Kitabı oku: «Sicilian Millionaire, Bought Bride»

“You’re doing all the giving,” she whispered. “I want to give a little, too.”

“How? Like this?” He dipped his head and once again touched his mouth to hers. “Or had you something more intimate in mind…like this?” He slid his finger in a straight, sure line past the pearls at her throat and, cupping a brazen palm over her breast, teased her nipple with his thumb.

A sharp, sweet arrow of sensation speared the length of her and found its target between her legs, leaving her embarrassingly damp. Aghast, she stammered, “Only if it’s what you want.”

He put her from him as if he suddenly found her repugnant. “Sorry, Corinne, that’s not a good enough reason. The day—or night—has yet to come that I take a woman to my bed because she feels she owes me her body.”

Catherine Spencer, once an English teacher, fell into writing through eavesdropping on a conversation about romances. Within two months she’d changed careers, and sold her first book to Mills & Boon in 1984. She moved to Canada from England thirty years ago, and lives in Vancouver. She is married to a Canadian and has four grown children—two daughters and two sons (and now eight grandchildren)—plus three dogs. In her spare time she plays the piano, collects antiques, and grows tropical shrubs.

You can visit Catherine Spencer’s website at www.catherinespencer.com

Recent titles by the same author:

THE GIANNAKIS BRIDE

THE ITALIAN BILLIONAIRE’S CHRISTMAS MIRACLE

THE GREEK MILLIONAIRE’S MISTRESS

THE FRENCH COUNT’S PREGNANT BRIDE

BERTOLUZZI’S HEIRESS BRIDE

THE ITALIAN’S CONVENIENT WIFE

SICILIAN MILLIONAIRE, BOUGHT BRIDE

BY

CATHERINE SPENCER

www.millsandboon.co.uk

SICILIAN MILLIONAIRE, BOUGHT BRIDE

CHAPTER ONE

TERSE AND ENIGMATIC, the letter sat on Corinne Mallory’s dressing table, held in place by a can of hair spray. Hardly a fitting resting place, she supposed, for correspondence written on vellum embossed with an ornate gold family crest. On the other hand, considering her initial response had been to decline its autocratic summons, it was a miracle that she hadn’t tossed the whole works in the garbage.

But the name at the end of the typed missive, signed in bold, impatient script, had given her pause. Raffaello Orsini had been married to her dearest friend, and Lindsay had been crazy about him, right up to the day she died. That alone had made Corinne swallow her pride and accede to his wishes. Whatever the reason for his sudden visit to Canada, loyalty to Lindsay’s memory demanded Corinne not refuse him.

Now that she was just two short hours away from meeting the man face-to-face for the first time, however, she wasn’t so sure she’d made the right decision. What did one wear to an invitation that smacked more of a command performance than a request?

Eyeing the limited contents of her closet, she decided basic black was probably the most appropriate choice. With pearls. Dinner at the Pan Pacific, Vancouver’s most prestigious hotel, called for a touch of elegance, even if the pearls in question weren’t the real thing, and the black dress made of faux silk.

At least her black pumps came with a designer emblem on the instep, a reminder of the time when she’d been able to afford a few luxuries.

A reminder, too, of Lindsay, a tiny woman full of big dreams, who hadn’t believed in the word “can’t.”

We’ll buy some run-down, flea-bitten old place in the right part of town, and turn it into a boutique hotel, Corinne. I’ll take care of housekeeping and decor, and you’ll be in charge of the kitchen.

We’ll need a fairy godmother to accomplish that.

Not us! We can do anything we set our minds to. Nothing’s going to derail us.

What if we fall in love and get married?

It’ll have to be to men who share our vision. She’d flashed her dimpled smile. And it’d help if they were also very, very rich!

And if they’re not?

It won’t matter, because we’ll make our own luck. We can do this, Corinne. I know we can. We’ll call it The Bowman-Raines Hotel, and have a great big old BR emblazoned over the front entrance. By the time we’re thirty, we’ll be famous for our hospitality and our dining room. People will kill to stay with us….

But all that was before Lindsay went to Sicily on holiday, and fell in love with Raffaello Orsini who was indeed very, very rich, but who had no interest whatsoever in sharing her dreams. Instead he’d converted her to his. Forgetting all about creating the most acclaimed hotel in the Pacific northwest, she’d moved halfway around the world to be his wife and start a family.

And the luck she’d believed in so fiercely? It had turned on her, striking her down at twenty-four with leukemia, and leaving her three-year-old daughter motherless.

Swamped in memories, Corinne blinked back the incipient tears, leaned closer to the mirror to sweep a mascara wand over her lashes and tried to remember the last time she’d worn eye makeup. Far too long ago, judging by the finished effect, but it would have to do, and really, what did it matter? Whatever the reason for his sudden visit, Raffaello Orsini certainly hadn’t been inspired by a burning desire to evaluate her artistry with cosmetics.

Downstairs, she heard Mrs. Lehman, her next-door neighbor and baby-sitter, rattling dishes as she served Matthew his supper.

Matthew hadn’t been happy that his mother was going out. “I hate it when you go to work,” he’d announced, his lower lip trembling ominously.

With good reason, Corinne had to admit. She frequently missed tucking her son into bed, because her work too often involved late nights and time during his school holidays. It was the nature of the beast and much though she’d have preferred it otherwise, there wasn’t much she could do about it, not if she wanted to keep a roof over their heads and food on the table.

“I won’t be late, and I’ll make blueberry pancakes for breakfast,” she promised. “Be a good boy for Mrs. Lehman, and don’t give her a hard time about going to bed, okay?”

“I might,” he warned balefully. Although only four, he’d recently developed an alarming talent for blackmail. He was becoming, in fact, quite a handful. But Corinne hoped tonight wouldn’t be one of those nights when she arrived home to find Mrs. Lehman exhausted from fighting to get him to bed, and Matthew still racing up and down the stairs every fifteen minutes and generally raising mayhem.

I should be staying home, Corinne thought, the familiar guilt sweeping over her as smoothly as the black dress slid past her hips. But the letter pulled at her, and even though she could have recited it word for word from memory, she picked it up and scoured it yet again, as if the writer’s reason for sending it might be hidden between the lines.

Villa di Cascata

Sicily

January 6, 2008

Signora Mallory:

I shall be in Vancouver later this month on a matter of some urgency recently brought to my attention and which I wish to discuss with you in confidence.

I have reservations at the Pan Pacific Hotel and would appreciate your joining me there for dinner on Friday, January 28, a date I trust you find convenient. Unless I hear otherwise, I shall send a car for you at seven-thirty.

Kindest regards,

Raffaello Orsini

But just as with the first reading, there was nothing. No hint of what she might expect. And if the racket taking place in the kitchen was anything to go by, Matthew was gearing up to give poor Mrs. Lehman another night of grief.

“This had better be good, Mr. Orsini,” Corinne muttered, tossing the letter aside, and taking a last glance in the mirror before going downstairs to appease a little boy who had no memory of his father, and whose mother seemed to be making a lousy job of doing double duty as a parent.

The view, Raffaello decided, was impressive. To the north, snowcapped mountains glimmered in carved splendor against the clear night sky. The lights of a bridge spanning the entrance to the harbor looped like so many diamonds above the Narrows. And closer at hand, almost directly below his suite, a yacht some twenty-five meters long or more rocked gently at its moorage.

Not Sicily, by any stretch of the imagination, but arresting nonetheless, as much because it had been Lindsay’s home, a setting both wild and sophisticated, beautiful and intriguing, just like her.

Two years ago, one year even, and he could not have come here. The pain had been too raw, his grief too filled with anger. But time had a way of healing even the most savage wounds; of gilding the memories that were his wife’s legacy, and turning them into a source of comfort. “I do this for you, amore mio,” he murmured, raising his eyes to the heavens.

Somewhere in the city below, a church bell rang out, eight solemn chimes. The woman, Corinne Mallory, was late. Impatient to get down to the business of the evening and be done with it, he paced to the telephone and buzzed the front desk to remind whoever was in charge that she should be directed to his suite when—if—she showed up. What he had to propose was not something to be aired in public.

Another ten minutes dragged past before she arrived, her knock so sudden and peremptory that his hackles rose. Curbing his irritation, he shot his cuffs and tugged his lapels into place.

Remember she was Lindsay’s best friend. That does not mean she has to be yours, but it will be better for everyone if you can at least establish a sympathetic cordiality, he cautioned himself, striding to the door.

He had seen photographs, of course, and thought he knew what to expect of the woman waiting on the other side. But she was more delicate than he’d anticipated. Like fine lace that had been handled too carelessly, so that her skin was almost transparent and stretched too tightly over her fine bones, leaving her face much too small for her very blue eyes.

Standing back, he waved her across the threshold. “Signora Mallory, thank you for agreeing to see me. Please come in.”

She hesitated a moment before complying. “I’m not aware you gave me much choice, Mr. Orsini,” she said, her accent so vivid a reminder of Lindsay’s that he was momentarily disconcerted. “Nor did I expect our meeting would take place in your room, and I can’t say I’m particularly comfortable with that.”

What did she think? That he’d traveled halfway around the world to seduce her? “My intentions are entirely honorable,” he replied, tempted to tell her that if a romp in bed was all he wanted, he could have found it much closer to home.

She let him take her coat and shrugged, an elegantly dismissive little gesture that made the pearls nested at her throat slither gently against her skin. “They’d better be,” she said.

Suppressing a smile, he motioned to the array of bottles set out on the bar. “Will you join me in a drink before dinner?”

Again, she paused before inclining her head in assent. “A very weak wine spritzer, please.”

“So,” he said, adding a generous dollop of San Pellegrino to an inch of Pinot Grigio, and pouring a shot of whiskey for himself, “tell me about yourself, signora. I know only that you and my late wife were great friends, and that you are widowed, with a young son.”

“Which is rather more than I know about you, Mr. Orsini,” she replied, with a candor he found rather disarming. “And since I have absolutely no idea what this meeting is all about, I’d just as soon get down to business as waste time regaling you with a life history I’m sure you have no real interest in hearing about.”

Joining her on the other side of the room, he handed her the spritzer and raised his own glass in a wordless toast. “That’s where you’re mistaken. Please understand that I have a most compelling and, indeed, legitimate reason for wanting to learn more about you.”

“Fine. Then until you share that reason with me, please understand that I am not about to gratify your curiosity. I don’t pretend to know how things are done in Sicily, but in this country, no woman with a grain of sense agrees to meet a strange man alone in his hotel room. Had I known that was your plan, I would most definitely not have come.” She set her drink down on the coffee table and glanced very pointedly at her silver wristwatch. “You have exactly five minutes to explain yourself, Mr. Orsini, and then I’m out of here.”

He took a sip of his whiskey and eyed her appraisingly. “I can see why you and my wife were such close friends. She, too, drove straight to the heart of a matter. It was one of the many qualities I admired in her.”

“Four and a half minutes, Mr. Orsini, and I’m fast losing my patience.”

“Very well.” He picked up the leather folder he’d left on the coffee table and withdrew the letter. “This is for you. I think you’ll find its contents self-explanatory.”

She glanced briefly at the handwriting and paled. “It’s from Lindsay.”

“Si.”

“How do you know what it’s about?”

“I read it.”

A flush chased away her pallor. “Who gave you the right?”

“I did.”

“Remind me never to leave private correspondence lying about when you’re around,” she said, her blue eyes flaring with indignation.

“Read your letter, signora, and then I will let you read mine. Perhaps when you’ve done that, you’ll regard me with less hostility, and have a better understanding of why I came all this way to meet you.”

She flung him one last doubtful glance, then bent her attention to the contents of the letter. At first, her hand was steady, but as she continued to read, the paper fluttered as if caught in the faintest of breezes, and by the time she reached the end, she was visibly shaking.

“Well, signora?”

She raised shocked eyes to his. “This is…ridiculous. She can’t have been in her right mind.”

“My wife was lucid to the last. Disease might have ravaged her body, but not her mind.” He pushed his own letter across the table. “Here is what she asked of me. You’ll notice both letters were written on the same day. Mine is a copy of the original. If you wish, you may keep it, to read again at your leisure.”

Reluctantly Corinne Mallory took the second letter, scanned it quickly, then handed it back to him and shook her head in further disbelief. “I’m having a hard time accepting that Lindsay knew what she was asking.”

“Yet viewed dispassionately, it makes a certain sense.”

“Not to me it doesn’t,” she retorted flatly. “And I can’t believe it does to you, either, or you’d have brought it to my attention sooner. These letters were written over three years ago. Why did you wait until now to tell me about them?”

“I accidentally discovered them myself only a few weeks ago. Lindsay had tucked them inside a photograph album, and I admit, on first reading, my reaction was much the same as yours.”

“I hope you’re not implying you’re now in agreement with her wishes?”

“At the very least, they merit serious consideration.”

Corinne Mallory rolled her big blue eyes and reached for her wineglass. “I might need something a bit stronger than this, after all.”

“I understand the idea takes some getting used to, Signora Mallory, but I hope you won’t dismiss it out of hand. From a purely practical standpoint, such an arrangement has much to recommend it.”

“I’ve no wish to offend you, Mr. Orsini, but if you seriously believe that, I can’t help thinking you must be a few bricks short of a full load.”

“An interesting turn of phrase,” he remarked, unable to suppress a smile, “but far from accurate, and I hope to persuade you of that over dinner.”

“After reading these letters, I’m no longer sure dinner’s such a good idea.”

“Why not? Are you afraid I might sway you into changing your mind?”

“No,” she said, with utter conviction.

“Then where’s the harm in our discussing the matter over a good meal? If, at the end of it all, you’re still of a mind to walk away, I certainly won’t try to stop you. After all, the doubts cut two ways. At this point, I’m no more persuaded of the viability of my wife’s request, than are you. But in honor of her memory, the very least I can do is put it to the test. She would expect no less of me—nor, I venture to point out, of you.”

Corinne Mallory wrestled with herself for a moment or two, then heaved a sigh. “All right, I’ll stay—for Lindsay’s sake, because this meant so much to her. But please don’t harbor any hope that I’ll go along with her wishes.”

He raised his glass again. “For Lindsay’s sake,” he agreed then, as a knock came at the door, gestured to the dining area situated in the corner. “That’ll be our dinner. I ordered it served up here. Now that you realize the delicate nature of our business, I’m sure you agree it’s not something to be conducted where others might overhear.”

“I suppose not.” Her reply signified agreement, but the hunted glance she cast around the suite suggested she was more interested in making a fast escape. “Is there someplace I can freshen up before we sit down?”

“Of course.” He indicated the guest powder room at the end of the short hall leading past the kitchen and bedroom. “Take your time, signora. I expect the chef and his staff will need a few minutes to set everything up.”

She’d need a lot more than a few minutes to pull herself together! Locking the powder room door, Corinne stared in the mirror over the long vanity unit, not surprised to find her cheeks flushed and her eyes feverishly bright. Emotionally she was under siege on all fronts, and had been from the second she’d arrived at Raffaello Orsini’s door and come face-to-face with the most beautiful man she’d ever seen.

At the time of her wedding, Lindsay had sent photos, but that was years ago, and even if it had taken place just yesterday, no camera could capture his raw sexual magnetism. A person had to view him in the flesh to appreciate that. For Corinne, the experience had almost put her in a trance.

He did not look the part in which she’d cast him. Yes, he had the smooth olive skin and gleaming black hair typical of someone Mediterranean born and bred, but as she understood it, Sicilian men did not, as a rule, stand over six feet tall, or sport a pair of shoulders that would do a football running back proud.

As for his face, she’d hardly been able to bring herself to look at it, afraid that if she did, she’d focus too intently on his sensuous mouth, rather than the words issuing from it, or lose herself in eyes the color of woodsmoke.

He’d rendered her tongue-tied, and for the first time, she’d gained a glimmer of understanding for why Lindsay had so readily given up everything to be with him. That chiseled jaw, those exquisitely arrogant cheekbones and mesmerizing voice would have been hard to resist.

His hotel accommodation on the twenty-third floor was equally mind-boggling. A luxury suite, it was larger than most apartments, with a baby grand piano installed in the huge sitting room, seating for six at the round table in the dining alcove, and fabulous artwork on the walls. Not that she could imagine anyone paying much attention to the latter, at least not during the day, with stunning views of Stanley Park, Lions Gate Bridge, Coal Harbour and the North Shore mountains commanding attention beyond the windows.

Finally, and by far the most discombobulating, was the reason he’d asked her to meet him. If she hadn’t recognized Lindsay’s handwriting, she’d never have believed the letters were authentic. Even accepting that they were, she couldn’t wrap her mind around their contents, which was why she’d tucked hers into her purse and brought it with her into the powder room.

Spreading it out on the vanity now, she prepared to read it again, this time without Raffaello Orsini’s disturbing gaze tracking her every reaction.

June 12, 2005

Dear Corinne,

I hoped I’d see you one more time, and that we could talk, the way we’ve always been able to, without holding anything back. I hoped, too, that I’d be around to help Elisabetta celebrate her third birthday. I know now that I’m not going to be here to do either of those things, and that I have very little time left to put my affairs in order. And so I’m forced to turn to writing, something which was never my strong suit.

Corinne, you’ve been widowed now for nearly a year, and I know better than anyone how hard it’s been for you. I’m learning first-hand how painful grief can be, but to have money troubles on top of sorrow, as you continue to have, is more than anyone should have to put up with. At least I’m spared having to worry about that. But money can’t buy health, nor can it compensate a child for losing a parent, something both your son and my daughter have to face. And that brings me to the point of this letter.

All children deserve two parents, Corinne. A mother to kiss away the little hurts, and to teach a daughter how to be a woman, and a son how to be tender. They also deserve a father to stand between them and a world which doesn’t seem to differentiate between those able to cope with its senseless cruelties, and those too young to understand why it should be so.

I’ve known much happiness with Raffaello. He’s a wonderful man, a wonderful role model for a young boy growing up without a father. He would be so good for your Matthew. And if I can’t be there for my Elisabetta, I can think of no one I’d rather see taking my place than you, Corinne.

I’ve loved you practically from the day we met in second grade. You are my soul sister. So I’m asking you, please, to bring an open mind to my last wish, which is to see you and Raffaello join forces—and yes, I mean through marriage—and together fill the empty spaces in our children’s lives.

You each have so much to bring to the arrangement, and so much to gain. But there’s another reason that’s not quite so unselfish. Elisabetta’s too young to hold on to her memories of me, and I hate that. Raffaello will do his best to keep me alive in her heart, but no one knows me as well as you do. Only you can tell her what I was like as a child and a teenager. About my first big crush, my first heartbreak, my first kiss, my favorite book and movie and song, and so much more that I don’t have time to list here.

It’s enough to say that you and I share such a long and close history, and have never kept secrets from each other. Having you to turn to would give her the next best thing to me.

I’d trust you with my life, Corinne, but it’s not worth anything now, so I’m trusting you with my daughter’s instead. I want so badly to live, and I’m so afraid of dying, but I think I could face it more easily if I knew you and Raffaello…

The letter ended there, the handwriting not as sure, as if Lindsay had run out of the strength required to continue. Or perhaps she’d been too blinded by the tears, which had blurred the last few lines and left watery stains on the paper—stains made even larger by Corinne’s own tears now.

Desperate to keep her grief private, she flushed the toilet, hoping the sound would disguise the sobs tearing at her, then mopped at her face with a handful of tissues. She didn’t need to look in the mirror to know her makeup was ruined. The mascara stung her eyes, adding insult to injury.

“Oh, Lindsay,” she mourned softly, “you know I’d do anything for you…anything at all. Except this.”