CAROL MARINELLI: The Italian's Marriage Bargain

“I don’t need a few hours.” The haughty face softened then, an almost apologetic smile brushing over his lips. “Because I already have a solution.”

“Oh, no—absolutely no.”

“You would want for nothing.” He gave a devilish smile that had her insides doing somersaults. “Particularly in bed. Marry me, and I’ll sign the resort back over to your father. Marry me, and your parents will have the peace they crave.”

The Italian’s Marriage Bargain

Carol Marinelli

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Cover

Title Page The Italian’s Marriage Bargain Carol Marinelli www.millsandboon.co.uk

Introduction “The papers won’t be out yet. You’ve got a few hours to come up with something—something to tell your family.” “I don’t need a few hours.” The haughty face softened then, an almost apologetic smile brushing over his lips. “Because I already have a solution.” “Oh, no—absolutely no.” “You would want for nothing.” He gave a devilish smile that had her insides doing somersaults. “Particularly in bed. Marry me, and I’ll sign the resort back over to your father. Marry me, and your parents will have the peace they crave.”

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

EPILOGUE

Copyright Конец ознакомительного фрагмента. Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес». Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес. Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.

HE WAS beautiful.

Opening her eyes, trying to orientate herself to her surroundings, Felicity knew there should have been a million and one questions buzzing in her mind. Her hazel eyes slowly worked the room, searching for a landmark, a clue as to what exactly she was doing in this elegantly furnished room, in this vast bed and—perhaps more pointedly, as one heavy arm draped more tightly around her—the question should be begged, what on earth was she doing lying in Luca Santanno’s arms?

Santanno.

Just thinking that name sent an icy shiver down her spine, a fierce surge of hatred for a man she’d never even met, a man who with one stroke of his expensive pen had changed her family’s lives for ever.

But for an indulgent moment before sanity prevailed, before questions demanded answers and the inevitable world rushed in, Felicity gazed across the pillow at her bedfellow, allowing herself a stolen moment of appreciation, a decadent glimpse of a man so exquisitely featured, so picture-perfect it was hard to believe that someone so beautiful could cause so much pain.

Beautiful.

From the jet hair that fanned his chiselled face, the long lashes on full, heavy-lidded eyes, to the wide, sensual mouth, a splash of colour amidst the dark shadow of early-morning growth that dusted his strong, angular jaw, every part of him was exquisite.

An involuntary sigh so small it was barely there escaped Felicity’s lips as her eyes worked the length of him. He was tall. His olive-skinned feet, that should be encased in smart Italian shoes to match the dark suit trousers he wore, hung precariously close to the bottom of the bed, and his legs seemed to go on for ever. Felicity’s gaze avoided the bit in the middle and moved straight to the white cotton shirt he was wearing.

The dark mascara smudge marring the crisp cotton spoke for itself—she’d been crying.

Worse than that, she’d been crying in Luca’s arms.

The realisation truly appalled her. She never cried—never! Never lowered her guard like that. Raking her mind she tried to think of one exception, but none was forthcoming. Even when Joseph had died she’d kept a lid on her grief, refusing to go down that awful path, refusing to let out her pain. Her mind reeled in horror and she mentally fought to slam the window closed, to stop the images not only of last night but of the last few years from flying in, to return to the safe haven she had found, lying in the semi darkness with only beauty on her mind.

But images were starting to flood in—snapshots she didn’t want to see, pictures she would rather forget—and the pleasant awakening she had relished for such a brief moment was starting to disperse as cruel reality broke through.

‘Good morning.’ Even before he spoke Felicity knew his voice—heavily accented, the slow measured cadence making those two simple words strangely erotic. Dragging her attention upwards, she found herself staring directly into the bluest eyes she had ever seen, and she felt the heat of a blush spreading from her chest, up over her neck to her cheeks. She wished she had used those hazy moments earlier to fashion a response to the inevitable questions that would follow.

‘Good morning.’ Not the wittiest of answers, Felicity realised, and nowhere near as sexy with her mild Australian accent, but it was all the fog where her brain had once been could come up with. He was pulling his arm free from under her, stretching out lazily on the bed, not even bothering to smother a yawn that showed a long pink tongue and very white teeth, as relaxed and at ease with himself as if he woke up with strange women in his bed each and every morning.