The Italian Billionaire’s Christmas Bride

by Mollie Mathews

  A beguiling goddess he decided–more Aphrodite than the warrior Athena. But while he had always preferred the challenge of intelligence to rampant insatiable sexuality, something about the way she married the two stirred life inside him, a primal instinct that threw him.

  Gripping the edge of the railing he vowed not to succumb to temptation. Hadn't Eve dazzled Adam with the same playful innocence, he thought, unable to tear his eyes away from her as she drew closer toward him.

  Max knew better than most that appearances were not facts. Caring types, like counsellors and psychologists were skilled at cultivating trust.

  Whatever feelings of attraction he felt was no doubt pa for the course. But acting on those traitorous feelings would be foolish. He was here to extricate himself from the entanglements of his life.

  Besides he'd known from their first meeting she wasn't a suitable candidate for a sexual conquest. Apart from the fact she was technically his employee, she simply wasn't his type; she was an outsider. A refreshingly down to earth one who exuded a simple, uncomplicated innocence that hinted at a charming naivety.

  Maybe.

  But she was far too comfortable inhabiting a domain that he would never be comfortable exploring. Emotions.

  Whatever her agenda, she was proving to be quite the chameleon. Morphing from poolside mayhem to lagoon nymph, he mused, studying the sway of the silk and sequin dress as it clung to her curves. The pleasure he felt, Max told himself, was the heightened satisfaction he'd felt when he'd been the first designer to champion fashion for fuller figure women, not the anorexic, wash-board women his industry immorally perpetuated.

  Real women with curves, like the goddess advancing toward him now. He watched mesmerized as she paused momentarily to gaze up at the full moon. The silk shawl she languidly wrapped around her slipped from her shoulders, revealing the creamy, full swell of her breasts. To his consternation Max found himself smiling.

  Heat flared in his loins. Damn he wanted her. He raked his fingers through his hair, then massaged his temples, striving with limited success for control. He wanted her but he would never act on it. His work was his mistress. There would be no other.

  Issy turned and looked up at him, her eyes widening in bewilderment as though sensing is turmoil. His heart jack-knifed then hammered as their eyes locked. For a brief irrational moment it was as if they shared a connection uniting them through time and space.

  Preposterous, he muttered, striding across the deck. The whole thing was illogical. Whatever happened, one thing was certain, emotion could not control, nor cloud, his mind.

  Issy hesitated, and glanced back at the path she'd just followed as though contemplating turning back, then wrapping her shawl tightly around her, came toward him.

  Max drew a ragged breath. The image of a fatal seductress beguiling him with her innocence coiled again like a mirage through the heated twilight haze.

  Instead of the unsophisticated disarmingly plain woman he had known her to be she now oozed a potent physical radiance of which she seemed strangely unaware. This is madness, he told himself. Quelling the slow growl of sexual hunger in his loins, he greeted her coolly.

  'Buona Sera.'

  'Good evening,' she said softly

  'The dress looks nice,' he said, with cold detachment. Nice? What the hell was he thinking? Nice. He didn’t do nice. Nice was such a mediocre word. But he couldn't very well tell her the truth. "You look devastatingly beautiful. You set my loins ablaze. You set every fiber in my body on fire." His fingers throbbed with the need to touch.

  'It's a beautiful dress,' she murmured. 'Thank you for allowing me to wear it.'

  'It suits you well.' Too well. He thrust his hands in his pockets.

  She blushed like a new bride. Something about her innocence excited him. Keeping his face impassive, he walked to the table and pulled out her chair.

  'May I take your wrap?'

  She hesitated, oddly reluctant to surrender her cover. She needn't have worried, the silk of her shawl was too thin to do a half-way decent job of covering her breasts.

  'Thank you.' She painted a strained smile on her lips, as though manifesting a confidence he sensed she didn't feel.

  His arousal instantly banished, replaced instead by a desire to protect her from harm. Harm he knew too well he was capable of unintentionally inflicting. He would hurt her —like he hurt them all. Women always wanted more from him than he was able to give. Only this time, for some reason he couldn't fathom, it really mattered.

  *

  The Universe seemed to freeze, suspending them in a fragile bubble of silence and intimacy, as strong sensual hands lightly touched her shoulders, sending shudders through Issy's body. She drew a ragged breath, inhaling the earthy scent of Max's cologne, as he lifted the wrap from her. His fingers brushed her neck, sending tremors scuttling down her spine.

  Get a grip she cautioned, while her body dreamed a wish she didn't dare desire. Of course he didn't want her. Not like that. Any sensuality implied by his touch was purely accidental.

  But why did he look at her with eyes that seemed to undress her. He was just obsessed with his design she told herself as he studied her with such intensity that Issy squirmed in her seat. No doubt it was an occupational habit. A career built dressing glamorous woman was certain to have its distinct advantages. What goes on must come off, right?

  It would be premature to say he enjoyed breaking hearts, she knew little of his personal life, but it was no doubt an arena in which he was accomplished. Yet, now despite all the hazard lights flashing in her mind she couldn't stop staring at him too; mesmerized by his looks, succumbing to his charm, captivated by his charisma. Hook, line and lead sinker.

  He moved with the controlled fluidity of a Navy Seal as he walked around the table, his body taut but supple, strong yet lithe, and lethally sexy.

  As he took his seat opposite her something shockingly hot and turbulent churned inside Issy's stomach. She fixed her gaze on the crystal glasses sparkling in the candlelight on the white damask tablecloth, and the silver cutlery richly burnished by the gentle flames.

  The staff had obviously gone to a lot of trouble. The place looked fit for a wedding. She felt a sharp jolt in her chest and placed her right hand over her left, gripping the finger where her wedding ring would have been.

  "Breathe,” she affirmed silently, inhaling the softly intimate perfume of the gardenias and frangipani's arranged in an elegant vase to settle her nerves. "Breathe.”

  Max lifted a large black bottle, with an embossed gold label written with flourishes of French from the decanter. 'Champagne?' His voice vibrated through her body like a violin concerto. That damned voice that always made her knees go weak. Why couldn't he have a voice like a foghorn, rather than that far too sexy, almost hypnotic voice. And as for the setting, she thought, gazing out at the full moon shimmering upon the lagoon, being in paradise wasn't helping one little bit.

  'Champagne?' he asked again, bringing her back to the present.

  She hesitated. It had been a year since she'd last had a drink. Trying to fix her betrayed heart by drowning it in alcohol had been a fool’s strategy. But her heart wasn't broken anymore and it seemed silly to refuse. The champers was obviously expensive, and she was curious to know what millionaire bubbles tasted like. Besides what harm could one weeny glass do?

  'Cheers, thanks,' she said, momentarily forgetting that she wasn't having a round at the local pub with her mates.

  Max’s lips curved in a bemused smile as he nodded to one of the staff hovering discreetly in the shadows.

  'Red champagne? Isn't that unusual?' Issy exclaimed as burgundy bubbles foamed into the crystal glass and sparkled up to the rim.

  'Extraordinarily rare,' Max said, raising his glass in a toast. 'Just like the situation we both find ourselves in.'

  She held her breath, trying to keep her trembling hand steady, and prayed the bubbles wouldn't land with an undignified splash on his expensive dress.


  'Yes,' she said, taking a small sip before placing the glass down. 'I'm here to help you and you keep avoiding me,' she smiled tightly, hoping she didn't sound confrontational, and then laughed. 'But then in my line of work that's not so rare.'

  'How so?' He said, sipping from his glass.

  'It's always like that when concerned others sign their loved ones up for therapy. It's as though they come pre-programmed to refuse help.'

  Max took a gulp of champagne, swishing it slowly in his mouth, as though savoring her claim. Issy, tucked her hair behind her ears several times as they sat in an uneasy silence.

  'So, how was your day?' she said, after more awkward silence. Okay, so it wasn't brain surgeon conversation, but she was determined to keep her mind away from the traitorous feelings her body continued to brew as her eyes met his. The catch was she didn't want to. But what she did want to know was what he had been doing all day and just when exactly her client intended on participating in her sessions.

  Max sat motionless, his poker face reinforcing he wasn't about to divulge anything easily. So she would have to take her time, rather than rush him.

  'Okay. That's cool. It's all good. Let's talk about something you do like then—fashion,'

  'I don't like to talk about it. I speak through my clothes.'

  'Really? Then what does this dress say?' she asked, rising from her chair and turning with deliberately slow movements to allow him to savour it from every angle. It was licentious of her but what else did she have right now to compel him to cede control. She turned again to face him.

  Beneath the rich licorice-black hair, his face had lost color, the brilliant sapphire-blue flecks in his eyes standing out dramatically against the pallor of his cheeks.

  'Okay, let me intuit,' she said, strangely empowered by his uncomfortable silence. 'I'm guessing if this dress could speak it would say, "Why am I here?'' She walked to the edge of the room as smoothly and elegantly as she could, blazingly aware his eyes were riveted to her.

  '"What am I doing on this remote island?"' she said, waving her arm out toward the open sea humming in rhythmic waves below them, "Isolated from anything remotely familiar."' She spun to face him. 'All the other dresses, the ones filling the racks you have in your study, well, they're wondering the same thing too.'

  His eyes were wary. His body had the stillness of a wild animal whose every sense was alert, suspicious and untrusting.

  'I see you've wasted no time busying yourself with my affairs,' he gritted out. The crack of his anger was nearly audible.

  'You said 'feel free to explore.' So I did, and I discovered your studio—quite by chance,' she held his gaze, refusing to flinch under the weight of his obvious displeasure. 'Why,' she challenged, ‘when you're not supposed to be working have you brought your collection?'

  'I've made no secret that I've no intention of abandoning my work. However, I will concede,' he said, his tone slowing to a low, sensuous crawl, ‘increasingly I think allowing myself a little distraction may prove therapeutic, mia tentatrice.'

  Something about the way his eyes trailed along her throat before resting on the swell of her breasts, implied he intended to unsettle her and seize back control. It affirmed her earlier conviction that he thought he could have her if he wanted, flushing color to her cheeks. Why did he invade her psyche like this? Why did she go weak at the kneecaps whenever he was near? Why did she feel he had far more control over her than she did?

  Issy felt her chest flame. What had she been thinking playing with fire? He was the consummate control freak and she was way out of her depth. 'We're lucky with the weather, she said noticing with horror that her voice rather then sounding bright and nonchalant throbbed with frisky sexiness. What's wrong with you? She berated herself.

  'I was told that Christmas is the rainy season,' her husky tone subsided into a squeak, as she took her seat. 'The forecasters are saying this will be the driest one on record.' she said, instantly regretting the banality of her conversation.

  She sighed with relief as the Fijian waiting staff walked toward them carrying platters piled high with lobster and oysters and other assorted seafood dishes.

  'Are you hungry?' he asked, his sultry tone ambiguous.

  'Ravenous.' Her eyes locked on his sensuous lips. Lips that could command a legion of Templar Knights by day and by night plunder the depths of a woman's body. Good grief what was she thinking?

  She was relieved when he began questioning her about her techniques and what drew her to her work as they ate their meal. The conversation lead to her wider interest in art and Issy found herself settling into something curiously like comfort.

  For some reason they were just staring into each other’s eyes and talking. To her astonishment she also found that both liked expressionism, particularly the works of Matisse, Rothko and Kandinsky, artists known more for their spirituality and emotional expression than other artists. And, even more surprisingly a shared sense of humor. Her stomach churned. It was all quite unnerving.

  'Have you lost your appetite?' Max’s voice brought her thoughts back to the 1/2 eaten lobster on her plate.

  'Um...' she stammered, 'I'm not really hungry,’ she said, weakly. She felt dizzy, her senses heightened, every hair on her body standing alert, almost like she’d experienced standing in front of the Morandi. No. The idea was absurd, a fantasy, a prospect as unpalatable as it was dangerous.

  No, she affirmed silently, she was strictly in love with the setting, the place. Not him and the fantasy of the life he inhabited, a fantasy that would only end in tears.

  'I've thoroughly enjoyed the evening. It's been awesome. Pretty surreal in fact, and the dress, what can I say—the dress says it all. Glamour, allure, enchantment. Being a model for Emporio Balforni—sheer fantasy. Fun though too. This is like a fairy-tale, being here—with you, except as you know, I'm here to work. And it's late. If I don’t get back to my bure now, I’m afraid I may just turn into a pumpkin,'

  'You are working. You are helping with my collection. And I find your company refreshing.'

  Why was he being so damned charming. 'I'm glad. You'll find our sessions tomorrow refreshing too,' she said, 'We've got an early start. To catch up on the time we missed today,' she said, hoping she sounded convincingly assured he would agree to participate. 'Would you think it rude of me if I went to—'

  Don't say bed. Don't even think bed. ‘—Would you mind if I retired?' she forced her voice to a nonchalant crawl.

  'Va bene. Of course,' Max rose to his feet. 'I will accompany you to your room.'

  'No,' she said far too quickly. 'I mean, well, it's all good. I can make my own way. Really, I don't want to be a bother.' she said, when what she really wanted to say was, "actually I'm in a spot of bother, and it's all about you, so it would be better if I just went to my room, took a cold shower, and went to bed."

  'One of the few things my father did do well is teach us impeccable manners, principessa,' he said, walking behind her chair and pulling it out as she rose to her feet.

  Something in his tone evoked empathy. Once again reminding her that perhaps she wasn't the only one with a dysfunctional family. She held his gaze for a moment hoping he'd elaborate.

  'Are you well principessa, you look flushed?'

  Flushed didn't cut it. Try, on fire.

  'I'm fine,' she swallowed and pinned a small, desperate smile to her lips.'Honestly. My face always goes red when I drink expensive wine.'

  'Allora. Okay. Time for bed.'

  A molten undercurrent of anticipation robbed her voice of sobriety. 'Okay,' she squeaked breathlessly.

  'Well this is me,' she said, as they walked along the torch-lined path toward her bure.

  His muscular body gleamed in the torchlight as he stood in the door way, not moving except for his chest which rose and fell fast beneath the crisp cotton of his shirt. Silhouetted against the night, his jaw shadowed, his pupils huge, planting his feet firmly on the ground as though he was wrestling with an urge he refu
sed to allow.

  The subtle aroma of his cologne mixed with the scent of the tropical air made her swoon.

  Issy opened the door super slowly, wishing the night would never end. Wishing for the most reckless moment that she would not spend the night alone. 'Goodnight,' she whispered.

  'Buona notte,' he said, smiling at her oddly.

  She stepped inside, shutting the door behind her so quickly that she nearly jammed the edge of her dress. It was the romantic setting, she thought firmly, not the desire to spend the night with a man she could never have. She stared toward the majestic bed bathed in moonlight streaming through the louvered shutters. She'd be inhuman if she didn't dream of a little romance. And she'd be lying if she denied that a kiss wouldn't make the night a 10 out of 10 in any girl’s book.

  She braced herself against the back of the door, fighting against the urge to fling it open. Like a clichéd scene from a romantic movie, she wondered if Max was waiting for her. Monkey mind, she muttered under her breath. Her creativity was in equal parts strength and curse, imagining, as she was now, a future that would never be hers. She wanted him, but she could never have him. She would always be the hired help.

  Issy felt for the light switch and flicked it on. She froze, wide-eyed, barely breathing. 'Oh, my gosh,' she gasped, as she followed the beam of light illuminating the Morandi painting she'd admired, now hanging over the bed. Was that why he was acting so oddly as they said goodnight? Was he hoping to see how she reacted?

  Impulsively she ran to the door, flung it open, and ran down the path toward him as he strode past the pool. 'I can't believe you did that for me.'

  He turned, a faint smile curving his lips.

  'I'm going to cry,' she flung her arms around his shoulders, squeezing his powerful frame in what should have been an innocuous hug. She felt his muscles stiffen, then every cell in his body pulse as his heated chest press against hers.