The Borghese Bride

by Sandra Marton

  “You mean, from what you know of me,” Dominic said smoothly. “Come now, signorina, don’t be shy. All of Rome knows that I haven’t a history as honorable as yours.”

  “I’m interested in the Butterfly’s honor, not yours. I can’t imagine you giving it the individual attention it deserves. All of this—all of it,” Arianna said, spreading her arms, “will be just another cog in a corporate wheel.”

  “Meaning I won’t run it as you did.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Well then, at least it won’t go bankrupt and end up in the hands of your creditors.”

  It was a low blow, but Arianna knew she deserved it. “Believe me, I’d give anything to go back and change what happened.”

  “Unfortunately, it’s impossible to change what we do once we’ve done it. Surely, even a princess knows that.”

  Dominic’s voice was soft, his words clearly meant to have special meaning for her. A princess. That was what he’d called her that night. She wanted to slap his face, to tell him not to play this game, but her grandmother was watching them with rapt attention.

  “That’s true, signore,” Arianna said politely. “But there are those of us who learn from our mistakes.”

  “Indeed. But… perhaps you can enlighten me about something, signorina.”

  Arianna looked at Dominic again. His eyes had narrowed to dark green slits.

  “If I can.”

  “We’ve met before, haven’t we?”

  “No.” Did she sound calm? How could she, when her heart was racing? “No, we haven’t.”

  “Are you certain? You look so familiar. Perhaps we met in Rome.”

  “Rome? I don’t think so.”

  “Florence? You do spend time in Florence, don’t you?”

  “No.”

  “Arianna, don’t be silly.” The marchesa gave a little laugh. “Of course she spends time in Firenze, Signore Borghese. Perhaps…” She looked from Dominic to Arianna. “Is it possible you two met there?”

  “We’ve never met anywhere,” Arianna said decisively.

  “I never forget a face, signorina, especially one so lovely.” Dominic frowned. “Wait. It’s coming to me. A party. Here, in New York. Five years ago.” His smile was smooth as silk. “Do you recall it now? Or shall I tweak your memory a little?”

  The room seemed to tilt again. The bastard. Why was he toying with her?

  “That won’t be necessary, signore.”

  “We don’t need such formality, Arianna. Call me Dominic, please.”

  “Dominic,” she said, though the name seemed to stick in her throat. “I suppose it’s possible we met a long time ago.”

  “We did. I knew it as soon as I saw your photo at your grandmother’s palazzo.”

  “But you never said a word!” The marchesa laughed girlishly. “Dominic, how naughty. You should have told me you knew my granddaughter when I asked you—when we discussed business.”

  “I wanted to surprise you, marchesa,” Dominic said, lazily enough that it made Arianna’s belly knot.

  So, he’d known who she was all along. That was why he’d come here, so he could have the pleasure of taking the Butterfly from her in person. Apparently, she’d insulted him by slipping from his bed without a word.

  Oh, if she’d only known his identity that night. She’d heard of Dominic Borghese. Who hadn’t? And if half the things people whispered about him were true, she’d never have slept with him. The man was a savage…

  A savage whose touch she’d never forgotten.

  Heat rose in her face.

  He was also an arrogant son of a bitch who’d come all this distance to rub her nose in the fact that he was the man taking the Butterfly from her. He wanted to play games? Fine. She’d accommodate him.

  Arianna smiled and tucked her hands into the pockets of her silk slacks.

  “You know, now that I think about it… Perhaps I do recall meeting you before.”

  “Really.”

  “Mmm.” She was tempted to bat her lashes, but why push a good thing too far? Instead, she gave him a big, bright smile.

  “Unfortunately, I can’t be certain. I meet so many people. You understand. Sometimes it’s difficult to remember them all.”

  “Unfortunate, indeed.”

  “On the other hand, if our meeting was memorable, I wouldn’t need reminding, would I?”

  A muscle ticked in his jaw. “In that case,” he said softly, “perhaps I can find ways to refresh your memory.”

  The warning was clear. Don’t underestimate me, he was saying, or you’ll regret it.

  He was right. What was the matter with her? You didn’t play dangerous games with a man like this, especially if you had a secret to protect. Twenty-four hours, that was all, and the Butterfly would belong to him. She could handle things for one day.

  “For heaven’s sake!” The marchesa looked from Arianna to Dominic. “What is all this? Do you two know each other or not?”

  Arianna held her breath and waited. The next move had to be Dominic’s. Seconds crept past and then he smiled at her grandmother, took her hand and brought it to his lips.

  “We did meet once, a long time ago. I’m afraid your granddaughter has forgotten me, but I haven’t forgotten her. What man could forget a woman who is the image of you, marchesa?”

  The marchesa blushed. Arianna had never seen her grandmother blush in her entire life. Without question, the man had a way with women.

  “What charm you have, Dominic. No wonder one hears such naughty whispers about you.”

  “What you hear is usually the product of someone’s imagination.” He grinned. “It’s what you don’t hear that’s really interesting.”

  The marchesa giggled. Arianna tried not to roll her eyes but he must have known what she was thinking because he flashed her the kind of smile that made her want to slap it off his face.

  “Coffee,” Tom sang out as he breezed in with a silver tray in his hands. “And tea.” He glanced at Arianna. “And some wonderful biscotti.”

  Saved by the bell, Arianna thought, and busied herself by playing hostess.

  * * *

  Dominic left the women in late afternoon.

  He said his goodbyes politely, bending over the marchesa’s hand, then Arianna’s, though that involved a determined, if invisible, tug of war as she tried to jerk her fingers from his. Eventually, he applied just enough pressure so she finally gave up fighting.

  Once on the street, he felt like a man let out of a cage.

  No wonder the marchesa was trying to marry off her granddaughter. The old woman wanted more than his money. She wanted a man to tame a wildcat.

  Dio, he’d be sorry for the fool who married her.

  Some poor idiot would surely be taken in by that stunning face, that lush body, those innocent-seeming eyes. And what a shock that man would have when he realized he’d married a woman with a sharp tongue, a prickly disposition… and a taste for falling into bed with men she didn’t know and had no interest in seeing again.

  Dominic waved away his chauffeur. His head was full of questions. He needed to walk. To think. It had been, to put it mildly, one hell of an afternoon.

  Traffic heading uptown was heavy. Cars and trucks slipped past each other with inches to spare; pedestrians hurried along the narrow streets without concern for red lights or green. Dominic followed suit. He felt at home in New York. In many ways, the city reminded him of Rome. The impatient traffic. The energy and vitality of the streets.

  Energy and vitality. Those words could also describe Arianna and what had drawn him to her five years ago. She’d been out of place at that party, stalking the room with impatience, her smile wooden, her eyes showing her boredom.

  She hadn’t been bored in his arms that night.

  She hadn’t been bored today, either. First she’d gone toe to toe with him in a verbal duel. Once she’d realized he wasn’t to be trifled with, she’d done her best to act civilly, but he’d seen straight through the
polite words and courteous smiles.

  Arianna Cabot loathed him.

  Dominic stepped off the curb. A horn honked angrily. He took a quick step back as a taxi whizzed past.

  Amazing, that she’d gone to bed with him without checking his pedigree. Or maybe she had. Maybe she’d known who he was and wanted to see what it was like to sleep with a barbarian.

  Either way, she’d made her point. He was good enough to sleep with but not good enough for anything else. She’d all but curled her lip each time she’d looked at him this afternoon. Not that she’d looked at him very often. Once her assistant brought in that tray she’d done her best to ignore him, even when the marchesa tried to include him in the conversation.

  Arianna hadn’t been able to hide her disdain.

  In turn, he’d behaved as if he hadn’t noticed…but he had. Dio, she infuriated him! Did she really think she could get away with treating him like that? She couldn’t. He wouldn’t permit it. He’d made that promise to himself the first time—the only time—a woman had made a fool of him.

  How old had he been then? Seventeen? Eighteen? It had been summer then, too. He’d been working for a contractor, laying bricks at a rich man’s villa just outside Rome. The owner of the villa had a daughter. She’d watched him working shirtless under the blazing sun for almost a week. Then she’d set out to seduce him.

  It had taken no effort at all.

  He was young and hot-blooded. She was sophisticated and beautiful. She’d welcomed him to her bed every night for two weeks until, with the foolishness of youth, he’d told her he’d fallen in love with her and asked if she loved him, too.

  “Me?” she’d said incredulously. “In love with you?” And she’d laughed and laughed…

  Dominic walked faster.

  No way would he let history repeat itself. He’d tolerated Arianna’s behavior for the marchesa’s sake, but politeness only demanded so much of a man. That he should have endured her coldness, the icy glances meant to remind him that she was an aristocrat and he was a nobody…

  A nobody who held the future of the del Vecchio family in his hands.

  She had the bloodlines, but he had the money.

  Dominic paused at the curb. His limousine glided to a stop alongside. His driver didn’t get out. The man had been with him long enough to know that his boss didn’t like shows of subservience in anyone.

  Although right now, Dominic thought grimly, as he climbed into the car and it headed toward Fifth Avenue, right now, watching Arianna Cabot do a little bowing and scraping would be a pleasure.

  The amazing thing was that he’d managed to control his temper today.

  How many times had he almost shot from his chair, grabbed the ice princess by the shoulders and reminded her that she hadn’t found him so distasteful the night she’d slept with him?

  How many times had he come close to proving it by clasping that beautiful face in his hands and kissing her until her mouth lost its haughty stiffness and melted under his?

  He’d kept his temper because it just wasn’t worth losing it. He didn’t want anything from Arianna. Not her uselessly old-fashioned business, not her body, not even a show of respect.

  All he wanted was payback. Wasn’t that what the Americans called it? And he’d have it tomorrow.

  The car glided to a stop outside the hotel where Dominic kept a suite—the suite he’d taken Arianna to that night.

  “Will you be wanting the car this evening, Mr. Borghese?”

  Dominic shook his head. “No, George. Put it in the garage and take the night off.”

  “See you tomorrow morning, then. Seven o’clock, right?”

  “Right.”

  Tomorrow morning, Dominic thought as he rode the private elevator to the penthouse, he would go back to the Butterfly and at the moment the place was supposed to become his, he’d tell the marchesa that he didn’t want it and he didn’t want her granddaughter, either.

  He’d be damned if he’d take an old woman’s sole asset. As for marrying Arianna…did the marchesa really believe he’d give up his freedom, give up choosing his own wife, for the supposed benefit of joining his blood with the del Vecchios?

  Dominic yanked off his suit jacket and tie and tossed them on a chair in the foyer. He walked into the living room as he unbuttoned his shirt collar and rolled back his cuffs.

  The truth was, the marchesa wouldn’t have looked at him twice if she still had money.

  Dominic dumped ice into a glass, opened a bottle and poured himself a finger of Kentucky bourbon. It was a taste he’d acquired when he’d spent a couple of years in the States, though he hardly ever indulged it. It was important to have a clear head at all times.

  Besides, he’d seen too much of what alcohol could do to people while he was growing up.

  Still, a small celebration seemed called for, considering that tomorrow was going to be filled with surprises for Arianna.

  Dominic stepped out onto the terrace and gazed down at Central Park sprawled far below him, a calm oasis of green in the concrete hurly-burly of the city. He lifted the whiskey to his lips and let the first sip warm his belly.

  The bittersweet truth about the marchesa’s “merger” suggestion was that if the del Vecchio fortune were intact, if he’d met Arianna the usual way, if they’d fallen in love—whatever that meant—if he’d asked her to marry him, the old woman would have moved heaven and earth to keep the marriage from taking place.

  His blood would never be blue, but his bank account was fat. That was all that mattered to people like the del Vecchois.

  Dominic lifted the glass to his lips and frowned when he realized it was empty. He went inside the living room, poured himself a second drink, then took the bottle outside to watch the sky darken and the lights in the park flicker on while he poured a third.

  By the time he fell into bed, he didn’t give a damn about anything but that moment tomorrow when he’d look Arianna in the eye and tell her his lawyers had already drawn up the necessary papers that would, in effect, cancel out the loan.

  He didn’t want the Butterfly. He certainly didn’t want Arianna.

  He’d tell her that. It was why he’d come all this distance, so that he could enjoy the look on her face when she learned that her grandmother had tried to sell her to him—and her reaction when he told her he’d sooner marry an alley cat than take her as a wife.

  Dominic yawned, rolled over and fell soundly asleep.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  DOMINIC awoke to the insistent ringing of a bell.

  He fumbled for the alarm clock and hit the off switch, but that didn’t stop the noise. Neither did slamming the clock with his fist. Finally, he struggled up against the pillows, winced at the throbbing pain in his temples, and grabbed the telephone.

  “What?” he barked.

  “Buon giorno.”

  It was the marchesa. Dominic looked blearily at the clock. It was 4:55 in the morning.

  “Marchesa.” He cleared his throat. “I hate to sound unsociable, but—”

  “Did I wake you, signore?”

  Dominic closed his eyes. “As a matter of fact—”

  “My apologies. I know it’s early. I waited all night, as long as I could… Oh, Dominic. I made a mistake. I should not have done it, I know, but—”

  “Marchesa.” Gingerly, Dominic touched his hand to his head. Surely a man did not deserve such pain even if he’d been foolish enough to drink too much bourbon whiskey. “Marchesa, please, speak more slowly.”

  “Per favore, Dominic, address me by my name. I am Emilia.”

  Hell. All of a sudden, she wanted him to call her by her given name? The throbbing in his head got worse. What did the old woman want?

  “Emilia,” he said carefully, “perhaps you’ve forgotten the time difference here in New—”

  “Listen to me, Dominic. I have created a problem.”

  The marchesa—Emilia—began talking, but she didn’t slow down. If anything, her words took on added
speed and urgency.

  Half-listening, Dominic clutched the phone to his ear and made his way to the bathroom. He rummaged through the medicine cabinet for a bottle of aspirin, tapped three tablets—four, he thought, wincing—into the palm of his hand and gulped them down.

  Why had he drunk so much last night? He wasn’t a drinker and there was nothing to celebrate. He’d go to today’s meeting, make his announcement about the immediate liquidation of the company, then fly home. Never mind mentioning her grandmother’s absurd marriage plan to Arianna. He had no time for something as self-indulgent as revenge. When he could get a word in, he’d simply tell the marchesa he wasn’t interested. Then he could go back to Rome and put this ridiculous episode behind him.

  The marchesa was still talking. About what? Dominic thought wearily, and headed for the kitchen.

  “Emilia,” he said, interrupting the stream of words, “as a special favor to me, take a couple of breaths and start again, yes? Tell me what’s wrong.”

  What was wrong, the old woman said, was that she, and she alone, had ruined everything.

  “Everything!” Her voice shook. “And I am so terribly sorry.”

  Dominic turned on the kitchen lights. One-handed, he took down the coffee, spooned some into the filter, changed his mind and spooned in more, then filled the pot with water.

  “You cannot imagine how I regret my error!”

  Actually, he could. He regretted his errors, too. He should never have come to New York, never have let the marchesa spend a moment thinking he’d really collect on the loan or so much as consider her ludicrous suggestion that he marry Arianna.

  “Dominic? Do you hear me?”

  “I hear you, Emilia. What error?”

  “I—how do you say it? I let the cat out of the bag. Last night, at dinner, I told Arianna of our plans.”

  Dominic sighed and sat down at the kitchen counter. Was he going to have to drag each word from her? “What plans?”

  “Our merger plans,” the marchesa said, with more than a touch of impatience. “I told Arianna you were going to propose to her.”

  “You told her…” Dominic shot to his feet, took the phone from his ear and scowled at it as if the instrument was actually the marchesa. “But we had no plans.”