The Italian Billionaire’s Christmas Bride

by Mollie Mathews

  She watched as he retreated back to the Land Rover to strip off his shirt wondering if he always travelled on a day trip with a spare change of clothes. She was so distracted she didn’t notice Kerela approaching.

  'Come on. Come and see how we make the Masi,' Kerela said, sensing Issy’s mind was elsewhere.

  'What is Masi?'

  'Masi is the cloth of the Gods. Masi can make magic.'

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  'You’re lucky,' Kerela said, glancing back toward Max.

  Lucky? Issy followed Kerela’s gaze, noticing her heart kick as Max tore off his shirt and placed it in the back of the Land Rover.

  Was it luck that brought this excruciatingly handsome man to her side? Luck that maneuvered him with the stealth of a black panther into her bed? Luck that would take him away from her in less than four days? She found her heart muscles tense and then relax—the push-pull of desire and fear, the tensing of her shoulders as she fought the familiar fear of abandonment. Why the hell did she care?

  'Without Mr Balforni our culture would disappear,' Kerela said, as she led Issy toward the edge of the village. Chickens squawked and wild pigs grunted around their feet as a constant tap-tap-tap sound of something being pounded, rang through the village.

  'What do you mean?' Something like respect tugged at Issy’s heart as she walked beside her towards a large open-sided thatched hut.

  'It was Mr Balforni’s idea to attract tourists like you here. We are just putting the finishing touches on our Fiji Eco Tour, a one-day unique Fiji tour where you experience our various natural, traditional and historical sites and activities that are of significance to the people of Fiji. You are our first couple.'

  She should have reminded Kerela that they weren’t a couple but realized with a start that she didn’t want to. And she didn’t want to detract from the excitement and pride Kerela obviously felt about what the villagers had achieved.

  'This is one of a rapidly decreasing number of villages where tradition has escaped commercialism. The tourist trade has its benefits,' Kerela added, 'bringing much needed money to the village and it allows our traditional arts to survive. But it’s bad too, because many traditional skills and crafts are being slowly diminishing.

  'It was Mr Balforni who encouraged us to keep the traditional ways. In many of the other villages their culture has been corrupted. Woodcarvings of turtles and spears for tourists are quickly churned out for the dollar. Quality decreases and the soul of Fiji is lost. But here in the village there are still people who know what they are doing.' Kerela flashed a wide-eyed look then dissolved into laughter. 'Nice Bula shirt!' she said giggling at Max as he rejoined them.

  His left eyebrow grew into a slight peak at the center, giving him an expression of perpetual mischief, though his firm mouth held no trace of amusement. His sensual fingers ran over the vibrant blue shirt, trailing the bananas and lingering over the scattering of red hibiscus flowers.

  'Gracie mille.' He offered a bemused smile. 'It was Isabella’s idea that I embrace the spirit of Fiji. How do I look?'

  'Like a tourist,' Kerela said, dissolving in laughter.

  Issy felt her eyes tear. She would have wagered a bet she’d never get him into that gaudy shirt, let alone see him wear it in public. And she loved him for it. Wiping at her mouth, she covered her lips, biting them to hide a smile.

  'Today the women are making traditional Masi mats to celebrate the wedding of the chief’s daughter,' Kerela said. 'Mat-weaving is taught to nearly every village girl.'

  Mothers with wise weather-worn faces, sat cross-legged on woven mats beside their daughters and granddaughters. The older women had a beam of wood that looked like a long stool, stretched above their knees, as they pounded the thin fibrous bark with a worn wooden mullet.

  'Making Masi is women’s work. With powerful arms like your you should go and make yourself useful with the men,' Kerela said to Max, gesturing toward a group of villagers wielding machetes. 'Go with Tukana, he will take you to the woodcarvers. They are leaving soon to collect more bark.'

  To Issy’s surprise Max smiled with calm amusement and obeyed Kerela’s command. She hadn’t expected he’d be a hands-on, hunter-gatherer type. Not with those manicured hands. But, once he was away from his carefully cultivated estate it seemed everything about him was different, she mused, releasing an appreciative sigh

  'Don’t work too hard, Isabella, ' Max’s penetrating blue eyes combed Issy’s face as he turned to her. 'Hard work can kill you.'

  A strange and disturbing tug yanked on her heart, as though a vine like an umbilical cord connected them as she tore her gaze from him.

  'This is from the paper mulberry tree,' Kerela said, picking up a flattened piece of bark the color of tea. 'Now it is like cloth and has many uses,' she said, passing it to Issy.

  Issy felt a stab of longing as her fingers stroked the warm, fibrous fabric. She looked at the community of women before her and envied their closeness. She wasn’t familiar with that kind of love, and for a Nano-second the desire to be on the receiving end of it, from someone, anyone, even Max, was so powerful it made her heart ache.

  What would it be like to have someone love you forever?

  She and her mother had never experienced the closeness these women shared. And things only worsened over the years. While her behavior was understandable following her abandonment by Issy’s father, Issy and she were always competing. At least her mother was.

  The put-downs whenever Issy approached anything like success, the snide remarks, the lack of acknowledgment when she did well. The guilt her mother made her feel when she outshone her siblings. None of this existed here. Everyone shined, and everyone encouraged each other’s gifts and pursuit of excellence.

  Growing up Issy quickly learned it was easier not to shine. But no matter what she attempted, or how she tried to appease others, she never felt accepted. She never felt she belonged. She never felt loved for who she really was.

  A young mother swaddled her baby in a Masi cloth singing softly to it as she worked. As though sensing Issy’s stare the baby turned toward her, swallowing Issy’s heart in giant chocolate eyes.

  'Masi is an ancient art—it contains the spirit of the land it comes from, the tree it was part of, and also contains the essence of the women who beat the cloth and decorate it. Masi can make magic. See this pattern?' Kerela said, picking up a piece of fiber and trailing her fingers along the intricate patterns. 'All the Masi contains a story, a story sacred to the women and their community. A story of dreams and longings and possibilities.'

  Issy felt her fingers tremble as she took the fabric Kerela handed to her. She glanced back to the baby who still stared at her. Her heart pulsed. What was her story? What was her narrative? Would it end happily?

  'Would you like to create your own Masi?' Kerela asked.

  Issy nodded. She didn’t wait to be asked twice.

  The sound of the women singing as she sat amongst them infused her like a warm blanket around her soul. Her thoughts returned to that night she’d spent with Max. Had she not surrendered to him that night she’d never have known that in his arms she could experience the true meaning of rapture, the momentary feeling of safety, security, belonging.

  She found herself wishing with pounding intensity that the story she might create for her Masi would be one that made an impossible dream come true. A warm breeze fluttered through the grass hut and she found her mind drifting. She imagined what it would feel like to wear her Masi on their wedding day, encircling them both in an unbreakable union.

  As if! Picking up the mallet she joined in the rhythmic pounding, finding it profoundly therapeutic as the fibrous bark slowly changed into soft cloth.

  Kerela directed a smile at Issy as though reading her thoughts. 'He’s a keeper,' she murmured.

  A keeper? As if! Issy increased her tempo, pounding the bark with added intensity. No man she’d loved stayed. Love was fleeting. Clenching the mallet she pounded harder.

&
nbsp; 'We’re just…' Just what? Friends? She hadn’t known him long enough to be a friend. Yet they shared so many interests and he was kind to her. Lovers? Well she could hardly confess to that.

  She was ashamed to admit her breech of professionalism to anyone, especially not to this very devout Fijian woman where marriage and family were sacrosanct.

  And she couldn’t tell anyone that he was her client as she was sworn to secrecy. Instead she sat in silence. A trickle of longing crawled on millipede legs through her chest as she surveyed the women. She envied the simplicity of their lives, the certainty the women and the young girls had. She gazed at the little girls with their wild puffs of curls seated opposite the most experienced senior weavers. They would marry a young boy from a local village and their families and culture would help them stay together. They loved each other. This was something Issy had never experienced in her own family.

  'It is in God’s hands,' Kerela said, gesturing to the wall opposite them. 'That is a God house, made from knotted coconut fiber—even though we believe in Jesus we honour the old ways. You can summon the Gods and ask them to tell your future. What will be, will be, no matter how you resist.'

  Issy nodded politely. How could she tell Kerela that sometimes she felt that even God had abandoned her? How could she explain that no amount of petitioning could take away her growing sense of unease? Despair and longing iced through her. Was she destined to live her life on her own? A lonely spinster without her own family?

  The women stopped singing briefly as a young woman of around 19 appeared in the doorway, beside her stood a young man, carrying a little baby swaddled in a ceremonial Masi. They gazed at each other and the baby with such love it made Issy’s heart melt.

  'It’s the chief’s younger son and his wife,' Kerela said.

  Issy’s hands clamped tight over her heart as if she was afraid it might burst from her chest and shatter on the floor. This kind of familial love, this kind of loyalty, wasn’t something she knew. Her mother had never forgiven Issy’s Dad for leaving them. She’d never been able to love Issy, her first-born, because her heart had been abandoned to a man who didn’t care. Issy tried to love her mother, but she'd never given Issy a chance. Her Dad? Well, were it not for the random cards at Christmas you’d never think he existed.

  'Do you have children, Issy?'

  'No.'

  Turning, she said sweetly, 'Oh what a pity. But you are still young. There is still time,' she said kindly. 'But don’t leave it too late. I will petition the gods and I will pray for you.'

  Issy nodded slowly, suppressing desperate hope when she noticed Max standing in the doorway, observing the God house.

  Fierce blue eyes met hers and Issy felt as if she was being suffocated. She lifted her hand and loosened the scarf around her neck. Maybe it was his posture. Maybe it was the look in his eyes, but suddenly her heart was pounding.

  'Did somebody die?' Tukana said, peering across his broad nose, as he studied them.

  Issy shook her head. What must he be wondering? Max and she must look like they were in the middle of a funeral. Either that or they looked decidedly guilty.

  'No, no. Not at all,' Issy said, quickly rising to her feet.

  'Are you ready?'

  'Ready?'

  ‘The Kava ceremony is an important aspect of visiting any village. But first we need your help.'

  Was she mistaken, or did something far too mischievous flame in Tukana’s eyes?

  *

  'A honeymoon photo?' Issy jolted as if she’d been electrocuted. She spun to face Max, 'Is this another one of your little surprises? Another one of your ways to avoid doing some serious work?'

  He shrugged and flung his arms wide, palms facing upwards as if to say he knew nothing, but it was not an unpalatable idea.

  'The models haven’t turned up,' the photographer explained. 'I’ve got to head back to the mainland tomorrow and the evening is so perfect.'

  'I’m sorry. You’ll have to find someone else,' Issy said, fixing Max with a gaze that she hoped would leave him in no doubt she was not gagging to kiss him. Turning her gaze down the virgin white beach fringed with coconut trees, she prayed that another couple would magically appear, but nope. De Nada. The fates were conspiring against her. It was all going from bad to worse.

  'The two of you are perfect,' the photographer insisted. 'So natural—and that shirt,' he said, gesturing to Max. 'What can I say? It captures the fun and joy that Fiji and its people offer. We want people to see the beauty of this village.'

  Perfect? Perfect would be if anyone but her was in the photo. Perfect would be if she could to do a runner. Her first instinct was to continue to refuse but that would be churlish, while also drawing attention to her discomfort. And hadn’t Kerela told her how important tourism was to the village. Besides she always found it hard to say no, and the photographer was obviously in a pickle.

  'We’d be happy to help,' Max said, with a far too compliant smile, 'Wouldn’t we, mia cara?'

  'We would?' she stammered.

  Max turned to where the photographer was setting up the tripod. 'How do you want us?'

  'Romantic.'

  Issy closed her eyes. Was this really happening? She took a deep breath willing the sea gods to swallow her now.

  'Perhaps if you can hold hands, so I can get the angle right while I get set up,' he said, busying himself the setttings on his camera while an assistant held a gold foil reflector cloth toward the sun, then maneuvered it in slow movements until it illuminated them both is a wash of flattering light.

  Issy felt herself tense. Hands, it was only holding hands, she told herself, as she waited for Max to reach for her, telling herself desperately that it was like acting. It was all for the best. More tourism would bring much needed money to the village, allowing better schools to be built for the children.

  Willing her mind to remain calm was fine until Max laced his fingers through hers, their palms met, and her pulse went soaring. Perspiration beaded on her chest. There is no chemistry. There is no chemistry, she chanted in her mind, praying the affirmation would override her pulsing body.

  'Great. Come a little closer. Great. Now look into each other’s eyes,' the photographer said, crouching as he looked through the viewfinder. 'I need more emotion. More passion. Imagine it’s your honeymoon night. You’re ravenous with desire.'

  If she didn’t know better she’d think the photographer was a set-up. He was clearly relishing his role, directing them as though he were Peter Jackson urging the cast on for an Oscar winning performance.

  Max didn’t look like he needed any encouragement. His head was cocked toward her, his sensuous lips pressed together as though summoning energy to plunder her depths with his kiss.

  Her body blazed fire, sending a frisson of ecstasy that she fought to contain. I can do this, she willed, forcing herself to meet his molten gaze. Slowly, carefully, painfully she parted her lips in readiness for his kiss. This is crazy, why am I so afraid, she wondered, as her whole body shook?

  "Breathe," she said under her breath. "Breathe. " She met his gaze, thrown slightly by the flicker of vulnerability she detected. Vulnerability that he quickly suppressed as his lips curled into a sardonic smile.

  She forced herself not to look away, not to pull back. Her hands were shaking and that irritated her.

  'Perfect. That’s a shot,' the photographer said. 'You look great together.'

  Issy doubted it, but she did know this was the golden hour—casting everyone with a special sun-kissed glow famed for its ability to infuse everyone in a flattering light.

  'Just one more for luck and we’ll leave you in peace.' He clicked his fingers then waved up the beach.

  Issy glanced up as a group of young Fijian men walked toward them playing guitars and ukuleles.

  'To get in the mood,' the photographer grinned.

  Issy braced herself for what she knew was to come.

  The kiss.

  'I think this is where you k
iss me, mia cara,' Max said, grinning like a school boy.

  'You want me to kiss you?'

  His mouth was so near. She could feel his breath fluttering against her lips, particularly when he said those familiar words, mia cara, which she was mortally afraid was some kind of endearment. She was more afraid that she wanted them to be heart-felt endearments, and she was starting down that slippery slope of hope.

  If she tipped forward just the tiniest bit she would taste him. She wanted to kiss him as much as she feared it. The push and pull of that made her feel something like seasick, though it wasn’t nausea that pooled in her. Not even close. 'I’m not very good at following orders,' she managed to say, 'but you’re the boss and if you want me to kiss you—'

  'No, Miss Riley,' Max corrected, 'he wants you to kiss me,' he arched his powerful neck toward the photographer.

  Her nostrils flared. Of course she knew it was true, but the sting of his rejection bit nevertheless. Damn that arrogant, insensitive brute. He could at least have pretended to want her.

  'The light is going, please focus. This kiss,' the photographer said, impatiently.

  God, the pressure.

  She looked at Max imploring him to choose another pose. Honeymooners must do more that kiss endlessly. But then what did she know? She’d never even made it to the wedding.

  Max’s strong arms suddenly curved around her, pulling her toward him before Issy had a chance of protesting, or any hope of escape. She should have been angry, she should have resisted. She should have fought. But she didn’t want to.

  Behind them the sun blazed like molten gold. She was like liquid in his hands, powerless to resist.

  He stood behind her, his powerful chest against her back, his arm on her belly, pressing her to him. His breath was warm on her neck. The sound of the lapping waves against the shore merging with the soft rhythmic sound of the ukuleles and guitars, wafted around them, carried on a warm tropical breeze. The music penetrated her soul as her body melted into his.