Accidentally Married to the Italian Billionaire

Prologue

AT FIRST, THE PHOTOGRAPH made no sense. Obviously.

After all, how could it? Luca Di Santis was staring at a long-lens picture of a beautiful woman in a cheap, Vegas veil.

The image of her held his attention for several moments before his gaze travelled sideways, to where he stood at her side, one arm protectively around her waist.

Long blonde hair that fell in waves, a heart-shaped face, curving, generous lips.

He stared at the picture, taken in the foreground of the Vegas wedding chapel, and wondered if it was AI generated.

But then, a movement in his peripheral vision had him glancing down the corridor of his penthouse suite, as the same young woman emerged from a bedroom.

Wearing one of his shirts. She was about a foot shorter than him, so the shirt hung to her mid-thigh, but what he could see of her legs made his gut twist with a rush of instant awareness.

“I—,” her eyes dropped to the floor between them, and her teeth gnawed at her full lower lip, which did precisely nothing for his awareness situation. “I don’t remember how I got here.”

Great. “That makes two of us.”

“I—did we meet at the bar?”

He put his phone down, needing time to digest this.

The fact she clearly didn’t remember their night together meant she had no idea they were married.

Her ring finger was bare—so he hadn’t got her some crappy Vegas dud as a substitute for the Di Santis diamond.

The enormous glittering ring was in a vault back at his family estate.

His lips formed a grim line, as patches of the night burst into his memory.

He’d been angry. Angry that his grandfather had threatened to disinherit him unless he came home.

Angry that his grandfather had thrown Luca’s apparent lack of stability and morality in his face, demanding yet again that Luca settle down and get married, in order to take what Luca viewed as his birthright.

He’d gone out with the intention of drinking himself into a stupor and putting all of it out of his mind.

He hadn’t been thinking about women. He knew he could have brought someone back to his hotel, had a night of mindless, hot sex, but all he’d wanted was to blot out his grandfather’s ultimatum instead: come home, find a nice girl and settle down, Luca.

Or else. Apparently, he’d drunkenly decided to grant his grandfather that wish. Fuck.

“Yes,” he said, dragging his palm over his stubbled jaw. When the woman’s gaze dropped lower, he realised he was bare-chested, wearing only a pair of boxers. And the way she was looking at him made his pulse thunder, hangover be damned.

“I don’t remember,” she repeated, looking down at his shirt, her face pale. “Did we…”

Her voice faded off into nothing, her cheeks pink, and for some reason he enjoyed her discomfort.

“Yes?”

“Um, you know.”

“Fuck?”

Her face went from pink to red in the space of a second. She fixed her gaze somewhere over his shoulder and nodded once, face a mask of emotions he couldn’t comprehend.

“I seriously doubt it,” he said. “Given the state of my hangover, I imagine sex last night would have been…difficult.”

He’d meant it as a joke, but her eyes went huge and a flush began to creep down her neck. She was behaving as though the very idea of sex was anathema to her. Something slicked down the back of his spine, a panic that lifted goosebumps through his body. “How old are you?”

Her eyes zipped back to his, blinking quickly.

She couldn’t be underage. For one thing, if they’d gotten married, there must have been some ID produced, by both of them. Probably how the paparazzi got the tip off. It wasn’t every day that a member of the powerful Di Santis family got accidentally married in Vegas.

“Twenty four.”

He expelled a breath. A ten year age gap between him and his bride. It wasn’t the worst thing, but it was definitely not ideal, either. He thought back to who he’d been at twenty four and could hardly fathom it.

That had been before.

Before The Middle East. Before his command decision that had seen his best friend die. Before everything had changed.

“And your name?”

She fidgeted with her hands. “I don’t get why I’m here.”

He nodded curtly. “Fair enough. My memory is likewise hazy.”

“I remember going out. I was…not in a great mood. I wanted…” she fell silent, and he found his eyes tracing her features with hyper focus. Reading her. Trying to understand what she wasn’t saying.

“You wanted to forget something too.”

She looked at him, surprised, and then nodded, once.

Curiosity sparked in his gut, but he tamped down on it. One call to his lawyers, and he’d have this accidental marriage annulled.

“I should go,” she said, obviously with no knowledge of who he was, and what situation they were in.

“A moment.” He’d been out of the Italian army several years, but his easy command had nothing to do with his military rank and everything to do with who he was.

A natural born leader. A man who could walk into any room and take control.

Sure enough, she stood frozen to the spot, her throat shifting delicately as she swallowed.

As though she were afraid of him? He cursed under his breath.

Yes. She was afraid. This timid, tiny woman with the incredible mane of golden hair was looking at him like he was the big bad wolf.

And wasn’t he?

Hadn’t he made self-destruction an artform, since Marco?

“We need to talk about last night.”

“I thought you said nothing happened.”

“No, I said we did not sleep together.” He moved closer towards her, but she took a step backwards. He suppressed a growl. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

Her smile was forced. “I didn’t think you were.”

“You are acting like a tiny little mouse, faced with a lion.”

“I think lions are afraid of mice,” she said, earning an arch of his brow.

“And I’m just…not used to being in this situation.

I don’t,” she waved a hand around the room, as if that finished her sentence, then expelled a sharp breath and shrugged her shoulders.

“I don’t go back to hotel rooms with guys I’ve just met. This isn’t me.”

He tamped down on that same streak of curiosity. How she lived her life, why she made her choices, was not for him to question. Whatever insanity had led them to get married was irrelevant.

“We have both done something uncharacteristic then, cara. We need to talk.”

Her brow furrowed, her lips pursed. “We really don’t.”

“Dio mio,” he snapped. “Are you always this stubborn?”

Her eyes flared to his. “I’m not being stubborn. I just want to get out of here.”

“And believe me, I have no interest in holding you hostage. That’s not my style.”

“I can well imagine.” Her eyes dropped, as if against her will, to his chest, and lingered there, so a hint of amusement curled through him, despite his impatience.

She was looking at him as though he were a lollipop she wanted to devour.

But then she crossed her arms over her chest and frowned, her eyes shifting to the window beyond him.

“I feel like I know you.” Her voice was wary.

He moved away from her, into the large kitchen, flicking the espresso machine to life.

“We met for the first time last night.”

“Are you—,” again, she stopped speaking.

“That is a very annoying habit.”

“What?”

“You start to say something, and then stop.”

She gnawed on her lip. “I’m…in an unusual situation. I’m trying to think things through.”

So perhaps she did remember, after all?

“What situation is that?”

Her eyes lifted to his then fell away again, like she was shutting him out. “It’s nothing you need to worry about.” Her eyes jerked around the room. “I don’t know where my bag is.”

Good. She probably wouldn’t be going anywhere without that.

“Look, whatever your name is, there’s something you need to know.”

She walked through the living area, eyes scanning the whole time, her frown deepening. “I need my bag.”

“I’ll help you find it, but I need a goddamn coffee. And some aspirin.”

“You don’t understand, it’s—my bag,” she finished lamely, her huge eyes looking suspiciously moist.

Women’s handbags were not his speciality. He couldn’t think why she was so bothered about it, but he made a noise of impatience as he stalked out of the kitchen, coffee machine pushing through a single shot. He could smell the aroma and his gut rolled in anticipation.

He found her beat up leather handbag in one of the bedrooms. The bed she’d slept in had been neatly re-made. He stared at it and had a visceral memory of carrying her in here and placing her down. She’d been wearing his shirt, even then. How? Why?

“Here,” he said, as he emerged into the lounge room. She was moving sofa cushions around frantically, but at the sight of him, relief crossed her features.

“Oh, thank God,” she exclaimed, forgetting to keep a wary distance from him as she moved quickly across the room and snatched for the bag, unzipping it while she stood only a few inches from him, fingers closing around something as she closed her eyes and let go of a breath she’d been holding.

“What is your name?” His tone was firm, making his expectations clear.

She swallowed quickly. “Ally.”

“Is that short for Alison?”

She shook her head. “Allegra.”

Surprise shifted through him. It was a beautiful name; it suited her.

“Italian?”

Her lips pulled to the side. “My mother loved music,” she said. “Classical, mostly.”

Loved. Past tense. He recognised her grief instantly; it was how he felt when he thought of Marco, though he had taught himself not to show that in his voice, or in any way whatsoever. The last thing he wanted was pity. He didn’t deserve it. Not when his actions had led to his best friend’s death.

“I don’t suppose you saw my clothes wherever you found this?”

He shook his head once. “They must be here, somewhere.”

“Yes, presumably I didn’t end up naked on the street.”

He knew that if she’d been naked here, with him, he would have remembered. There were some things that even the strongest alcohol couldn’t blot, and this woman would have been one of them. His fingers tingled with an ache to reach out and touch her, to feel the softness of her skin.

He pushed down on the temptation.

“I can get clothes sent up,” he said, wanting to remove any other conversational distractions. He moved to the phone and pressed a button for the concierge. The enormous penthouse boasted many luxuries and privileges, as well as a twenty-four-seven concierge at his fingertips.

Luca spoke as soon as someone answered.

“I need some ladies’ clothes sent up.” He covered the receiver. “Any preference?” Her cheeks were back to glowing like beacons. She shook her head quickly. “American size 6, petite, weather appropriate.”

“Very good, sir. They’ll be there within thirty minutes.”

Luca disconnected the call and turned to face her. “A replacement outfit is on the way up.”

“I’m sure that’s not necessary. My clothes must be here somewhere. You shouldn’t have bothered with that.”

“It’s no bother.”

She compressed her lips. “Well, not for you. Presumably it’s a little bit of a bother for whomever is scurrying around getting me something to wear.”

He almost laughed. Fair point. “We need to talk.”

She glanced towards the kitchen. “But first, coffee?”

“Right.” A girl after his own heart. Not that he had a heart, but he did have an appreciation for coffee, and it was everlasting. He pulled the short black from the machine. “How do you have it?”

“With milk.”

He wrinkled his nose a little but set about making a coffee to her taste, then placed it on the kitchen counter. “Well, Allegra, it turns out, last night, we made the most of being in Vegas.”

She pulled her lips to the side. “Meaning?”

There was no other way to say it, and in the back of his mind, he wondered why he was even trying to break the news to her gently.

“We got married. Congratulations.” He stared at her as those words hammered into his brain.

Words that had been uttered by the celebrant, and he saw her eyes widen in response, as perhaps those same recollections flooded her, too.

But it wasn’t just the pronouncement of their marriage.

It was the fact that Luca had indeed done as the celebrant had suggested, and kissed his bride.

He'd kissed her like there was no tomorrow, and hell, he’d liked it. A lot.