The Italian Billionaire’s Christmas Bride

by Mollie Mathews

  'Of course, in case you're wondering,' she said, her green eyes fixed on him. 'I'm not naive enough to think that art therapy can solve all their problems but it does help uncover the issues that keeps them stuck.'

  Pressing firmly on the page he drew a strong, black line. 'Do you have children?' He asked, steering the conversation firmly to safety.

  She took a shaky breath, and tucked that delicious strawberry hair behind her ears. 'I always wanted kids, but only if I could offer them some stability. I know it seems old fashioned, but I don't want to raise a child on my own. If I had children, I would want them to have two parents. Loving parents,' she added, quickly.

  'Not parents like mine, waring and self-focused parents.' She turned away from him, clenching the armrest with trembling fingers as she gazed out the window. 'I’d love to have my own children but things haven’t quite worked out that way,' she said, a resigned smile curved her mouth stiffly as she turned to face him. 'And you? Do you have kids?'

  Max took a deep breath, feeling his chest tighten. He'd known it from the start she would be doggedly persistent. He should say something, tell her how dysfunctional and selfish his parents—both sets—were too. How, perhaps if he’d had better role models for parents he mightn’t believe he’d be a failure dad.

  He could share war stories and tell her how being dumped at boarding school every Christmas was a twisted relief, sparing him from beatings or having to escape with his little sister onto the roof to distance himself from his foster parents savage, drink-fueled arguments.

  He could offer her some small morsel of information that might explain why he was like he was. Dangle some tiny hint before her that might help her better decipher the complex code that explained his behavior .

  But he said nothing.

  He had learned to block his feelings and never confide in others.

  And she was a therapist.

  Underestimating her could be fatal, especially to his reputation. He was a man of steel. He had the heart of a wolf. The mind of an eagle, single-minded, focused, controlled. If his competitors detected the slightest hint of weakness, the merest moral of vulnerability, the finest slither of insecurity they’d exploit it for their own commercial gain, destroying everything he’d fought so hard to maintain. He should know. He’d exploited his competitors weaknesses in exactly that cruel, heartless fashion.

  Besides his clothes spoke for him and she'd already detected the grim, funereal air to his garments.

  'My kids, she said, breaking the heavy silence, 'are my children. The kids in the centre,' she corrected as she turned her head, breaking their contact. She shrugged her shoulders. 'It's ironic. Sometimes I'm accused of caring too much.'

  Something that felt a lot like respect tugged his chest. For some all together odd reason in that moment it affirmed in his mind what a wonderful mother she would make, unlike—' he gripped the pen and forced his mind back to his sketch. He frowned, looking down at the chaotic weave of heavy black lines on the page.

  There was no doubt about it. This woman was a troubling distraction.

  *

  In just under an hour the plane began its descent. Issy pressed her nose to the window, gasping as a palatial villa appeared below them. Sitting like a jewel on top of a hill, ringed by coconut trees and exotic palms, it commanded a complex of private bures.

  'Gosh, if I owned even a fingernail of that I'd never want to leave.' she said, wondering why he didn't even bother to look out the window. 'Maybe having nothing makes you appreciate it more.'

  Max lifted his head briefly, grunted then bent his gaze toward his iPhone, jabbing an immaculately manicured finger at the neon screen. How he managed to hit the right buttons with those wide, strong, digits she didn't know. Neither did she know what was consuming his attention. Nor did she care personally, but she was going to make it her business. No matter how distracting he or his uber chic resort was.

  As they approached the island, a modern airport with a landing strip the length of 10 football fields materialised out of the remote, hewn rock. So this is how billionaires live she thought glancing down at a staff of 20 waiting to greet them at the edge of the runway. Issy’s stomach clenched then rose as the plane slid onto the tarmac. It was a fantasy world to which she could never belong.

  When the plane came to a stop, the crew pushed the door open and released the stairs. The cabin flooded with the sound of a full choir rivalling that of any southern Baptist parish.

  Max walked behind her at a distance, his posture stiff, as though aware of the unsettling energy that pulsed between them, as they disembarked. Which suited Issy perfectly. She was still thrown by the disconcerting effect he was having on her equilibrium. It was as though her mind and body had forsaken common sense and belonged to someone else.

  She glanced at Max as a small crew approached them to unload their luggage and transport them to the villa commanding the clifftop. It was far better he remain aloof and detached than touch her again like he'd done in the foyer of the hotel. The walls of her stomach fluttered at the heated memory.

  Max remained mutely silent, the ripple of a scowl etching his tanned brow, as he hesitated before ushering her into the back of the waiting sleek black Range Rover.

  A warm breeze, sweetly exotic fluttered through the open window, brushing against her skin like butterfly kisses. Yet even the unexpected sensuality couldn't melt her apprehensive mood as the convoy climbed toward the summit of the hill.

  Talking about herself on the plane was one thing, getting him to open up to her and participate in her art-therapy, quite another. Issy held her breath as they approached giant wrought-iron gates guarded by a pair of massive panthers carved in black granite as if to reinforce the exclusivity of the location.

  This was like Fantasy Island, she thought as the gates swung open, revealing an exotic play land. Brightly coloured birds and butterflies sailed amongst lush green plants and swaying palm trees, filling the air with song.

  A modern Garden of Eden, complete with all its vices, she thought looking at Max. This is not a fairy-tale, she reminded herself. This was work. And she was under no illusion that happily-ever-afters would ever be her life story. She bit her bottom lip. Hard.

  Nope, Massimilliano Balforni’s world wasn't her world and never would be. Her childhood memories were of mountainous family debts and frequent arguments fueled by stress. Money, she had learned, could change lives, but not always for the better. While her income was better than many working in the not-for-profit sector, she chose to pour her cash into helping kids who suffered similar hardships rather than spend it on frivolous possessions she could barely afford.

  She looked down at the faded hummingbirds on her turquoise dress, and tugged at the nylon fabric to stop it from clinging in all the wrong places in the sweltering heat. Even that was second-hand. Still, a girl can dream, she mused, savoring momentarily the idea that someone like her could find happiness in a place like this.

  As the Range Rover stopped beneath a wide hardwood portico leading to the villa's entrance she glanced over her shoulders at the suitcases piled in the back. She had her ingredients—paints and brushes and paper...And him. What was she going to do with him?

  'If I could bottle that scent I'd make a fortune,' Max said, his tone stripped of emotion, as he stepped from the Range Rover.

  'Frangipani, sweet coconut and white musk. Fresh, yet sexy and mysterious,' he looked at her briefly, then strode up the wide terraced steps fringed with exotic plants, winding toward the large open-aired entrance.

  Issy stared at him, her pulse fluttering. If I could bottle you, I'd make a fortune, she thought vowing never to succumb to his intoxicating masculinity.

  She couldn't begin to quantify how much some of her girlfriends would pay for a smidgen of time with Max Balforni. And here she was, with him all to herself on his luxurious wonderland of an island. Max the Legend, she thought making up a name she would keep only to herself.

  With his chiselled
dark beauty, unparalleled elegance and intelligence blending seamlessly into a powerfully masculine physique the name suited him.

  There was nothing legendary about the stoic Kiwi blokes back home. Issy couldn't imagine them dressing so exquisitely, nor ever talking about how fragrant something smelled—unless it was beer, which they drank by the truckload.

  This should be a dream, but it had all the hallmarks of being her worst nightmare, Issy thought as she stared at the powerful figure striding into the mansion.

  Were it not for the fact Max had his iPhone glued to his ear and the task which lay ahead she would have been entranced by the sheer beauty of the villa and luxuriant tropical garden. But she was far too anxious to think about anything other than the man she somehow had to change.

  Max Balforni. Fashion magnate. Brilliantly talented, impeccably controlled and obsessively perfect, she thought while studying the manicured plants.

  She stood at the entrance and waited for him to direct her to where they would be having their first session. With less than a week to complete her mission, the clock was ticking. What a success story destressing him would make. If she could ease his over active mind, penetrate his fortress of a heart, rejuvenate his soul, and bring more fun and levity into his life, she could help anyone. The accolades would be huge, hopefully drawing more lucrative, highly-strung clients looking for a way to relax and reclaim their genius. This was her big chance, she reminded herself. Six days to change all their lives.

  Issy plucked a passionflower tumbling over a low stone wall near the entrance and inhaled the delicate gardenia-like aroma renowned as a natural cure for anxiety, yet not even the sweetness of the scent could shift her apprehension.

  Glancing at the sprawling palatial villa, she was struck by the shocking display of wealth that oozed from every hardwood surface. It was an exotic palace beyond her wildest dreams. The entry alone was easily 40 times bigger than her own pokey little bed-sit back in New Zealand, she thought as Max signalled her to follow him inside.

  She scuttled to catch up with Max as he strode inside, his phone pressed to his ear, his shoulders tense, his face impenetrable. Was it her intuition or was it fear talking, but something warned her he didn't look in the least bit interested in participating in the session she had planned.

  Well what to do? He didn't strike her as a person she could order to take part in her program. That never worked with kids, and it sure wouldn't work with him. She could slow the pace a little, try the tortoise and the hare method. It's not who gets there fastest but who wins the race, she thought trailing after him.

  The house is a reflection of self, she had heard once. Her heart skipped a beat, beginning to relish the challenge. She would take a little time settling into things and see what Max Balforni's environment would reveal. After all, it was only early morning, and they had the rest of the day.

  'You're so lucky.' Issy sighed, 'This has to be the most beautiful place in the universe.' She beamed an extra wide sunny smile, sensing like an eagle if he detected the slightest sign of weakness he would circle for the kill.

  Her comment was met with stony silence. Not a muscle in his hard, handsome face moved as she strode ahead. Max's walk was purposeful with a controlled, yet impatient, strength to it as he led her through the villa. Clearly he was in a hurry to be rid of her.

  Issy slowed her pace deliberately, gasping audibly as she walked past walls lined with priceless artworks she'd only ever seen in borrowed books and on the Internet.

  'This place is like a museum. It’s immaculate,' Issy said, as she followed him past a living room double the size of a luxury-hotel lobby, opening out to a massive wrap-around deck with panoramic views of the sea. The vibrant turquoise hues of the ocean spreading below contrasted with the starkness of Max's mood. 'You must love coming here,' she ventured.

  'I don't have time for holidays,' he said. 'I have full-time staff to ensure it is available all year round for friends or family who may want to relax,' his tone was flat as though the thought of chilling surrounded by so much beauty didn't excite him one little bit.

  His footsteps were silent on the smooth marble floor, contrasting with her sandals clacking noisily as she quickened her pace to keep up with him. Friends with benefits no doubt, Issy thought. She didn't know a stitch about his love life but she didn't have to be a NASA scientist to guess that a man as handsome and wealthy as Max would be inundated with beautiful women offering their services.

  Suddenly she froze, her heart pounding, as they walked down a glass panelled hallway toward a painting as small as the Mona Lisa.

  'Oh, my gosh,' Issy’s breathing raced as she stepped closer, her nose almost pressed against the canvas as she traced every ethereal brush stoke. 'Is that a Morandi?' she gasped, her voice a high-pitched whisper. To anyone else the painting would just be a collection of ordinary objects—bottles and jars standing stoically against a muted background, but in the hands of a master even the ordinary could be elevated to transcendent beauty—and equally as potent.

  Max's grave mood lifted as his eyes followed the source of her attraction. He touched his mouth, drawing attention to his sensuous lips as he nodded.

  She gasped, mentally computing a painting of this worth was beyond anything she would ever experience up close in her lifetime. Her heart hammered with equal measures of thrill and fear, as though at any moment a security guard would command her to step back beyond the rail, or escort her from the house, except there was no barrier rail. And for the next few days at least, this house of treasure would be her home.

  Rummaging in her bag, she whipped out her camera 'May I take a photo?'

  His gaze narrowed as his dark, fierce eyes riveted to her. He nodded. 'Paintings should be appreciated.'

  She took several photos then turned to him. 'Gosh, this is like being in an art museum. We'll never see paintings like this in New Zealand, and there's no way I'll ever get to Europe, not on my wage.' Startled by the strange glint in his eye, she threw her attention back to the painting again.

  'It's true when they say his paintings can transport you. Like you could fold into them and escape reality.' Nothing she was feeling was even close to reality, she thought achingly aware of her energy pulsing in tiny quivers toward Max as she stood in front of him. Not a muscle in his body moved as he stood like concrete, his broad shoulders rigid, his posture stiff, yet she sensed he felt the magnetic energy pulse between them too.

  It was as if Morandi had infused the bottles with an aura-like energy, which seeped from the painting blanketing them both.

  Max stood like a sentry, slightly at a distance, behind her like the stoic blue-black bottle and the fine white vase in the painting, touching but not touching.

  He turned to her, his normally cool blue eyes now a penetrating black. 'Is beauty the bringing together of opposites to make one?'

  His unexpected question threw her. Whether he was speaking of the white and black bottles in the painting, or of their own obvious differences she didn't know, but she found herself wishing recklessly it was the latter.

  'Opposites attract,' she ventured, her voice catching as she watched the sunlight glance off his waves of dark hair, then move across the surface of his face, tracing the muscular lines of his strong cheekbones, the indentations of his dimples, before settling on the black-silk-like fiber clinging to his powerful chest. 'There must be a reason for that.' She forced a laugh, noticing with alarm that it sounded more nervous than confident.

  There was a reason why the energy sparked, and cracked and hissed between them. A reason she would never, could never, explore. 'I know Morandi believed finding beauty in opposition would create a happier world,' she said, steering the conversation to safer ground.

  'You are well informed.' His eyes glistened with vitality as though he was both surprised and impressed with her level of knowledge.

  'Actually I studied art history at college, briefly,' she said, softly. 'Something my parents reluctantly indulged. I remember
being captivated by Morandi's work, one of Italy's finest still life painters, but I never in a zillion years thought I'd ever see the real thing.'

  'You said, “briefly”’ he paused, inviting her to go on.

  Issy hesitated, aware that he was asking all the questions, and once again she was hogging the ear time when really the roles should be reversed. But perhaps in the sharing of what appeared to be a mutual passion she might learn a little about him. It would be the only passion they could share, she thought willing her throbbing pulse to slow.

  'I was at college, young and dependent on my parents, we needed money. Art wasn't an indulgence we could afford.' Issy’s chest felt tight as she relived a part of her childhood she preferred to forget. 'There's no money in art, they told me. Get a real job. Keep it as a hobby, blah, blah, blah.'

  She forced a smile as she looked at the painting, 'It's ironic when you realize how much money these artists earned when they followed their passion. But anyway, it was what it was. And I wanted to please them. So, as you know, I went and trained as a clinical psychologist.' She shook her head and gave a humorless laugh. 'I thought it might help me figure out my dysfunctional family.'

  Max studied her intensely, the gleam in his eyes acknowledging her disillusionment. 'Perhaps I should have studied psychology too,’ he said, a weariness in his tone that came not just from tiredness, but from life. 'But now you're an art therapist. It is difficult to remain true to yourself and your philosophy. I respect that.'

  There he was complimenting her again. His tone was so ernest Issy felt herself blush. Being understood and appreciated felt too good. And too foreign. And that was the problem she thought helplessly. Talking like this, was merging the personal and the professional together dangerously. Two forces in opposition like oil and water which a sane person, a professional person, knew would never mix.