THE day Lucy had discovered she was pregnant, she’d started planning her dream wedding. A little white church in springtime. Flowers in bloom. A fluffy white dress. A homemade cake with white buttercream frosting. Alex next to her. And in her arms, the honorary flower girl or ring bearer—their baby.
Lucy had never imagined she would marry a stranger in a hotel, with no church, no cake and no dress. When she’d gotten ready for work that afternoon, wearing jeans, her mother’s old sweatshirt, a ponytail and no makeup—she’d never imagined she was getting dressed for her wedding.
She had no friends. No family. The only witnesses were Maximo’s thin-faced lawyer and the two gorgeous women glaring bullets into Lucy’s back.
Strangely Lucy had no difficulty promising to love, honor and obey Maximo. It was almost pathetically easy. She repeated the judge’s words, echoing Maximo’s responses, hypnotized by his gaze. His eyes pinned her, searing her, controlling her will. Burning into her with the intensity of pure blue flame.
He slipped a gold band on her finger, and just like that, it was over.
“You’ll file the license?” Maximo said quietly, shaking the judge’s hand.
“It will all be arranged. As of this moment, you are married.” The judge beamed at her. “Congratulations. Best wishes to you both.”
“Such a beautiful ceremony.” The blonde sniffled. Lucy turned in surprise to see her dabbing her mascara with a tissue. “So romantic.”
But Esmé, the brunette, was staring at Lucy in shock.
“How did you do it?” she whispered. “You’re nothing. Just look at you.” She slowly looked Lucy up and down. “For three years, I’ve been starving myself to be thin. Exercising till I dropped. Spending a fortune on clothes. Following him around the world in hopes of one glance, one kiss.” Her beautifully made-up face was numb. “How did you do it? How did you make him love you?”
Lucy sucked in her breath. Half an hour ago, she’d despised the countess. Now she felt desperately sorry for her. The woman was in love with a man who didn’t deserve it—a playboy who was incapable of love.
Lucy wanted to comfort her, to explain, He doesn’t love me. “Countess—”
But Maximo grabbed her wrist, glowering down at her as if he knew what she’d been about to say.
“Come with me, my bride.”
He pulled her out of the bedroom, and into the party being celebrated in his presidential suite. The loud honking of noisemakers reverberated over cheering in Italian and English.
“The world must believe we are in love,” he ground out in a low voice. “You will tell no one of our arrangement.”
“But she’s in love with you!”
The clinking of crystal glasses intensified as everyone rushed to refill their glasses with champagne.
“You swore to honor and obey. And yet you again attempt to defy me.”
The party guests crowding the rooms of the lavish suite started a drunken countdown to the brand-new year.
“Ten…”
He pulled her close, his intent clear in his smoldering blue eyes. “And now you will pay.”
“Nine…”
As if they were the only two people in the room, Maximo held her in his strong arms.
“Eight…”
“No,” she gasped, trembling at the sensation of his hard body against her own. “Please—”
“Seven…”
Over the raucous noise of the party, he spoke directly into her ear, pressing his rough, scratchy cheek against her own. “You’ve challenged me.”
“Six…”
A group of young men started cheering noisily in Italian.
“Intrigued me.”
“Five…”
An elderly couple toasted each other, smiling tenderly.
Lucy looked up into her husband’s handsome face. “But I don’t—don’t want—”
“Four…”
Maximo stroked her cheek, tilting up her head as, with agonizing slowness, he lowered his mouth near hers. “What don’t you want?”
“Three…”
Her lips were full, swollen beneath his gaze. Her breasts were taut, her nipples hard and aching for his touch.
“A kiss,” she whispered.
“Two…”
Saying a kiss caused her lips to brush against his. Her mouth sizzled, sending waves of longing from the tip of her tongue to the sudden ache between her legs.
Desire for him arched her body like an electric current—desire she was fighting with all her might. She couldn’t let him kiss her. She couldn’t let him start their marriage off that way. If she did, who knew where it would end?
“One! Happy New Year!”
The whole suite went crazy, embracing each other and tossing party hats in the air. The string quartet burst into a rendition of “Auld Lang Syne.”
And her dark prince kissed her.
His lips were featherlight. She tried to push him away, battering at his shoulders, but as his kiss became more passionate, more ardent, she sagged in his arms. He drew her closer. His large hands wrapped around her hips, holding her firmly against his body. There was no space between them as his tongue flicked against her mouth, spreading her lips, entwining her in a sensual caress.
His kiss shot through her, pulsing a burst of light down her veins, exploding from her fingertips and toes. A blast of desire crashed through her like lightning splitting the sky.
She forgot the guests around them—the senators and starlets.
Forgot the thirty million dollars.
Forgot she’d vowed never to give herself to another man.
She knew only that this was meant to be. She was meant to be his woman…
An eternity—or a second—later, he drew away from her. And he looked down into her star-filled eyes.
“Sì, cara, sì,” he whispered, stroking her cheek. “You’ll be mine.”
His at last.
As his Gulfstream IV jet began the descent into Milan, Maximo closed his laptop and looked at his new bride. She was sleeping on the white leather sofa across from his, cuddling her slumbering baby in her arms.
Lucia Ferrazzi. Per miracolo, he’d found her. And with the prenuptial agreement, he’d made sure that she and her daughter would be protected and safe forever. He’d never need to feel guilty again. He’d be free.
And his revenge on her grandfather was at hand. For the rest of the old man’s life—however short it might be—he would know that he’d lost everything to Maximo. His precious company. His granddaughter. Giuseppe Ferrazzi would believe that Lucia loved her husband. He would see her and she would be completely under Maximo’s control.
The old man would hear that his granddaughter and great-granddaughter had been found, but he would never be allowed to speak to either of them. Giuseppe Ferrazzi would die penniless. Alone. Just as he deserved.
Maximo’s lips curved into a smile. He glanced at his bride. But dannazione, the girl was no fool. He’d thought it would be so easy to seduce her. He’d seen the kind of life she led—the constant struggle, the deprivation, the fight for survival. Women always fell to him so easily; he’d never once considered that he could propose marriage to Lucia and she would refuse.
Her mistake. She’d issued him a challenge. He’d accepted.
And now that he’d kissed her…
Maximo looked at Lucia, sleeping on the sofa. Her ponytail was so disheveled that it barely clung to her head above the cascading dark tendrils. She’d taken off her glasses, and her fresh-scrubbed skin glowed like porcelain.
There was something about her. Some quality beneath the dowdy clothes. A steely strength, a soft vulnerability. She was different from any woman he’d known.
And that kiss.
He touched his mouth. He could still feel it. The trembling touch of her lips, the way she’d desperately tried to resist before succumbing in his embrace.…
He took a deep breath, savoring the anticipation. He hadn’t been so excited by the prospect of any seduction in a long time.
Perhaps he should have pressed her for more kisses, instead of immediately ordering a car to take them to the airport.
No. He stroked his chin. It was still too soon.
In seduction, as in business, timing was everything.
But he wanted her. And so he’d have her. Why not? Why not add one more layer of pleasure to the whole endeavor? After all, he’d never been married before, and he likely never would be again.
They’d been married with just minutes to spare.
The fact that she didn’t trust him only proved her intelligence. He’d deliberately had to distract her before she looked too closely at the prenuptial agreement.
But he’d make sure she lived in luxury and comfort for the rest of her life. Thirty million dollars was nothing. After their divorce, she would receive hundreds more. Too generous of him, perhaps. But he wanted the debt paid in full.
After everything he’d read in the private investigator’s report, the neglect Lucia had endured in foster care, the terrible, desperate poverty she’d experienced over the last year, he wanted to make sure he never had to think about it again.
And after their divorce, he would finally be free.
She’d lose her stake in Ferrazzi SpA—but what did she, or any woman, care about running a company? She would be happy buying jewels and clothes and toys for her daughter, entertaining friends at gorgeous parties, buying homes across the world. Whatever she desired. If she wanted a real husband, he’d even find her one.
She would be happy. He’d see to it.
And then he could comfortably forget her, and be able to enjoy his life again. It had been too long since he’d truly enjoyed anything…
The baby suddenly hiccuped. She was sleeping across her mother’s chest, her plump arms flung carelessly over Lucia’s shoulders. Such a sweet child. Wentworth really was a fool, Maximo thought. To desert his pregnant lover, and then deny his own daughter…
His jaw hardened. The man deserved what he was about to get. If Lucia had been pregnant with Maximo’s child, he would have treated them both like gold.
But that was a ridiculous thought. Giuseppe Ferrazzi would soon be dead. Maximo would write Lucia an enormous check, bid her farewell and go back to his carefree bachelor life.
The world was full of beautiful women. He would never tie himself down to just one. Particularly not to an unstylish twenty-one-year-old with a smart mouth. He preferred his lovers to be more seasoned. More sophisticated. He preferred gorgeous, experienced women who understood the game for what it was.
His attraction for Lucia would not last. He would soon grow tired of her, as he did of every other woman.
Although at the moment, that was hard to imagine.
As if she felt his steady gaze, her eyes fluttered open. For several seconds, she stared at him as if trying to wake up from a dream. Then, careful not to wake the baby sleeping in her arms, she sat up. Rubbing the back of her neck, she gave him a tremulous smile. “How long was I asleep?”
“We’ll be landing in a few minutes.”
“I slept the whole Atlantic away.” She looked down at her sleeping baby. “And so did she. I can hardly believe it, after the way she cried during takeoff. Our first time on a plane,” she explained.
No, it’s not, he thought. But he said only, “Did you enjoy your flight?”
She looked around the plane, with its luxurious white leather couches, then gave a soft laugh. “It’s amazing. Although I can’t help but wonder—” she eyed the pristine, snow-white carpet “—who keeps that clean. I have a hard time picturing you with a shampooer.”
He returned her grin. “You’re right. I have people for that.” As if on cue, one of his assistants emerged from the back cabin with a large garment bag. “Lucia, this is Paola Andretti. She’s my personal assistant and fashion liaison. She is going to help you.”
His short-haired, ultrathin assistant, cutting-edge fashionable as always, smiled down at Lucia pleasantly.
“Help me with what?” Lucia said uneasily.
“Your clothes,” he said.
“I like what I’m wearing now!”
Maximo leaned back against his sofa, confident and comfortable in his pressed Italian trousers, his bespoke black shirt, his immaculate black shoes. Quirking an eyebrow, he allowed his eyes to deliberately trace her ratty sweatshirt, her old jeans.
Her pale cheeks became as scarlet as roses.
Good. So she knew. At least that was a start.
“You always want the truth,” he said. “Bene. The truth is that you have the worst fashion sense I’ve ever seen. My conglomerate comprises ten luxury brands, including the world’s most expensive champagne, accessories and haute couture. You are wearing clothes that barely look fit for dogs to sleep in. No one will ever believe that I am in love with you. From now on, you will wear what I give you.”
Her pink mouth, so luscious and full even without lipstick, fell open. Then her expressive eyes narrowed as she snatched up her glasses. “Like hell I will!”
Paola discreetly disappeared to the back cabin of the plane, but Lucy barely noticed. “You can’t tell me what to wear!”
He calmly opened a copy of the Chicago Tribune to the business page. “Until you learn how to properly dress yourself, I can and I will.”
Scowling, she ripped open the garment bag, staring at the supershort purple silk trapeze dress, fishnet stockings and black patent leather boots he’d selected for her. Her jaw dropped.
“You want me to look like a stripper?” she said accusingly.
“It is the highest fashion.”
“Not for me, it isn’t!”
“Do you truly consider yourself to be an arbiter of style?”
She ground her teeth. “This sweatshirt belonged to my mother!”
“Your mother?” he mused, turning his attention back to the business headlines. “Impossible.”
“You didn’t even know her!”
Abruptly remembering who she was talking about, he put down the newspaper. “Lucia—”
“Call me Lucy!”
“Lucia, you don’t seem to realize your new position. My company sets the fashion trends of the world. For the months you are my wife, I expect you to dress with some self-respect.”
“Self-respect?” she cried. “Clothes have nothing to do with self-respect! What difference does it make what I wear—except to snobby rich people like you?”
“Ma-ma-ma?” Jabbering as she woke, Chloe stretched in her arms, reaching for her mother’s face. In spite of her anger Lucia’s face instantly softened as she looked down at her daughter. “Good morning, my baby,” she said tenderly, kissing her plump, rosy cheeks. “Did you sleep well?”
Then she straightened in her seat, giving Maximo a hard glare—as if he were an outsider, an interloper, some stronzo who would cruelly force a woman to wear designer clothes against her will.
He sighed. Tenting his hands, he leaned forward. “Lucia, per favore—”
“No!” Childishly she turned her face away, dropping the purple silk to the floor like discarded rubbish.
He realized he’d hurt her feelings.
Maledizione, he swore to himself. This would require more care than he’d thought.
Leaning forward, he spoke quietly.
“You’re a beautiful woman, cara. All I want is for the whole world to esteem you as I do. Presenting la bella figura will show all of Europe what I already know—that you are a woman unlike any other. A good heart, a fine mind, great strength of will, you are…bellissima.”
She slowly turned toward him. She wouldn’t meet his eyes as she repeated—as if afraid to ask the question, “Bellissima?”
“Look at me.”
She took a deep breath, then looked up. He leaned across the wide aisle between them.
“Truly.” He placed her hands together, enfolding them in his larger ones. “You are—” he kissed the knuckle of her right hand “—truly beautiful—” he opened her trembling left hand and slowly kissed her tender palm “—and I want the whole world to know. Lucia.”
“Yes?” she whispered, her dark eyelashes fluttering against her cheek.
“Try the clothes. For me. Won’t you?”
“Yes.” She rose to her feet so quickly that she took one stumble forward, nearly losing her balance as she held Chloe under one arm. Still looking dazed, she picked up the purple silk.
And Maximo realized he’d made a mistake.
The purple dress would have looked perfect on Esmé or Arabella or any of the other women he’d taken to his bed. But it was all wrong for her.
“I’ve changed my mind,” he said.
“But I—”
“No,” he said abruptly. “That dress is not for you. We will delay our arrival at Lake Como to go shopping in Milan.” He looked at the squirming baby in her arms. She was still wearing old pajamas. “For both of you.”
A smile lit up Lucy’s face.
“Oh, Maximo, really?” she exclaimed. “Chloe has outgrown nearly everything she has. I would love new clothes for her. But are you—are you sure you don’t mind? About the money, I mean?”
He nearly laughed aloud. Just seeing the joy on his bride’s face made her so impossibly beautiful that he wondered why he hadn’t thought of taking her shopping before.
“Buy everything you want,” he vowed. “If Milan runs out of clothes, we will go to Rome.”
“Oh!” she cried, beaming at him. But her face suddenly fell. “But it’s New Year’s Day. The shops will be closed.”
Now he really did laugh. “They will open for me.”
“They will?”
“Lucia. Half of them are mine. The other half wish they were.”
A shadow suddenly passed over her face. “Like your women,” she whispered.
He reached for her hand, pulling her to sit next to him on the white leather sofa. “I have only one wife.”
He felt her tremble, and he was tempted to kiss her. Then Chloe, sitting on her mother’s lap, cooed happily at him, holding out her arms. Surprised, he picked her up.
The baby dropped her tattered purple hippo and started stretching wildly toward the white carpet. He got the toy for her, then paused, looking down at it. The hippo was a ragged little thing, with one eye missing and its plush fur a muddied brownish-violet. But Chloe was instantly happy when he handed it to her. She waved it around furiously with one hand, laughing with abandon.
And against his will, Maximo remembered the last time he’d held a baby. The smoke. The crackle of the fire. The wail, and then the explosion…
“What’s wrong?” Lucy asked suddenly.
He shook his head, scattering the haunting image from his mind. “Nothing.”
But his unwilling memory proved the situation was more risky than he’d thought. Somehow Lucia and her baby had broken through his defenses, forcing him to remember everything he was determined to forget.
Seducing Lucia would be dangerous.
But that was all the more reason to do it, he thought. His enjoyment of her company only made it clear that his life of so-called pleasure had been a life without spark.
He wanted her fire. Needed it. Needed her.
So he would take her. He’d just have to be constantly on his guard. He wouldn’t be vulnerable. He wouldn’t open his heart. He would just enjoy her.
And with any luck, he thought, the old man would die the day after his seduction was complete—and he could send her packing.