Italian Bachelors: Brooding Billionaires. Leanne Banks

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СКАЧАТЬ Betsy married me for my money and now she’s trying to steal half of everything I own!’ Nik declared with raw, unconcealed bitterness.

      ‘She didn’t marry you for your money,’ Cristo contradicted with quiet assurance. ‘She fell in love with you.’

      ‘Don’t be naïve. I give you and your wife and her little bunch of Ravelli by-blows two years at most before she walks out and tries to take the shirt off your back!’ Nik vented with ringing derision.

      Belle flushed and lifted her chin. ‘I wouldn’t do that. Look, I’ll leave you two to talk in private,’ she completed, anchoring Franco’s hand in her own.

      As she left she heard Nik Christakis cursing, something that was instantly recognisable in many languages. She realised that she was very grateful not to be married to a man like that. Nik’s hard-featured face, cold eyes, not to mention the smouldering bitterness that escaped every time he mentioned his estranged wife, Betsy, chilled Belle to the marrow. Nik was clearly tough, obstinate, furiously hostile and, she suspected, the sort of man who would make an implacable enemy, a man who saw only the worst in anyone who crossed him.

      Cristo, she reasoned, was more reasonable, more civilised...wasn’t he? She respected him for speaking up in defence of his sister-in-law. Furthermore the night before she had been surprised and reluctantly impressed when Cristo had suggested that complete honesty between them might well be the way to make their marriage work. That was a rational and mature attitude to take, she acknowledged thoughtfully. She liked and respected honesty, hated the lies and persuasive pretences that Gaetano had shamelessly employed to keep her mother content and make his own life smoother.

      Two hours later, after Nik had finally departed and a second helicopter had flown in and deposited its colourful cargo, Cristo went off in search of Belle and found her sitting in the shade of a tree clutching a book. ‘You own a massive library of books,’ she complained as she heard his approach and lifted her head, auburn hair gleaming rich as silk in the shadowy light below the overhanging foliage, ‘but I could only find a couple written in English.’

      Cristo swiped the hardback from between her fingers and studied the spine. It was a heavy-duty tome on the history of his mother’s family, written by one of his ancestors and translated by a more recent one. ‘I’ll order some English books for you. I’d suggest that you start learning Italian but it would hardly be worth your while.’

      Her bone structure tightened, tension leaping through her as she absorbed that reminder that their relationship was of a strictly temporary nature. Images of his passionate lovemaking the night before swam up through her mind and killed every sensible thought stone dead, making concentration impossible while sending a wave of unwelcome heat travelling through her slender length. Her face hot, she studied the book fixedly as he returned it to her with an elegant gesture of one long-fingered hand. Last night those hands had touched her with breathtakingly erotic expertise and had extracted more pleasure from her weak body than she had known it was capable of experiencing. His complete poise in the aftermath of their passionate argument the night before, however, set her teeth firmly on edge. Evidently, as far as he was concerned, everything was done and dusted but Belle still felt as though her reactions, emotions and even her thoughts were whirling around in a maelstrom and out of her control.

      ‘Were you looking for me?’ she asked curiously.

      ‘Yes, cara. It’s time for you to enjoy your wedding present.’

      ‘Wedding present?’ Belle parroted as she rose slowly to her feet in discomfiture. ‘What on earth are you talking about?’

      ‘Wedding presents go with the territory of getting married,’ Cristo fielded smoothly, a lean hand settling to the base of her spine to steer her back in the direction of the villa.

      ‘But not between us, not in our sort of marriage,’ she parried with spirit.

      ‘I promised to treat you as my wife and that is what I am trying to do.’

      ‘So...’ Belle murmured tightly in the echoing hall. ‘This present...?’

      ‘It’s waiting for you in the ballroom,’ Cristo informed her, nodding to Umberto to open the double doors.

      Belle crossed the hall slowly, peering into the vast room to focus in astonishment on the catwalk now dissecting it. ‘My goodness, what the heck—?’ she began in confusion.

      ‘Every woman wants a new wardrobe. I arranged to have a selection flown in along with the models to show the clothing off. All you have to do is choose what you want to wear.’

      Every woman wants a new wardrobe? Most social climbing, gold-digging women would certainly fall into that category, Belle reflected with a helpless little moue of distaste that he should have assumed that she was that sort of a woman. But he hadn’t given her a choice. This was what Cristo thought she wanted and, it seemed, he was happy to deliver on that score and it would be needlessly confrontational for her to deny him the opportunity. One step into the ballroom she was introduced to Olivia, who whisked a tape measure over her with startling speed and efficiency and announced that any garments she selected would be delivered sized to fit by lunchtime the next day.

      Funky music kicked off in the background as Olivia took one of three comfortable seats awaiting them while urging Belle to define what Olivia described as ‘her personal style’. Belle had to hinge her jaw closed at the question because she had no idea how to answer it. In any case Olivia had already embarked on a commentary on the first outfit while a brunette model wearing something floaty, purple and weirdly shaped like a lampshade strolled down the catwalk towards them. As a very tall blonde with a shock of almost-white chopped hair appeared in swimwear Olivia endeavoured to determine Belle’s fashion preferences. But Belle had never had the budget to develop a taste for luxury. As a student, she had worn jeans in winter and shorts in summer with only the occasional cheap skirt or dress purchased for nights out. Money had always been in short supply in her life, clothing generally purchased from her part-time earnings as a bartender, and she had only ever shopped in chain stores.

      ‘Don’t you like any of it?’ Cristo prompted, shooting his bride a questioning glance from his brooding dark eyes when she remained awkwardly silent.

      As she connected with his stunning eyes her heart flipped inside her chest and turned a somersault. ‘It’s a bit overwhelming...all this,’ she admitted breathlessly.

      ‘Then I’ll choose for you.’

      And what Cristo chose was highly informative and Belle almost burst out laughing, for without fail every short skirt, backless gown and low neckline received Cristo’s unqualified and enthusiastic vote of approval. On that score he was very predictable, very male and reassuringly human. Amused by the very basic male he was revealing beneath the sophisticated façade, Belle began to regain her confidence and started to quietly voice opinions, shying away from the more spectacular garments in favour of the plainer ones, insisting that she couldn’t possibly wear shocking pink with her hair.

      ‘I like pink,’ Cristo argued without hesitation. Though as Olivia took up the conversation he suddenly remembered his feelings of horror at the many shades of pink spun throughout the small home back in Ireland. But his wife in pink...that was a different matter.

      ‘There are only certain shades of pink which you should avoid,’ Olivia, ever the highly accomplished saleswoman, assured her.

      At that point the blonde appeared in a ravishing set of ruffled turquoise lingerie and Cristo sprang upright and actually approached the catwalk. ‘I want that,’ he spelt out without СКАЧАТЬ