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‘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 you had no recent contact with him, but let me assure you I have nothing to hide. Your father was a difficult man, but I grew very fond of him. He was lonely and desperately unhappy. I like to think I gave him a small measure of comfort in those last months of his life.’
He stood looking down at her for a long moment before speaking. ‘Let us go into the library. I would like to discuss with you how we are to handle this situation my father has placed us in.’
Emma felt her insides quiver at the look of determination in his eyes. ‘There’s nothing to discuss,’ she said with a hitch of her chin. ‘I’m going upstairs right now to pack.’
His eyes burned into hers. ‘So you do not want what my father intended for you to have?’
She flicked her tongue across her suddenly bone-dry lips. ‘It was very generous of him but I’m not interested in marrying for money.’
‘Do you really think I am going to allow you to sabotage my inheritance?’ he asked with a steely look.
Emma swallowed tightly. ‘You surely don’t expect me to agree to…to…marrying you…’
‘I am not going to give you a choice, Miss March,’ he said with implacable force. ‘We will marry within a week. I have already seen to the licence. I did that as soon as I was informed of the terms of the will.’
Emma glared at him even though her heart was hammering with alarm. ‘You can’t force me to marry you,’ she said, hoping it was somehow true.
His dark eyes glinted. ‘You think not?’
I hope not, she thought as her stomach did a flip-flop of panic.
‘Miss March,’ he went on before she could get her voice to work. ‘You will comply with the terms of the will or I will personally see to it you never work as a nurse in this country again.’
Emma sent him a defiant glare. ‘I am not going to be threatened by you,’ she said. ‘Anyway, even if you did manage to sully my reputation in Italy I can always find work in another country. There is a shortage of nurses and carers worldwide.’
His lips thinned into a smile that was as menacing as it was mocking. ‘Ah, yes, but then working as a nurse or carer you will not receive anything like the wage I am prepared to pay you to be my wife.’
Emma felt her defiant stance start to wobble. ‘A…a wage?’
‘Yes, Miss March,’ he said with an imperious look. ‘I will pay you handsomely for the privilege of bearing my name for a year.’
‘How much?’ she asked, and almost fell over when he told her an amount that no nurse, even if she worked for two lifetimes, would ever earn.
‘Of course it will not be a real marriage,’ he said. ‘I already have a mistress.’
Emma wasn’t sure why his statement should have made her feel so annoyed. She disliked him intensely, but somehow the thought of him continuing his affair with someone else while formally married to her was infuriating. ‘I hope the same liberty will be open for me,’ she said with a jut of her chin.
‘No, Miss March, I am afraid not,’ he said. ‘I am a high-profile person and do not wish to be made a laughing stock amongst my colleagues and friends by the sexual proclivities of my wife.’
Emma glared at him in outrage. ‘That’s completely unfair! If you’re going to publicly cavort with your mistress, then I insist on the same liberty to conduct my own affairs.’
His mouth tightened into a flat line. ‘I will be discreet at all times, but I cannot be certain you will do the same. The way you conducted your affair with my father is a case in point. You lapped up the press attention whenever you could, hanging off him like a limpet when all the time all you wanted was his money.’
Emma clenched her teeth. ‘I did not have an affair with your father. You can ask the household staff. They will vouch for me.’
His lip curled in scorn. ‘You very conveniently sent them all off on leave, did you not?’ he said. ‘But even if they were here I am sure you would have convinced them to portray you as an innocent.’
She gave him a blistering glare. ‘You’re totally wrong about me, Signore Fiorenza, but I am not going to waste my time trying to convince you. You’re obviously too cynical to be able to see who is genuine and who is not. Do you know something? I actually feel sorry for you. You are going to end up like your father, dying with just the hired help to grieve your passing.’
He ignored her comment to say, ‘I expect you to act the role of a loving wife when we are within earshot or sight of other people, and that includes the household staff.’
Emma could feel her panic rising. ‘But I haven’t said I would marry you. I need some time to think about this.’
He looked at her for a long moment, his dark eyes quietly scanning her features. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘I will give you until tomorrow, but that is all. The sooner this marriage starts, the sooner it ends.’
‘I couldn’t have put it better myself,’ Emma muttered under her breath as he walked off down the long wide corridor until he finally disappeared from sight.
CHAPTER TWO
EMMA didn’t see Rafaele again until later in the day. She was picking up the fallen petals from a vase of fragrant roses in the library when he sauntered in. He had changed into blue denim jeans and a close-fitting white T-shirt, which highlighted his flat stomach and gym-toned chest and shoulders. His hair was still damp from his recent shower and his jaw cleanly shaven. He looked tired however; she could see the dark bruise-like shadows beneath his eyes and the faint lines of strain bracketing his mouth.
For the first time Emma started to think about his angle on things. This magnificent villa was his heritage; it had been in the Fiorenza family for generations. No wonder he was angry at how his father had orchestrated things. Forcing him to marry a perfect stranger in order to claim what should have been rightly his would be enough to enrage anyone.
But why had Valentino chosen her to be his son’s bride? Emma had talked to him on one or two occasions about her difficult childhood, and how she wanted one day soon to settle down with a man she loved and have a little family of her own, to have the security she had missed out 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 got nothing against children, but I like the sort you can hand back after half an hour. I have no place in my life for anything else.’
‘It sounds like a pretty shallow and pointless existence to me,’ Emma said. ‘Don’t you ever get lonely?’
‘No, I do not,’ he said. ‘I like my life the way it is. I do not want the complication of having to be responsible for someone else’s emotional upkeep. The women I date know the rules and generally are quite willing to adhere to them.’
‘I suppose if they don’t you get rid of them, right?’
He gave her a supercilious smile. ‘That is right.’
Emma pursed her mouth. ‘I feel sorry for any poor woman who makes the mistake of falling in love with you.’
‘Most of the woman I know fall in love with my wallet. What they feel for me has very little to do with who I am as a person. As you have probably already guessed, I am not the type to wear my heart upon my sleeve,’ he said, and then with a rueful twist to his mouth added, ‘Perhaps I am my father’s son after all.’
‘Your father liked to give the impression he was tough, but inside he was a very broken and lonely man,’ Emma said. ‘I could read between the lines enough to know he had some serious regrets about his life and relationships.’
‘What a pity he did not communicate that to what remained of his family while he still could,’ he said with an embittered set to his mouth.
‘I think he would have done so if you had made the effort to come to see him,’ Emma said. ‘Towards the end I couldn’t help feeling he was lingering against the odds on the off chance you would visit him.’
His lip curled up in a snarl. ‘He could have made the first move. Why was it left to me to do so?’
‘He was dying,’ she bit out with emphasis. ‘In my opinion that shifts the responsibility to those who are well. He couldn’t travel; he could barely speak towards the end. What would it have cost you to call him? These days you can call someone from anywhere in the world. What would it have cost you to give a measly five minutes of your time to allow a dying man to rest in peace?’
He stabbed a finger at her, making her take an unsteady step backwards. ‘You know nothing, do you hear me? Nothing of what it was like being my father’s son. You came into my father’s life horizontally. You know nothing of what passed before. You were his carer, for heaven’s sake. You were paid to wipe the dribble from his chin and change the soiled sheets on his bed, not to psychoanalyse the train-wreck of his relationships.’
Emma took a shaky breath. ‘I realise this is an emotionally charged time for you, but I think—’
‘I do not give a toss for what you think.’ He raised his voice at her this time, his dark eyes flashing with anger. ‘As I see it you exploited a dying man to feather your own nest. I find it particularly repugnant to be subjected to your lectures on what constitutes appropriate behaviour from his son when you clearly have no idea of what the dynamic of our relationship was like.’