Chapter Three #2
Their childhood had been precarious at times, scary even, when the men his mother loved to entertain became surly, or possessive.
Sometimes, Dario had wished for a little less wildness, a little more sleep, a little more security for Mia—who had quickly become as headstrong and impulsive as her mother.
But when he’d come to England, to the cold and the damp, and been forced to live under strict pointless rules, forced to adhere to a punishing school schedule and learn an ugly language, made to spend hours each day reading and writing about old Englishmen when it was the codes and numbers he loved…
then he had realised how much more he had lost than just his mother’s flamboyant hugs, her endless chatter, the vivacious personality which made it exciting just to be near her.
England was lifeless and tasteless, sterile and suffocating and dull. Much like his father and this godforsaken pile of stone.
But clearly the girl didn’t feel the same way, because she was staring at him with desperation in those cornflower-blue eyes.
‘Please, Mr Lorenti, if you’ll just give me a year. I’ve itemised everything in my budget. It would mean a small increase in our running costs and some capital investment, to make the necessary repairs and improvements, but we could more than make it back.’
He tuned out the request. But the something he had been trying to ignore ever since she’d stepped into the light spiked in his gut again. And with it came an idea. The same idea he had dismissed seven years ago when he had first heard the terms of his father’s will…
He had been determined then not to bow to his father’s demands.
And not just because he had hated the man’s attempt to manipulate him, but also because he had decided never to marry anyone.
He simply did not have it in him to trust another person that much.
Nor did he wish to care for anyone again the way he had once cared for his mother, and Mia, and even Sante, all of whom had abandoned him.
His advisers, of course, had suggested an arranged marriage early on to satisfy the Trustees.
But until this moment he had refused to consider the suggestion.
He had never dated a British woman and did not know any members of the English aristocracy, because he had never used his title nor taken up the seat left vacant by his father in the House of Lords.
His life was in Italy. But if he couldn’t demolish this place to get his revenge on his father, perhaps there was another way…
‘Are you English?’ he asked.
The girl blinked, confused by the question. ‘I’m… Yes, I was born near here. But I have British and Irish passports as my mother was born in Dublin.’
The feeling in his gut surged. Even better then—with an Irish passport she could live in Italy with him as long as was necessary to convince the Trustees he had abided by the terms of the will.
To hell with it. He’d been wrestling with this situation for seven years.
And the decision to wreak vengeance today on his father, and the stately home he had cared about more than he had ever cared for his children, would have given Dario some satisfaction, but it would not have given him what he truly wanted—his name on the deeds of Palazzo di Constanzo.
And frankly, where was the satisfaction in besting a dead man?
‘If I save the house from demolition, and consider your proposals for the estate, I will need you to do a job for me in return,’ he said.
‘One I would pay you handsomely for,’ he added, because he required this to be a business transaction first and foremost. He certainly did not want this girl getting any romantic notions about the arrangement.
She was young, and clearly not wealthy, and her emotional investment in what was just a job was a sign she was also na?ve and sentimental.
‘Absolutely, Mr Lorenti, but I really don’t need a pay rise.
I’d rather put any additional money into the repair budget.
’ A tentative smile curved her lips, her relief palpable as her pale cheeks took on a rosy glow.
‘But you could give everyone a pay rise at the end of the year, if you’re satisfied with the work we’ve done,’ she finished, clearly trying to temper her joy at his sudden turnaround. ‘Which I guarantee you will be.’
Yes, she was definitely na?ve, he realised, and far too trusting. She hadn’t even heard yet what he was going to ask of her. But her trusting nature only made this arrangement more perfect. A cynic would be more likely to realise their bargaining power.
‘The job I am referring to has nothing to do with your work as my estate manager…’
Her eyes widened. The deep blue of her irises shimmered—her confusion tangible. The wary expression reminded him of a young doe he had once had in his sights while hunting with his mother’s gamekeeper as a boy many years ago in Amalfi.
‘It…it doesn’t?’ she whispered.
He hadn’t been able to pull the trigger and kill the young deer that day. He couldn’t, because the creature was so beautiful. And so defenceless. And he’d been less ruthless as a boy. But he had no qualms about pulling the trigger now.
‘I require an English wife for a year.’ That should be long enough to fool those old bastards into transferring ownership of the palazzo—and while his father had clearly intended for him to marry an aristocrat, there had been no specific reference to his bride’s social status in the will.
‘If you agree to take the job, I will pay you two million euros as a divorce settlement, in a year’s time. ’