Wife By Arrangement

“Certainly not,” Lorenzo’s mother replied. “But I have another son. I agree he’s done little to recommend himself to you, but Renato is to blame for this and Renato must put it right.” Baptista continued in her most regal manner, “Your marriage should take place immediately.”

There was one moment’s total, thunderstruck silence. Heather tried to speak, but couldn’t.

“In my day a young woman knew better than to laugh at an eligible match,” Baptista said with haughty disapproval.

“But Renato isn’t an eligible match,” Heather pointed out. “One, he doesn’t want to marry anyone. Two, he doesn’t want to marry me. Three, hell will freeze over before I marry him. It’s out of the question.”

“You came here to marry a son of this house, and that’s what you must do.”

Dear Reader,

Being married to an Italian, I take a special delight in writing about Italian men—the most fascinating and endearing men on earth. I’ve enjoyed telling the stories of the three Martelli brothers.

Although linked by kinship, they are all different. Lorenzo, the youngest, is a merry charmer. Bernardo is aloof, a loner. Renato, the eldest, is head of the family, a man of confidence and power. But his power is a two-edged sword, and his reliance on it nearly destroys his life and that of Heather, the woman who loves him.

And then there is Sicily, their home, one of the most beautiful places on earth, where people’s true passions rise to the surface, giving them the courage to follow their hearts.

Wife by Arrangement is about Heather and Renato, the story of how a woman disarms a strong man by teaching just how powerful love can be. Look out next month for Husband by Necessity.

With best wishes,

Wife By Arrangement

Lucy Gordon

This book is for Nikki Little who gave generously of her time.

CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER ONE

‘HEY, Heather—your Sicilian lover is here.’

Heather looked up self-consciously. ‘Lorenzo isn’t my lover!’ she insisted. ‘Just—just—’

‘Just good friends?’ Sally suggested wickedly. ‘Well, if the man out there isn’t your lover, he ought to be. Big and sexy with “come to bed” eyes. If he was mine, I wouldn’t waste time not sleeping with him.’

‘Will you keep your voice down?’ Heather said frantically, aware that every woman in the staff room was regarding her with interest. She was taking her afternoon break from the perfume counter of Gossways, London’s most luxurious department store. The worldly-wise Sally was on the next counter.

Heather got to her feet, smiling at the thought of Lorenzo Martelli, the light-hearted, handsome young man who had swept into her life a month ago and made her head spin.

‘I didn’t know you knew Lorenzo by sight,’ she told Sally.

‘I don’t, but he asked for you. Besides, he looks just like a Sicilian should: incredibly sensual, as if he’d take a woman to bed as soon as look at her. Hurry up and get out there, or I’ll have him myself!’

Heather chuckled and returned to her counter, eager to see Lorenzo. He’d come to England on a business trip that was supposed to last two weeks, but he’d been enchanted by Heather’s quiet charm and stayed on, unable to tear himself away from her. They were going out together tonight. Now she was delighted at the thought of seeing him early.

But it wasn’t Lorenzo.

Lorenzo was tall, fair, curly-haired, in his late twenties. This man was past thirty. There was a slight scar on one side of his face and his features, which were too irregular to be handsome, were marred by a touch of harshness.

He was tall and heavily built, his shoulders wide, his hair black. He had the dark eyes and olive skin of the southern Italian, but he had something more. Heather couldn’t put a name to it, but she knew at once why Sally, who judged each man by his bedworthiness, had reacted strongly. It was because he judged every woman the same way. It was there in his eyes, that were lazy without ever quite being off guard: the instinctive question—do I want to sleep with her? Yes? No? Probably yes. How much of a challenge would she be?

Heather was startled to receive such a look. Her fine features were pretty without being beautiful. Her hair was very light brown, but not exactly blonde, and although her slim figure was graceful it wasn’t voluptuous. At twenty-three she’d never known the tribute of a wolf whistle, and no man had ever raked her up and down as this one was doing.

‘Are you the gentleman who was asking for me?’ she asked.

He glanced at the nameplate pinned to her white blouse. ‘I am.’

His voice was dark and deep, with an accent that coloured the words without obscuring them. Not like Lorenzo’s light, teasing tones.

‘You were recommended by a friend of mine whom you served—a Mr Charles Smith, but you won’t remember him among so many customers. I’m buying for several ladies, including my mother. She’s in her sixties, very respectable, but perhaps secretly wishing her life had been a little more exciting.’

‘I know what she’d like,’ Heather said, producing a fragrance that was a little daring, but not outrageous. She was touched and impressed by this man’s understanding of his mother.

‘That will suit her perfectly,’ he said. ‘But now we come to the more delicate part of the business. I have a lady-friend—beautiful, sensual, with very expensive tastes. Her name is Elena, and her personality is extravagant, mysterious and passionate.’ His eyes met hers. ‘I’m sure you understand.’

In a flash she found herself understanding all sorts of things. For instance, how Elena would be very drawn to this man who, despite his lack of conventional beauty, had an impressiveness that—she put a firm brake on her thoughts.

‘Perfectly, sir,’ she said crisply. ‘I’d suggest “Deep of the Night”.’

‘It sounds just like her,’ he agreed shamelessly.

She rubbed a drop of the perfume on her wrist and held it out to him. He inhaled slowly, then took her wrist between his fingers and brought it close to his face. She had a sudden impression of fierce, controlled power behind his civilised manner, as though she’d been strolling through a sedate garden and seen a tiger lurking behind the leaves, ready to spring. She resisted the impulse to snatch her hand back.

‘Admirable,’ he said. ‘I’ll take the large flagon.’

Heather almost gasped. The large flagon was the costliest item in a very costly range. Her commission on this sale was beginning to look very good. Perhaps even good enough to buy a really beautiful wedding dress…

She stopped that thought in its tracks. It was undignified to hope for something that probably wouldn’t happen.

‘Now, another lady, with a different personality—light-hearted and fun.’

“‘Summer Dance” might suit her. It’s fresh and flowery—’

‘But not naive?’ he asked anxiously.

‘Certainly not. Insouciant but sophisticated.’

She tested it on the other arm and again he took her wrist, holding it a quarter-inch from his face. Heather could feel his warm breath against her skin and she wished he would let her go. But that was an absurd over-reaction, she told herself sensibly. He wasn’t looking at her. His eyes were closed and he was in a faraway world, with his various mistresses. His hold on her wrist was quite impersonal.

But then the thought crept in that nothing was impersonal with him. This was a man with whom everything—every kind word, every cruel one, every insult, every wound to his pride, every gesture of love—would be taken deeply personally. And for that reason he was very, very dangerous: perhaps the most dangerous man she had ever encountered. When he opened his eyes and looked at her she realised that she’d been holding her breath.

‘Perfetto,’ he murmured. ‘How well we understand each other.’

He released her and she felt as though she were awakening from a dream. She could still feel the pressure on her wrist where he’d held it with such soft, yet irresistible power. She pulled herself firmly together.

‘I try to understand all my customers, signore,’ she replied. ‘It’s my job.’

He made a face of appreciation. ‘Signore? So you understand Italian?’

She smiled. ‘I know some Italian and about ten words of Sicilian.’

She didn’t know what had made her mention Sicilian, except perhaps a desire to know if this man really did come from the same part of the world as Lorenzo. It seemed that he did.

He regarded her with amused curiosity, murmuring, ‘I wonder why you are learning my dialect.’

‘I’m not exactly learning it,’ she disclaimed hastily. ‘I just picked up a few words from a friend.’

‘And doubtless your friend is a handsome young man. Has he yet told you that you are grazziusu?’

‘I think we should concentrate on your purchases,’ Heather said, hoping she wasn’t blushing. Lorenzo had used exactly that word to her only the night before, explaining that it was one of the many Sicilian words for beautiful. She shouldn’t be talking like this with a stranger. But he was like a magician, who could twist the conversation this way and that with a wave of an invisible wand. He had said grazziusu with a soft, seductive power that even Lorenzo, in his ardour, hadn’t matched.

‘I see that you understand the word, and not from a dictionary,’ he observed. ‘I’m glad your lover appreciates you.’

No wonder this man had several mistresses if he went about talking like this. Doubtless she too was supposed to be flattered. But she refused to go weak at the knees. It had been a long day, and her legs were tired. That was all.

‘Shall we return to the matter in hand?’ she asked.

‘If we must. What next?’

Heather regarded him levelly. ‘Let me get this clear, signore. Just how many lady-friends are you trying to—er—keep happy?’

He grinned shamelessly, giving an eloquent shrug. ‘Is it important?’

‘It is if they have different personalities.’

‘Very different,’ he confirmed. ‘I like one to suit each mood. Minetta is light-hearted, Julia is musical, and Elena is darkly sensual.’

He was trying to unsettle her; there was no doubt of it. His eyes spoke meanings that went far beyond what his lips were saying. She observed briskly, ‘Well, that should make things nice and simple.’

‘Simple?’

‘A man of only three moods.’

She was startled at herself. A good sales assistant thought only of the sale. She didn’t backchat the customer and risk offending him. But he wasn’t offended. He even seemed amused at her swift riposte.

‘You’re quite right,’ he said. ‘Three isn’t enough. I have a vacancy for a witty lady, which you could fill perfectly.’

‘Oh, I wouldn’t suit you at all,’ she fenced.

‘I’m not so sure about that.’

‘I am. Completely sure.’

‘I wonder why.’ He was laughing.

Heather laughed back. She was beginning to take his measure. ‘Well, for a start, I’d never agree to be part of a crowd. You’d have to get rid of all the others.’

‘I’m sure you’d make it worth my while.’

‘If I felt that you were worth it,’ she said daringly. ‘But you wouldn’t be, because I’m not in the market.’

‘Ah, yes, of course! You already have a lover.’

There was that word again. Why was the whole world harping on lovers all of a sudden?

‘Let’s just say that I have a young man who suits me.’

‘And he comes from Sicily, since you are learning his language. Which also means that you’re hoping to marry him.’

To her dismay Heather felt a revealing blush creep over her face. To cover it she spoke sharply. ‘If you mean that I’ve set my cap at him, you’re wrong. And this conversation is over.’

‘Forgive me. It’s not my business.’

‘Indeed it isn’t.’

‘But I hope he isn’t leading you on a fool’s dance, seducing you with hints of marriage, and then vanishing back to his own country.’

‘I’m not that easily seduced. Neither by him nor—by anyone,’ she finished hastily, wondering why her mind had scurried down that particular by-path.

‘Then you haven’t allowed him into your bed. That’s either very neglectful of him, or very clever of you. I wonder which.’

Indignantly she challenged him with a direct gaze, and what she saw startled her. Despite the teasing sensuality of his words, his eyes held the same dispassionate calculation he would have shown to a high-priced purchase.

‘You don’t dress like the others,’ he remarked. ‘Why?’

It was true. Heather was perfectly made-up and her long hair was elegantly styled, courtesy of the store’s beauty parlour. But whereas the other assistants, with their employer’s encouragement, dressed in slightly provocative styles, Heather stuck firmly to conventional clothes. Her skirt was black, her blouse was snow-white and fresh. Her boss had suggested that she might ‘put herself about more’, but she had refused, and since her sales figures were excellent the matter had been allowed to drop.

‘I think,’ the man persisted, ‘it’s because you’re a proud and subtle woman—too proud to put everything in the window. And subtle enough to know that when a woman holds back she’s at her most alluring. By covering yourself up you make a man wonder how you would look without clothes.’

It was a direct, frontal attack from a man with all the nerve in the world, and something in Heather was wryly appreciative even while something else warned her to put him firmly in his place.

‘Can I interest you in anything more, sir?’ she asked primly.

‘You could interest me in a good deal,’ he responded at once. ‘Let me take you to dinner, and we can discuss my interest in you.’

‘That wasn’t what I—still, I suppose I could have phrased that question more cleverly, couldn’t I?’

‘I thought you phrased it perfectly. I’m interested; I’ve made that plain. And I’m a generous man. I doubt your boyfriend will marry you. He’ll disappear, leaving you with a broken heart.’

‘And you’ll leave me dancing for joy, I suppose?’ she couldn’t resist answering.

‘It depends what makes you dance for joy. Shall we say ten thousand pounds to start with? Play your cards right, and I think you could do very well out of me.’

‘And I think the sooner you leave you the better. I’m not interested in you or your money, and if you say another word I shall call Security.’

‘Twenty thousand pounds.’

‘Shall I gift-wrap these items for you, sir, or have you changed your mind now you know you’ll get nothing from me?’

‘What do you think?’

‘I think you’d better find a woman who’s selling herself. I’m only selling perfume. I take it you don’t want these.’

He shrugged. ‘There’d hardly be any point, would there? Of course, it’s a shame about the commission you would have earned.’

‘Commission be blowed!’ Heather said very deliberately. ‘The store is about to close. Goodbye! Don’t come back!’

He gave her a grin that contained a hint of challenge, and walked out with the air of a man who’d achieved something, although for the life of her she couldn’t think what.

She was furious, both with him and herself. He’d raised false hopes for her pay packet, and he’d insulted her. But, far worse, for a brief moment he’d persuaded her to find him charming. Part of her had enjoyed the light-hearted game she’d thought they were playing. But then she’d seen the cold calculation in his eyes, and she’d known that the woman who went to this man’s bed for money would be a fool. And the woman who did it for love would be an even greater fool.

She hurried home. Her flatmate was out so she had the place to herself as she prepared for the evening ahead with Lorenzo Martelli, the young man Sally called ‘her lover’. He wasn’t her lover, nor had he tried to urge her into bed, for which she liked him more.

In the month she’d known him she seemed to have been under a spell, something lovelier than reality, with none of reality’s pain and trouble. She didn’t call it love, because the word ‘love’ summoned up Peter, and a wilderness of suffering at the brutal way he’d dumped her. She only knew that Lorenzo had charmed her out of her sadness.

She’d met him through a buyer in the Gossways Food Hall. The Martellis dealt in Sicilian fruit and vegetables, much of which they grew on the vast family estates around Palermo. What they couldn’t supply themselves they bought in from other growers, taking nothing but the very best. Even so, Gossways had a special deal under which it accepted only produce grown by the Martellis themselves. Lorenzo had recently been appointed export manager of the business, and was visiting customers, introducing himself.

He lived like a young king at the Ritz Hotel. Sometimes he took her to eat there; sometimes they found a tiny place by the river. But always there was a gift, sometimes valuable, sometimes silly, given with a tribute in his eyes. She didn’t know what it might mean for the future. Lorenzo had a touch of the playboy whose charm and looks won his way through life. She guessed that back in Sicily there were a dozen young women who would be disappointed if he were to marry. Of course, she wasn’t counting on marriage. She told herself that many times. She knew that his charm and admiration were doing her a world of good, and when he left without her she would cope somehow.

Tonight she found his message on the answer-machine, urging her to wear the pale blue silk dress he’d bought for her, which brought out the dark blue of her eyes. They were large eyes, and they gave her face distinction, even beauty.

As always he arrived five minutes before the agreed time, with a red rose, which he gave her with a flourish, and a pearl necklace which he’d bought to go with the dress.

The sight of him made her smile with happiness. He was a handsome young giant, six foot two, with a booming laugh and good-natured grin that invited the whole world to share his pleasure.

‘Tonight is a great occasion,’ he told her. ‘My older brother, Renato, has arrived from Sicily.’ He added ruefully, ‘I should have gone home two weeks ago. He knows I stayed because of you, and now he wants to meet you. We are his guests at the Ritz tonight.’

‘But we were going to the theatre—’

‘Could you bear not to? I have rather neglected business recently—’ he flicked her cheek gently ‘—all your fault.’

‘Tossing me into the lions’ den, huh?’ she asked with a chuckle.

He put his arm around her. ‘We’ll go in together.’

On the short journey to the Ritz he talked about his brother, who ran the vast family estates in Sicily. By hard work and shrewd dealing he’d transformed the vineyards and olive groves, making them produce three times as much, buying up land, expanding, making Martelli the top name in fine produce in every luxury store and hotel throughout the world.

‘He thinks of nothing but work,’ Lorenzo complained. ‘How he can make more money, and more money. Me, I prefer spending it.’

‘I’m sure he knows that. He wants to see who you’re spending it on.’ She touched the pearls, which were elegant and restrained, but clearly expensive.

‘He’s ready to like you. Trust me.’ As they reached the Ritz and he handed her from the taxi, Lorenzo murmured, ‘Don’t be afraid of him.’

‘I’m not. Are you afraid of him?’

‘No way. But he’s the head of the family, and in Sicily that’s very important. However fierce he was, he was always my wonderful big brother who’d stick by me, help sort out my problems—’

‘Deal with the girls’ fathers?’ Heather suggested mischievously.

Lorenzo cleared his throat. ‘That’s all in the past. Let’s go in.’

Heather was curious to meet this man who was so important in Lorenzo’s life. She looked around at the luxurious restaurant with its elegant marble and floor-to-ceiling French windows, hung with heavy red curtains.

On the far side a man sat alone at a table. He rose as they approached him, a polite smile of welcome on his face. Heather strove to match it through the tide of indignation that welled up in her.

‘Good evening, signorina,’ Renato Martelli said, giving her a courteous little bow. ‘It is a pleasure to meet you.’

‘You mean, meet me again, don’t you?’ she asked coolly. ‘You surely can’t have forgotten our encounter in Gossways this afternoon?’

‘What’s this?’ Lorenzo asked. ‘You’ve met before?’

‘Earlier today,’ Renato Martelli confirmed. ‘I was impatient to see the lady of whom I’ve heard so much, so I adopted a subterfuge, for which I hope I’ll be forgiven.’ He was smiling as he raised her hand to his lips.

Heather regarded him wryly. ‘I’ll think about it,’ she said.

Renato gallantly pulled out a gilt-and-plush chair for her, and the three of them sat down.

‘What subterfuge?’ Lorenzo asked, looking from one to the other.

‘Your brother came to my counter, posing as a customer,’ Heather told him.

‘I thought we could assess each other in a more natural atmosphere,’ Renato explained.

‘Each other?’ she murmured.

‘I’m sure you formed your own opinion of me.’

‘Oh, yes,’ she assured him. ‘I certainly did.’

She left it there. She was far from finished but she didn’t want to look as though she were sulking. A waiter appeared with the menu and when he’d given the order Renato added, ‘And a bottle of your very finest champagne.’

At this hint of approval Lorenzo grinned. Perversely Heather found herself even more annoyed. Was she supposed to jump for joy because Renato Martelli had tossed her a crumb of favour?

She would never have guessed they were brothers. She knew that over the centuries the island of Sicily had been invaded so often that many racial types—Greek, Arab, Italian, French, Spanish, Celtic—were mixed in its inhabitants. There was something Greek in Lorenzo’s fine looks, blue eyes and light brown curly hair. Despite his size his movements were graceful.

She guessed Renato was one of those men who had come to manhood in his early teens. It was hard to picture him as a boy. Perhaps an Italian ancestor had given him those vivid looks, but the air of haughty pride came from a Spaniard, and there was something Celtic in the mobility of his face, the sensuality of his wide mouth.

His features were fierce and irregular, and at first sight he was put in the shade by his beautiful younger brother. But there was a dark glitter in his eyes that compelled attention, and he had an extra something that made looks irrelevant. In a room full of handsome men, Renato Martelli would be the one women looked at, and wondered about.

He was powerfully built, with a massiveness about him that reminded Heather of a bull. Yet he carried no extra weight. His body was hard and athletic, the heavy muscles pressing against the expensive cloth of his suit, as though formal clothes didn’t come naturally to him. He was a man made for the outdoor life, riding a horse, surveying his acres, or anything he could do in shirtsleeves.

The champagne was served in tall crystal glasses. Renato raised his in salute. ‘To the pleasure of meeting you,’ he told Heather.