Sicilian Millionaire, Bought Bride. Catherine Spencer
could buy just about anything, and it was all very fine for high-minded people to scorn it as the root of all evil, but until they found themselves having to scrape and save every last cent in order to make ends meet, they were in no position to cast judgment on those who faced just such a situation every day.
On the other hand, it was claimed by those who ought to know that there were never any free lunches, and if something seemed too good to be true, it probably was. The kind of lopsided bargain Raffaello Orsini was proposing might well end up costing more than it was worth. Would she really be doing Matthew any favors if she ended up losing her self-respect?
Marshaling her thoughts, she said, “You’ve gone to great pains to explain how the arrangement might benefit me, Mr. Orsini, but exactly what’s in it for you?”
From the corner of her eye, she saw him go to the bar and pour cognac into two brandy snifters. “When Lindsay died,” he replied, joining her at the window and passing one glass to her, “my mother and aunt moved into my house, to take care of Elisabetta and, if I’m to speak with truth, to take care of me, too. It’s as well that they did. At the time, I was too angry, too wrapped up in my own grief, to be the kind of father my daughter deserved. These two good women put their own lives on hold and devoted themselves to ours.”
“You were very lucky that they were there when you needed them.”
He swirled his brandy and warmed the bowl of the glass between his hands. “Very lucky, yes, and very grateful, too.”
She heard the reservation in his tone and glanced at him sharply. “But?”
“But they have indulged Elisabetta to the point that she is becoming unmanageable, and I am at a loss to know how to put a stop to that without hurting their feelings. She needs a consistently firm hand, Corinne, and I am not doing such a good job of providing one, in part because the demands of my work take me away from home at times, but also because…” He shrugged ruefully. “I am a man.”
His use of her first name left Corinne giddy with such insane pleasure that she lost all control over her tongue. “So I’ve noticed.” Then appalled at how he might interpret her answer, she rushed to explain, “What I mean is, that like most of your breed, you seem to think because you decree something, it shall be done.”
He actually laughed at that, the sound as rich and dark as buckwheat honey, then just as suddenly sobered. “You’ve read Lindsay’s letters. You know what she wanted. What you can do for me, Corinne, is carry out her dying wishes. Take her place in Elisabetta’s life. Shape my daughter into the kind of woman that would make her mother proud.
“It will be no easy task, I assure you, so if, as I suspect, you think I’m the one doing all the giving, please think again. What I offer to you can, for the most part, be measured in euros. It is impossible to put a price on what you have to offer to me.”
“You’re very persuasive, Mr. Orsini, but the fact remains, logistics alone make the idea impractical on any number of fronts.”
“Name one.”
“I signed a three-year lease on my town house.”
“I will break it for you.”
“I have obligations…debts.”
“I will discharge them.”
“I don’t want your money.”
“You need my money.”
He had an answer for everything. At her wit’s end, she took a different tack. “What if you don’t like my son?”
“Are you likely to dislike my daughter?”
“Of course not. She’s just a child. An innocent little girl.”
His raised hand, palm facing up, spoke more eloquently than words. “Exactly. Our children are the innocents, and we their appointed guardians.”
“You’d expect me to disrupt my son’s life and move to Sicily.”
“What is there to keep you here? Your parents?”
Hardly. Their disenchantment with her had begun when she was still in her teens.
A chef? they’d sneered, when Corinne had shared her ambitions with them. Is slaving over a hot stove all day the best you can aspire to after the kind of education we’ve given you? What will people think?
But that was nothing compared to their reaction when Joe entered the picture. Marry that fly-boy Joe Mallory, young lady, and you’re on your own, her father had threatened.
Determined to have the last word as usual, her mother had added, Your father’s right. But then, you never did use the brains God gave you, otherwise you’d have chosen that nice accountant you were dating last year, before he got tired of being strung along and ended up marrying someone else.
That they’d ultimately been proved right about Joe did nothing to lessen Corinne’s sense of abandonment. She couldn’t imagine ever turning her back on Matthew. Parents just didn’t do that to their children. But hers had, and shown not a speck of remorse about it.
“No,” she told Raffaello Orsini. “They retired to Arizona and we seldom visit.”
“You are estranged?”
“More or less,” she admitted, but didn’t elaborate.
He closed the small distance between them and with a touch to her shoulder swung her round to face him. “Then all the more reason for you to marry me. I come with instant family.”
“I don’t speak Italian.”
“You will learn, and so will your boy.”
“Your mother and aunt might resent a stranger coming into the household and taking over.”
“My mother and aunt will accede to my wishes.”
Once again, he had an answer for everything. “Stop badgering me!” she cried, desperation lending an edge of hysteria to her voice. No matter how real the obstacles she flung in his path, he steamrolled over it and confronted her with an even better reason why she, too, should accede to his wishes. And if she didn’t put a stop to him now, she’d end up surrendering to his demands from sheer battle fatigue.
“Ti prego, pardonami—forgive me. You’re in shock, as was I when I first read my wife’s letters, and for me to expect you to reach a decision at once is both unreasonable and inexcusable.”
His response, uttered with heartfelt regret, so far undermined her battered defenses that, to her horror, she heard herself say. “Exactly. I need some time to assimilate the benefits and the drawbacks, and I can’t do it with you breathing down my neck.”
“I absolutely understand.” He strode to the desk, returned with an envelope containing several photographs, which he spilled onto the coffee table. “Perhaps these will help clarify matters for you. Would you like me to leave you alone for a few minutes so that you may examine them?”
“No,” she said firmly. “I would like to go home and take my time reaching a decision, without the pressure of knowing you’re hovering in the background.”
“How much time? I must return to Sicily as soon as possible.”
“I’ll have an answer for you tomorrow.” In all truth, she had an answer for him now, but it wasn’t the one he wanted to hear, so she might as well keep it to herself and make her escape while she could. The sooner she put distance between him and her, the less likely she was to find herself agreeing to something she knew was out of the question.
“Fair enough.” He slid the photographs back into their envelope, tucked it in the inside pocket of his jacket, then retrieved her coat and, after draping it around her shoulders, picked up the phone. “Give me a moment to alert the driver that we’re