Sicilian Millionaire, Bought Bride

“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.”

CHAPTER TWO

SHE RETURNED to the main room to find the moon casting an icy swath across the ink-black waters of the harbor. Within the suite, a floor lamp poured a pool of warm yellow light over the love seat next to the window, but at the linen-draped dining table, candles now shimmered over the crystal and silverware, and lent a more subtle blush to a centerpiece of cream roses. She was glad of that. Candlelight was much kinder, its subdued glow helping to disguise her reddened eyes, bereft now of any trace of mascara.

Raffaello Orsini held out her chair before taking a seat opposite, and nodding permission for the hovering waiter to pour the wine, a very fine sparkling white burgundy. Still shaken from rereading Lindsay’s letter, Corinne could barely manage a taste, and was sure she’d never be able to swallow a bite of food. She deeply regretted having accepted her host’s imperious invitation. Quite apart from the fact that her composure lay in shreds, she knew she looked a mess, and what woman was ever at her sharpest under those circumstances?

At least he had the good grace not to comment on her appearance, or her initial lack of response to his conversation. Instead, as braised endive salad followed a first course of crab and avocado p?tе served on toast points, with foie gras-stuffed quail bathed in a sherry vinaigrette as the entrеe, he regaled her with an amusing account of his tourist experiences earlier in the day. And almost without her realizing, she was coaxed into doing at least some justice to a meal he’d clearly taken great pains to make as appealing as possible.

By the time dessert arrived, a wonderful silky chocolate mousse she couldn’t resist, a good deal of her tension had melted away. The man oozed confidence, and reeked not so much of wealth, although he clearly had money to burn, but of the power that went with it. A heady combination, she had to admit. Watching him, enjoying his dry wit and keen observations, and more than a little dazzled by the smile he allowed so sparingly, she was almost able to push aside the real reason for their meeting and pretend, just for a little while, that they were merely a man and woman enjoying an evening together.

Lulled into a comfortable haze induced by candlelight, and a voice whose exotic cadence suggested an intimacy worth discovering, if only she dared, she almost relaxed. He was a complex man; an intriguing contradiction in terms. His wafer-thin Patek Philippe watch, handmade shoes and flawlessly tailored suit belonged to a CEO, a chairman of the board, a tycoon at his best wheeling and dealing megamillions in the arena of international business. Yet the contained strength of his body suggested he could sling a goat over one shoulder and scale a Sicilian mountainside without breaking a sweat. Despite that, though, there was absolutely nothing of the rustic in him. He was sophistication personified, and much too charming and handsome for his own good.

Or hers. Because, like a hawk luring a mouse into the open, he suddenly struck, diving in for the kill before she realized she’d left herself vulnerable to him. “So far, I’ve done all the talking, signora. Now it’s your turn. So tell me, please, what is there about you that I might find noteworthy?”

“Not much, I’m afraid,” she said, disconcerted by the question, but not yet suspecting where it would lead. “I’m a single, working parent, with very little time to do anything noteworthy.”

“Too occupied with making ends meet, you mean?”

“That about covers it, yes.”

“What kind of work do you do?”

“I’m a professional chef.”

“Ah, yes. I remember now that my wife once mentioned that. You were snapped up by a five-star restaurant in the city, as I recall.”

“Before my marriage, yes. After that, I was a stay-athome wife and mother. When my husband died, I…needed extra income, so I opened a small catering company.”

“You’re now self-employed, then?”

“Yes.”

“You hire others to help you?”

“Not always. At first, I could handle the entire workload alone. Now that my clientele has increased, I do bring in extra help on occasion, but still do most of the food preparation myself.”

“And offer a very exclusive service to your patrons, I’m sure.”

“Yes. They expect me to oversee special events in person.”

“A demanding business, being one’s own boss, don’t you find? What prompted you to tackle such an undertaking?”

“It allowed me to be at home with my son when he was a baby.”

“Resourceful and enterprising. I admire that in a woman.” He steepled his fingers and regarded her sympathetically. “How do you find it, now that your son’s older?”

“It’s not so easy,” she admitted. “He’s long past the age where he’s content to play quietly in a corner while I create a wedding buffet for sixty people.”

He allowed himself a small, sympathetic smile. “I don’t doubt it. So who looks after him when you’re away taking care of the social needs of strangers?”

“My next-door neighbor,” she replied, wincing inwardly at his too-accurate assessment of her clientele. “She’s an older woman, a widow and a grandmother, and very reliable.”

“But not quite as devoted to him as you are, I’m sure.”