The Italian Billionaire’s Christmas Bride

by Mollie Mathews

  Barely conscious of the crowd pressing around her Alex’s heart quickened as she scanned the craggy Southern Ranges, their soaring peaks troughed with a hurtle of blue and ochre and gold. Her gaze honed in on the hauntingly beautiful face of a woman, infused within the rocks. Why had her father painted a woman’s face into the landscape? And whose was the face—so beautiful—yet so tragic?

  The woman seemed to reach through time and space, lifting agonized eyes, calling Alex’s name, drawing her deeper and deeper into the painting’s mystery. Had something deeply personal happened to inspire the painting, something that could shed light on her past? For twenty-five years her life had been a lie. Months of searching for clues to her past had ended in granite walls of silence. Yet the way her heart pounded, and her eyes pooled with tears, and every hair on her body stood on end each time she looked at the painting, told her that there was a deeper reason her father wanted the painting to remain in her possession. Alex was sure her father was enticing her to discover the painting’s secrets. Why else did he leave this particular painting in his will to the daughter he’d never met?

  She tore herself away from “Lost Love” and stood at a distance observing people’s reactions in the hope that she would discover someone who found the painting as meaningful as she did. An older woman stared at it the longest, her eyes pooling as she fingered the elaborate gold locket at her throat.

  A young man and woman holding hands stopped in front of it, and the woman slipped her hand from her partner’s as she stepped closer to study the face of the woman. A middle-aged man’s body grew hard and tense as he looked, and he passed quickly by. Another man with a receding hairline flinched as if someone had punched him in the gut, and he reached a hand out to the painting, not quite touching the velvet plains of golden tussock and Rātā trees clinging fiercely to craggy rocks.

  Dread wormed through her gut. The strange and enigmatic image evoked powerful reactions in them all, but none of them betrayed the fact they held the missing piece to her painful puzzle. She pressed her lips together, holding her face tight, as tears pricked her eyes.

  Showing “Lost Love” was a hair-brained idea, like searching for a needle in a paddock of tussock. What real chance did she have of discovering someone who knew anything truly intimate about her dead father? Yet what else could she do? All her other enquiries had come to nothing.

  Alex heaved a sigh of frustration and turned away. Clive Gacos caught her anxious gaze. His fluttering fingers flourished a greeting across the room as he slithered to her side. “Lost Love.” I still think the title’s a bit morbid.’ He cocked his head to one side as his gaze darted from the catalogue to the painting before resting on Alex. ‘Couldn’t you have come up with something more commercial?’

  Alex wanted to cry out “it’s how I feel.”

  ‘You may be right, Mr Gacos,’ she said, painting a mask of detached aloofness on her face. Instinct told her Clive was only interested in his fame and glory. Not her own painful story. She took his outstretched hand and felt a shiver snake through her spine as cold, hard, steely fingers shook hers.

  ‘It’s a fabulous turnout, my dear. I’m absolutely delighted.’ Bleached white teeth flashed a self-satisfied smile.

  ‘Are you sure that this is the best way to unearth someone who may know something about this painting, Mr Gacos? You know how firmly my father was against it being exhibited.’

  ‘”Field of Dreams” or “Secret Passion” would have been a better name. Like a book the right title can boost sales,’ he said glancing at the painting ‘That’s interesting’, Alex said flatly. ‘But”Lost Love” is not for sale.’

  Eerie, pale eyes looked right through her. ‘My dear, everything is for sale.’

  ‘No, Mr Gacos. It’s not. I’m looking for answers. A sale won’t achieve that.’ Had she been wrong to trust him? ‘Besides you told me yourself, my father made it quite clear that the painting must never leave my possession.’

  ‘My dear, 40 years in the industry has taught me one thing, what an artist says and what an artist means are quite, quite different things. If you gave me ten dollars for every time I’ve heard, 'This is my favorite work, I’ll never part with it,' or some other nonsense I’d be a hundred-fold richer.’ His reptilian eyes scanned her face as though searching for a weakness in her resolve. ‘Of course none of this matters now that your father is dead.’

  Dead. Alex’s eyes misted as the finality of the word hit her unexpectedly. It was ridiculous. Eleven months ago she hadn’t even known geologist, turned painter, Ted Carr, known in art circles as Jimmie Goldie, was her father and since then she’d had plenty of time to accept the fact that he was gone. But she couldn’t help feeling regret. If only she’d known her father. If only he was by her side now. Although in a strange way he was, she mused, her eyes misting as she gazed at the painting. Infused with his energy, his passion, his spirit “Lost Love” was her only link. It was as though the painting was his voice—allowing him to speak through time and space. But only to those with ears who could hear and Alex still had no idea what he was saying. Maybe she was reading too much into it. Maybe it was just a painting. But why did her father want her to have it?

  ‘I expect this exhibition to arouse even more interest, and the longer we hold off the more the painting will appreciate in value.’ Clive blabbered on, oblivious of her raw grief.

  Alex clenched her teeth, shutting back a retort at his thoughtless remark. This wasn’t the time to be emotional, nor to incite conflict. She hated disharmony and discord. And although she’d been continually teased because she always chose the peaceful route, putting him in his place would only get him off side.

  ‘Remind me again, Mr Gacos, just how well did you know my father?’ she said gently.

  ‘I told you, I discovered him. Made him a sell-out success.’

  ‘Yes, but what was he really like?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. We never met.’

  ‘But you were his dealer?’

  ‘I deal in works of art, Miss Spencer. Not people. Your father liked his privacy. I respected that.’

  ‘Didn’t you wonder why he hid his true identity?’

  ‘My dear, you know half the celebrities in the world use fake, made-up names. Careers live and die by people’s memorability. It’s all part of the game. Do you really think Andy Warhol’s paintings would sell for astronomical sums if he called himself Andrew Warhola? Your father was smart. Jimmie Goldie, or Ted Carr—ask yourself, who’s the better investment?’

  Tension knotted her shoulders. She was getting nowhere.

  ‘Want some advice?’

  No.

  ‘Take it from me. There’s no mystery—just a finely executed brand strategy. And you, the lucky beneficiary. So what, he left you this painting. Maybe his conscience got the better of him. In my opinion it’s an exceptional piece of work, one of his finest, and tantalizingly one that the art world has never seen before. If I were you, I’d sell it. Realize the cash. Return to New York. Go live your life.’

  Go live your life. She would—but not before she had her answers. Alex’s gaze drifted back to the crowd. Her only hope was that someone would reveal something in their reaction to the painting. Surely if anyone was connected intimately it would hit them with the same power-punch to the gut as it did her every time she looked at it.

  Suddenly she was distracted by a blaze of rustic color. The most ridiculously handsome man Alex had ever seen strode toward her. His six-foot frame wore an immaculately tailored camel jacket, cut from the finest Merino wool and fashionably faded jeans gracing a powerful physique.

  His skin was deeply tanned, his hair glossy black—wavy and slightly tousled. Not a classically handsome pasty metro-sexual like the English suitors her mother continually threw in her path. But a ruggedly handsome man, who looked as though he would be equally at home in a New York boardroom dressed in a sleek Armani suit as he would be rustling cattle in a tough New Zealand Swandri. The man oozed passio
n, purpose—and danger.

  She watched entranced as his gaze swept the room, standing rigidly in the archway with a presence that emanated command. He had a strong, arresting face, coldly handsome with no lines of weakness. A disturbingly primitive tug of attraction quaked through her body. She could imagine this man commanding a Roman Legion, or leading a charge of Templar Knights. He oozed the power of a man who made his own rules, ruthlessly sweeping aside anyone who stood in opposition. A smile fluttered to her lips as she imagined the shock on her mother’s face if she came home with a man so raw and rugged. To her discomfort she found the idea thrilling and quickly sanctioned her recklessness.

  Whether the Adonis had read her mind Alex had no idea, but as he carved his way through the crowded gallery he slowed his stride. He paused opposite her and looked at her with the level unwavering gaze of a ravenous lion. Her heart raced. Near them people glided around the paintings, the vacuous height of the vaulted gallery ceiling amplifying peoples voices, but she was trapped with him in exploding silence.

  Usually she dismissed such attention. But this was more than a fleeting appraisal of desirability, more than an appreciation of the curvaceous femininity of her figure. It was an arrogant assessment projecting the confident knowledge that he could have her if he wanted. The only question appeared to be would she be worth the effort?

  A frisson of danger scuttled down Alex’s spine. Under his penetrating gaze Alex felt like a naked model posing for a ravenous sculptor. She picked at the black sequins of her dress, immediately regretting wearing the figure-hugging cocktail number she’d purchased for the formal opening night.

  She never dressed up ordinarily, and hated wearing black, but she had wanted to blend in with the art-gallery noir that she knew everyone else would be wearing. It was the only suitable dress she’d found at the second hand store on Queen Street in the few hours she had to spare since arriving in Auckland and the only dress that came anywhere close to fitting. She cursed the shimmering sequins for attracting his attention, as her face flared with humiliating heat.

  His piercing green eyes rested for long, uneasy moments on Alex’s quivering lips. His lips curved sardonically as his gaze inched with leisurely thoroughness before dropping to where her dress clung to her breasts.

  Every whisper of hair on her body stood like sentries armed for defence. Yet to her intense humiliation she found her barriers weakened. Was that pleasure? Longing? Desire she felt flood her body with warmth. She couldn’t be sure. It had been years since she’d been touched. Certainly, never by anyone so virile. For the briefest moment she found herself wondering what it would be like to be taken by such a man. Every remnant of her rational mind fought the dangerous feeling, but the more she struggled the more her body betrayed her.

  Suddenly, with an air of explosive tension the weight of the stranger lurched forward. His face spun away from her. Alex followed the direction of his fixed gaze, piqued that his interest in her had been so totally diverted. She couldn’t see his expression but she could sense his undiluted fury.

  In the next instant he propelled himself forward through the crowd, a dozen lithe strides bringing him within a foot of “Lost Love”.

  Her pulse rate ricocheted as she realized with a jolt he was staring at “Lost Love”. She watched transfixed as the stranger froze as if in shock. Then shook his head in disbelief. After several tense moments he riffled through the catalogue he carried. His shoulders tensed as he read the small caption, then scrutinised the painting again. He thrust his arms out as if to wrench the painting from the wall. His hand tightened into a closed fist crumpling the catalogue and thrusting it into his pocket.

  Alex’s heart pounded then took a dive as her mind raced ahead, struggling to understand the intensity of his reaction. Could he be the man who could unravel her mysterious past?

  He swung around, his face set in determined purpose, his gaze scanning quickly over the people in the room. They passed over Alex without a flicker of recognition, every muscle of his face taunt with savagery.

  ‘Who is he?’

  ‘I don’t know, but he looks important.’ Clive said in a low voice. ‘Let me handle this.’

  Clive was off and moving with the silent speed of a cobra toward the stranger before Alex could object. Tension jack-knifed through her chest. What should she do? Run after Clive and risk getting in the way? The stranger had dismissed any interest in her with the aloof detachment of a man who would never cede control. Instinct told her where she was concerned he was untameable and, like a wild wolf, the wrong move would send him running. Besides, Clive’s reputation for netting the elusive was legendary.

  She reached for a glass of champagne from a passing waitress and took tiny gulps as she hovered anxiously. Would Clive find out what had incited such a powerful reaction? Would the stranger reveal why he had responded so strongly? Perhaps the painting incited something deep within his soul? Impossible.

  The man did not appear to have a soul or he would not have dismissed her so coolly. Her heart pulsed with the sting of his rejection. He was clearly a collector like many others in the gallery. A numbers man who no doubt prided himself on his many conquests and the number of artworks he possessed.

  Alex gripped the stem of the glass as she watched the scene unfold. As Clive tried to beguile him with his charming smile the stranger’s shoulders tensed. Fear rumbled through her as cataclysmic as an earthquake. Was Clive failing? She cursed herself for allowing him to take the lead.

  A woman with a beehive hairdo, her long neck over-saturated with Opium perfume paused in front of her obstructing her view.

  ‘Excuse me,’ Alex said, inhaling a heady mix of cinnamon and spice, as she pressed past the woman. The stranger was no longer in front of the painting. Where had he gone? Her heart hammered as she stood on her tiptoes and scoured the room.

  A slice of golden caramel moving like a bullet caught her eye as the stranger strode toward the exit.

  Like the sun setting over the ranges in “Lost Love”, in a blink he was gone.

  ‘Goodbye,’ she whispered, consumed again by the sea of black.

  A heavy blanket of heat enveloped her. Now what? She yawned as a wave of tiredness weighed upon her. Jet lag still catching up on her, she thought, as she glanced at her watch and mentally calculated the time difference between New York and New Zealand. Tenacious to a fault she had no doubt Clive Gacos would try again to hook the stranger. She could pick his brains tomorrow when she was better rested. It was probably pointless to hang around the gallery anyway, fantasising possibilities from people’s reactions to “Lost Love”. She had to do something more constructive. But tonight, she thought happily, had been a very, very good start. Someone in the room tonight held the key. The door it opened would forever change her life.

  The Italian Billionaire’s Scandalous Marriage

  Book Two in the Gemstone Billionaires series—available November 30.

  Subscribe to my newsletter for pre-release updates

  Three women. Three lives. And the lies that bind them. Why is everyone afraid of the truth?

  When a lonely young American woman inherits a painting she discovers her whole life was a lie. Desperate for the truth, she goes in search of her true identity. The painting is her only clue. But everyone is determined to keep its secret past repressed, including Vitaliano Rossi, the Italian gold tycoon, unnaturally suspicious of her motives, who wants the painting vanquished. How can she discover who she really is and convince him that his love means more to her than gold?

 

 

 
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