Massimilliano was not an impulsive man, nor a man ruled by his emotions and certainly not one to take a second look at a woman so aesthetically uncoordinated. Issy Riley was so unlike any of the women he normally dated. How long had it been since one had quickened his pulse-rate?
He'd known super-models, divas and heiresses and not one was as plain nor as pretty in an odd sort of chaotic way as Issy Riley. With her masses of rosé tousled, just-got-out-of-bed hair tumbling in every direction she was not at all what he had expected. But then there was something refreshingly invigorating about her. Something dangerous that made Massimilliano wonder what it would be like to touch her.
Yes, he thought with surprising relief, she was definitely more bohemian artist than high-class model with flighty temperaments, and hearts as hardened and frozen as his. Issy Riley oozed passion and authenticity. She was an unusual woman, perhaps a sapphire in the raw. Instinct told him she was one of those rare people who just isn't aware of her potent sensuality and the power she yielded.
And that made her hazardous.
Massimilliano’s head began to spin. What was he thinking? He knew nothing of her. No doubt she would be like every other woman he had ever met, needy, demanding attention and continuously distracting him from his work. Or tortured and conniving, in search of a fortune or wanting to party, party, party.
Before he knew it he'd have a ball and chain around his ankle being dragged down the aisle of the Cathedral Duomo, preventing him from getting to the glory that he knew was within him, the one that would immortalise him as King.
No. He didn't do the C word. Commitment. Not since coming dangerously close with Lucrezia. She had been all of those women, coiled into one poisonous package.
Work, in capitals, bolded and italicised with an exclamation mark, was his saviour, the only thing he would ever commit to. ‘WORK! WORK! WORK!’ he affirmed, forcing his mind from Issy to the task at hand, as the Indian merchants he'd met with earlier advanced toward him and handed him more fabric samples.
His work was all consuming, the only area of his life he could be certain of maintaining full control. Max’s fingers slid along the soft, sinuous fibers of the silk, and his traitorous mind wondered with one heart-stopping moment whether Issy Riley's flawless skin would respond as the silk did, writhing and twisting in response to his touch.
Something about that woman and the effortless way she'd attracted his interest threatened his fastidiously erected barricade. Suddenly this whole artist's therapy gobbledygook retreat his sister had talked him into looked like a perilous idea.
She, unlike any woman before her, was more dangerously unpredictable than the serpent he had rescued from the engulfing sea. Her green, almost feline eyes, deep with insight seemed to see right into his soul exposing a vulnerability he'd learnt to keep hidden.
He could not fire her, but he would ensure he kept her at a distance.
*
'Oh my God, Nancy!!! I can't believe it! I mean...wow! You never told me he'd be so good looking. I made a right fool of myself.' Careful not to knock over the glass she was soaking her watercolor brushes in Issy leaned closer to her iPad.
'Kids I can help, but him? How am I supposed to concentrate? Did you set me up?' Issy said, a frown furrowing her brow as she stared at the image of her business partner on Skype.
'I swear,' Nancy said, crossing her heart. 'The woman who made the booking was very secretive. She didn't tell me her brother was going to be a hunk.’ Nancy said, picking up her coffee cup and slurping noisily.
'Try drop dead sexy! Toweringly tall, heart wrenchingly handsome. Particularly perfect.' Achingly dangerous. Issy pushed her paints to one side, glanced out of the hotel room and gazed at the ocean. It was hard to believe that something which looked like a haven of calm had the potential to swell without warning, flooding and causing devastation in its wake.
'She told you none of that?' Equal measures of terror and exhilaration surged through Issy's chest as she thought of her client standing at the water’s edge, the sea snake at his feet, as he went to its rescue.
'I thought you were off men?'
'I am, but my traitorous body is annoyingly impervious. It’s like looking at the sun. You know you shouldn’t but it’s so dazzingly hypnotic.'
'Bonus!'
'No, Nancy, it's not a bonus.' Issy's already agitated heartbeat quickened. 'This adds a whole different level of complexity. For one, I'm out of my depth. Two, he made it quite clear that he regards sex, not delving into his psyche, as the ultimate form of relaxation.'
She felt her heart lurch and told herself it was anxiety, certainly not the thought of tangling in the sheets with the owner of such an amazing physique.
'And three,' she said, noticing with alarm the high trill of her voice. 'I just can't see him taking art therapy seriously.'
'It's not meant to be serious.'
'I know—at heart everybody's a child, and having fun via art therapy is the perfect way to restore the balance. I know all of this. I wrote the manifesto for our business remember. 'Of course we'll succeed. You're brilliant. Besides, the brief was pretty fluid,' Nancy said, stepping from the screen and returning with a fist-full of papers.
'Define fluid,' Issy said, her gaze drifting to the splash of carmine red watercolor seeping across her painting, igniting a memory of the fire in Mr Johnstone’s eyes when he'd told her that sex was his favorite form of relaxation.
Issy's heart began to pulse against her chest as a dangerous blaze ignited inside her. Sitting upright in her chair and giving Nancy her full attention she forced her mind back to the business at hand.
'His sister contacted me,' Nancy said, flourishing a piece of paper in front of the screen. 'She said she liked the sound of our art therapy program and thought it would be perfect for her brother,' she said, scanning the document. 'Something about capturing the childhood he never had.' Lifting her head to the screen Nancy looked at Issy. 'Are you Okay? You look flushed?'
'Yip,' Issy said, sucking in her breath. 'It's just super humid over here.'
Nancy frowned, narrowing her gaze dubiously. 'Okay. All I was told was he needed to destress, to stop being so serious, and learn to have some fun. I figured, how hard can it be? And let's face it. You could do with having some fun too. You haven't been yourself. Not since—'
'Not since someone videoed my fiancé screwing his PA at the Christmas party last year and uploaded the gross debacle to YouTube. You can say it. I'm beyond caring.' Issy manufactured a well-practiced I-don't-care smile, a smile which she hoped hid her growing belief that she would never find a man who wouldn't let her down.
Something was obviously wrong with her, perhaps some past-life karmic debt Why else was she always attracting men who cheated on her? Well, she didn't need to find out because she wouldn't bother trying again. She was happy on her own.
No drama's, no second guessing, no trying to be someone that somebody wanted. Nope, she was free. Wasn't that what she always wanted?
Issy swallowed hard, ignoring the rising metallic taste that swum in her mouth when she didn't buy a word of what she’d just told herself.
'Forgetting what that jerk did to you by burying your heart in work this Christmas is perfect timing. And there's nothing in the rule book that says you can't enjoy yourself. Hanging out in paradise with a handsome stallion sounds like just the rescue remedy you need.'
Issy frowned. 'I don't need rescuing, Nancy.'
‘You do, Issy. Remember our promise? Remember how we both said no matter how many men broke our hearts that we’d never give up on love.’
‘I haven’t given up on love.’
‘I know but you’re paying it lip service. You say you’re open to taking another chance. You say you still believe in happily ever after. Marriage. Kids. A white picket fence.'
'I’d like a castle,’ Issy added.
'Okay, a castle—and a prince.’ You’re saying all the right things, but you’re not taking any action. You haven’
t been on date in how long? You have to do something. Go out. Kiss a toad. Kiss a frog. Kiss anyone.'
'Settle.'
'I’m joking.'
'You sound like my mother. I’m just not ready.'
'Who’s ever ready? You’ll be ready when you stop hiding and get out and try.' Nancy said.
'Right now I’d just like to be able to pay the bills.’
'Yip, and you're the one always banging on about the Universe and manifesting miracles. We haven't worked with adults before and then out of the blue here come Mr Rich, an expressway to the high-end corporate market. Who knows where this could lead!’
Issy's gaze shot to the time at the top of the screen. 'Oh, my god! Is that the time? Nancy, I've gotta go!'
Issy shut down her iPad and rose from the desk, nearly knocking the cup of water she'd been dipping her brushes into. She glanced at the time again. 'Damn! Damn!Damn!' Yanking the painting smock over her head she threw it into a plastic bag, zipped it shut and wedged it into her already billowing suitcase.
Don't be late, Mr Johnstone had commanded, as though affirming the inevitable. So maybe it was true—she was always getting lost in time. Especially when doing what she loved, losing herself in the sensual fluid beauty of watercolor.
While she was a failure at relationships, give her some paints and a canvas and she could rustle up something close to success. She smiled briefly as she studied the abstract wash of fiery reds and tangerine and melon hues, streaked with gold, capturing the morning sunrise.
Art was less fickle, more loyal, less unpredictable than any man, she mused rolling up her brushes and placing them with the watercolor in a satchel. While her idea of heaven right now was time alone with her box of paints it was an indulgence she could not afford. Mr Johnstone didn't strike her as a man who'd wait for anyone.
Thrusting her feet into a turquoise floor length kaftan dress printed with a riot of abstract hummingbirds she bunched her hair into a wild knot, slapped on some tinted lip balm, and heart hammering, grabbed her suitcases.
Pulling the handles she dragged them out of her hotel room, and walked briskly to the end of the landing. 'Why did I pack so much?' she cursed, almost tripping on the hem of her dress as she heaved her suitcases down two flights of stairs.
Issy paused for a heartbeat on the landing, and took a hurried look at the hotel clock. It was only 7:00 am. 6:51 to be precise but the morning air hissed with heat. She intensified her pace and hurried onto the hibiscus-lined walkway leading to the hotel lobby. The blazing bush of flowers passed in a blur of fiery red as she rattled over the marble tiles, clutching the billowing fabric of her dress knotting around her ankles.
But the willful suitcase wheels had minds of their own, pirouetting in opposing directions as she tried to run. She yanked again and then released the handles, sighing with exasperation. The bags crashed to the ground with a thunderous thud. The zip sent out a splintering groan, then burst spewing the contents of her case metres from the foyer.
'Oh, damn!' Her hands flew to her mouth as she dropped on her knees and hurried to retrieve her clothes strewn in a tangled heap in the garden.
'Can I help?' The rich lyrical accent slid over her like red silk.
Issy's face flamed. Yip, this was so her unlucky day. She fixed her eyes on his sleek loafers as an unmistakeable powerful frame cast a shadow over her.
'Nope, it's all good,' she muttered, her voice dry.
'Yours I believe?' he said, draping her wayward G-string before her eyes.
She looked up slowly, mortification weaving through every fiber of her body. Her traitorous eyes inched the length of his powerfully built athletic legs, trailed the fitting cut of his extraordinarily well-tailored casual trousers, crawled the length of his muscular thighs, beckoning her eyes beyond. Beyond anything she was ever going to look at, or feel, or touch.
Avoiding his gaze, she reached out to extract her knickers suspended from his wide, tapered fingers. Her hands brushed against his warm skin, causing every hair on her body to flame with pulsing heat. 'Thanks,' she stammered, her mouth dry as Fijian sand.
'I thought we were meeting in the lobby,' she said, staring up into his gorgeous face rampant with masculine beauty, framed magnetically by thick waves of dark hair. 'I’m not late am I?'
His fingers circled the heavy silver links of his Omega watch, then clamped the black face, his dark brows furrowing as he checked the time across four continents 'Not yet,' he said, pinning her with his searing gaze.
So he wasn't going to do a runner and leave without her, Issy though with a mix of disappointment and relief.
'Your punctuality is appreciated. As is your underwear.' Jaw-droppingly gorgeous dimples framed his lips as they curved into a brief smile, and the humor in his tone made her stomach somersault, demolishing what few defences she had in an instant. She plastered a super-composed smile on her face, ignoring the butterflies in her gut and piled the last of her clothes into her suitcase, then sat on it, forcing the zipper shut.
As she went to stand he held out his hand. 'Allow me to help, mia cara’
Issy hesitated. She'd vowed never to accept help from any man again, no matter how innocuous. ‘It’s all good,’ she said, as she struggled to rise her sandals snagged on the hem of her dress.
'I insist, principessa.’
Reluctantly she took his palm in hers and allowed him to sweep her to her feet. Her hand pulsed with electricity. His breath felt warm against her face, his cologne spicy and sultry as she drew beside him. She sensed his body tense as though as unsettled as she was by the chemistry that throbbed between them.
His brows knotted into a troubled line as he took a step back. 'I see you dressed for the climate.' His lush lips pressed together in a hard and grim line.
She noticed his eyes wince as he studied the dizzyingly array of colors and patterns splashed over her dress. 'You look like you've just eaten a lemon,' she bit.
'On the contrary. It's actually disarmingly charming.’ He reached out to touch her dress, trailing his fingertips along the neckline, then pressing slightly on her shoulder as though she was a mannequin. To her chagrin rather than protest her body revelled in his touch, pirouetting with the grace of a ballerina.
His eyes were a pool of molten silver as her gaze again met his. 'Crazy,' he said darkly. His hot gaze alighted on Issy, making her skin tingle and her body feel way too hot. 'Madness.' He pulled his hand away, as though the sensual attraction that burned through her body burned through his too.
She’d be mad to entertain such dangerous thoughts. 'I love color,' she said, deliberately misunderstanding him. 'And if it's crazy, then good. When I wear this dress, it's a living, breathing affirmation. A giant, floor length reminder that life is to be lived with color and joy and spontaneity.
‘As the artist Paul Klee says, one eye sees and the other feels. I'm done with feeling blah. I'm over feeling invisible. I'm spent with feeling I have to fit to everyone else's expectations about how I should act and think and feel. ‘I’ve been there, done that, wore the monotone tee-shirt and suffocated,' she bit, gesturing to his immaculately tailored black attire.
'I want to be crazy, I want to be wild, I want to breathe,' she said, not caring that she was blabbering. She tilted her chin and fixed him with a determined stare. 'I'm a recovering conformist.'
'I can see that,' he said arching an eyebrow. 'You’ve certainly gone to a great deal of effort to show your contempt for fashion. But I’ve always admired people who have a sense of themselves,' his eyes drifted over her pink hair, while searching for words. 'To express your feelings regardless of other’s opinions is admirable.'
'Admirable?' Issy studied him skeptically. Was he complimenting her? She didn’t dress like this to get compliments. She dressed like this to keep men away.
‘What about you? 'Why would you want to look like you're always going to a funeral?' she challenged. 'Black does nothing for you,' she lied, as they walked through the foyer to the waiting limou
sine.
'You speak your mind.' Max signalled to the waiting staff member to pick up their luggage.
'Didn't you last night, when you told me what to wear? I think what you wear should be fun,' she said, as they passed the gift shop.
'Fun?' he said, his tone incredulous.
'Honestly, how do you feel dressed neck to toe in black?'
'I like the lines, the structure, the simplicity. Colour is distracting. I prefer tonal subtlety. Graphite greys and obsidian blacks, they are my preferred palette.'
Issy stepped toward the tourist shop in the lobby, bulging with a kaleidoscopic montage of Fijian shirts.
'That wasn't what I asked. I asked, how does black make you feel?'
Max remained outside the store, stoic and silent.
'When did you last let out your inner child?' Issy asked gently, sensing his heart was so frozen, his emotions so foreign to him he couldn't even name them.
His lips pressed into a firm, unyielding line.
Just as she thought. Fun had been off his agenda, just as it had been from hers for far too long. She had no idea what had caused him to be so resolutely serious, but she was up for the challenge. She sensed by helping him she would help herself. And she knew just the place to start. ‘Pick one,’ she said, as she headed toward a rack of brightly coloured shirts.
'We'll be late.'
'Not if you don't hold us up,' she challenged.
His dark gaze was intent on hers as he strode toward her, his posture stiff and uncompromising.
'I'm sure your clothes are expensive,' she said, as she rifled through the racks, 'but something with more vibrancy wouldn't go amiss. Something like this.' Issy pulled out a shirt ripe with pineapples and swaying palm trees.
No matter how gaudy the shirt was, she thought holding the shirt up to him, she was sure his muscular physique would pop. The challenge could be finding something to accommodate his extra wide shoulders.
She felt him tense and laughed, something she suddenly realized she hadn't done in months. It was fun playing dress-ups with a man so firmly against anything she may introduce, she thought enjoying the look of mortification on his face.
The Italian Billionaire’s Christmas Bride Page 3