Kitabı oku: «Her First-Date Honeymoon»

For Ben

See, the middle child isn’t always forgotten!

Love, Mum

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Introduction

Title Page

About the Author

Dedication

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

EPILOGUE

Extract

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

‘I ADMIRE YOUR TENACITY, cara, but I meant it when I said no.’

Matteo Vieri lay down and spread his body behind the woman already warming his bed. His hand curled around her slim waist. The only light in the room came from the corridor, and in the dark shadows, with her head tucked low into the pillow, he struggled to see her in detail. But beneath his fingers he felt her body edge towards him.

Irritation bit into his stomach and refused to let go, but he forced his voice to remain a low playful tease. ‘The last woman who crept into my bed wasn’t seen for days. Leave now, or I swear you won’t see daylight for a very long time.’

He wanted nothing but to sleep. Alone.

Earlier, when she had phoned him while he was en route to Venice, she had told him she was leaving tomorrow for her home city of New York, but she had promised him a night to remember. They had dated intermittently in the past, when their paths had crossed. It had been fun. But recently he had realised that beneath her cool sass lay fantasies of a future together, so he had good-humouredly turned down her offer. Again. But she obviously hadn’t listened and now she lay in his bed.

He stifled a curse.

It was past midnight. His bones ached for a shower and the oblivion of sleep.

‘Cara, it’s time for you to leave.’

Beneath the silk of her nightgown her ribcage jerked.

His hand stilled.

Something was wrong. Her scent was wrong. The dip of her waist was wrong. The endless curls in her hair, brushing his hand, making him itch with the desire to thread it through his fingers and pull her towards him, were wrong.

His breathing, his heart, his thoughts went on hold. The red traffic lights of confusion waited to switch to the green of clarity.

Her head inched upwards until wide eyes met his: perplexed, scared, startled.

His own disbelief left him speechless.

Caspita! Who was this stranger lying in his bed?

And then he wanted to laugh. Could this week get any worse?

His starved lungs sucked in air. He could barely make out her features, but still a lick of attraction barrelled through him. Her scent—the clean low notes of rose—the enticing warmth of her body, the mass of hair tumbling on the bed sheets made him want to draw her into him. To take solace in her softness, her femininity, from the craziness of his life.

Her mouth opened. And closed. She swallowed a cartoon gulp. Her mouth opened again. Her lips were full, the hint of a deep cupid’s bow on the upper lip. A dangerous beauty.

Her body stiffened beside him. Seconds passed. Two strangers. In the most intimate of settings.

A tiny sound of disbelief hiccupped from her throat.

Then, in a shower of rising and falling sheets and blankets, she flung off the bedclothes and darted towards the door.

In one smooth movement he followed her and yanked her back.

Long narrow bones crashed into him, along with a tumble of hair, a scent that left him wanting more.

‘Who are you? What do you want?’

Her voice was a husky rasp, heavily accented, sexy, English. A voice he had definitely never heard before.

Attraction kicked again. Strong enough to knock him out of his stupor. His earlier frustration lit up inside him. Bright and fierce.

He pulled her towards the wall and flicked on the bedroom chandelier. She winced, but then hazel eyes settled on his, anger mixing with shock.

She attempted to jerk away but he gripped her slim arm tighter.

A flare of defiance grew in her eyes. ‘If you don’t let me go I’m going to scream until the entire neighbourhood, all of Venice, is awake.’

A growl of fury leapt from his throat. ‘Scream away. My neighbours are used to hearing me entertain.’

A blush erupted on her cheeks. She dipped her head.

Satisfaction twitched on his lips. He lowered his mouth towards her ear. ‘Now, tell me, do you make a habit of breaking into homes? Sleeping in strangers’ beds?’

* * *

Emma Fox knew she should be scared. But instead an anger, a rebellion, surged in her. She was not going to be pushed around again. Her heart might be doing a full drama queen routine in her chest, but the pit of her stomach was shouting, Enough! Enough of false accusations. Enough of people telling her what to do. Enough of the mess that was her life.

She grabbed the hand clinging to her upper arm and tried to prise his fingers away. ‘What on earth are you talking about? I haven’t broken in. I was invited to stay here by the palazzo’s owner.’

Her captor took a step back to stare down at her, but his grip grew tighter. For the first time she saw his face. Her heart went silent. Why couldn’t he be on the wrong side of handsome? A few blemishes here and there, a little cross-eyed, perhaps. Instead she faced a gulp-inducing, knee-knocking magnificence that stole all her composure.

His golden-brown eyes flared with the incredulous impatience of a man used to getting his way. ‘Signorina, that is impossible. I own Ca’ Divina. This is my property.’

He let go of her arm and moved to the door. He slammed it shut and stood guard in front of the large ancient door, arms crossed.

‘Now, tell me the truth before I call the carabinieri.’

The carabinieri. He couldn’t. Her stomach tumbled. She had spent a nightmare morning in police custody only yesterday. She couldn’t go through that again. The disbelieving looks. Then the impatient pity when they’d realised she was nothing but a patsy in the whole debacle.

Fear tap-danced down her spine and she began to shiver. She was wearing only a barely there nightdress and longed to cover up. To walk away from this fully clothed man, armoured in an impeccable dark navy suit and maroon tie, and from the way his eyes were travelling down her body critically. Something about him triggered a memory of seeing him before—but where? Why did he seem familiar?

She backed towards the bed, away from him, and spoke in a rush of words. ‘I’m telling the truth. But how do I know who you are—perhaps you’re the one who has broken into the palazzo.’

He threw her an are you being serious? look. ‘And I’ve woken you up to have an argument? Not the usual behaviour of a thief, I would expect.’

‘No, but—’

He rocked on his heels and inhaled an exasperated breath. ‘In my bedside table you’ll find a tray of cufflinks with my monogram—MV.’

She opened the top drawer of the lacquered and gilt carved bedside table with trembling fingers. Beside a number of priceless-looking Rolex watches sat a platoon of silver, gold and platinum cufflinks, all bearing the letters MV.

A sinking feeling moved through her body, draining her of all energy. ‘I don’t understand...I was in a café earlier today and a lady... Signora...’

Her mind became a black hole of forgetfulness. Across from her, her prison guard scowled in disbelief. Flustered, she tried to zone him out. She had to concentrate. What had her saviour’s name been?

‘Her name was Signora... Signora Ve... Vieri... Yes, that was it—Signora Vieri.’

He unfurled his arms and walked towards her across the antique Oriental rug covering the terrazzo floor. A treasure perhaps imported when the Venetian Republic had been the exploration and commercial powerhouse of Europe centuries ago.

His mouth was a thin line of frustration, his already narrow lips tight and unyielding. ‘What did this Signora Vieri look like?’

His words were spoken in a low, dangerous rumble and she became unaccountably hot, with flames of heat burning up her insides at the menace in his words and the way he was now standing over her, staring down, as if ready to murder the nearest person.

Her vow to toughen up, to refuse to kowtow to anyone ever again was going to be tested sooner than she had anticipated. She squared her shoulders and looked him right in the eye. Which was a bad idea, because immediately she lost herself in those almond-shaped golden-brown eyes and forgot what she was going to say.

The anger in his eyes turned for the briefest moment into a flare of appreciation. Her heart swooped up her throat like a songbird.

But then the appreciation flicked to exasperation. ‘I don’t have all night.’

Toughen up. That was her mission in life now. She had to remember that. She clenched her fists and tossed her head back, ready for battle. ‘I have no idea what’s going on here but, despite what you obviously think, I have not been involved in anything untoward. Signora Vieri offered me a place to stay. I accepted her offer in good faith.’

He loomed over her, tension bouncing off his huge, formidable body. ‘Tell me what she looked like...or is this just a convenient story? Perhaps you’ll be more co-operative for the carabinieri.’

Alarm shot down through her and exited at her toes, leaving a numb, tingling sensation behind. She began to babble. ‘She’s in her early fifties...animated, kind, concerned...full of energy. Brown bobbed hair. She has the cutest little dog called Elmo.’

He exhaled another loud breath and walked away.

She spun around to find him standing before the bedroom’s marble fireplace. The huge gilt mirror on the mantel reflected his powerful tense shoulders, the glossy thickness of his brown hair.

‘My grandmother.’

‘Your grandmother! She mentioned that her grandson sometimes stays here...I was picturing a toddler. Not a grown man.’

For a few long seconds he stopped and glared at her, leaving her in no doubt that she had said something wrong. What, she had no idea, but the temperature in the room had dropped at least ten degrees.

‘Nonnina is sixty-seven. And she has a soft spot for waifs and strays. Although this is the first time she has actually brought home a human one.’

‘I’m not a waif or a stray!’

‘Then what are you doing in my bed?’

Memories of his hand burning through the material of her nightdress, of the shaming stream of pleasure that had flowed through her dreams until she had woken fully taunted her, causing her confusion to intensify.

‘Who did you think was in your bed when you climbed in beside me?’

Her question earned her a tight-lipped scowl. ‘A friend.’

Unease swept over her at the prospect of that huge, frankly scary-looking lion’s head brass knocker on the front door sounding at any moment, and having to explain her presence to another person tonight.

‘Are you still expecting her?’

His eyes swept over her lazily. ‘No.’

Every inch of her skin tingled. For a moment she gazed longingly towards her suitcase, propped open beside an ornately carved walnut dressing table. She hadn’t had the energy to unpack earlier, but had fallen into bed after a much needed shower instead.

She moved towards the suitcase, aware he was following her every move. She grabbed the first jumper from the messy jumble spilling from it and pulled on the thick-knit polo neck. A shiver of comfort and relief ran down her spine; she no longer felt so susceptible to his dangerous gaze.

He moved back across the room towards the door. ‘I need to speak to my grandmother.’

‘She isn’t here.’

He pulled up short. ‘What do you mean, she isn’t here?’

‘She said she had to return home to Puglia. That there was an emergency.’

He shook his head in disgust and twisted away. He rolled his shoulders and then his spine in a quick, impatient movement, the fine wool of his suit jacket rippling in a fluid motion. He moved with the ease of the super-rich. Even his hair—a perfect one-inch length, tapering down in a perfect straight line to hug the tanned strength of his neck—looked as though it had been cut with diamond-encrusted scissors by a barber to the nobility of Europe.

This room—this palazzo, this stunning city La Serenissima—all so grand and overwhelming, proud and mysterious, suited him. Whereas she felt like an alien amongst the wealth and elegance.

Wealth. Elegance. A grandmother with the surname of Vieri...

Her brain buzzed with the white noise of astonishment while her heart jumped to a thumpety-thumpety-thump beat. No wonder he looked familiar.

‘You’re Matteo Vieri, aren’t you?’

The owner of one of the world’s largest luxury goods conglomerates.

He unbuttoned his suit jacket and popped a hand into his trouser pocket. ‘So you know who I am?’ His casual stance belied the sharp tone of his response.

Did he think she had engineered her stay here because of who he was? Engineered being in his bed for his arrival? Did he think she had designs on him romantically? That possibility, if it hadn’t been so tragic, would have been laughable.

‘I used to work at St Paul’s Fashion College in London. One of your companies—VMV—sponsors its graduation show.’

‘Used to work?’

‘I left last week to move to Sydney.’

Well, that had been the plan anyway. Until it had all fallen apart. When was life going to start co-operating with her, instead of throwing her endless grenades of disastrous calamity?

Yet more uncomfortable heat threaded along her veins. She had slept in Matteo Vieri’s bed. He was one of Europe’s most eligible bachelors. She needed to clarify how all this had happened.

‘Your grandmother told me I was welcome to use any room I wanted. I didn’t realise this room was yours.’ She paused and gestured around the room to the walnut four-poster bed, the pale green silk sofa—all so beautiful, but without a trace of him. ‘None of your belongings are on display, no clothes...I had no idea it might be someone’s bedroom.’

‘When this palazzo was built in the fifteenth century not much thought was given to adjoining dressing rooms...my clothes are further down the hallway.’ He spoke like a bored tour guide, tired of the same inane tourist questions.

‘But your bathroom is full of...’ She trailed off, not sure how to say it. It was full of delicious but most definitely girly shampoos and conditioners, bath and shower gels, lavish body lotions...

He gave her a don’t push it frown. ‘I do own those companies.’ His lips moved for a nanosecond upwards into the smile of a man remembering good times. ‘Those products are there for my dates to use.’

She tugged at the collar of her jumper, feeling way too hot. The image of a naked Matteo Vieri applying one of those shower gels was sending her pulse into the stratosphere.

She went to her suitcase and squashed the lid down, fighting the giddiness rampaging through her limbs, praying it would zip up without its usual fight.

‘I’ll move to another room.’

He stood over her, casting a dark shadow over her where she crouched. ‘I’m afraid that’s not an option. You’ll have to leave.’

She sprang up, her struggle with the suitcase forgotten. ‘But I have nowhere to go! I spent all of today searching for a hotel, but with it being Carnival time there are no rooms available. I’ve tried everywhere within my budget. Meeting your grandmother...her kind offer of a room was like a miracle.’

‘I bet it was—an invitation to stay in a palazzo on the Grand Canal in Venice!’

Did he have to sound so cynical? ‘I appreciate this situation is far from ideal, but I have nowhere else to go. I promise I’ll stay out of your way.’

He adjusted the cuffs of his shirt beneath his suit jacket with a stiff, annoyed movement. His cufflinks flashed beneath the light of the crystal chandelier. ‘I apologise for my grandmother’s behaviour. She shouldn’t have given you a room without my authorisation. I have a busy week ahead, with clients from China coming to Venice for Carnival. It does not suit me to have a house guest.’

‘Are they staying here?’

‘No, but—’

‘Honestly—I’ve tried every hotel in Venice.’

He glared at her, and for a moment she was transported back to her pointe classes as an eleven-year-old, when she used to shake with fear about getting on the wrong side of the volatile ballet master.

‘Why are you in Venice, Signorina...?’ His voice trailed off and he waited for her to speak.

‘Fox. Emma Fox. I’m here because...’ A lump the size of the top tier of her wedding cake formed in her throat. She gritted her teeth against the tears blurring her vision. ‘I was supposed to be here on my honeymoon.’

* * *

His stomach did a nosedive. Dio! She was about to cry.

Something about the way she was fighting her tears reminded him of his childhood, watching his mother battle her tears. Unable to do anything to stop them. To make life okay for her. Not sure why she was crying in the first place when he was a small boy other than having a vague understanding that she was waiting for his father to come back. The father he’d never known.

And then in later years, when she had accepted that his father was never going to return, her tears had been shed over yet another failed relationship. But he hadn’t even tried to comfort her in those years. His own pain had been too great—pain for all the men who had walked out of his life without a fight, father figures, many of whom he had hero-worshipped.

People let you down. It was a lesson he had learned early in life. Along with coming to the realisation that he could only ever rely on himself. Not trust in the empty promises of others.

A loud sniffle brought him back to his present problem. To her lowered head he said, ‘On your honeymoon?’

She emitted a cry and bolted for his bathroom.

This time his grandmother had gone too far. To the extent that he was tempted to follow her down to Puglia and give her a piece of his mind, this time not falling for her apologies and pledges to behave. Nor, for that matter, being diverted by plates of her legendary purcedduzzi—fried gnocchi with honey.

He understood her compulsion to help the poor and homeless—but to invite a stranger into his home!

He knocked at the bathroom door. ‘Are you okay?’

‘Yes...sorry. I’ll be out in a few minutes.’

Her voice went from alto to soprano, and several notes in between. A muffled sob followed. He winced and rubbed at his face with both hands.

He leaned in against the door. ‘We both need a drink. Join me downstairs in the lounge when you’re ready.’

He hurried down the stairs. Memories chased him. Those nights when he was seven...eight years old, when he would crawl into his mother’s bed, hoping he could stop her tears.

In the lounge, he threw open the doors onto the terrace. Venice was blanketed in a light misty fog. Sounds were muffled. He saw the intermittent lights of a launch moving on the water, its engine barely audible. Technically it was spring, but tonight winter still shrouded the city, and the cold, damp air intensified its mysterious beauty.

He spent most of his year travelling between his headquarters in Milan and his offices in New York, London and Paris. Always moving. Never belonging. The nomadic lifestyle of his childhood had followed him into adulthood. He had hated it as a child. Now it suited him. It meant that he could keep a distance from others. Even acquaintances and those he considered friends would never have the opportunity to hurt him, to walk away. He was the one in control instead. It was he who could choose to walk away now.

Venice was his one true escape. It was why he had no regular staff here in Ca’ Divina. He liked the calm, the peace of the building, without sound, without people awaiting his instructions. Here was the one place he could be alone, away from the intensity of his normal routine. Away from the constant expectations and responsibilities of his businesses, his family.

But tonight the calm serenity of both Venice and Ca’ Divina were doing little to calm his boiling irritation. The maverick, eccentric, brilliant chief designer for his fashion house Ettore had thrown a hissy fit—no doubt fuelled by alcohol—whilst being interviewed by a Chinese news team last night. He had not only insulted the reporter but also implied that the exclusive department store chain that sold his designs in China was not worthy of doing so.

The exclusive department store chain Matteo was delicately negotiating with over contracts for the extensive expansion of product placement for all his brands.

The company quite rightly had not taken kindly to the designer’s words, and had seen it as a huge public insult to their honour. This loss of face—known as mianzi in China—might have damaged their relationship beyond repair.

The chain’s president and his team were arriving in Venice tomorrow evening. He had a lot of apologising to do and reassurances to make to ensure they understood how much he valued and respected them as a partner. It was vital the trip went well. Or else several of his lines would be in serious financial trouble.

He twisted around to the sound of footsteps on the terrazzo flooring. The last thing he needed was to have to deal with a stranger’s problems.

She reminded him of a Federico Zandomeneghi portrait in Ca’ Pesaro, the International Gallery of Modern Art located further along the banks of the Grand Canal. Delicate, elegant features, a cupid’s bow mouth, a perfect nose, porcelain skin, long thick brown curls almost to her waist, tucked behind her ears.

Below the cream polo-neck jumper she was now wearing a pair of skinny jeans and tan ankle boots. She’d tugged the neck of the jumper up until it reached her ears. The tears were gone, but despite the resolute set of her mouth she looked worn out.

Almost as worn out as he felt.

‘What can I get you to drink?’

‘A whisky, please.’

He poured her whisky and a brandy for himself into tumblers, trying to ignore how physically aware he was of her. Of her refined accent, her words clipped but softly spoken. Of her long limbs. Of the outline of the tantalising body her nightdress had done little to conceal earlier. Of her utter beauty.

He brought their drinks over to the sofas at the centre of the room and placed one on either side of the coffee table in between them. He sat with his back to the canal.

She perched on the side of the sofa and stared out through the terrace windows with an unseeing gaze, the hands on her lap curled like weapons ready to strike out. Eventually her eyes landed on his, and the sudden flare of vulnerability in them delivered a sucker punch to his gut.

Despite every fibre of his being telling him not to—she might start crying again—he found himself asking, ‘Do you want to talk about it?’

She took a sip of her whisky. Depositing the glass back on the table, she reached down to her left ankle and gave it a quick squeeze. Sitting up, she inhaled deeply, her chest rising and falling. A flash of heat coloured her cheeks. The result of the whisky or something else?

‘Not particularly.’ Her clipped tone was accompanied by a haughty rise of her chin.

‘In that case I’ll go and make some phone calls to arrange a hotel room for you.’

He was at the door before she spoke.

‘My fiancé...I mean my ex-fiancé...was arrested early yesterday morning—at four o’clock, to be precise—for embezzlement.’

She tugged at the neck of her jumper. He returned to his seat and she darted a quick glance in his direction. Pride in battle with pain.

‘He stole funds from the company he worked for; and also persuaded his family and friends to invest in a property scheme with him. There was no scheme. Instead he used the money to play the stock exchange. He lost it all.’

‘And you knew nothing about it?’

She stared at him aghast. ‘No!’ Then she winced, and the heat in her cheeks noticeably paled. ‘Although the police wouldn’t believe me at first...’ She glanced away. ‘I was arrested.’

‘Arrested?’

She reached for her glass but stopped halfway and instead edged further back into the sofa. ‘Yes, arrested. On what was supposed to be my wedding day.’ She gave a disbelieving laugh. ‘I was let go eventually, when they realised I was his victim rather than his partner in crime.’

Her eyes challenged his; she must be seeing the doubt in his expression.

‘By all means call Camden Police Station in London, if you don’t believe me; they will verify my story. I have the number of the investigating officer.’

His instinct told him she was telling the truth, but he wasn’t going to admit that. ‘It’s of no consequence to me.’

That earned him a hurt glance. Remorse prickled along his skin. But why was he feeling guilty? None of this was his doing. What on earth was she doing in Venice anyway?

‘Do you think it was wise, coming to Venice? Without a hotel booking? Wouldn’t you be better off at home?’

She crossed her legs with an exasperated frown that told him he wasn’t getting this. ‘I did have a hotel booking. Or so my ex told me. But he never transferred the funds so the booking fell through. He also cleared out our joint bank account. Anyway, I don’t have a home. Or a job. I moved out of my apartment and resigned from the college because my ex was being transferred to Sydney with his work and I was joining him.’

‘And your family?’

A flicker of pain crossed her face. But then she sat upright and eyed him coolly. ‘I don’t have one.’

Despite all the hurts and frustrations of the past, and the fact that he had far from perfect relationships with his emotional and unpredictable mother and grandmother, he could never imagine life without them. What must it be like to have no family? Had she no friends who could take their place?

‘Your friends...?’

With her legs crossed, she rotated her left ankle in the air. Agitated. Upset.

‘I appreciate your concern, but I’m not going back to London. I have no home to go to. I can’t go back...I can’t face everyone. I need some time away. After I was released from police custody I checked out of the hotel we’d been staying in...’ She paused and bit her lip, drank some whisky, grimaced. ‘I ran away.’

‘You’re a runaway bride?’

Her generous full mouth twisted unhappily. She refused to meet his eye.

‘I’m not putting my friends out by sleeping on their sofas. My closest friend Rachel has just had a baby; the last thing she needs right now is a lodger. This is my mess—it’s up to me to sort it out. My ex might have stolen everything from me, but he isn’t going to stop me from living my life. I’ve always wanted to see Venice during Carnival. And I fully intend doing so.’

Her mouth gave a little wobble.

‘We had organised our wedding for this week so that it coincided with Carnival.’

She was putting up one hell of a fight to keep her tears at bay. He felt completely out of his comfort zone.

‘I’ll pay for your hotel room by way of compensation for any inconvenience my grandmother’s actions may have caused.’

‘I don’t want your money.’

Old memories churned in his stomach at her resolve. He knew only too well that it masked vulnerability.

He remembered throwing guilt money from Stefano, one of his mother’s boyfriends, who had just shoved it into his hands, off the balcony of Stefano’s apartment. He had got momentary satisfaction seeing Stefano’s shame. It had been short-lived, though, when he and his mother had been forced to sleep in a homeless hostel that night.

He had stayed awake all night, unable to sleep, vowing he would never be in that position again. Vowing to drag his mother out of poverty and to protect her. Even if her behaviour had led them to sharing a room with eight strangers. He would be a success. Which meant he would no longer be held hostage by poverty, by the lack of choices, the motives of other people.