Summer with the Millionaire. Jessica Gilmore
She’d have to settle for honesty.
She looked down at her right hand and twisted the moonstone ring she wore on her middle finger round and round. Her left hand felt bare; yet another engagement ring removed. She’d liked the latest one too—not big, not ostentatious, not a family heirloom.
She took a deep breath. Right, honesty. How hard could it be? She looked back up, directly at Luca. ‘Daddy was furious,’ she said. ‘Not that he particularly liked Joe, but he wanted me settled. And he hated the publicity. Although I think that’s more because the press always drag up his three divorces, which kind of bursts his “happy family” bubble. Anyway, he decided I needed some tough love and cutting off my trust fund was the kindest thing he could do. Because I used my trust fund to start the first shop, he banned me from entering the premises. Too easy, he said.’
It took some work to keep the bitterness from her voice. Tough love. That was a good one. It would have been nice if he’d tried unconditional love first.
‘So you came to us in desperation?’ Luca said drily.
Ouch, that cut far too close. ‘Oh, no,’ Minty assured him, making sure she kept her voice light and breezy, not letting him see how much she wanted this, needed this. ‘Desperation would have meant accepting one of the reality TV shows I keep being offered, or pretending to write a book. And there are a lot of art galleries who would snap me up. Pearls, a little black dress and an expensive education are all they require, and I have all three in abundance. But, believe it or not, I want more; I do always read the board’s papers. I think this expansion is a good idea, and I want to be part of it.’
Minty put as much conviction as possible into her voice.
‘I’m glad our plans have your approval.’ Why did he have to sound so scathing? ‘But your sudden desire to contribute still seems a little suspicious. After all, apart from collecting your annual cheque, you haven’t shown any interest in Di Tore Dolce—or Oschia—for years. And now you want to...what? To move here? Or do you see your role as being more ambassadorial? Wining and dining prospective clients? Parties?’
Minty bit her lip. This was what she’d been afraid of—her plans dismissed out of hand, her ideas rejected unheard. And now she was here, actually back in Oschia, she was suddenly unsure. After all, he had shown her more than once how little he valued her. That he thought her nothing but a spoilt child.
He wasn’t the only one who thought that, yet somehow, even now, his disapproval stung that little bit more.
She stared unseeingly out of the window, at the landscape that used to feel like home. It hadn’t been for a long, long time. Maybe she should go back to London. Stop fighting her birthright, her destiny. Take a job in a West End gallery and share a flat with one of her trustafarian friends. Rejoin society—go to Henley, Ascot, shooting parties and hunt balls; see if she could attract the kind of husband who asked for little more than the right family and the ability to throw a good party. She’d managed it once, after all. Maybe this time she could actually go through with the wedding.
‘No, I want more than that.’ The conviction in her voice surprised her, and she could see Luca looked taken aback too. ‘I know this seems like a whim to you. And it is sudden. But I have thought it through; I’ve planned a role which fits in with the board’s objectives.’
‘Come on, Minty.’ Luca pushed his chair back and got up, walking over to the window and looking out. He stood there for one long moment then turned back to face her. ‘You can’t just swan in after all these years and expect us to fit in around your half-baked ideas. You’ve read the papers? Great. You’re a shareholder; you should know what’s going on. But that doesn’t mean that because you are bored with your shallow London life you can create a job here. We need people we can rely on, not people who run away in the middle of the night without even leaving a note.’
The room seemed distant, fuzzy. Her stomach churned as heat enveloped her, her palms clammy, her throat dry. Minty opened her mouth and then shut it. What could she say? She couldn’t believe he was even mentioning that night.
After all, she had spent six years trying to forget every single second of it.
But there was no way she was going to let Luca Di Tore know just how his actions had affected her.
She barely admitted it to herself.
Minty lifted her chin and looked directly at him, as if it didn’t matter at all. ‘I was young, Luca. Scared. Grieving. I didn’t know what I was doing.’
Hadn’t known what they were doing. Hadn’t known how her childhood adversary had suddenly become someone she was so, so tempted to cling to. Someone she needed. Wanted. Trusted.
He’d soon proved her wrong.
‘Not that young, Minty. You were engaged a month later. That was your first engagement, I believe,’ he added.
Minty swallowed a half-hysterical giggle. As if her engagement to Barty could be compared to what had nearly happened with Luca. Barty had been safe, undemanding, still a boy. She hadn’t needed him, hadn’t expected anything from him other than fun and flirtation.
She had wanted everything from Luca.
Until the moment he’d pushed her away. Until she had looked up to see nothing but horror in his eyes.
She pushed the unwanted memories away. She needed this to work; needed to find out if she was anything more than a pretty face and an old name, more than a trust-fund baby with a tabloid-friendly romantic history. ‘Rose wanted me to be part of the business,’ she said softly. ‘That was why she left me half her share.’
Luca stared back, indecision in his eyes. She knew he wanted nothing more than to give her her marching orders, put her back on a plane and order her to never set foot in Oschia again. But she had played her trump card, gambled it all on his sense of honour, his respect for the woman who had raised him.
He shut his eyes then they snapped open, all indecision gone. ‘Okay,’ Luca said. ‘You have two weeks. Two weeks to show me you can do the job. If you do, you can stay.’
Jubilation filled her. He was giving her a chance. Minty jumped to her feet and ran round the desk, flinging her arms around the tall figure. ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘Thank you, you won’t regret it.’ She leant in, her face pressed against the cotton of his shirt, and before she could stop herself she inhaled. The fresh fragrance of his clean shirt mingled with the sharp freshness of his aftershave, mixed up with something warm, spicy. Something uniquely male. The smell shot through her, sending a jolt of sensual awareness right down to her toes.
She was all too aware of him, of the muscles under her hands, of his height, his strength. The leg pressed against hers, the flatness of his belly. If she raised her head just a little, she knew her mouth would be tantalisingly close to the pulse at his throat.
What was she doing? She dropped her hands and stumbled back.
He was as still as the Renaissance statue he resembled. His was face unreadable, his eyes shuttered.
Minty swallowed and moistened her lips. ‘It means a lot,’ she said. ‘Your faith.’
‘Don’t get carried away.’ She flinched. Was that a reference to her inappropriate bodily contact? ‘I have very little faith in you. And don’t think you can just start at the top. I served an apprenticeship here while you lazed by the pool and chatted up all the local boys. I have worked in every single department, from deliveries to stock management, learned how everything works. You’ll do the same over the next two weeks. One bad report, just one, and it’s all over. You sell your shares back to me and never come near me or my company again. Is that understood?’
A gamble. This was Minty’s language. Her ancestors had won—and lost—fortunes on the turn of a dice or a card. A Davenport never refused a wager. And they always played to win.
‘Understood,’ she said, holding her hand out to him. ‘We have a deal. If I lose, you buy my share at