The Italian Billionaire’s Scandalous Marriage: An Italian Billionaire Romance (Italian Billionaire Christmas Brides Book 2)

by Mollie Mathews

  The Italian Billionaire’s

  Scandalous Marriage

  Mollie Mathews

  Blue Orchid Publishing

  All about the author…

  Mollie Mathews

  MOLLIE MATHEWS writes fun, sexy, passionate contemporary romance. She discovered her first love story on a trip to Paris when she was thirteen, and she's continued to read them ever since.

  After trying out a few fascinating careers she now lives her dream as a writer, combining business with wild pleasure. Mollie passionately believes in the power of love to transform people's lives. Her stories are unashamedly positive, optimistic, full of fun and sizzling passion.

  She has always believed authors are pens in the hands of writing goddesses sending love letters to the world, and loves it when readers write to her saying that her books give them hope and courage during tough times.

  Mollie follows the sun, dividing her time between New Zealand and exotic locations—wherever she intends setting her next romance novel. She lives with her very own romantic hero, Lorenzo—tall, dark, terribly handsome and fluent in Spanish!

  Visit Mollie at www.molliemathews.com

  First Published 2016

  First New Zealand eBook and Paperback Edition 2016

  Cover Design: © Steven Novak

  Revised edition 2017

  ISBN 978-0-9941410-2-6

  THE ITALIAN BILLIONAIRE’S SCANDALOUS MARRIAGE © 2017 by Mollie Mathews

  The right of Mollie Mathews to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright Design and Patents Act 1988 (and under any comparable provision of any jurisdiction whatsoever).

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law—without the prior written permission of the author, Mollie Mathews, or the publisher.

  This book is a work of fiction. The characters, events, and places portrayed in this book are products in this book are products of the author’s imagination and are either fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  License Notes

  This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient.

  If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, please purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Published by

  Blue Orchid Publishing

  New Zealand

  CHAPTER ONE

  'You should never have responded to that email. I don't understand you, Alexandra.' Bitterness bled from her mother's words.

  Alex Spencer pressed her lips together, momentarily fixing her gaze on the desolate New York sky as snow began to fall. 'Okay, so an email arrives out of the blue telling me the man who I thought was my father isn’t.’ she said shoveling summer clothes into a well-travelled leopard print suitcase. ‘And then I find out my real father is dead and he's left me some valuable paintings—and I'm supposed to ignore that?'

  'Why do you insist on digging up the past? I've told you no good will come of it.'

  Alex knew they would never agree. She wanted to say, “Mom, why are you making everything so difficult? Why won't you talk to me about my father? Why didn’t you tell me the truth?” But she'd already tried, and every time her mother evaded answering. Despite what her mother had done, for the sake of their tie of blood, which was the only thing left between them, she had to keep the peace.

  'Why do you have to go back to New Zealand? What more do you hope to achieve that you wasn’t settled six months ago? What point is there?' Elizabeth Spencer pressed, fixing disapproving eyes on her errant daughter.

  'You know why I need to go back, Mother,' Alex said quietly, careful to stop exasperation creeping into her voice.

  Her mother's brown eyes turned a chilly shade of black. 'After all Charles and I have done for you,’ she spat. ‘He's been more of a father to you than that man ever was.' Although she would never say it, the accusation whistled through her mother's pursed lips. Why would you want to do something so selfish?

  Alex forced herself to count to ten. It was as if her mother thought keeping something so important a secret from her own daughter all these years was no big deal. It was as though she thought that replacing a real dad with a surrogate dad gave her a stable identity.

  How could Alex possibly explain without severing their relationship for good? Finally, she knew why she had never felt understood, never felt accepted, never felt she belonged. And while everything was such a mystery she knew that she could never find peace until she understood her past.

  ‘Mom, I told you when I came back for Christmas that I'd only be here for a few weeks. Please don't let us spend our last moments arguing.' Alex forced an uncertain smile hoping it would melt her mother's iciness.

  Her boutique travel business meant she was never home for long. She was like those dandelions; settling for a spell then drifting away. She was no longer a child. Yet in this matter she longed for her mother's approval.

  'Why can't you let go of this thing you've got about your father?' Her mother fired. 'What more do you have to know, for heaven's sake? He was an artist. He left you a few paintings. End of story.'

  It wasn't the end of the story. Far from it. In fact of the six paintings her biological father had left her in his will she knew with gut-churning clarity that only one would unlock buried secrets. Secrets her mother seemed resolute never to divulge

  'I want to know everything. I want to know about the man whose blood courses through my veins. I want to know who I am. Why can't you understand that?'

  'There's nothing more to say. I was young. Impulsive. He was a mistake.'

  Alex's stomach clenched. She was a mistake. Her mother didn't have to say it but her tone made it clear.

  She was the girl nobody wanted.

  Tension held Alex's body rigid as she continued packing. She had become skilled at masking her emotions: grief, loneliness, anger—especially anger. It flared inside her now but she held it in check. Up until six months ago Alex had known nothing of Ted Carr. If the email hadn't come from a solicitor in New Zealand notifying her of the unusual inheritance she would still think Charles Spencer was her real father.

  The news had been devastating. She felt betrayed. Everything she thought was true—gone. Her whole identity was a lie. At least now she knew why she had never felt loved. She was a painful reminder of a past everyone wished had never happened and they were determined to forget.

  Alex gazed at her mother imploringly, hoping she'd explain. All she had to do was tell her about her past and Alex wouldn't be left to reassemble the shattered fragments of her identity on her own.

  But her mother turned her head briskly as though she couldn't bear to be confronted by the truth after all these years. She stared down at the heavy snow flurries blanketing the exclusive streets of Manhattan’s Fifth Avenue, freezing her daughter in a fortress of silence.

  Why was her mother so determined to keep everything
about her past a secret?

  'You're just like your father,' Elizabeth Spencer inadvertently let slip. ‘Wandering the world like a gypsy, living in strange places as though you have no place to call home,' her mother complained, spinning around to face her daughter. She twisted her wedding ring between her fingers. ‘Alexandra, you're twenty-six years old for goodness sake. If you're not careful you'll wind up a lonely, old spinster.'

  Alex flinched at her mother's criticism. 'I don't need a man,' she said solemnly, achingly aware of the hollowness of her tone. It was true. She didn't need a husband—at least not the kind of suitor her mother constantly threw at her.

  Elizabeth shook her head and heaved a defeated sigh. She marched to the bed and perched on the steely-grey silk throw, her back rigid, and glared at her headstrong daughter. 'Now there's a girl who made a good marriage,' she said tossing the December edition of Vanity Fair on the bed. George's First Christmas trumpeted the headlines beneath the chocolate box perfect Royal family photo. 'When am I going to get some grandchildren?' her mother pouted.

  'I'd rather be on my own than locked in a loveless marriage. Besides, let's face it, I don't have an A+ in relationships.'

  'What are you looking for, Alexandra?' her mother asked tiredly. 'What do you want?'

  I'd like to know that my father didn't abandon me. I need to know that I was loved. I want to feel good enough. Alex's lips quivered and she forced a bright smile. 'I'll let you know when I find it.' Her voice dropped to a whisper as her thoughts trailed away, then, sensing her mother's impatient stare, plummeted back to the present. 'What I do know is that I don't want Bradley Poot, or any of the other men you keep thrusting at me. I don't want to live the kind of life they'd want me to lead, trotting beside them like a show horse, a trophy to their careers.'

  'You'd want for nothing.'

  Alex bit her lip. Her mother was wrong. She'd tried going out with the sort of men she approved of. It didn't work. Devoid of passion, they cared more about their careers than their wives. And while her mother was prepared to settle for that, Alex never would. She wasn't after money and status. She still hoped for love.

  To Elizabeth Spencer New York and its exclusive set of people was the only world worth knowing. But to Alex, the very notion of conforming to her wishes and masquerading in a twinset and pearls, confined in a career as a high-society wife with zero autonomy was abhorrent. She may as well be a cauliflower for all the good it would do her. If there wasn't something better, then life wasn't worth living.

  Her gaze drifted out the window. The sky and streets were smothered in snow, the complete whiteout masking everything that held any semblance of beauty.

  Charles Spencer's powerful frame dressed immaculately in a fine wool tuxedo filled the doorway. 'Oh, you're still here. Come on Elizabeth,' he growled. 'We'll be late.'

  Her mother hesitated then smiled tightly and rose to her feet.

  'I'll make my own way to the airport.' Alex said, hoping her voice sounded sufficiently bright and nonchalant. They would say their goodbyes here. Clearly she'd be doing everyone a favor. Out of sight, out of mind.

  Ignoring Charles' disapproving glare she packed her Canon SLR and two extra lenses in her orange Photo Hatchpack, placed it in the suitcase and jammed layers of clothing around it for protection. They could get on with their lives and she could make peace with hers.

  Elizabeth Spencer rolled her eyes as she crossed the room and stood dutifully at her husband's side. 'You and that camera, and don't get me started on that leopard print suitcase!'

  'I'm not like you, Mother. I'm used to being different.'

  In fact, I'm nothing like you at all, Alex thought. The copper red strands of her mother's hair immaculately lacquered into a sleek bob, contrasted dramatically with her own unruly birds nest of ash-blonde curls. Her mother's tiny, slender figure was elegantly yet conservatively clothed to match her husband's.

  Her mother was indeed the ultimate accessory to her husband's political ambitions—kilometers apart from Alex's generous curves hidden beneath layers of comfort. Her mother's skin looked untouched by the forty-five years of her life. No lines. No worry. No stress. Her mother was capable of leaving that behind her, even when she was upset—unlike Alex who was continually criticized for being too sensitive and worried about everything.

  But while they were worlds apart—and always would be—Alex could understand the drive that had taken her mother from poverty to become one of New York's top socialites. The determined, obsessive streak in her mother's nature was also in her own. Surely her mother realized that the more she kept the truth from Alex the more she needed to know.

  'This is your home. Why can't you be happy here?' Her mother pleaded.

  Alex looked around the room, her gaze bouncing off the bleak white walls, then swept over the sterile glass and chrome designer pieces, humorless white chintz drapes and bed linen. It had always felt like a museum to New York design than a home where she felt comfortable. Perhaps as a child if, instead of telling her animals were too messy, she'd been allowed the luxury of the cat or dog she'd so desperately yearned for she might have felt less lonely. If, instead of rows of uniform houses and kilometers of soulless concrete, she'd lived in a house where she could have had all sorts of pets, even chickens and horses, surrounded by space and nature, she would have felt more herself.

  Why was she so different? Why couldn't she be happy?

  She looked up, fighting the sinking sensation in her stomach at the disappointment in her mother's eyes. 'I'm sorry,' she said. 'I'm sorry I can't be the daughter you want. But what's right for you is not right for me. I have to create my own life.'

  Elizabeth shook her head, 'I've tried so hard—and you can't say Charles hasn't been a good father. We've done everything we could for you.'

  Alex's shoulders stiffened as Charles scowled in moody silence. He had always made her feel especially unwanted, shutting her out in a wall of disinterest, as though she never existed.

  'Please don't think I'm not grateful.' Alex said quickly, feeling her mother's despair. 'It's just that—' She lifted her hands helplessly. It would be impossible to explain without sounding cruel. Despite everything her mother had done for her, every opportunity she had been given, how could she ever be happy knowing half of her DNA was a black void.

  'Mother, you made your choices,' she said flatly. 'Let me make mine.'

  A brooding disapproval settled on her mother's brow. 'He gave you up,' she shot bitterly. 'Then he throws a painting at you and you're all over him. What makes you think he wants you to know him now?'

  Alex swallowed words of anger she knew would only harm, curling her fingers around the photo hidden in her pocket. Lost Love, the strange painting he had bequeathed to her held the key to the mystery. Alex was certain of it. Why else would he have left it to her?

  'Why didn't he just disappear forever?' she asked, careful to keep any hint of challenge from her voice.

  'That's the point—he did disappear,' Charles said tersely. The blood vessel in his forehead pulsed as he braced his arms across his bulbous chest. 'Quite frankly the whole sordid affair is better dead and buried.'

  Alex could well imagine how Ted Carr could have been frozen out of the marriage, left without a leg to balance on as far as custody was concerned. Or perhaps her father thought Alex was better off without him. Undoubtedly Charles Spencer would have made that clear. But Ted Carr hadn't forgotten his daughter. And Alex couldn't explain to her mother the strange affinity she now felt for him, even though he was no longer alive. The fact was that he'd left her something that was deeply meaningful to him.

  ‘I’m sorry you’re both so determined to blank out my past. Hopefully by exhibiting Lost Love in New Zealand someone somewhere might know what it meant, and why my father left it to me.’

  'If you do this thing, Alexandra—well, I may as well never have had a daughter.'

  'Please don’t—please don't make me choose.' Alex said, trying to keep her voice stead
y.

  'Hurry up, Elizabeth. We've done this thing to death. Let her go and make her own mistakes. Maybe then, like most women, she'll realize when she's onto a good thing,' Charles thundered.

  'Well, it's clear you've made up your mind, Alexandra,' her mother said turning to leave. 'You always were a willful child. Perhaps one day you'll realize I was right.'

  As they bristled from the room without so much as a kiss or a hug Alex slumped on her bed and exhaled a bellyful of tension. Her temples pulsed, and her chest felt as though it had been twisted like a tube of toothpaste. She flung her legs over the side of the bed and padded to the ensuite. She rattled through the drawer containing the three-dozen or so bottles of her most trusty essential oils and, selecting cinnamon, black pepper and lavender, dabbed several drops of each on a tissue. She inhaled the sweet empowering warmth of nature's magic elixir and glanced at her reflection in the mirror.

  Who am I? Staring back with purple rings under her eyes was a stranger, in a foreign body, in an environment that had never felt so alien. Were her clear blue eyes those of a man who broke her mother's heart, she wondered. Or a rake, a seducer, an uncaring man unable to keep his commitment? All she knew was that she wasn't herself anymore.

  She had to return. She needed to know. Until then she could never be herself. Whoever she was. Maybe she would finally put her own ghosts to rest. Twin rivers of trepidation and the thrill of excitement surged through her. In less than 24 hours she would be 18325 kilometers closer to discovering who she really was and with this new understanding maybe life would get better.