The Italian Billionaire’s Christmas Bride

by Mollie Mathews

  Occasionally she looked out to the sea, her gaze trailing along the horizon, her thought carried away on the warm sea breeze. He watched mesmerized, confusion reigning over him as she picked up a black pastel, vigorously running it over the vivid colors as though conflicted. But what did he know, he decided, walking toward her. Despite what he felt last night he still knew so little about the language of feeling and emotion. Max walked toward her in a kind of stupor, a shudder going through him, his legs feeling hollow. He was breathing deeply, walking clumsily.

  In a crazy flash of untamed longing, in his mind he pictured himself beside her, his arm around her, drawing her in for a kiss, telling her that last night meant more to him than he’d thought possible. More than the squillions in his bank account. Lying beside her he’d suddenly come alive.

  But as he drew near, Issy quickly covered the painting with another sheet of paper. She turned to him, biting her lip, a troubled look in her eyes which made his chest hurt. And with that look suddenly all the bravado and aloofness he’d carefully cultivated washed out to sea.

  He had stripped naked before her and now he wanted to bare his soul. A fist wormed its way through his chest, pressing against his heart. But instead of closing up, in place of walling himself in, in spite of his apprehension, he wanted to give her everything.

  'I want to try—whatever it is that you do,' he said, gesturing to her painting. 'I want to try some of that. Isabella—I need help. I accept that now. I’ve been blocked. My creativity,' he corrected, fishing clumsily for what he really wanted to say, 'has been blocked. And you’re the only one who can help me.'

  *

  “This was good. Very good. Wasn’t it?” Why then did a worming feeling of dread coil through her chest? All her career she’d battled with cynics, those who thought art-therapy was idle toil. Few recognised its power, deferring their awe to the psychiatrists and doctors who peddled their panacea of magic little pills. Yet art therapy, she had witnessed for herself, was the true healer, the enduring cure.

  “It must be nice to do drawing with people,” people often said. Nice! She hated the word nice. Didn’t people know how hard she worked, attending, listening, ever watchful for the breakout moment, the moment of truth, when people came face to face with their fragmented self, and she, with years of training and skill could throw light on their shadows, illuminate the path away from their private sense of hell.

  She shouldn’t care what he thought, but she did. She should be delighted that he wanted to embrace art therapy. Not embrace her. Shouldn’t she? She should be thrilled he saw her as some sort of creative muse, firing the previously low ebb of his creative furnace. Wasn’t it better he didn’t desire her for who she really was, but respect her for the role he was paying her to play?

  Standing up she walked toward him. Her feet felt heavy; her mind full of conflicting emotion, trepidation, fear, loss.

  Rejection.

  Would he laugh, as others did? Criticize? Dismiss her—pretend to truly engage? She took a deep breath and held her palm to her belly to centre herself. No matter what had passed between them, she must set aside her foolish passions and be the professional she knew now, with biting clarity, he had always wanted.

  Glancing back at the water she repeated her mantra: “Go with the flow.”

  Taking a deep breath she pulled out a cane chair, waited for him to sit, then handed him an A3 board. Placing a blank piece of paper on the board she gestured to the tray of crayons on the table.

  'You’re willing to give this a go but deep down you think this is childish, am I right?' she said, listening to her intuition telling her where to begin.

  He stared at her intensely, arching an eyebrow as though affirming it was not outside the realms of possibility.

  'Pick a color for childish.'

  His impossibly dark brows creased into a troubled frown. 'A what?'

  'A color for childish.’ “Pink,” she thought as the color flashed through the humid air. “He will pick bubblegum pink.”

  He rolled his eyes and sighed, gazing out to the lagoon.

  'Don’t over think it,' she added. 'First thought, best thought.'

  He grimaced. Then ploughed his hands into the crayons, withdrawing a bland white one. 'Fluffy,' he growled under his breath. He stared down at the page lost momentarily in his thoughts. Then, he looked at her, a question forming on his tightly pressed lips.

  'You can pick more than one color,' she encouraged.

  Long, firm fingers grabbed an angry red crayon and scribbled with such fury the table shook, until all the white was consumed by the red, metamorphosing into baby pink.

  'Write “fluffy.” '

  '“Fluffy,” there,' he said, pressing firmly and scrawling the word in a flourish. He leaned back, pressing his back against the side of the bure, folding his arms in a triumphant gesture as though relishing the stupidity of the innocuous, non-threatening task.

  Good, he was relaxing.

  A warm ocean breeze fluttered through her hair lifting the tendrils that fell across her eyes. Feeling eyes upon her she looked up briefly. A tingle of surprise pulsed through her as her eyes rested for several delicious moments on the two Flame Doves hovering in the coconut trees, looking down at them as though absorbed in the therapeutic encounter.

  'Tell me about “fluffy,”' she said, deliberating avoiding asking him to write down any feeling words. She wagered a bet he’d close up. Experience told her that even the most repressed clients shed their armour when the instructions were less threatening.

  'Irritation. Anger. Frustration.' He wrote the words without censure. 'It’s damned irresponsible, selfish, undisciplined.'

  Without hesitation he picked up a black crayon and scrawled over the word “undisciplined.”

  'Read what you have written,' she said, keeping her voice soft so it was less a command and more an invitation.

  Alpha males like him liked to maintain control and she had perfected the art, professionally anyway, of creating this illusion. She would guide him—but ultimately his unconscious, once tapped, would work the real magic.

  'Irritation, anger, frustration …' his voice grew softer and weaker as he read, as though just naming the words, the emotions, carried them away on the sea breeze. But the real work was just beginning. Something stirred in his psyche, some remembering, some pain he had long repressed.

  'Draw irritation.'

  'I can’t draw with these clumsy things. Give me tools of precision.'

  'You told me you wanted to try. Stop trying to control everything.’

  He stood mutely silent.

  Why was he such a control freak? Telling her what to do, what to wear—and now he had the gall to tell her how to do her work? She took a deep breath and sucked in her frustration. 'It’s about thinking differently,' Issy said. 'And to think differently you need to stop thinking. Crayons are a good medium for that. How will you know if you don’t give things a chance. If you’re not going to be open-minded, if you’re not prepared to risk enjoying it more than you’ll allow, if you’re not prepared to trust.'

  'Trust!' he spat the word out like it was a bowl of putrid Kava.

  So he didn’t do trust, she mused, looking at him carefully, noticing every gesture, every nano movement of his face to see what he might betray.

  'Just try!' she encouraged. 'It’s not fine art—you don’t have to create a Da Vinci or your next couture collection. Even a stick figure or a shape will do. Simply draw irritation.'

  'Simply!' he barked, 'You mean childishly,' picking up the red crayon. 'If it’s childish you want I can do that fine.'

  'It’s a big tangled, bloody mess,' he growled.

  Scribbling over the page then, as though gripped in a whirlpool, scratching through the words, “Infantile. Frivolous.”

  He ploughed his hand into the box of crayons, his fingers almost crushed the dark grey crayon he extracted and his eyes blazed with something akin to hatred, “Disappointing.” pressing so hard the
crayon went right through the page. He stared down at the tear, his neck and muscles suddenly rigid.

  Max looked up at her. She knew from his expression that he’d revealed more than he cared to. That was the magic—the power to bring the subconscious to light. She took the paper from him and held it in front of her, knowing as she did so he would be drawn deeper and deeper into the drawing.

  She felt this anger turn to rage and she could not leave him there. That was, after all, not the point. Her purpose, the conviction that drove her to master this technique, was not to make him vulnerable but to heal wounds buried deep within his psyche. To liberate his spirit and give him the freedom and joy of an unburdened bird.

  'Put yourself on the page,' she said, 'Not literally,' she hastened to add, reading his thoughts.

  Without hesitating he drew a dark black box, using a ruler from her box of materials, measuring each line precisely.

  'I am a grid. I am ordered. Perfect. Flawless. Controlled. Impenetrable,' she noticed his hand shaking.

  'It must be hard to control everything, to keep everyone and everything out.'

  'It is,' he sighed. 'Exhausting.'

  'Pick a wise color. Put some wise words on the page.'

  Max picked up a yellow crayon. “Forgive. Forget. Let go. Live.”

  The color of joy, Issy noted as her heart skipped. But it wasn’t her role to analyze but to facilitate. She held up the picture and held it in front of him for a few moments longer than she normally would, knowing it was important to give him time to absorb the new knowledge. He had brought to the surface elements of his past, come face to face with the boy he once was with all his hurts and insecurities. And while she didn’t know all the finer details, all that mattered was that something had been brought from the depths of his subconscious to the surface, and now had seen the light.

  The sea lapped upon the shore, birds chirped contentedly, the breeze ruffled the coconut fronds as they sat cocooned in silence. At last he spoke.

  'Grazie mille.'

  *

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  'The Balforni’s weren’t my real parents. I was adopted. Well, fostered really. They never went through with the adoption.'

  'But why? I don’t understand.'

  'I never understood either,' he shrugged. 'Perhaps they just forgot. I decided it didn’t matter. They fed and clothed me—or rather the nanny did. And then bundled me off to boarding school when I was four. Surrounded by all these abandoned kids—I don’t think I’ve felt so lonely, so determined to never need anyone’s love.'

  'That’s horrible. Why did they even bother taking you in if they weren’t prepared to love you?'

  'They’d been trying to adopt for years. They’d given up on having a baby of their own. Then three months after I arrived, my mother fell pregnant. 12 months later my brother, Stephano was born. But my brother died. Cot death. My mother, understandably, was heart-broken. She never stopped grieving—not until Sophia was born four years later. But I’d been banished by then. I guess I reminded her of the baby she couldn’t have. Who knows? All I know is that I was a constant disappointment. I determined from an early age I would make them proud of me, that I would make something of my life. If I’d known then how hard it would be to meet my father’s expectations—to say he was disappointed is putting it mildly.'

  'What more could he possibly have wanted? In a short period you’ve amassed a lifetime of artistic recognition. You’re the king of the fashion world.'

  'I’m a girl.' His gaze, brimming with pain, touched hers then moved away.

  'What?'

  'My father believed all men involved in fashion to be gay.'

  'But that’s absurd. And anyway what does it matter?'

  'It mattered to him. He was embarrassed of me.'

  'So you—'

  'So I tried harder. Worked harder. Tried to please my father more.'

  'So you stripped all the color from your palette, all the “childish” whimsy and frivolity he despised?' she said, understanding catching her heart.

  'Yes, and I tried to be more like someone he admired. Someone exactly like him. My father loved women, his philandering ways were legendary. I tried to be like him and paraded a succession of women to family gatherings, each one more beautiful than the last. But they all left me feeling cold. None lasted more than a season. I wondered if he was right. Maybe I was gay. Only I didn’t fancy men. No way. So that left me even more determined to pour my heart into my work. And I resolved never to ever feel again.'

  'And how did that work out for you?'

  'Fine—until you showed up.' He gave a shrug. 'Not one of them made me feel— the way you make me feel.'

  *

  'Wow. That was powerful stuff. I misjudged you. You’re like a silent assassin, a psychological sniper.'

  'I’ve been called many things, but I’d have to say that’s a first,' Issy said, heart thumping. Secretly pleased that he respected her craft.

  'So, art therapist? With your talent for painting you could have been a artist. You still could.'

  'Life had other plans for me.' She pressed her lips together, wondering how much to reveal. Did she really want her past to define her. All the failed relationships? Would he judge her. Screw it. So what if he did. Then he was no better than all the other men who couldn’t handle her imperfections.

  Besides he’d revealed himself to her. Not in that way, she censored, firmly pushing aside a wilfully erotic image of him standing naked before her. He’d been naked psychologically and that demanded reciprocity.

  'I’d dreamt about being an artist as a child, having my own gallery, everything. I could see it so clearly. The paintings—not little ones, but big juicy vibrant ones like Rothko’s. Paintings that made people sing and offered then a window into another world. But that was before—'

  'Before?'

  She could almost feel his curiosity smoking between them. No man had ever given her his undivided attention before. She was the one who always did the listening, the counselling, the healing. Feeling awkward, she forced herself to continue.

  'Before—' God, she’d have to say the toad’s name. Something she’d promised herself she never would. 'Before James.' She drew a deep breath, feeling her heart tighten, and the knots in her stomach.

  'We were going to get married. Married by Christmas in fact. Stupid idea. I mean, really.' She painted a tight smile on her lips and willed herself to look at Max to show she really didn’t care, that it was done and dusted, her failed relationship a distant memory. But the way he looked at her, as though sharing her hurtful betrayal, like reading an empathetic telegraph wired from her heart to his, told her from this one man she could never hide her true feelings.

  'What about you? What’s the most emotionally significant relationship you’re ever had? Describe your most vivid memory.'

  'We were talking about you,' he said.

  Crap. Normally diversion worked a treat. But she sensed it was him that was doing the diverting, and the progress he'd already made would deepen if she shared more about herself. 'Um. Well there’s nothing to say really. He cheated on me. It could have been worse. I could have been a walking cliché - dumped at the alter. At least he spared me that.'

  'Are you always so optimistic? He hurt you.'

  Don’t cry. Don’t you dare cry. 'I got over it. My work helped.'

  'We have that in common,' he said.

  'Yeah, how ironic,' she gave a weak smile. 'In my line of work they call it the ‘helpers high.’ Helping other people who are miserable or worse off than yourself actually makes you feel better about your own life. Not just that of course—it’s nice to feel you’re doing something to make the world a better place.'

  Issy felt her shoulders knot, waiting for a barrage of criticism. Do-gooder. What makes you think you can tell other people how to live? You think you’re better than everyone else, and all the other mean taunts family and unhappy friends had lobbed at her over the years. But instead he smiled.r />
  'You’re a good person, Issy Riley, a breath of lovely fresh air. Promise me you’ll never change.'

  She looked away, suddenly overwhelmed. 'Okay,' she said, softly hoping he wouldn't detect emotion blocking her windpipe.

  'I mean it, Issy. You’re not just likeable, you’re lovable.'

  'Okay.' She studied a spot on the ground. Could it be he cares for me? That at last she could be herself, vulnerabilities and all. An unwanted sense of foreboding gripped her heart. She steeled herself for the inevitable.

  'Someday you’re going to meet a guy who deserves you,' he said.

  Issy opened her mouth to object. She wanted to say, “You. Why can’t it be you?”

  But instead she said, lamely, 'Okay.'

  'What about you? What about your family?' Max asked.

  'We’re not close.'

  'Really?' he said quietly.

  'A boarding school survivor too?'

  'No. I wasn’t physically abandoned,' she shrugged. 'What can I say? I just didn’t fit in. I’m sure I was adopted.' Why else had she been so emotionally abandoned—treated like a modern day Cinderella. 'I tried to be what they wanted, I just couldn’t figure out how to make it stick.'

  She’d tried so hard for so long, always being helpful, always being agreeable, always quiet, never hogging the limelight. Trying not to excel, or attract attention or any one of the million things that drove her mother wild. It was never enough. She was never good enough. They hadn’t wanted her, or loved her. 'It wasn’t their fault. My mother did her best.'

  'You’re too kind. They should have loved you.' There was a long pause. 'You’re not just likeable—you’re lovable,' he said quietly.

  She gulped. 'Why?'

  'The work you do with kids – I respect you for that.'