by Jennie Lucas
The baby suddenly hiccuped. She was sleeping across her mother’s chest, her plump arms flung carelessly over Lucia’s shoulders. Such a sweet child. Wentworth really was a fool, Maximo thought. To desert his pregnant lover, and then deny his own daughter…
His jaw hardened. The man deserved what he was about to get. If Lucia had been pregnant with Maximo’s child, he would have treated them both like gold.
But that was a ridiculous thought. Giuseppe Ferrazzi would soon be dead. Maximo would write Lucia an enormous check, bid her farewell and go back to his carefree bachelor life.
The world was full of beautiful women. He would never tie himself down to just one. Particularly not to an unstylish twenty-one-year-old with a smart mouth. He preferred his lovers to be more seasoned. More sophisticated. He preferred gorgeous, experienced women who understood the game for what it was.
His attraction for Lucia would not last. He would soon grow tired of her, as he did of every other woman.
Although at the moment, that was hard to imagine.
As if she felt his steady gaze, her eyes fluttered open. For several seconds, she stared at him as if trying to wake up from a dream. Then, careful not to wake the baby sleeping in her arms, she sat up. Rubbing the back of her neck, she gave him a tremulous smile. “How long was I asleep?”
“We’ll be landing in a few minutes.”
“I slept the whole Atlantic away.” She looked down at her sleeping baby. “And so did she. I can hardly believe it, after the way she cried during takeoff. Our first time on a plane,” she explained.
No, it’s not, he thought. But he said only, “Did you enjoy your flight?”
She looked around the plane, with its luxurious white leather couches, then gave a soft laugh. “It’s amazing. Although I can’t help but wonder—” she eyed the pristine, snow-white carpet “—who keeps that clean. I have a hard time picturing you with a shampooer.”
He returned her grin. “You’re right. I have people for that.” As if on cue, one of his assistants emerged from the back cabin with a large garment bag. “Lucia, this is Paola Andretti. She’s my personal assistant and fashion liaison. She is going to help you.”
His short-haired, ultrathin assistant, cutting-edge fashionable as always, smiled down at Lucia pleasantly.
“Help me with what?” Lucia said uneasily.
“Your clothes,” he said.
“I like what I’m wearing now!”
Maximo leaned back against his sofa, confident and comfortable in his pressed Italian trousers, his bespoke black shirt, his immaculate black shoes. Quirking an eyebrow, he allowed his eyes to deliberately trace her ratty sweatshirt, her old jeans.
Her pale cheeks became as scarlet as roses.
Good. So she knew. At least that was a start.
“You always want the truth,” he said. “Bene. The truth is that you have the worst fashion sense I’ve ever seen. My conglomerate comprises ten luxury brands, including the world’s most expensive champagne, accessories and haute couture. You are wearing clothes that barely look fit for dogs to sleep in. No one will ever believe that I am in love with you. From now on, you will wear what I give you.”
Her pink mouth, so luscious and full even without lipstick, fell open. Then her expressive eyes narrowed as she snatched up her glasses. “Like hell I will!”
Paola discreetly disappeared to the back cabin of the plane, but Lucy barely noticed. “You can’t tell me what to wear!”
He calmly opened a copy of the Chicago Tribune to the business page. “Until you learn how to properly dress yourself, I can and I will.”
Scowling, she ripped open the garment bag, staring at the supershort purple silk trapeze dress, fishnet stockings and black patent leather boots he’d selected for her. Her jaw dropped.
“You want me to look like a stripper?” she said accusingly.
“It is the highest fashion.”
“Not for me, it isn’t!”
“Do you truly consider yourself to be an arbiter of style?”
She ground her teeth. “This sweatshirt belonged to my mother!”
“Your mother?” he mused, turning his attention back to the business headlines. “Impossible.”
“You didn’t even know her!”
Abruptly remembering who she was talking about, he put down the newspaper. “Lucia—”
“Call me Lucy!”
“Lucia, you don’t seem to realize your new position. My company sets the fashion trends of the world. For the months you are my wife, I expect you to dress with some self-respect.”
“Self-respect?” she cried. “Clothes have nothing to do with self-respect! What difference does it make what I wear—except to snobby rich people like you?”
“Ma-ma-ma?” Jabbering as she woke, Chloe stretched in her arms, reaching for her mother’s face. In spite of her anger Lucia’s face instantly softened as she looked down at her daughter. “Good morning, my baby,” she said tenderly, kissing her plump, rosy cheeks. “Did you sleep well?”
Then she straightened in her seat, giving Maximo a hard glare—as if he were an outsider, an interloper, some stronzo who would cruelly force a woman to wear designer clothes against her will.
He sighed. Tenting his hands, he leaned forward. “Lucia, per favore—”
“No!” Childishly she turned her face away, dropping the purple silk to the floor like discarded rubbish.
He realized he’d hurt her feelings.
Maledizione, he swore to himself. This would require more care than he’d thought.
Leaning forward, he spoke quietly.
“You’re a beautiful woman, cara. All I want is for the whole world to esteem you as I do. Presenting la bella figura will show all of Europe what I already know—that you are a woman unlike any other. A good heart, a fine mind, great strength of will, you are…bellissima.”
She slowly turned toward him. She wouldn’t meet his eyes as she repeated—as if afraid to ask the question, “Bellissima?”
“Look at me.”
She took a deep breath, then looked up. He leaned across the wide aisle between them.
“Truly.” He placed her hands together, enfolding them in his larger ones. “You are—” he kissed the knuckle of her right hand “—truly beautiful—” he opened her trembling left hand and slowly kissed her tender palm “—and I want the whole world to know. Lucia.”
“Yes?” she whispered, her dark eyelashes fluttering against her cheek.
“Try the clothes. For me. Won’t you?”
“Yes.” She rose to her feet so quickly that she took one stumble forward, nearly losing her balance as she held Chloe under one arm. Still looking dazed, she picked up the purple silk.
And Maximo realized he’d made a mistake.
The purple dress would have looked perfect on Esmé or Arabella or any of the other women he’d taken to his bed. But it was all wrong for her.
“I’ve changed my mind,” he said.
“But I—”
“No,” he said abruptly. “That dress is not for you. We will delay our arrival at Lake Como to go shopping in Milan.” He looked at the squirming baby in her arms. She was still wearing old pajamas. “For both of you.”
A smile lit up Lucy’s face.
“Oh, Maximo, really?” she exclaimed. “Chloe has outgrown nearly everything she has. I would love new clothes for her. But are you—are you sure you don’t mind? About the money, I mean?”
He nearly laughed aloud. Just seeing the joy on his bride’s face made her so impossibly beautiful that he wondered why he hadn’t thought of taking her shopping before.
“Buy everything you want,” he vowed. “If Milan runs out of clothes, we will go to Rome.”
“Oh!” she cried, beaming at him. But her face suddenly fell. “But it’s New Year’s Day. The shops will be closed.”
Now he really did laugh. “They will open for me.”
“They will?”
“Lucia. Half of them are mine
. The other half wish they were.”
A shadow suddenly passed over her face. “Like your women,” she whispered.
He reached for her hand, pulling her to sit next to him on the white leather sofa. “I have only one wife.”
He felt her tremble, and he was tempted to kiss her. Then Chloe, sitting on her mother’s lap, cooed happily at him, holding out her arms. Surprised, he picked her up.
The baby dropped her tattered purple hippo and started stretching wildly toward the white carpet. He got the toy for her, then paused, looking down at it. The hippo was a ragged little thing, with one eye missing and its plush fur a muddied brownish-violet. But Chloe was instantly happy when he handed it to her. She waved it around furiously with one hand, laughing with abandon.
And against his will, Maximo remembered the last time he’d held a baby. The smoke. The crackle of the fire. The wail, and then the explosion…
“What’s wrong?” Lucy asked suddenly.
He shook his head, scattering the haunting image from his mind. “Nothing.”
But his unwilling memory proved the situation was more risky than he’d thought. Somehow Lucia and her baby had broken through his defenses, forcing him to remember everything he was determined to forget.
Seducing Lucia would be dangerous.
But that was all the more reason to do it, he thought. His enjoyment of her company only made it clear that his life of so-called pleasure had been a life without spark.
He wanted her fire. Needed it. Needed her.
So he would take her. He’d just have to be constantly on his guard. He wouldn’t be vulnerable. He wouldn’t open his heart. He would just enjoy her.
And with any luck, he thought, the old man would die the day after his seduction was complete—and he could send her packing.
CHAPTER SEVEN
SITTING in the backseat of the Rolls-Royce, traveling from Milan to Lake Como that afternoon, Lucy barely recognized herself. Or Maximo, for that matter.
What had happened to the selfish, arrogant prince? In the hours since they’d arrived in Italy, Maximo had been nothing but charming. He’d spent the entire morning following her from one exclusive baby boutique to the next, carrying bags, pushing Chloe in a gorgeous new stroller. It was only when the trunk of the Rolls was full of baby clothes that he’d put his foot down and demanded she buy some clothes for herself.
From Prada to Chanel, Versace to Valentino, he’d patiently waited in every store. While Lucy tried on clothes, he had read new books to Chloe until she fell asleep in her stroller. Then, when Lucy blushingly came out of her dressing room, he’d given his verdict on each outfit with a flash of heat in his eyes. And the occasional murmured “Bellissima.”
At every shop, she’d been flattered and complimented, waited on hand and foot. Her last stop, at the most famous day spa in Milan, she’d had six people waiting on her at once: the first doing her makeup, the second her hair, the third her nails, the fourth her toes, the fifth rubbing her shoulders as the last brought her a caffè americano.
Lucy’s glasses had been replaced by contacts. Her messy ponytail had been washed, cut and carefully blown into a sleek chignon. Her makeup was natural, artless. Wearing a sophisticated blouse and pencil skirt beneath a belted camel cashmere coat, Lucy had never felt so womanly—or so elegant. Her old glasses, along with necessities for Chloe, were now tucked into her patent leather Ferrazzi carryall.
Her three-thousand-dollar diaper bag.
She crossed her high-heeled ankle boots, stroking the exquisite pearls at her collarbone. Maybe Maximo had a point, she mused. Maybe clothes really could change the way a person felt about herself.
Not that she would ever admit that to him. He was too smug already by half.
“You are magnificent, cara,” he said, looking at her in amazement.
She blushed, glancing at him over Chloe’s baby seat. “I was hoping you’d just say I was passable as your wife.”
“Passable? Dio santo! Sei bellissima. You are beautiful, Lucia.”
Lucia. Dressed like this, riding in a limo on the way to an Italian villa, married to a prince, she almost felt like she fit the name. New name. New look. New hope.
It still troubled her that their marriage was timed to last until some poor old man’s death. But as Maximo had said, people died every day. The world was a harsh place. Lucy knew that from experience. Her own mother had died when she was twelve, and she’d never known her father.
But now Chloe would never know such a precarious existence. She would be safe and financially secure. And after she spoke to Alex, she’d have a father. Lucy would make sure of it…
She looked at her baby. Buckled into the child seat, Chloe was contentedly gulping down a bottle. Instead of her ratty old pajamas, she wore a pink dress with a rounded collar, thick white tights and white suede boots lined with sheepskin. Her beautiful new Italian wardrobe would last until she was three years old, and each outfit was softer and cuter than the last. Looking at her happy, adorable baby, grateful tears rose to Lucy’s eyes.
“Thank you,” she whispered. She turned to look at her husband, smiling through the tears. “I can’t thank you enough for this.”
“For shopping?” he said, sounding surprised. His dark eyebrows lowered. “Don’t thank me. I’m starting to regret I ever had the idea. You look far too beautiful. Every man who sees you will want you for himself. In fact,” he growled, “I’m beginning to reconsider that sweatshirt.”
She looked at him with an intake of breath.
His blue eyes twinkled at her, warm as May sunshine.
He was flirting with her!
She tried not to respond, to not let it affect her, but it still made her catch her breath. “You’re a hard man to please.”
“No,” he said. “I just want you to be happy.”
His gaze was like a pure Italian spring warming her soul. Half-dead flowers unfurled in her heart, basking in his light and heat.
No!
She couldn’t be pulled in. She couldn’t let him seduce her. She couldn’t let him have her body—or her heart. Because when he left her—as he would in a matter of months—she’d be a ruined wreck. Three months. Just three months, and she and Chloe would be safe forever. How hard could it be to resist a man for three months?
Very hard, when the man was Prince Maximo d’Aquilla…
Biting her lip, she turned to look out the window as they traveled the snowy single-lane road. Even in Italy, winter held sway. But this winter was different than it’d been in Chicago. Warmer, for one thing. Lake Como was an Italian winter fairyland. The limo sped down the slender dark ribbon of a street into a village clinging to mountains. Snow sparkled in the sun like diamonds, on the edge of a sapphire lake.
“Aquillina,” he said. “My home.”
She looked out her window in wonder. Villagers were strolling down the main street in the sunshine, chatting with each other in front of charming, decorated shops. Bright-eyed old men raised their caps in greeting as the Rolls-Royce passed by. Young mothers pushing strollers pointed out the car to their rosy-cheeked babies. A group of boys, six or seven years old, chased the limo down the street, shouting after them with hearty cheers.
Lucy looked at Maximo in wonder. “It’s beautiful.”
He smiled at her, and his eyes caressed her face, lingering on her lips. “I’m glad you like it.”
Her whole body vibrated under his gaze. Stop it, she told her body furiously. He’s nothing to you! But her body laughed at her orders, as uncontrollable as a rebellious child. With Maximo so close to her, the roomy backseat felt way too small.
She swallowed, looking away. “Are we almost to—what did you call it?”
“The Villa Uccello. It’s been my family’s home for many generations. We lost it briefly when I was a child, but now it is mine again.” He gave her a brief smile. “And for the next few months, it is yours.”
Pushing her empty bottle away, Chloe accidentally knocked her pur
ple hippo out of her lap. She started to whine. Maximo and Lucy both reached to the floor at the same time, their fingertips brushing together over the plush fur.
Lucy yanked her hand back as if she’d been burned. Hiding a smug smile, he handed the stuffed animal to Chloe.
“Hold on to your toy more carefully,” he admonished the baby. Lucy frowned in surprise. It was one thing for him to take that tone with her, but how dare he order her child to…
Then she saw Chloe smile, reaching for his nose. Maximo crossed his eyes playfully, and the baby’s laughter rang like the chimes of bells. He laughed with her, and his eyes were warm, crinkling at the sides.
It took Lucy’s breath away.
“You’re good with her,” she blurted out. “Do you have children of your own?”
His face instantly shuttered.
“No,” he said brusquely, sitting back. “I’ve never been married.”
“But that doesn’t mean—”
“I would not have a child without being married to the mother. That would be irresponsible.”
She flushed, feeling the sting of his words. He obviously thought she’d been irresponsible to get pregnant.
And she had been, she thought with a lump in her throat. She’d trusted Alex’s pretty words and promises of love. She’d made excuses for him—justifying why, after proposing to her with a big diamond ring and getting her pregnant, he’d suddenly been reluctant to pick a wedding date.
She’d been so stupid. She’d thought she’d found a real man, a real home, a real family after so many years of being alone. And for that, she gave up everything. She threw away the college scholarship she’d worked so hard to win, tossing aside her plans to be a school librarian, teaching children to love books.
Blinking back tears, she looked away. She could never let herself forget the pain—never let herself be vulnerable and weak like that again. She was her daughter’s only protection. Her only support.
“Children need a father,” Maximo said, and she again felt the sting of blame.
Suddenly furious, she shook her head. “Do you think I don’t know that?” she bit out. “I grew up without a father. My mother moved us from place to place, and when she died I was totally alone. Do you think I want that for Chloe? It’s why I—”