Chapter Five
Two days later
‘SIGNOR LORENTI WILL be here at six to escort you to the opera, Signora Whittaker. The stylist and her team will arrive at four to dress you.’
Another stylist! Seriously?
Tali tried not to scream, or look ungrateful, but after forty-eight hours of being prodded and poked and told what to do, she was utterly exhausted. And frustrated… And closing in on feeling completely overwhelmed.
She’d arrived in Italy less than an hour ago—on Lorenti Corp’s private jet, which had been disconcerting enough—and then been taken in a chauffeur-driven car to this penthouse apartment, which Lorenti owned in Milan’s Brera district.
As the car had wound its way past the cobbled alleyways flanked by historic terraces built in an eclectic mix of Renaissance and Baroque architectural styles, she’d spotted luxury boutiques side by side with bustling sidewalk cafes and upscale food emporiums. The artsy crowd frequenting them had looked as chic and stylish as their surroundings—and intimidating to a woman who had barely been out of Wiltshire in the past five years.
She hadn’t needed Aldo to tell her this area was one of the most exclusive in the city. The luxury furniture and sleek, expensive design of the huge penthouse apartment, which would be her home for the next ten days, and the colonnaded stone balcony beyond, were even more intimidating.
She wished she could be more grateful. But she felt so far out of her depth at this point, and so anxious and stressed, it was hard to appreciate anything—least of all a visit from another stylist in less than two hours’ time.
The last two days had been endless rounds of appointments with hairdressers, and beauticians, and fashion buyers, and stylists, as well as all the meetings Lorenti had warned her about with his legal team—who had begun to arrive at Westwick Hall less than an hour after she’d made her devil’s bargain with Lorenti, and he’d left.
She had been buffed and plucked and waxed and dressed to within an inch of her life while busy being informed about what Lorenti required of her, and reading and signing a ton of legal documents.
In between all that, she’d barely had the time to prepare Ellie and the rest of her team for her sudden departure—not to mention to explain to everyone at Westwick, without lying too much, exactly what was going on with her and Lorenti.
And why she was suddenly leaving for Italy for who knew how long.
Her mum, of course, had refused to buy the love-at-first-sight story which she had hastily concocted—and which had fooled the staff.
‘This happened in the space of half an hour? Really Tali, I know he’s a handsome man, and you were always fascinated with him as a little girl, but that doesn’t sound like a good basis for a relationship, honey.’
Tali had been forced to come clean about the deal she’d struck with the Hall’s owner—and then sworn her mum to secrecy.
Because the very first form the legal team had insisted she sign, before the sixty-page pre-nuptial agreement even, had been a non-disclosure agreement forbidding her from divulging to anyone that her marriage to Lorenti was not genuine.
‘Grazie, Aldo,’ Tali said as she dropped her bag onto the living area’s expensive four-seater sofa.
That would be the battered rucksack she had packed with a few clothes of her own, to wear in her downtime, when she wasn’t wearing the four suitcases sitting in the hallway full of carefully coordinated outfits the London buyer had supplied her with.
‘Do you know what opera we’re seeing?’ she asked, trying to drum up some enthusiasm for the night ahead…and not freak-out completely at the thought of seeing Lorenti again when she already felt overwhelmed.
She’d never been to an actual opera. Surely tonight would be exciting, once she stopped stressing about how everyone at Westwick was going to cope without her, and whether her mother would keep the secret she’d entrusted her with long enough not to get them both sued.
And how on earth she was going to persuade any of the glamourous, stylish people Dario Lorenti probably socialised with in Milan that he would choose to marry a farmgirl from Wiltshire?
‘I do not, Signora, do you wish me to find out?’ Aldo asked, looking apologetic.
Lorenti’s assistant—who had been so impatient during their first meeting—had turned out to be surprisingly helpful, carefully co-ordinating her many meetings and appointments in the last two days, so she’d had at least some spare time to do her actual job.
‘Don’t bother.’ She sighed. Or rather, what she considered to be her actual job, even if Lorenti had made it very clear during their one meeting that Westwick Hall was no longer her priority. Because being at his beck and call was her job now…
Buck up, Tali, you’re just stressed and confused and hopelessly out of your depth. You’ll adapt, you always do. And this is only for a year. Securing Westwick’s future is worth it.
Although after forty-eight hours of being at Lorenti’s beck and call—without him even being in the same country—she was beginning to realise what an enormous commitment she’d signed up for.
Who knew being a fake trophy wife would be this much work?
And all of it so utterly vacuous and unfulfilling—because since when was getting your eyebrows threaded or trying on hundreds of designer outfits a viable job?
‘It’ll be a nice surprise,’ she added.
‘Shall I request the apartment’s chef make you a meal before you leave?’
‘There’s a chef?’ She searched the state-of-the-art kitchen on the other side of the open space—scared a cordon bleu chef was about to jump out and intimidate her even more.
‘Yes, Signora. Your staff live in the rooms below.’
My staff? There was more than one person to wait on her. Oh god!
The anxiety which had been making it hard to breathe for days contracted around her lungs like a vice.
‘I requested they leave you to rest,’ Aldo said gently. ‘But if you would prefer to eat…’
‘No, Aldo, I’m good, really. I’m not hungry.’ Because… Nerves! ‘I’m just going to crash until the stylist arrives. You’ve been amazing. I really appreciate all your help over the last few days.’
The man went a dull shade of red. ‘It is my job, Signora,’ he said, before giving her a stiff bow and leaving.
Good to know one of us has a proper job.
She stared after Aldo as the apartment door closed.
Had she embarrassed him? She hadn’t intended to.
But she guessed this was just another example of how ill-suited she was to the role Lorenti had hired her for.
She knew precisely nothing about navigating this level of privilege, even though she’d grown up on the grounds of a stately home.
Chill, Tali. Having a personal chef isn’t scary… It’s just a bit much. You’ll get used to it…eventually.
Kicking off her shoes, she wandered to the balcony and opened the ornate glass door to step onto the cool marble tiles of a huge terrazzo.
Propping her elbows on the stone balustrade, she peered across the rooftops towards Milan’s Centro Storico nearby—and spied the cloistered splendour of the Palazzo Brera art gallery in the neighbouring square which Aldo had pointed out when they’d arrived.
She took a moment to ease her breathing, control the anxiety and absorb the sights and sounds of this beautiful, vibrant city.
This was an adventure. She had never been to Italy before, and while the Milanese were intimidatingly chic, she would need to find a way to relax and enjoy this experience—or she’d end up having a heart attack.
Plus, Ellie had her on speed dial if she needed her.
She’d managed to hire Ellie an assistant which Lorenti was paying for, and she planned to check in with the Hall’s new acting estate manager every single morning.
She still had no idea why Lorenti had picked her for this job, and maybe that was what was stressing her out.
Unfortunately, thinking of Lorenti brought back the memory of his turbulent gaze, and the sensations which had sprinted up her arm and deep into her belly the first—and only—time he had touched her.
She shivered, despite the warmth of the spring day, and folded her arms around her body, then headed into the apartment, intending to take a shower—a cold one.
This was a fake marriage. He and his legal team had made that very clear.
He didn’t want more, nor would he, and neither did she.
And while the thought of seeing him again in a few hours’ time was making the inappropriate heat in her abdomen glow alarmingly and kicking her stress levels back into the danger zone, surely their first public appearance would be a good opportunity to start establishing their working relationship.
And stop her fixating on the weird physical response she’d had to him in the library—which had to be a layover from all the other emotions he’d bombarded her with that afternoon.
And nothing whatsoever to do with the awareness in his eyes, which she was convinced now had all been in her far-too-vivid imagination.
Dario used his key fob to enter the penthouse apartment he owned across the square from his own residence, annoyed by the buzz of anticipation in his gut, which must surely be a symptom of his unprecedented reaction to Tallulah Whittaker two days ago.
It was a reaction he had spent the last forty-eight hours determined to quash.
He tucked his hands into the pockets of his tuxedo pants, aware of his accelerated heartbeat—not to mention the warmth in his abdomen—at the thought of seeing the girl again.
Assurdo!