Chapter 4
PAIGE
We land in Milan.
Who has a private jet?
My new husband, apparently. It’s a level of wealth so far above anything I’m used to. I hope I showed him just how unimpressed I was by that, even though the plane was gorgeous. Like everything his company does, it was high-quality fabrics and leathers and understated elegance.
It’s my first time in Italy since I was fourteen and went on a two-week European trip with my parents. The passport officer tells me “Benvenuta, signorina” in a bored drawl and waves me on, and it’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever heard.
When I first emailed Rafe, spending the summer in Europe wasn’t something I’d considered. I knew he lived and worked in Paris at the Maison Valmont headquarters, sure. But I hadn’t fully thought it through.
And I had no idea he usually spent the summers at a Lake Como villa.
But my trust stipulates that I have to marry for love. Love of my life, in fact, according to the clause my grandparents put in. It affected my parents and my uncle, and now me.
So we have to stay together. Perform together.
Which includes two months in Rafe’s Lake Como villa.
Apparently it’s close enough to Milan that plenty of designers filter in and out throughout the summer, and from the way he describes it, I imagine he closes deals over Aperol spritzes instead of in boardrooms. The conqueror doesn’t stop conquering, he just shifts his base of operations to a more summer-compatible location.
We pick up a car at Milan airport and he drives.
It surprises me, that he’s not the kind of man who’s chauffeured around.
He struck me as the kind of man who was chauffeured around, to take every moment he could to spend on work.
On stripping yet another old company down to the studs and using its legacy to sell key chains and mass-manufactured items to people worldwide.
I glance from his hand on the leather steering wheel to the window. We’ve been on the highway for a solid twenty minutes. The landscape shifts from farmland to suburbs and back again.
He’s a stranger, and he’s my husband, and we’ll have weeks ahead of us to continue working on how to integrate my company into Valmont’s on my terms.
I have no doubt that I’ll have to be the one to push for that.
He could easily hand it off to one of his executives, but I don’t want that. I married the owner. And I’m going to make it impossible for him to strip down Mather & Wilde.
No studs will show on my watch.
I lean my head against the headrest and close my eyes for just a second. The car continues to roll.
Just for a second.
“Awake?” he asks, and it’s been longer than a second. I blink my eyes open at the view outside. We’re not on a highway anymore. There are trees outside the window and the glittering blue of a large lake.
“Yes,” I say. He’s still driving one-handed along the curving road, and I look back out the window. It’s not the ocean I was raised with, but the sight of the deep blue is just as beautiful.
“This is the lake?” I ask. There’s a pulse of insecurity in my chest, and I do my best to fake confidence in my voice. Like none of this bothers me in the least.
“Lake Como, yes.” He slows the car as we enter a small town. Rows of houses are built on either side of the street, in varying colors of terracotta. One has roses overflowing from window boxes. There’s a bakery and a restaurant.
“This is Lenno,” he says. “It’s the village we’ll live in.”
“Your house is here?”
“Yes.”
I look out at the cute terracotta houses. Raphael Montclair in one of these? It’s so unexpectedly quaint somehow.
But he keeps driving past them. He turns down a tiny street, away from the pretty houses, and pulls up to a wrought iron gate. On either side atop the gateposts is a small cherub-like figure, each clutching urns to their chests. A high hedge blocks any view of the property.
He rolls down his window and presses a button on the free-standing intercom. And then he says something in rolling Italian.
“Benvenuto,” the voice responds.
The gate opens slowly. The wrought iron gives way to a gravel courtyard, tall trees, and a large beige house.
It’s at least three stories, with dark shutters and stone steps up to the front door.
There’s a garage off to the side and beautiful, overflowing flowers in large planters.
All around us are tall, tight hedges in deep green colors.
Complete privacy.
Rafe puts the car in park outside the garage. “This is Villa Egeria,” he says. “The back of it, at any rate.”
“You live here?”
“I stay here sometimes in the summer,” he says, which is not quite the same thing. “Your rooms are on the second floor. The housekeeper’s name is Antonella. She’ll handle anything you need.”
I push open the door and step out into the hot air. Of course his house isn’t one of the cute, small ones by the road. Of course it’s this. One of the large palaces that dot the shoreline.
“Will you give me a tour?”
He pauses, lifting a duffel bag from the trunk. He’s wearing a slightly ruffled linen shirt and a pair of navy slacks. He looks no worse for wear, despite an eight-hour flight.
“A tour,” he repeats. There’s something disdainful in that voice, and I take a step closer, smiling.
“Yes. I’d hate to be accused of snooping when I accidentally walk into something I’m not meant to see later.”
He sets the bags on the gravel. “There are house rules.”
“Oh, thank God. We wouldn’t want to live in complete anarchy.”
“Amusing.” He walks past me toward the steps and pulls the front door open. “The gate stays shut at all times.”
“Got it.” I walk into the house. The foyer is surprisingly small. It has a black and white checkered marble on the floor and three open doorways leading into separate rooms.
The house smells like jasmine.
“That’s the living room. That’s the dining room. Over there is the kitchen,” he says. “Car keys are kept in the cabinet here in the foyer. You can use the BMW, none of the others.”
I smile at him. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”
“Let’s pretend I believe you,” he mutters, and walks through the doorway in the middle. There’s a large dining room table in here with windows facing in the opposite direction of where we came from.
I stop, stunned.
A beautiful green garden unfurls, and beyond it, at the end of the property, the glittering lake.
Of course he has a lakefront villa.
“You have free rein of the garden,” he says. “If you decide to swim, try not to drown. No driving the boat.”
“Got it,” I say.
“No smoking inside, no bringing unauthorized guests here, and absolutely no pets,” he says.
“You are so much fun, aren’t you?”
“So much,” he deadpans. “I don’t trust you.”
I put a hand over my heart. “Oh. The pain. Here I was, trusting you implicitly after almost a decade of underhand maneuvers.”
“Underhanded,” he says, and turns his back to me. “You’re not one to speak. Come on. I’ll show you which room is yours.”
I follow him up the stairs and run my hand along the smooth wooden railing. The whole place seems decorated in soft pastels. Light blue paint, expensive-looking art on the walls and classical furniture.
“You know,” I say, “telling me what house rules to break is basically giving me a blueprint for what to do to annoy you. We do have that little divorce clause.”
“I’m aware. I asked for it.” He walks down a hallway and pushes open an oak door.
When he turns back to look at me, there’s seriousness on his handsome face.
“Do not,” he says, “think that you can persuade me to bail out of this marriage by annoying me with guests or smoke or dogs. If I play, I play to win, Wilde, and I’m not going to lose on account of my new wife being an annoyance. ”
“Oh, but I can be so very, very annoying,” I say sweetly. “And you’re not the only one who is competitive.”
He puts a hand on the doorjamb. “Anyone can be competitive. Not everyone can win.”
“You could be the worst man in the world, and I wouldn’t divorce you,” I say. I wouldn’t mind if he divorced me, though.
“What a ringing endorsement,” he says. “You’re not my choice of wife, either, but I’m not going to pull that trigger.”
I narrow my eyes. “You’re not getting full control of Mather & Wilde.”
“Neither are you,” he says, and nods toward the room. “This is yours.”
“What, we’re not sharing a bedroom?” I ask, and give him my most insincere smile.
Rafe’s expression doesn’t change. He looks at me like I’m a burden, an insect, something in his way. It’s many things, that expression, but it’s not indifference.
And I can work with that.
“I have things to do,” he says. “I’ll bring up your bag and leave it by the landing.”
“So that’s a no.” I make a show of looking the door over. “Is there a lock on here?”
“Yes. There is one on my door too. No need to unpack those poisons of yours,” he says.
I don’t know the last time I spoke to someone like this. This intense back and forth, giving as good as you get.
“I want to start working on changes for Mather & Wilde tomorrow,” I tell him. “I know you have your team on it, but I have ideas too. The contract stipulated that I’ll have input.”
I have so many suggestions, but my uncle always shut them down. He ruled the company with an iron fist and clashed with me so many times that he eventually stopped listening and I stopped trying.
“I’m busy tomorrow,” Rafe says.
I stare at him.
“This is important,” I say. “We have to get the ball rolling. We finally have the majority stake, and it’s time to draw up schedules for the next spring collection. For the—”
“Paige,” he says, and there’s a heavy note of disapproval in his voice. “Mather & Wilde is one of eighty-seven houses that Maison Valmont owns.”
That I own.
That’s what he’s saying.
My teeth grind together, and I hate it, hate that I had to do this in order to get my uncle out of the picture. “I’m well aware. You’re insatiable.”
He lifts an eyebrow. “The purchase isn’t public yet. There will be time.” He leaves me there and starts walking down the hall. “Don’t try burning this place down either!” he calls. “What’s mine is not yours!”