Luca blinked to clear away the vision and gripped the steering wheel with white-knuckled force. He couldn’t bring his father and brother back. He couldn’t undo the damage he had caused to his mother and Nonna and Nonno. His grandmother had died a year ago and since then, his grandfather had lost the will to live. Nonno was refusing treatment for his very treatable cancer, and if he didn’t receive chemotherapy soon he would die. So far, no amount of talking, lecturing, cajoling or bribing or begging on Luca’s part had helped changed his grandfather’s mind.
But Luca had a plan and he intended to carry it out no matter what. He would bring home a fresh-faced young bride to give hope to his grandfather that the Ferrantelli family line would continue well into the future.
Even if that was nothing but a fairy tale.
* * *
Artie watched Luca Ferrantelli’s showroom-perfect deep blue Maserati come through the castello gates like a prowling lion. The low purr of the engine was audible even here in the formal sitting room. The car’s tinted windows made it impossible for her to get a proper glimpse of his face, but the car’s sleek profile and throaty growls seemed like a representation of his forthright personality.
Didn’t they say a person’s choice of car told you a lot about them?
Artie already knew as much as she wanted to know. More than she wanted to know. That would teach her for spending the weekend trawling over the internet for any mention of him. Her research had revealed him as a flagrant playboy who brokered property deals and broke female hearts all over the globe. Barely a week went past without a gossip page featuring Luca Ferrantelli with a star-struck sylph-like blonde draped on his arm.
The powerful sports car came to a halt at the front of the castello. Artie sucked in a breath as the driver’s door opened, her heart giving a sudden kick, her eyes widening as a vision of potent, athletic maleness unfolded from behind the wheel. The internet photos hadn’t done him justice. How could it be possible to be so spectacularly attractive? Her pulse fluttered as if someone had injected her veins with thousands of butterflies.
The good-looks fairy godmother had certainly excelled herself when it came to Luca Ferrantelli. Six foot four, lean and athletic, with wavy black hair that was casually styled in a just-out-of-bed or just-combed-with-his-fingers manner, he was the epitome of heart-stopping handsome. Even though she was looking at him from a distance, Artie’s heart was stopping and starting like a spluttering engine. How was she going to be when he was in the same room as her? Breathing the same air? Within touching distance?
As if Luca Ferrantelli sensed her gaze on him, he took off his aviator-style sunglasses and locked gazes with her. Something sprang open in her chest and she suddenly couldn’t breathe. She quickly stepped away from the window and leaned back against the adjacent wall, clutching a hand to her pulsing throat, heat pouring into her cheeks. She had to get a grip. And fast. The last thing she wanted to do was appear gauche and unsophisticated, but, given she had been out of society for so long, she was at a distinct disadvantage. He was the poster boy for living in the fast lane. She was a wallflower who hadn’t been seen in public for a decade.
It was some minutes before the housekeeper, Rosa, led Luca Ferrantelli to where Artie was waiting to receive him, but even so, her pulse was still leaping when the sitting room door opened. What if she became tongue-tied? What if she blushed? What if she broke out in a sweat and couldn’t breathe? What if—?
‘Signor Ferrantelli to see you,’ Rosa announced with a formal nod in Luca’s direction, before going out of the room and closing the door behind her with a click.
The first thing Artie noticed was his hair wasn’t completely black. There were several strands of steel-grey sprinkled around his temples, which gave him a distinguished, wise-beyond-his-years air. His eyes were framed by prominent eyebrows and were an unusual hazel—a mix of brown and green flecks, fringed by thick, ink-black lashes. His amazing eyes were a kaleidoscope of colours one would normally find in a deeply shadowed forest. His jaw was cleanly shaven but the faint shadow of regrowth around his nose and mouth hinted at the potent male hormones working vigorously behind the scenes.
The atmosphere of the room changed with his presence, as if every stick of furniture, every fibre of carpet and curtains, every portrait frame and the faces of her ancestors contained within them took a collective breath. Stunned by his looks, his commanding presence, his take-charge energy.
‘Buongiorno, Signorina Bellante.’ Luca Ferrante’s voice was like the sound of his car—low and deep, with a sexy rumble that did something strange to the base of her spine. So, too, did seeing his lips move when shaping and pronouncing her name. His lower lip was full and sensual, the top lip only marginally less so, and he had a well-defined philtrum ridge beneath his nose and a shallow cleft in his chin.
Artie slipped her hand into his outstretched one and a zap of electricity shot from her fingers to her core like a lightning bolt. His grip was strong and yet strangely gentle, his fingers long and tanned with a light dusting of dark masculine hair that ran over the backs of his hands and disappeared beneath the cuffs of his business shirt and jacket. Armani, at a guess. And his aftershave an equally intoxicating blend of citrus and spice and sophistication that teased her senses into a stupor.
‘Buongiorno, Signor Ferrantelli.’
Artie aimed for cool politeness but sounded more like a star-struck teen in front of a Hollywood celebrity. She could feel warm colour blooming in her cheeks. Could feel her heart thumping like it was having some sort of medical crisis. Could feel her female hormones responding to his male ones with little tingles and pulses deep within her body.
Let go of his hand!
Her brain gave the command but her hand was trapped in some kind of weird stasis. It was as if her hand had a mind of its own and was enjoying being held by his warm, dry one, thank you very much. Enjoying it so much, she could feel every whorl of his skin as if it were being engraved, branded into hers.
Luca removed his hand from hers but his gaze kept hers tethered. She couldn’t look away if she tried. Magnetic. Enthralling. Mesmerising. His eyes seemed to draw secrets from within her while concealing his own.
‘Firstly, allow me to offer my condolences on the recent passing of your father.’
‘Grazie.’
She stepped back and waved her still-tingling hand in the direction of the sofa. ‘Would you like to sit down? I’ll call Rosa to bring in coffee. How do you take it?’
‘Black and strong.’
Of course you do.
Artie pressed the intercom pad and summoned Rosa, surreptitiously eyeing him while she requested coffee from the housekeeper. Everything about Luca Ferrantelli was strong. Strong, determined jaw. Strong, intelligent eyes. A strong and muscled body that hinted at a man who wasn’t afraid of pushing himself to the limits of endurance. A man who set goals and didn’t let anyone or anything stop him from achieving them.
Artie ended the intercom conversation with Rosa and sat on the nearest sofa, and only then did Luca take the seat opposite. He laid one arm along the back of the sofa in a casually relaxed pose she privately envied. She had to place her hands on the tops of her thighs to stop her knees from trembling. Not from fear but from a strange sense of fizzing excitement. She tried not to stare at his powerfully muscled thighs, his well-formed biceps, the flat plane of his stomach, but her gaze kept drifting over him of its own volition. Drinking in the planes and contours of his face, wondering what was going on behind the screen of his gaze, wondering if his firm lips would soften when he kissed...
Artie blinked and sat up straighter on the sofa, crossing her legs to try and control the wayward urges going on in her lower body. What was wrong with her? He had barely exchanged more than half a dozen words with her and she was undressing him with her eyes. She curled her hands into balls on her lap and fixed a smile on her lips. ‘So, how was your driv
e from Milan? I hope it didn’t inconvenience you too much to come here?’ Who said she couldn’t do small talk?
Luca’s half-smile and his glittering forest floor eyes made something slip sideways in her stomach. ‘It didn’t inconvenience me at all. But we both know that was your intention, was it not?’
Artie forced herself to hold his penetrating gaze. ‘Signor Ferrantelli, I am not the sort of woman to jump when a man says jump.’
The dark gleam in his eyes intensified and a hot trickle of something liquid spilled deep in her core. ‘You may have no choice, given I now own nine tenths of Castello Mireille, unless you can buy me out within the next twenty-four hours.’ There was a don’t-mess-with-me warning in his tone that made her want to mess with him to see what would happen.
Artie disguised a swallow, her heart picking up its pace. ‘My father’s lawyer informed me of the unusual financial arrangement you made with my father. One wonders why you didn’t buy all of it off him while you had the chance.’
His gaze was unwavering. ‘He was a dying man who deserved some dignity in the last months of his life.’
Artie gave a cynical smile while her blood boiled in her veins and roaring anger bubbled in her chest. ‘Do you expect me to believe you felt some measure of compassion for him? Even while you were systematically taking his home away from him ancient stone by ancient stone?’
Luca didn’t change his casual posture on the sofa but a ripple of tension passed across his features, tightening his jaw, flaring his nose, hardening his eyes. ‘Your father approached me late last year for help. I gave it to him. It was a straightforward business deal. And now I have come to collect on my investment.’
Artie shot up from the sofa as if someone had pressed an ejector switch. She glared at him with the full force of her fury, chest heaving like she had just completed a marathon without training first. ‘You can’t take my home off me. I won’t allow it.’
Luca Ferrantelli’s gaze was diamond-hard. ‘My intention is to give the castello back to you—after a time. And for a price.’
Something heavy landed on the floor of her belly. ‘What price? You must know I can’t possibly raise the necessary funds to pay out the mortgage?’
He held her gaze in a lock that made the backs of her knees tingle. ‘I will erase the debt and give the deeds of the castello back if you agree to be my wife for six months.’
CHAPTER TWO
ARTIE STARED AT HIM in open-mouthed shock, her heart pounding like it was going to punch its way out of her chest. Had she heard him correctly? Was her imagination playing tricks on her? Putting words in his mouth he couldn’t possibly have said? Had he said wife? W.I.F.E? The woman a man chose to spend the rest of his life with in a contract of love and commitment?
‘Your...what?’
He hooked one ankle over his bent knee, his finger idly flicking the zipper toggle on his Italian leather boot. Flick. Flick. Flick. So relaxed. So casual. So confident and in control it was maddening.
‘You heard—I need a wife for six months. On paper.’ The note of self-assurance in his voice made her dislike of him go up another notch.
On paper? Her eyes widened while her feminine ego shrank. She might not be a social butterfly or model material, but as far as she knew she hadn’t broken any mirrors lately. ‘You mean a marriage of convenience?’
‘But of course.’
Why ‘but of course’? It was ridiculous to be affronted by his unusual proposal, but what woman wanted to be dismissed outright as a potential lover?
But why would he want you? the voice of her conscience sneered. Who would want you? You killed your mother, you maimed your father—all for the sake of going to a stupid party.
Rosa, the housekeeper, came in at that moment carrying a tray with cups and saucers and a steaming percolator of freshly brewed coffee. Rosa handed Luca a cup before turning to give one to Artie. But as soon as Rosa left the room Artie put her coffee on a side table, not trusting her shaking hands to bring the cup safely to her tombstone-dry mouth. Her conscience was right. Why would he want to marry her? Why would anyone?
Luca lowered his crossed ankle to the floor and, reaching for his cup, took a sip of his coffee as if this was a regular old coffee morning. Not one in which he had delivered a bombshell proposal to a virtual stranger.
‘May I ask, why me?’ Artie inserted into the silence. ‘You surely have no shortage of far more suitable candidates for the role.’ Socialites. Supermodels. Not a shut-in like her.
Luca put his cup back in its saucer with unnerving and methodical precision. It hinted at the man he was—self-assured, focused, confident he could get anything he set his mind to. ‘Your father was the one who planted the idea in my—’
‘My father?’ Artie choked over the words.
‘He was concerned about your future, given how badly his financial situation had become and how it would impact on you long-term. He wanted you well provided for, so I devised a plan to make sure we both got what we wanted. You get to keep the castello. I get a temporary wife.’
Artie clasped her hands together, trying to keep control of her galloping pulse. Her legs were threatening to give way beneath her but she was reluctant to sit back down, because it would bring her closer to him than she wanted to be. ‘But why would you want me to be your...your wife?’ Saying the word felt strange on her lips and yet her mind ran with the image it evoked. Images popped into her head of her wearing a white dress and standing next to Luca at an altar. His arms going around her, drawing him closer to his muscled body. His mouth slowly coming down to seal hers in a kiss...
‘You’re exactly the sort of woman my grandfather would approve of as my bride,’ Luca said, his gaze drifting to her mouth as if he was having the same thoughts as her. About kissing, touching, needing, wanting.
Artie arched her eyebrows. ‘Oh, really? Why is that?’
His lips curved in a satirical smile. ‘You’re the sweet, homespun type—or so your father led me to believe.’
What else had her father told him about her? She had made him promise not to tell anyone about her social anxiety. Had he broken that promise? She was pretty sure he hadn’t told Bruno Rossi, the lawyer, otherwise he would have mentioned it yesterday. It was her shameful little secret. Her father’s dependence on her since the accident had made it easy for her to hide it from others, but with him no longer here...
Artie kept her expression neutral but on the inside, she was seething. How dared her father set her up for auction to this incorrigible man? It was positively feudal. And why did Luca Ferrantelli want to please his grandfather? What was at stake if he didn’t? ‘Look, Signor Ferrantelli, I think there’s been some sort of misunderstanding between you and my father. I can’t think of a single set of circumstances in which I would ever consider marrying you.’
Luca’s mocking smile broadened. ‘Perhaps not as sweet and biddable as your father said.’ His tone was musing, the lazy sweep of his gaze assessing. ‘But, no matter. You will do.’
She straightened her shoulders and sent him a look so frosty icicles could have formed on her eyelashes. ‘Please leave. We have nothing left to discuss.’
Luca remained seated on the sofa, still in that annoyingly relaxed pose. But his eyes contained a glint of intractability that made her wonder if she was wise to lock horns with him. She had no experience in dealing with powerful men. She had no experience, period. Any fight between them would be like Tinkerbell trying to take down a Titan.
‘The way I see it, you don’t have any choice. You will lose the castello if you don’t agree to marry me.’
Artie ground her teeth and clenched her fists, anger flicking along her nerve endings like a power surge of electricity. It was all she could do not to slap him. She pictured herself doing it—landing her palm against his lean and chiselled jaw with a resounding slap. Imagining how his rougher skin would f
eel under the soft skin of her palm. Imagining how he might grasp her by the wrist and haul her closer and slam his mouth down on hers in a passionate kiss...
Eek! She shouldn’t have watched Gone with the Wind so many times.
She stretched out one arm and pointed her index finger towards the door. ‘Get. Out.’
Luca raised his long, lean, athletic frame from the sofa with leonine grace and came to stand in front of her. She fought not to step back, determined to show he didn’t intimidate her with his commanding, disturbing presence. Even though he did. Big time. She had to crane her neck to maintain eye-contact, and give her traitorous body a stern talking-to for reacting to his closeness with a hitch of her breath and an excited leap of her pulse.
‘I’ll give you twenty-four hours to consider my proposal.’
Artie raised her chin to a defiant height. ‘I’ve already considered it and flatly turned it down. I’ll give you the same answer tomorrow, so don’t waste your time or mine by coming back.’
His lazy smile ignited a light behind his eyes as if her refusal had thrilled rather than disappointed him. ‘You have a lot to lose, Signorina Bellante.’ He swung his gaze around the room before bringing it back to meet hers. ‘Are you sure you want to throw all this away for the sake of your pride?’
‘Pride has nothing to do with my decision. If and when I marry, it will be for love.’
The loud cackling of her conscience rang in Artie’s ears like clanging bells.
Marry for love? You? Who’s going to love you?
His eyes flicked to her mouth and lingered there for a heart-stopping moment. ‘You love this place, do you not? Your family’s home for how many centuries? If that’s not marrying for love, I don’t know what is.’ The deep, mellifluous tone of his voice had a mesmerising effect on her. She had to fight to stay focused on resisting him. It would be so easy to say yes. To have all her problems solved by agreeing to his plan—even if by doing so it threw up new ones. Dangerous ones. Exciting ones.
His Innocent's Passionate Awakening Page 2