Chapter 2
HER HEART HAMMERED. Was this yet another man propositioning her indecently? She felt sickened and disgusted then by the whole male race, furious with this idea that they could control a woman just because she was financially destitute.
“No way.”
“Hear me out,” he said, holding a hand in the air in the universal gesture of silence. “This is a business deal, nothing more.”
It was very slightly mollifying. “O-kay,” she said softly, moving her bag back to the floor and sitting down on the bed, conscious of the rustling of the letter in her pocket the whole time. It felt like a grenade rather than paper. “How is marriage a business?”
He walked towards the window then turned to face her, the slight distance somehow reassuring. But there was a look on his face as his gaze shifted around the room, taking in the obvious rundown state of the place, that made her feel embarrassed.
“I know, it’s hardly a palace,” she muttered, lifting one shoulder.
“Far from it.”
“Yeah, okay, I get it. The room sucks. So?”
He nodded once. “You’re right. It doesn’t matter.” He dragged a hand through his hair. “I need a wife.”
“I’m not—we’re not actually married.”
“Even better. I need a wife on paper.”
She furrowed her brow. She could have sworn she felt a thousand volts of electricity arcing between them that morning, but hell, what did she know about men, really?
She’d been far too busy looking after her dad to date, trying to keep a roof over their heads while paying for his medication and treatments.
“Why do you need a fake wife? Why not find a real one?”
“On paper,” he repeated. “I’m not interested in a relationship.”
She considered that a moment. “I’m missing something here.”
“As, I suspect, am I.”
She gnawed on her lower lip.
“I want a clean-cut arrangement. A partnership based on mutual requirement, no emotional complication, no unrealistic expectations. This would be a contracted role, requiring you to play a part, nothing more.”
“Meaning…nothing…physical?” her cheeks flamed at the suggestion and she couldn’t look in his direction.
“Si.” Was she imagining the slight hesitation before agreement?
She wasn’t sure why that wasn’t more reassuring.
“Sex is a complication,” he continued. “Or it can be. I want this to be clear cut. You convince everyone we’re married, and in love,” she heard the cynicism that infused those words, and jerked her eyes back to his face, frowning.
“And in exchange?”
“In exchange, I’ll pay you.”
She sucked in a shaky breath as suddenly the prospect of what he was offering hovered on the periphery of her mind like a bright shiny star. Relief. Relief from the terrifying prospect of being in debt to loan sharks come sexual predators.
“I—how much?”
He looked around the room, his lips grim. “How much would you want?”
It wasn’t so much what she wanted, but rather, needed.
Could she really ask for the whole amount?
He was obviously wealthy. His penthouse had been enormous, and in one of the ritzy Di Santis hotels, no less.
His clothes looked bespoke, he was able to pick up the phone and organise a new outfit for her in ten minutes flat.
Only money could achieve that sort of magic.
But eighty-five thousand dollars was still a lot. She blurted the number out, squeezing her eyes shut so she wouldn’t see his reaction.
He was silent for so long, though, that she did eventually blink her eyes open, terrified he’d say no, and walk away. Her salvation.
“Eighty-five thousand,” he repeated. “That’s specific.”
She tilted her chin defiantly. He’d offered her a lifeline; she was going to reach for it with both hands. As for the charade of a marriage, so what? She could play the part of a doting, lovestruck wife if it meant she was out of danger.
“It’s what my price is. Take it or leave it.”
“Oh, I’ll take it, cara,” he murmured, walking across the hotel room towards her, stopping just a few feet away.
She could have wept with gladness. It didn’t occur to her then that she was jumping out of the frying pan and into the fire, she was just so glad to be able to officially sever her connection with the money lenders she’d relied on at her lowest ebb.
“Let’s discuss terms,” he said, now standing so close that she was finding it hard to think over the buzzing in her brain. The constant hum of awareness that seemed to fog her whenever he was nearby.
“Terms,” she repeated, providing evidence to both of them of how far gone she was.
“In order for this to work, you’ll need to relocate to Italy. Will that be a problem?”
“Italy,” she parroted.
“I live in Italy. At least, nominally.”
She didn’t understand what he meant, but she nodded anyway.
“Can you relocate there?” his tone was thickened by impatience. She realised she hadn’t answered.
She thought about her life back in their tiny town.
The apartment they’d been renting, the loneliness of life.
The thought of going home and facing her grief, life without her father, a dead end job.
There was also the promise of escape. Escape from risk, from the loan sharks who had turned very sinister.
She jerked her head quickly. “I can move, yes.”
Something shifted in his gaze; a hint of speculation that made her feel as though he was suffering from the very opposite of her brain-dead state.
Her quick agreement was obviously strange.
Most people had something to tether them to a physical place.
A family, friends, work, even a darned cat, but for Ally, she was truly without anchor.
“Bene.” Despite the feeling she was well and truly outmatched, warmth flooded her at his quick praise, the way the Italian word ran through her like lava.
“My home is large; you will have your own space. However, there will be occasions when we travel, for example, to my grandfather’s.
To preserve the illusion of our marriage, we will need to share a room. ”
Heat went from her veins to her face. “Oh.”
“This is not a proposition. Sharing a room does not mean sharing a bed, and even if that were to happen, I give you my word, sex is not going to be an issue between us.”
She nodded a little weakly. “I see.”
Ally had been a late bloomer. While her late teens and early twenties had somehow turned her into a curvaceous, blonde bombshell, as a teen, she’d been a Tomboy with no fashion sense and even less interest in boys.
Then her dad had gotten sick, and she’d lost any vague notion of exploring that side of herself.
She’d been asked out, she’d even gone on dates here and there, to make her dad happy.
But she’d never felt a rush of longing take over her body, she’d never looked at a man and felt like she’d die if she didn’t have him.
What an irony it was that she should feel that now—and for a man who clearly didn’t have even a hint of temptation where she was concerned.
It should have been reassuring, but it really wasn’t.
“How…long do you think we’ll need to do this for?”
He hesitated. She hadn’t known him long, but already she understood that doubt was uncharacteristic for this man. “I suspect a year will do it.”
“A year,” she repeated, trying to get her head around that.
“My grandfather is a conniving bastard. He’ll drag this out, just to be sure, rather than hand over control easily.”
“Control of what? What exactly do you need from this marriage?”
His jaw shifted, tension emanating from him. “The family company. This marriage is a prerequisite for control. And while he says he’s thrilled, I know him. He’s testing me. He won’t buy this ruse easily; we’ll have our work cut out for us.”
A shiver ran down her spine at the image he conjured of this unknown grandfather. But pieces were finally starting to slot together in her brain. Memories that had been submerged by alcohol. She blinked up at him, trying to get those same memories to focus properly. “Remind me of your name.”
His name! She didn’t even know his first name. And yet, she did know it. The celebrant had said it, and so had this man, when first they’d met. It had been a name she’d recognised. He was famous, somehow. Or at least, in the papers.
She pulled her hair over her shoulder, finally realising that she really had run away from one conundrum and potentially found herself right in the middle of another.
“You don’t remember?”
She shook her head. “Not…properly.”
His shoulders seemed taut, as though the idea of this was unpleasant to him. But his eyes were glittering like onyx as they remained trained on her face, and he said, “Luca Di Santis, cara. That is my name.”
Di Santis. He saw the way she reacted. The way her whole body seemed to jerk with electricity as she equated the ancient, powerful name with the man in front of her.
“Luca Di Santis. As in…you own that airline. And oh my God, the hotel we were just at. And a lot of hotels, come to think of it. And…I feel like a football team? And…”
He held up a hand to silence her again. “We will be here a long time if you intend to narrate my family’s entire catalogue of commercial assets. Yes, that Di Santis.”
“Holy crap.”
He made a guttural noise of agreement.
“Holy crap,” she repeated. “I had no idea.”
“And now you do. Does it change your mind?”
She shook her head. “If anything, I feel a little better about having asked for such a large amount of money. You can easily afford it, right?”
He concealed the amusement he felt at that. She clearly had no idea of his net worth. He would have paid the sum she’d requested for a month of her time. “Yes.”
“Okay.” She shook her head slowly. “But, I really don’t understand this. You already run those businesses, don’t you? I’ve read your name in papers,” she added, cheeks overheating anew.
“Yes. However, my grandfather has retained control with vice-like determination. He is well into his eighties, and has no interest in the day-to-day running of our affairs, but he has refused—until recently—to even entertain the idea of officially passing the baton, so to speak.”
“Why?”