftershave as they drifted towards her. She watched as he came in, his coolly indifferent gaze moving over the black and white marbled foyer with its priceless statues and paintings.
‘It’s a very beautiful villa,’ she said to fill the echoing silence. ‘You must have enjoyed holidaying here with all this space.’
He gave her an unreadable look. ‘A residence can be too big and too grand, Miss March.’
Emma felt a shiver run over her bare arms that had nothing to do with the temperature. Something about his demeanour had subtly changed. His eyes had hardened once more and the line to his mouth was grim as he looked up at the various portraits hanging on the walls.
‘You are very like your father as a younger man,’ she said, glancing at the portrait of Valentino Fiorenza hanging in pride of place.
Rafaele turned his head to look at her. ‘I am not sure my father would have liked to be informed of that.’
‘Why?’ Emma asked, frowning slightly as she looked up at him.
‘Did he not tell you?’ he said with an embittered look. ‘I was the son who had deeply disappointed him, the black sheep who brought shame and disgrace on the Fiorenza name.’
Emma moistened her lips. ‘No…he didn’t tell me that…’ she said.
He moved down the foyer and stood for a moment in front of a portrait of a young woman with black hair and startling eyes that were black as ink. Emma knew it was his mother, for she had asked Lucia, the housekeeper. Gabriela Fiorenza had died of an infection at the age of twenty-seven when Rafaele was six and his younger brother four.
‘She was very beautiful,’ Emma said into the almost painful silence.
‘Yes,’ Rafaele said turning to look at her again, his expression now inscrutable. ‘She was.’
Emma shifted her weight from foot to foot. ‘Um…would you like me to make you a coffee or tea before I go?’ she asked. ‘The housekeeper is on leave, but I know my way around the kitchen.’
‘You are quite the little organiser, aren’t you, Emma March?’ he asked with another one of his sardonic smiles. ‘It seems even the staff are taking orders off you, taking leave at your say-so.’
She pulled her mouth tight. ‘The staff are entitled to some time off. Besides, someone had to take charge in the absence of Signore Fiorenza’s only son, who, one would have thought, could have at least made an effort to see him just once before he died.’
His expression became stony. ‘I can see what you have been up to, Miss March. You thought you could secure yourself a fortune by bad-mouthing me to my father at every opportunity. It did not work, though, did it? You cannot have any of it without marrying me.’
Emma was finding it hard to control her normally even temper. ‘I told you I had no idea what your father was up to,’ she said. ‘I was as shocked as you. I’m still shocked.’
He gave a little snort of disbelief. ‘I can just imagine you having little heart-to-hearts with the old man, telling him how shameful it was his son refused to have any contact with him. I wonder did he tell you why, hmm? Did he allow any skeletons out of the tightly locked Fiorenza closet?’
Emma swallowed thickly. ‘He…he never told me anything about you. I got the feeling he didn’t like discussing the past.’
‘Yes, well, that makes sense,’ he said with an embittered expression. ‘My father’s philosophy was to ignore things he did not like facing in the hope they would eventually disappear.’
‘Why did you leave?’
‘Miss March,’ he said, his look now condescending, ‘I am not prepared to discuss such personal details with the hired help, even if you were elevated to the position of my father’s mistress.’
‘I was not your father’s mistress,’ Emma said crossly.
‘I find that very hard to believe,’ he said with another raking glance. ‘You see, prior to arriving I did a little check on you, Emma Annabelle March.’
Emma’s eyes widened. ‘W-what?’
‘I have a contact in the private-eye business,’ he said, his hawk-like gaze locked on hers. ‘This is not the first time a client of yours has left you something, is it?’
She moistened her lips with a nervous dart of her tongue. ‘No, it’s not, but I never asked for anything, not from anyone. I have had one or two clients who have left me small gifts but only because they wanted to show their appreciation. Nursing someone in the last weeks or months of their life can sometimes blur the boundaries for the patient. They begin to look upon you as a trusted friend and confidante.’
‘All the same, such gifts must be quite a windfall to a girl from the wrong side of the tracks,’ he went on smoothly.
‘Not all people are born with a silver spoon in their mouth, Signore Fiorenza,’ she said with a cold, hard stare. ‘I have had to work hard to achieve what I’ve achieved.’
His dark, impenetrable gaze was still drilling into hers. ‘According to my source you left your last client’s house in a storm of controversy. Do you want to tell me about that or shall I tell you what I found out?’
Emma compressed her lips momentarily. ‘I was accused of stealing a family heirloom and a large sum of money,’ she said. ‘I have reason to believe I was framed by a relative. The police investigating eventually agreed and the charges were dropped. In spite of my name being cleared the press were like jackals for weeks later, no doubt fuelled by the rumourmongering of Mrs Bennett’s family.’
‘Is that why you moved to Italy from Australia?’ he asked, his expression giving no clue as to whether he believed her explanation or not.
‘Yes,’ Emma said. ‘I had wanted to work abroad in any case, but the Melbourne papers just wouldn’t let it go. It made it hard for me to find a new placement locally. I had no choice but to start again elsewhere.’
‘How did you get into this line of work?’ he asked.
‘I trained as a nurse but I found working in hospitals frustrating,’ she said, trying to make him see that she was genuine, not the gold-digger he assumed she was. ‘There was never enough time to spend with patients doing the things nurses used to do. Back rubs, sitting with them over a cup of tea, that sort of thing rarely happens these days. I started working for a private home-based care agency and really loved it. The hours can be long, of course, and it can be disruptive to one’s social life when a client needs you to live in, but the positives far outweigh the negatives.’
‘I am very sure they do,’ he said with another mocking tilt of his lips. ‘Inheriting half a luxury Italian villa and a generous allowance are hardly to be considered some of the downsides of the job.’
‘Look,’ Emma said on an expelled breath of irritation, ‘I realise this is a difficult time for you, Signore Fiorenza. You have just lost your father and in spite of your feelings towards him that is a big thing in anyone’s life, particularly a man’s. I am prepared to make allowances for your inappropriate suggestions given