Claimed by the Wealthy Magnate

by Nina Milne

  ‘I know what you need. You need pizza.’

  ‘I do?’

  ‘Yup. We’ll get takeaway pizza and eat it whilst we watch the world go by.’

  Twenty minutes later he had made good on his promise and they were seated in a small courtyard—a pocket-sized garden of tranquillity. The scents of oleander and laurel mingled with the pungent tomato sauce of the pizza, and the background sounds of the fountains merged with the noise of St Mark’s square just metres away.

  Kaitlin sat on a bench and took a bite of pizza. ‘This is fabulous.’ For a while they ate in companionable and appreciative silence. Until she wiped her mouth with a napkin and turned to face him. ‘You keep asking how I am. Now it’s my turn. How are you?’

  ‘Fine.’

  A shake of her head indicated disbelief. ‘You told me that last time you came to Venice it made you feel melancholy. What about this time? I’m not trying to pry.’ Her expression was soft, pensive. ‘But you have helped me—you are helping me, so much—and I want you to know that if I can reciprocate I want to.’ She sighed. ‘Not in a tit-for-tat way—more in a... I’d like to.’ A shake of her head. ‘I can’t believe how garbled I’m being.’

  ‘It’s OK. I get it.’

  Ironically, he did—way more than he got her carefully thought out sentences, however clever or apposite they might be. This Kaitlin was real, genuine, and he didn’t want to close the conversation down. Because to do so would be to send the real Kaitlin away.

  ‘Last time I came here was eight years ago—I was much younger and more emotional and it felt like a pilgrimage. This time I’m older and wiser.’

  This time he also had Kaitlin, but that was neither here nor there.

  ‘I wish my parents had had this chance—a chance to make a go of it, enjoy the beauty of the city—but I can’t change the past.’

  ‘No. You can only face forward,’ she said, quoting his words back at him. ‘But the past is still important, because it shapes your future.’

  ‘Your own choices shape your future.’

  ‘Of course. But you can’t deny the past has an effect. Even if you wish it didn’t. You are a different person than the one you would have been if your father had lived.’

  ‘So you don’t believe our fate is ordained from birth?’

  ‘Perhaps some of it is. Or maybe not “ordained” but made probable. It is more likely that I will mix in aristocratic circles because I am from an aristocratic family. But it’s not set in stone. My sister Cora was never very interested in that side of things.’ She tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear. ‘So it’s not only our birth but also our family who influences us. After your father died I’m sure your grandparents must have had an impact on your life.’

  ‘Unfortunately not.’ The age-old anger flared in his gut. ‘My mother had run away from her own family as a teenager—she would never speak of the reasons, but I assume her childhood was pretty horrific. My dad’s family wanted nothing to do with us.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘They thought my mother was beneath my father. When she got pregnant and they decided to get married my dad’s parents were furious. They asked him to choose between them and my mother.’

  The irony of the situation caused bitterness to rise in his throat.

  ‘He chose my mother, so they disowned him—fired him from his job in the family restaurant business and blackened his name. My dad took any job he could find, because he was determined to provide for us—for his baby, his family. He worked all hours because he was determined to succeed on his own. One of the jobs he took on was as a lorry driver—he was so exhausted he fell asleep at the wheel, the lorry crashed and he died. Luckily at least no one else was hurt.’

  As he told the story he had almost forgotten he had an audience. His desire for the tale to have a different ending burned as deep as it had in childhood. Accompanied by the same sear of guilt.

  A feeling of warmth permeated his senses, the scent of rose, the sense of comfort, as Kaitlin shifted closer to him on the bench, leant forward and touched his arm. ‘Your poor, poor mum. The shock must have been awful—your dad sounds so vital, so strong. And poor you as well. To never have known him.’

  ‘My mother told me about him. He was the love of her life—according to her, love at first sight is possible. She was a waitress in one of his family’s restaurants—they met and kaboom.’ The sound of his mother’s voice echoed across the years. The click of her fingers as she’d said the word. ‘They had so many hopes and dreams and plans—if it hadn’t been for me their story would have played out differently.’

  ‘It’s not your fault.’ Her voice was urgent; fervour brightened the green of her eye to emerald.

  ‘It’s not about fault. It is about fact. My grandparents cast him off because of the pregnancy. He was working all those jobs to provide for me.’

  Kaitlin shook her head, studying his expression with way too much understanding, and discomfort caused him to shift on the wooden slats of the bench.

  ‘It sounds to me as though your dad loved you, and it is a tragedy he didn’t live to see the man you have become. But the fact is that it is not your fault.’ As if sensing his unease, with her usual unerring social poise she changed tack. ‘So, what were their plans and dreams? Did your mother tell you?’

  ‘They wanted to set up a restaurant—here in Venice, where his family originated. Travel...have a brood of children.’

  ‘So your dad was Italian?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But you took your stepfather’s surname?’

  Easy does it.

  This was why he should have never have embarked on this conversation. Perhaps the ambience of Venice, the flavour of might-have-beens, the sudden urge to keep his father’s memory alive had all combined to loosen his tongue. The suspicion that in actual fact it was Kaitlin—her understanding, her sheer presence—that had caused the hitherto unheard of confidence-sharing unnerved him.

  It was an unacceptable possibility—letting people close caused potential hurt to all concerned and it was time to bring this to a halt.

  ‘I kept my mother’s name.’ In fact he had changed it when he’d left the States—had needed a clean start with no connection at all to his past. A past he had left behind.

  Daniel screwed up his napkin with a savage scrunch and rose to his feet, saw Kaitlin’s troubled look and pulled a smile to his face. This was not her fault—it was his. And he wouldn’t let it happen again. From now on in this was about enjoyment of Venice—no more than that.

  ‘If you’re ready, I know the perfect place for dessert.’

  * * *

  As they walked back towards the hustle and bustle of St Mark’s Square Kaitlin couldn’t help but dwell on what Daniel had shared.

  Next to her, she could sense the strength of his body and the vibration of frustrated anger, and she wondered about his current family situation. The way he had spoken of his mother suggested distance—she had no immediate sense of the woman whose life had been touched by such tragedy.

  Walking closer to him, she wanted to soothe him, remembered how much comfort she had derived from human contact. So she slipped her hand into his. For a second his stride faltered, and then he returned the pressure and they kept walking until they arrived at a café.

  Though ‘café’ seemed way too commonplace a word—this was a real, proper European coffee house.

  ‘If I narrow my eyes to filter out the modern-day clothing I can imagine that we’ve stepped back in time.’

  ‘This was once the haunt of the likes of Casanova, Proust and Charles Dickens. Lord Byron used to brood and breakfast here as well.’

  ‘Where would you like to sit?’

  Outside, tables and chairs were scattered under the colonnades, and an orchestra played classical mu
sic that further added to the sense of history.

  ‘Wherever you prefer,’ Daniel said.

  ‘Let’s go inside,’ she decided. ‘If the outside is so magnificent I can’t imagine the inside.’

  And indeed it did defy description. As they sat in the gilded interior, where vast mirrors, stuccos and paintings ranging from the Oriental to portraits vied for attention, listening to the strains of beautiful notes that wafted in from outside and mingled with the smells of cakes and pastries, Kaitlin felt joy touch her.

  ‘This is incredible.’

  She looked down at the sheer decadence of her gianduia and pistachio parfait and dug her spoon into the concoction. Savoured the smallest bite, the cool, smooth texture, the tang of hazelnut complemented by the rich dark chocolate.

  ‘I almost can’t bear to actually eat it—it is so beautiful. And as for this hot chocolate...that is too mundane a translation. I think I prefer the Italian—cioccolata calda con panna.’

  Daniel’s face lit up in a grin and she felt the effect right down to her perfectly painted toes. ‘Take as long as you like. You look like a little girl at her first birthday party.’

  ‘That’s how I feel.’

  In fact she felt suddenly lightheaded, and she knew it was nothing to do with the sugar rush. It was to do with her sense of accomplishment and it was to do with Daniel. Danger tolled a bell in the deep recesses of her brain but Kaitlin ignored it, suddenly determined that nothing would spoil this day.

  ‘That’s awesome.’ He lifted his espresso. ‘Long may it last.’

  For a moment she thought he might expound on his views on her getting help, but he didn’t. Instead his gaze rested on her and something sparked in his eyes—something that warmed her from the inside out, made her want to hurl caution to the spring breeze. All that mattered was this moment in time, the glide of the tuxedoed waiters, their platters expertly balanced, the strum of the orchestra, the smell of cake and sugar mingled with the tang of rosemary, and the dark, bittersweet melting of chocolate on her tongue.

  But most of all there was Daniel—his aura, his potency, his sheer being as his lips turned up into a smile that stole the breath from her lungs.

  ‘You look happy.’ The depth of his voice caressed her skin. ‘And relaxed, and...’ A chuckle accompanied the words. ‘You have a smudge of sugar on the tip of your nose...’

  Kaitlin reached into her bag for a pocket mirror and looked at her reflection. ‘And a chocolate moustache,’ she completed for him. ‘I really do look as if I’m at a kid’s birthday party.’

  To her surprise a small laugh bubbled up, and then she couldn’t quite help herself—scooping up a bit of whipped cream, she leant over and dabbed it on the end of Daniel’s nose.

  Surprise daubed his expression with a comical grimace as he wiped it off and her laughter bubbled over, erupting in a stream of giggles that she couldn’t stem. A second later and he had joined in, with a deep belly laugh that caused the neighbouring customers to turn and look.

  Then, as their laughter subsided, he grinned at her and Kaitlin could feel an answering smile tilt her lips as he reached out and gently swiped his finger down the bridge of her nose.

  A tingle shot through her, and for a long moment their gazes intermingled before she hauled in breath. ‘Thank you. I haven’t laughed like that in a long time.’

  ‘Neither have I.’

  Those alarm bells clanged again.

  Get it together.

  This was not how Lady Kaitlin Derwent behaved.

  ‘Right. Um...well, I guess I’d better get eating and we’d better get a move on. After all, we only have today.’

  Regret twinged and she gave her head a small shake. They might only have today, but perhaps that meant she should enjoy every second, silence the alarm bells and live in the moment. After all there could be no danger in wandering the streets of Venice chaperoned by throngs of fellow tourists.

  Scooping up another exquisite bite, she smiled at him. ‘Onward.’

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  ONWARD. DANIEL GLANCED down at Kaitlin as they left the café and for a scant second wondered exactly where ‘onward’ was taking them. Disquiet prickled his skin as he quenched the urge to clasp her hand in his again.

  Ridiculous.

  Kaitlin did not need to hold his hand—it seemed clear that her panic had at least temporarily been held at bay, granting her a reprieve.

  So it was best that he held his distance and continued to ignore the attraction that hazed the air between them. Instead he focused on their environment—the washing hanging to dry from windows, the aromas of cooking, a woman in her doorway shelling peas, the scent of the canal and the snatches of conversation as they wandered the narrow streets lined with brightly painted houses.

  But at increasingly regular intervals his attention strayed back to Kaitlin, to the vibrant splash of her hair, the grace with which she walked, effortlessly cool and elegant in the lace dress. A vibe radiated from her of relaxed, confident enthusiasm, and her green eyes sparkled as she looked around, absorbing the sights and sounds of the city, and an unwanted warmth spread through his veins and brought a scowl to his face.

  ‘Is something wrong?’

  Daniel glanced down and forced his expression to neutral as he saw the question in her eyes. ‘Not at all. For a moment there I thought I’d got us lost, but I haven’t. If I’m right we should arrive in the next few minutes.’

  Her forehead creased into a small frown, as if she didn’t believe his answer, but then she gave a small lift of her shoulders, indicative of a decision to leave well enough alone.

  A few more twists and turns and... ‘Voilà.’

  The stone and marble building of the Scuola Grande di San Rocco was a truly impressive example of Renaissance architecture—a fitting home for its incredible interior.

  Kaitlin’s green eyes widened, her movements slow and deliberate as she stood in front of each painting. ‘It’s almost as if I am being pulled in by the depth of emotion, the fervour. It makes me feel...humbled.’

  ‘This one defines the meaning of awesome,’ Daniel said. ‘In that it fills me with awe and incredulity at its sheer...vastness.’

  Tintoretto’s attention to detail combined with the overall message each image portrayed showed him to be master of artistry and allegory.

  ‘It stuns me that one man could create all of this in one lifetime. The detail, the anguish, the dedication...’ Her voice was soft with reverence. ‘But also the intelligence and the thought he must have put into it—the way each individual picture is part of the overall panorama.’

  She turned away from the paintings and looked up at him, her face alight with curiosity.

  ‘Is that how you feel about your company? That it’s like a work of art, or a sculpture that you’ve built up piece by piece?’

  It was an interesting concept. ‘I’ve never thought of it like that.’ The burn of ambition had motivated him to focus on growth and money, but in a way Harrington Legal Services was a work of art—a tapestry of success. ‘But, yes, HLS is my creation.’

  And he was proud of it for reasons other than its success—he was proud of what it represented, of the fact all his employees shared its ethos and principles.

  ‘One that you were driven to create. Just like a lot of artists paint because they have no choice.’

  ‘I have a choice.’ Didn’t he?

  ‘Do you? Your life is all about work. You don’t holiday, you don’t want a family...’

  Her words were matter-of-fact, yet he fought an absurd urge to fold his arms in defensiveness.

  ‘I’m not a holiday type of person. I get edgy. Bored.’

  The thought flitted in his brain that he hadn’t been bored in Scotland or here in Venice. Obviously because this was a working holi
day, even if the work wasn’t associated with the law.

  ‘I prefer to work—it’s a choice. As for family—that is also my choice. It’s not for me.’

  Kaitlin shook her head. ‘How often do you drive your sports car? Or cars?’

  ‘Often enough.’

  But quite possibly not often enough to warrant their price tag. In truth his cars were simply tokens that marked his climb up the ladder of success—an indication that he was as successful as his step-family, proof that he had enough lucre to support his mother and his half-sister in the lifestyle they had become accustomed to.

  ‘I don’t think you do. You told me that my panic imposes limitations on my life—maybe your drive to succeed imposes limitations on yours.’

  As she walked over to placard headed ‘The Life of Tintoretto’ she gestured for him to follow.

  ‘Look. Tintoretto had it all. He lived a long, prosperous life, married and had eight children, and even trained three of them to follow in his footsteps. Yet he managed to paint all this and way more. He had balance. I—’

  Her words came to an abrupt cessation, her animation replaced by a frozen mask of terror, her body preternaturally still. He turned to follow her line of glazed vision, saw that a group of English tourists had entered—a man and two women, the man dark-haired and bearded with his sunglasses still on. His voice was loud and argumentative, and clearly he had been dragged here by his companions against his will. But he was paying no heed to Kaitlin, and he couldn’t see what there was to trigger her panic.

  No matter—Kaitlin swayed slightly and he could almost see her fight-or-flight instinct come to the fore.

  ‘We’re out of here,’ he said, keeping his voice calm and even as he approached her. ‘Come on, Kaitlin, start walking.’