A D'Angelo Like No Other
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When trouble comes in twos…
Michael D’Angelo may be the driving force behind the successful Archangel galleries, but it doesn’t mean he’s perfect…he lost his halo years ago! Yet when a delectable woman shows up in Paris, claiming he’s the father to twins, it’s one mistake Michael is certain he’s not responsible for.
Fiery Eva Foster won’t walk away until the twins in her charge are reunited with their father. Now the one person she’d hoped would help is the only person standing in her way. A line has been drawn in the sand, but when the spark between them catches, all bets are off!
“I’ve never met your sister,” Michael stated firmly.
“So whatever scam the two of you are trying to pull here, I would advise that you forget it—” He broke off abruptly as one of Eva Foster’s hands made loud and painful contact with one of his cheeks, causing the baby in his arms to let out another deafening wail. “That was uncalled for,” he bit out between gritted teeth, his jaw clenched as he jiggled the baby up and down in his arms in an effort to silence her screams.
“It was very called for,” Eva Foster insisted heatedly, her face having become even paler as she moved forward to soothingly stroke the back of the baby in Michael’s arms. “How dare you stand there and deny even knowing my sister, accuse the two of us of trying to pull a scam on you, at the same time as you’re holding your own daughter in your arms!” Her eyes flashed deeply violet in contrast to the emotional shaking of her voice.
“I am not—” Michael broke off to draw in a deep, controlling breath, his cheek still stinging from that slap. “Sophie is not my daughter.”
“I assure you she is,” she snapped.
The Devilish D’Angelos
Sinners named for saints…
Known around the world for their prestigious Archangel auction houses and galleries in London, New York and Paris, the D’Angelo brothers are notorious for their prowess in the art world…but even more so for their exploits in their personal lives.
These Italian heartthrobs may have been named for angels, but their ruthless natures and powerful personas make them anything but angelic.…
Soar to LONDON for Gabriel D’Angelo’s story in
A Bargain with the Enemy
February 2014
Sail to NEW YORK for Raphael D’Angelo’s story in
A Prize Beyond Jewels
March 2014
Fly to PARIS for Michael D’Angelo’s story in
A D’Angelo Like No Other
April 2014
Enter the exclusive world of the D’Angelos in this dazzling new trilogy from Carole Mortimer!
CAROLE MORTIMER
A D’Angelo Like No Other
All about the author…Carole Mortimer
CAROLE MORTIMER is one of Harlequin’s most popular and prolific authors. Since her first novel was published in 1979, this British writer has shown no signs of slowing her pace. In fact, she has published more than 150 novels!
Her strong, traditional romances, with their distinct style, brilliantly developed characters and romantic plot twists, have earned her an enthusiastic audience worldwide.
Carole was born in a village in England that she claims was so small that “if you blinked as you drove through it you could miss seeing it completely!” She adds that her parents still live in the house where she first came into the world, and her two brothers live very close by.
Carole’s early ambition to become a nurse came to an abrupt end after only one year of training, due to a weakness in her back, suffered in the aftermath of a fall. Instead, she went on to work in the computer department of a well-known stationery company.
During her time there, Carole made her first attempt at writing a novel for Harlequin®. “The manuscript was far too short and the plotline not up to standard, so I naturally received a rejection slip,” she says. “Not taking rejection well, I went off in a sulk for two years before deciding to have another go.” Her second manuscript was accepted, beginning a long and fruitful career. She says she has enjoyed every moment of it.
Carole lives “in a most beautiful part of Britain” with her husband and children.
Carole loves to hear from her readers. She can be reached at contact@carolemortimer.co.uk or on her website, www.carolemortimer.co.uk.
Other titles by Carole Mortimer available in ebook:
A PRIZE BEYOND JEWELS (The Devilish D’Angelos)
A BARGAIN WITH THE ENEMY (The Devilish D’Angelos)
RUMORS ON THE RED CARPET (Scandal in the Spotlight)
A TOUCH OF NOTORIETY (Buenos Aires Nights)
Our son, Matthew, a man to be proud of.
Contents
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
EPILOGUE
EXCERPT
PROLOGUE
St Gregory’s Church, New York.
‘WEREN’T THE THREE of us sitting together in a church very like this one just a few weeks ago?’ Michael spoke mockingly to his youngest brother Gabriel as they sat in the front pew of the church crowded with wedding guests, their restless brother Rafe seated on his other side.
‘I believe we were, yes,’ Gabriel confirmed dryly. ‘Except on that occasion you and Rafe were my best men, and now we’re Rafe’s.’
‘How many weeks ago was that, exactly?’ Michael arched derisive brows.
‘Five wonderful, glorious weeks.’ Gabriel smiled at the thought of his own recent marriage to his beloved Bryn.
‘Hmm.’ Michael nodded. ‘Did I ever tell you of the conversation I had with Rafe that day, in which he assured me, most emphatically I believe, that he didn’t believe in this “one love of a lifetime” thing, and certainly had no intention of getting married in the immediate, or even distant, future?’
Gabriel glanced at their brother Rafe, holding back a smile as he saw the tension in Rafe’s white face as he waited for his bride to arrive at the church. ‘No, I don’t believe you did...’
‘Oh, yes.’ Michael settled more comfortably on the pew. ‘It was as we were standing outside the church together, when you and Bryn were posing for photographs. I seem to remember that Rafe had just received a call from one of his women, and—’
‘And this is hardly the time, or the place, for you to so much as mention any of that!’ A tense Rafe turned on them both fiercely, his brief relationship with the Parisian, Monique, having ended several months before he had even met his future bride.
The three D’Angelo brothers owned and ran the three prestigious Archangel galleries and auction houses, in New York, London and Paris. Until recently they had run those galleries on a casual two-to-three-month-rotation basis, depending on what exhibitions or auctions were taking place in each gallery, but Gabriel’s marriage to Bryn now meant that he was based mainly in London, Rafe would be spending most of his time in New York once he and Nina were married, leaving Michael in charge at the Paris gallery.
‘Nina is now five minutes late,’ Rafe muttered after another glance at his wristwatch, the tenth such glance in almost as few seconds.
‘It’s the bride’s prerogative to keep the man waiting,’ Gabriel dismissed unconcernedly. ‘
A case of “how the mighty have fallen”, don’t you think?’ he calmly continued his conversation with Michael.
‘Oh, most definitely.’ Michael nodded. ‘From what I’ve observed, he’s been totally off his head since the day he met Nina.’ He grinned unabashedly in the face of Rafe’s scowl.
‘Love does that to you.’ Gabriel nodded wisely. ‘It will be your turn next, Michael.’
His humour instantly faded. ‘I don’t believe so,’ he assured with grim certainty.
‘Famous last words...?’
‘Fact,’ Michael corrected tersely. ‘I can’t imagine ever willingly allowing any woman to get me into that state.’ He gave a pointed glance in Rafe’s visibly agitated direction.
‘When you two have quite finished!’ Rafe’s hands had clenched into fists, his expression one of pained tension as he turned to glare at his two brothers. ‘Nina is late, damn it!’
‘We heard you the first time...’ Michael arched one dark brow. ‘Do you think she might have changed her mind about marrying you?’
Rafe’s already pale face seemed to take on a greyish tinge as he groaned. ‘Oh, God...!’
‘Stop teasing him, Michael,’ Gabriel chided affectionately, his five-week marriage to Bryn having completely mellowed him. ‘Personally, I’m longing to see the beautiful matron of honour!’ He smiled at the thought of his wife.
Michael shrugged broad shoulders. ‘Calm down, Rafe. Nina will be here,’ he assured his brother dryly. ‘For some strange reason the woman is in love with you!’
‘Ha ha, very funny.’ Rafe scowled.
‘The limo is probably having trouble getting through the New York traffic, that’s all.’ Michael grimaced.
‘Lord, I hope so.’ Rafe’s face had taken on a slightly green tinge now. ‘I knew I should have gone ahead with my original plan and just persuaded Nina to elope!’
‘Not if you had wanted to continue living, Raphael Charles D’Angelo!’ his mother warned from the pew directly behind them, the whole of the D’Angelo family having once again gathered together to see another one of the three brothers married.
Which left Michael, the eldest brother at thirty-five, as the only remaining bachelor...
A state he intended to continue!
Oh, Michael was pleased for both of his younger brothers, had absolutely no doubt that Rafe and Gabriel loved the two women they had chosen as their wives, and that those two women loved them in return, that the two couples would have long and happy lives together. It just wasn’t a state, the love or the marriage, that Michael wanted for himself.
Ever.
He had been in love precisely once in his life, fourteen years ago, disastrously as it turned out, and it wasn’t an experience he had ever felt the slightest inclination to repeat. All that angsting and heartache had just made him miserable, the betrayal even more so, and he certainly hadn’t enjoyed the unpleasant feeling of having lost control of his emotions.
A feeling that he would find even more unacceptable after all these years of doing exactly as he pleased, when he pleased, with whomever and whatever woman he pleased.
No, as far as Michael was concerned, Rafe and Gabriel could provide the next generation of D’Angelos, because he had no intention of having his well-ordered life complicated by either a wife or children.
‘Oh, thank God...’ Rafe breathed his relief as the organist began to play the Wedding March announcing Nina’s arrival at the church, the three men standing up to turn and look at the bride as she walked down the aisle at her father’s side. Nina was a vision in white satin and lace, her smile radiantly beautiful, love shining in her eyes as she walked towards her bridegroom.
Michael felt a slight pang in his chest as he realised that his decision not to marry meant that no woman would ever gaze at him with such open adoration.
A pang he quickly quashed and buried, in the knowledge that he had no intention of ever falling victim to loving any woman in the way his brothers now loved their wives...
CHAPTER ONE
Archangel gallery, Paris. Two days later
‘WHAT THE—?’ MICHAEL looked up to scowl his displeasure as he heard what sounded like a baby crying in the office opposite his own. He stood up quickly behind his desk as several voices now clamoured to be heard above the noise.
The sound of raised voices, so close to the inner sanctum of Michael’s private third-floor office, was unusual enough, but a baby crying...? In one of the private areas of the prestigious Paris Archangel gallery and auction house? It was unheard of! And Michael had little patience for it having occurred now.
He continued to scowl as he strode forcefully across his office to wrench open the door into the hallway, only to come to an abrupt halt, his verbal protest dying in his throat at the pandemonium that met his narrowed gaze.
His secretary, Marie, was fiercely gabbling away in French, as was his assistant manager, Pierre Dupont. Both of them, as was usual with the French, communicating as much with their hands as with their mouths.
And standing between them, holding a young baby in her arms, was a young girl—woman?—with ebony shoulder-length hair, dressed in the de rigueur tight denims and fitted T-shirt of her generation. Her top was a bright purple, the expression on her flustered face flushed as she ignored both Marie and Pierre and instead attempted to soothe and cajole the crying baby into silence.
An attempt that failed miserably as the baby’s cries seemed to grow even louder.
‘Will you two please lower your voices?’ The young woman turned impatiently on Marie and Pierre, her voice throatily husky. ‘You’re scaring her. Now look what you’ve done...!’ she fumed as a second baby began to cry.
Michael looked around dazedly for the source of that second cry, his eyes widening as he noticed the pushchair parked just inside Marie’s office. A double pushchair, in which a second baby was now screaming at the top of its considerable lungs.
What the—?
Pandemonium? This situation, whatever that might be, was like some sort of hellish nightmare, the sort every man wished—prayed!—to wake up from. And sooner rather than later!
‘Thank you,’ the disgruntled young woman muttered accusingly as Marie and Pierre both fell silent as she hurried over to the pushchair before going down on her haunches to coo and attempt to gently soothe the second baby.
Michael had seen and heard enough. ‘Will someone, for the love of God, tell me what the hell is going on here?’ His voice cut harshly through the cacophony of noise.
* * *
Silence.
Absolute blissful silence, Eva realised with a sigh of appreciation for her aching head, as not only the two employees of the Paris Archangel remained silent, but even the babies’ cries both quietened down to a soft whimper.
Eva remained down on her haunches as she turned to look through sooty black lashes at the source of that harshly controlling voice, her eyes widening as she took in the appearance of the man standing across the hallway.
He was possibly aged in his mid to late thirties, his short black hair was neatly trimmed about his ears and nape, and framed an olive-skinned and handsomely etched face that any of the male models Eva had photographed at the beginning of her career would surely die for. Dark brows arched above eyes of obsidian black, his nose a long straight slash between high cheekbones, with sculptured, slightly sensual lips above a firm and determined chin.
His wide shoulders, muscled chest, tapered waist, and lean hips above long legs also ensured that he wore the expensively tailored dark suit, white silk shirt and grey tie, rather than the clothes wearing him.
And leaving Eva in no doubt, along with the deference on the faces of the two silent gallery employees, and the fact that he had come from the office across the hallway, that this man had to be D’Angelo. The very man she had come here
to see!
It was a realisation that ensured there was absolutely no deference in Eva’s own expression as she straightened before crossing the room to thrust Sophie at him. ‘Take her so I can get Sam,’ she instructed impatiently as he made no effort to lift the baby from her arms but instead looked at her incredulously, down the long length of his aristocratic nose, with those black-on-black eyes.
Michael found himself having to look a long way down. Goodness, this woman was small, only an inch or two over five feet tall compared to his own six feet three inches. She had a coltish slenderness that was saved from appearing boyish by full and thrusting breasts tipped by delicate nipples, breasts that were completely bare beneath the purple T-shirt, if Michael wasn’t mistaken. And he was pretty sure that he wasn’t.
Those full breasts, along with the confident glint in those violet-coloured eyes surrounded by thick sooty lashes, were enough to tell Michael that she was indeed a woman rather than a girl, and possibly aged in her early to mid-twenties.
She was also, he acknowledged grudgingly, extremely beautiful, her face dominated by those incredible violet-coloured eyes, a short pert nose, and full and sensuous lips, while her skin was as pale and delicate as the finest porcelain. Dark shadows beneath the violet eyes gave her an appearance of fragility.
A fragility that was somewhat nullified by the stubborn set of the woman’s full lips above an equally determined and thrusting chin.
Michael dragged his gaze away from that arrestingly beautiful face to instead stare down in horror at the pink-dress-clad baby this young woman held out in front of him; horror, because he had absolutely no experience with holding young babies. How could he have, when he had never been this close to a small baby since being one himself?
He recoiled back from the now-drooling infant. ‘I don’t think—’
‘I’ve found that it’s best not to think too much around Sophie and Sam, especially now they’re teething,’ he was assured dryly. ‘You might want to put this on your shoulder to protect your jacket.’