Kathryn Ross - Claimed by the Italian - Virgin - Wedded at the Italian's Convenience / Count Giovanni's Virgin / The Italian's Unwilling Wife

With ease he dismissed his notoriously workshy, playboy cousin, and returned his mind to a far more pleasant subject.

Marriage to Lily, who didn’t treat him with tedious simpering deference, who didn’t have a greedy eye on the main chance, as proved beyond all doubt by her rejection of his proposal when every other woman he knew would have tied herself in knots to accept such an offer, was the obvious step to take. It would be of indisputable benefit to all concerned, an entirely logical step. And logic—not emotional muddle—was how he liked to live his life.

He would no longer have to endure the constant feeling of guilt because his former refusal to settle down and sire an heir and a spare was causing his mother a great deal of grief—even more so since Antonio’s death.

He would have a wife and companion he could trust implicitly, and in return Lily would have status, his care and fidelity, his children.

A band tightened about his heart at that entirely novel prospect. And the hope that their first child would be a girl, small and delicately formed, with those huge silvery grey eyes just like Lily’s, hit him like a thunderclap.

Unused to bracketing himself and children together, he found the picture pretty startling. He shifted his feet and decided that he liked the idea. At least, he amended, with Lily as the mother of his children he liked the idea.

His eyes narrowed. She was being approached now by his cousin Renata. Lazy, like the rest of the clan, offspring of his father’s unlamented, light-fingered brother, and believing the world owed her a living. Greedy, bitchy.

Still watching, he twitched his long mouth. Lily didn’t know it, but her over-emphasised refusal to be his wife was soon to be turned on its head. Everything was in place. The arrival of her relative, planned and executed with precision, had set the scene. The unlooked-for but fortuitous liking the two senior ladies had quickly formed for each other, and their consequent decision to share the apartment in Florence, had been the icing on the cake, the last nail in the coffin of Lily’s resistance—proof, if he needed it, that the gods were on his side.

Tomorrow he would take Lily to his villa in the hills above Amalfi. Alone with him, she wouldn’t be able to hold out, resist his powers of persuasion. He had been around long enough to know when a woman was sexually attracted to him, and she was. He’d read the signs. Her days of digging her heels in were numbered! And to his dying day he wouldn’t let her regret it.

He had done his duty as a host, circulating, receiving congratulations on his betrothal, had danced attendance on his mother and Edith. In a moment he would claim his Lily, make sure he mentioned the visit to Amalfi in front of his mother and Edith, certain that she wouldn’t make a scene and refuse to go anywhere with him, because he knew that she was already beating herself up over the prospect of having to sorely disappoint the two women some time in the near future.

Which worked to his advantage, but made him deeply uncomfortable. When it came right down to it he didn’t like himself for playing on her caring nature, for manipulating her. But it would be for the best in the long run. Her life with him would be happy, and she would want for nothing. He would make sure of that.

A sudden scowl darkened his eyes. Lily, turning white-faced away from Renata, had brushed against his cousin Orfeo, who promptly swept her unresisting body into his arms and into a clumsy parody of a foxtrot.

His stubby fingers were splayed over the unblemished creamy skin of her back, sliding down her delicate spine and dipping beneath the barrier of fabric. His oiled-looking head pressed against hers as he whispered something.

Murderous rage surged through Paolo. How dared that oily creep paw his woman?

He strode forward.

She was hating every second of this. The congratulations, the curious looks veiled with sycophantic smiles, the whole wretched lying charade she’d got herself caught up in. And, worst of all, the radiantly happy smiles of Fiora and her great-aunt as they sat chatting together at a table in an alcove.

Worst of all, that was, until Paolo’s cousin Renata slid up to her, a glass of red wine clutched in long white fingers, almost wearing a dress of sequinned scarlet.

‘Nice work!’ she said. ‘You’ve nailed the wealthiest man in Italy—probably in the whole of Europe. It won’t last, of course, but think of the big fat settlement you’ll get when he decides marriage bores him!’ She gave a tinkling laugh as brittle as breaking glass. ‘Dear Paolo the heartbreaker. He has the attention span of a gnat when it comes to the female sex—fact, I’m afraid. He can’t help it! His first wife got the elbow after only a few months. She overdosed, you know, only a few months after they broke up. Some say it was deliberate.’ She shrugged, as if disassociating herself from the slander. ‘For your sake, let’s hope you’re made of sterner stuff!’

Refusing to dignify that piece of malicious spite with a response, Lily turned away, feeling sick at what the other woman had implied. To her huge annoyance she found herself swept into the centre of the room by another of Paolo’s cousins.

Dancing was the very last thing she wanted to do. She wanted to escape the noise, the pointed questions and speculative looks, the pervasive scent of the banks of flowers that seemed to be everywhere. Switch her mind off and stop fretting over this horrible situation. Just for a little while. Just until she found the strength she’d need to tell her great-aunt and Fiora the truth.

And the wretched man was actually pawing her! The crudities he was murmuring in her ear disgusted her, and as she tried to pull away his hot, heavy hand slid down to her waist and hauled her into him. The aftershave he must have drenched himself in made her feel as if she were about to throw up.

‘Beat it, Orfeo!’

Never had Lily been so glad to see Paolo. Her anger with him for putting her in such an unenviable situation vanished like mist in the sunlight.

She felt weak with love, totally debilitated with longing, her mind—what was left of it—in so much turmoil she felt as if her brain had been boiled!

She wanted so much to be with him, accept his proposal. But she knew she couldn’t. Mustn’t.

Her knees shook as he slipped an arm around her shoulders, and, trying to stiffen her already tottery resolve, she took a moment to remind herself that given what she knew about him—what appeared to be general knowledge—marrying him would be self-destructive madness.

Yet Paolo Venini looked as if he would tear the younger man into pieces, limb from limb. Outrage had darkened his eyes to blazing ice. Looking up into his hard, rivetingly handsome features, she felt her eyes well with feeble tears.

‘Don’t let that lowlife upset you, cara mia ,’ he urged as the younger man sloped away, tugging at his tie in red-faced humiliation. ‘If he comes within a hundred miles of you again I will kill him! Him or any man who shows you disrespect!’

Her soft mouth wobbled into a smile. Almost she could believe him. But did that mean he was jealous? He had his faults, but she had never numbered possessiveness among them. Where his women were concerned his modus operandi seemed to be to take what he wanted for as long as his interest lasted, then throw the current female aside and forget her. Move on. Not really the actions of a man with a possessive streak.

Paolo dropped his protective arm and curved a hand around her waist. ‘Come with me, bella mia . We will escape together.’ Time enough later to take her to sit with Fiora and Edith and mention the trip to Amalfi. Right now Lily was looking stressed, and she needed to unwind. That—her well-being—was his first priority. ‘No one will miss us, and if they do they will understand the need of a newly betrothed couple to be alone together, to take time out for a few minutes.’