The Italian Billionaire's New Year Bride

She hadn’t said the words out loud but the implication was clear. An apartment at Central Park was big. A house in the Hamptons was in a whole other league.

“Have a little faith in your brother, Brianna.”

There was a loud sigh at the end of the phone. “I have a lot of faith in my brother. Both my brothers.” There was a pause for a second. Matteo had kept walking. The fresh air was calling to him, along with the spectacularly white snow. The tone of her voice softened. “How are you?”

He didn’t answer. Cold air was filling his lungs, letting his heart race a little quicker and letting him shake off the cobwebs.

It was hard to explain. The only other people to have walked in his shoes were Vittore and Brianna. No one else would ever understand. He wouldn’t expect them to. He wouldn’t want them to. And the truth was, Vittore and Brianna didn’t understand entirely either—because he didn’t want them to. He was oldest. It was his job to guard his younger brother and sister.

“Matteo?” Her voice was soft, almost a whisper.

Matteo closed his eyes. “I’m fine, Brianna. Of course, I’m fine. It’s just this place. You know that. I’m going to leave everything in Phoebe’s hands. She doesn’t see this place the way we do. She loves it. She thinks it’s great. She...she has the ability to dress it and make it sell. That’s all that we need.”

He could almost hear the shake in her voice. “Is it?”

It was as if the cold air penetrated every part of him. He wouldn’t go there. He wouldn’t have the conversation that his sister sometimes pushed him toward. He’d learned how to deal with it over the years. It was as if he owned his own set of black shutters. Push him so far and he would just slam them shut. “Goodbye, Brianna,” he said smartly as he finished the call.

* * *

Phoebe was sitting on the curved staircase. Her feet had actually started to follow him out of the kitchen, then her instincts had kicked in and told her not to. Told her to give him a little space.

Mr. Bianchi was more than a little temperamental. Was this an Italian trait?

She sighed and closed her eyes, trying to breathe in the essence of this beautiful home. Her brain instantly took her to the place she wanted to be. Right now she was recreating her own favorite musical and was tap dancing up and down these stairs in a bouffant yellow dress. She just hadn’t decided who her imaginary leading man was yet. A twinge of guilt set in.

For the first year after Jason’s death he’d been the main feature of every dream she’d had. But for the last year, several movie stars had started to creep in and take over. In a way, it had been a relief to stop waking up with her heart in her throat. That horrible little millisecond of time—the briefest of moments—where she thought everything was just the same, Jason was still here, her mom wasn’t sick yet and then, she remembered.

And that overwhelming colossal black wave swamped back on top of her, every morning, making her relive every moment and making her want to be sick all over her bed. It took months for that to fade. Months to wake up to the reality that was her life.

But every time she felt relief that didn’t happen anymore, guilt pricked at her conscience.

She took a deep breath and pressed her hands on the cool marble stairs, letting her eyes flicker open. She could imagine the beautiful women and men who’d walked these steps. The hopes, dreams and fantasy lifestyles. Things that were all so far out of her reach.

She shook her head and smiled. Jealousy had never been a Phoebe trait. She loved that this place had history. She loved that it had been captured in time. She would probably never get a chance like this again. She just had to know what to keep to help capture the story, and know what to replace to make this home still seem appealing to a modern-day buyer.

The color palette here was unreal. She’d found an avocado bathroom. That would definitely have to be dealt with. But so much else just needed tweaks. She pulled out her phone and flicked through her contacts as she breathed in deeply. There was a bit of an odor. A tang that frequently featured in houses that hadn’t really been lived in for a number of years.

Smell was so much. But she could deal with that. Carpets, drapes and upholstery could all be replaced. But she wasn’t sure she would change the style. So much of it was perfect.

She pressed a familiar number of her phone. It answered on the second ring.

“Hello, baby girl.”

“Hi, Momma. I’ve got news.”

“Are you at the sales? What did you buy?”

Phoebe laughed. “No, Momma. I’m in a whole different place.” She looked around as her heart gave a little jump. “I just want you to know that in a few weeks, the medical bills won’t be a problem.”

There was a sharp intake of breath. Her mother’s voice was panicked. “Baby girl, what have you done?”

It didn’t matter she was twenty-seven. It didn’t matter that she had her own place and her own life. She would always be her mother’s baby.

She laughed. “I haven’t done anything, Momma. I just got the job of my dreams. And it pays more than I could ever have hoped for.”

Her mother’s tone hadn’t changed from panic. “Phoebe, what kind of job is this?”

Phoebe shook her head. “It’s exactly the kind of job I do every day. But this house...” she pressed one hand to her chest and breathed in, as if saying it made everything real “...it’s in the Hamptons.”

“What?” Her mother’s voice came out as a squeak.

“Yes,” Phoebe said quickly. “I got a call this morning.” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “A quarter of a million dollars if I can work over the next four weeks and redress this house.”

“How much?” This time it wasn’t a squeak. This time it was more like a shriek.

But Phoebe didn’t get a chance to answer. “Who is this person with a house in the Hamptons? Are they a criminal? Who have you got mixed up with? How did they find out about you?”

Phoebe shook her head. “Calm down, Mom. They know Rudy. That’s how they know about me. They liked the work I did on his apartment. That’s how I got this job. I came out to see the house this morning and...” she tried to steady her thoughts “...it’s a dream come true. It’s like walking into a fifties TV show. The whole place, it’s just...epic.” She laughed at using such a juvenile word, but nothing else seemed to come close.

Her mother cut straight to the chase. “Are you safe? Have you met these folks? Are they good people?”

“They’re an Italian family.”

Her mother’s voice lowered to a hushed tone. “Are they part of the mob?”

Phoebe choked. “What? No? Don’t be ridiculous. They’ve had this house for a while. It’s just time to sell it.” But something prickled. Matteo hadn’t been exactly straight with her. The timing did seem a little off. Exactly how old was he? “And yes. I’m safe. Matteo is a bit buttoned up. He’s a businessman. One of those high-flyer types. But he seems sincere. And I think I’m going to love doing this job. This could be it. This could be the one. It will pay off the bills and maybe put me on the map.”

There was a few seconds’ silence. “Then go nail it. I love you, baby girl.”

Phoebe smiled as she pushed her phone back in her pocket and stood up again. The front door was wide open to the world, letting in an icy blast. Matteo must have gone outside.

She’d left her jacket somewhere she couldn’t entirely remember, so she crossed her hands over her body as she walked outside.

Matteo had that strange, dark expression on his face again. The one where he didn’t really answer any questions. But Phoebe was determined. She might have the credit card, but she wanted to do the best job in the world. Her career could depend on it. Her bank balance certainly did. And for that, she needed a bit more information.

“Matteo?” He spun around, frowning. It seemed to be his default expression.

She walked up to him, close enough to let his body block out the swirling wind coming from Mecox Bay. “You haven’t been entirely straight with me.”

The furrow on his brow deepened. “What do you mean?”

She gave a gentle smile. “Unless, of course, you’re a modern-day Peter Pan.”

Now he just looked confused. “What?”

She inched a little closer. Probably more than she meant to. Her hair was getting caught by the wind, blowing her springy curls in front of her eyes. “The timing doesn’t fit,” she said quietly. “I’m trying to work out why you lived in a nineteen-fifties-style house.” She tilted her head to the side as she studied him a little harder. “Don’t get me wrong—I love it. But you don’t look in your sixties. Maybe you’ve discovered some secret cream the rest of the world just needs to find?”

She could almost see the penny drop. She expected him to smile. But he didn’t. Instead she could almost feel the wave of sadness. His voice was quiet. “We bought the house in the late eighties when I was a child. It belonged to some ageing starlet who had moved into it in the nineteen-fifties and not redecorated since. My parents had plans to redecorate the whole house. But...things changed. We only stayed here a few weeks. My father’s business meant we had to go to Rome, then London for a while. When we came back to New York, we had a few other properties that were ready to move into as a family.”

He said the words as if something were squirming in his chest, and his bright green eyes only met her gaze for the most fleeting of seconds.

It wasn’t a lie. But it didn’t feel like the truth. Trust your instincts, the voice in her head said. She wasn’t getting the fight-or-flight feeling. There was more to this. But whatever it was—it wasn’t enough to walk away from her dream job. A chance to pay the medical bills and possibly make her mark on the Hamptons.

“You’ve moved around a lot. The family business—what kind of business are you in?”

The fleeting mob reference from her mother was momentarily playing on her mind.

“I’m Italian.” He raised his eyebrows. “We’re in the wine business.”

“You own vineyards?”

Matteo gave a tight smile “We own seventeen vineyards in Italy. Sixteen in Spain, fourteen in California, and several in Portugal.”

“Wow. That’s a lot of wine.” She rolled her eyes. “I guess I don’t need to worry about stocking the cellar, then.”

He gave a brief shake of his head. “Let me deal with that.”

She nodded. “Are you in a hurry to leave? I’d like to stay. I’d like to spend as much time as I can here, to get a feel for the place. I need to go over every room in detail, and I need to call contacts to check availability, and see what I can achieve over the next four weeks.”

She wanted him to know she was serious. She wanted him to know that this was important to her.

He glanced toward the limousine then shook his head. “Keep the car, it’s fine. I can arrange another form of transport.” His gaze actually met hers. This time there was something else. Something that made her heart swell a little. Respect?

She turned to go back to the house but his voice carried on the wind toward her.

“Ms. Gates? I trust you. I know you’ll do a good job.”

Her footsteps froze, but by the time she turned back around he already had the phone pressed against his ear again.

Had she imagined it?

Chapter Three

THE PHOTOGRAPHS OF how the house looked right now were printed. She’d spent the last two days sketching her new vision for the house. The avocado bathroom was already gone. Some things didn’t need to wait. She’d learned very quickly that Matteo really didn’t want to take her calls.

He’d given her a credit card that she hadn’t used yet. But working with contractors was different. She’d had to agree the price for a few jobs—and at this time of year—and for a house in the Hamptons—some of the prices quoted had been exorbitant. Any good interior designer would run those past her employer and that was all Phoebe was doing. Though Matteo wasn’t really interested in contractor prices. So far, he’d said yes to anything without so much as a blink.

Her biggest expense for the house was going to be fabric. She wanted new drapes for just about every room, and lots of the signature pieces reupholstered. And good quality fabric was not cheap. Which was why she standing in one of the most prestigious, well-stocked warehouses on the outskirts of New York.

But this place didn’t like to waste time. The assistant assigned to her held out her hand. “We’ll just put your credit card on file to ease things along.”

She got it. She did. The assistant didn’t want to spend the next four hours helping Phoebe find everything she wanted, only to have the credit card declined at the end.

Phoebe slipped the black card from her purse and handed it over. She had a long list of fabrics she wanted to find. A color palette already existed in her head, but would she find a match in this warehouse? That was always the danger of getting too carried away with one idea. Sometimes color trends and seasons just didn’t match. So, she’d prepared some sketches with one set of colors, and prepared some more as a backup plan.

The assistant walked back over and held out the credit card as if it had the plague. “I’m sorry. Your credit line doesn’t seem to be approved. Do you have another card you can use?”

Phoebe felt her cheeks flush. She did have another credit card. Unfortunately it was maxed out with her mother’s medical expenses, and the amount of money she’d likely spend in here today could never be covered by the small amount of money in her current account.

She’d had a bad start already this morning, tangling herself up in her sheets when the alarm had gone off, falling out of bed and catching the side of her cheek on the bedside cabinet. She was just hoping it wouldn’t bruise.

“Give me a minute,” she said, trying not to seem embarrassed. She pulled her phone from her pocket and dialed Matteo’s number. Please answer. She didn’t want to have to walk out of here after presenting a dud card. She’d never be able to show her face again, and this place was every interior designer’s dream. She couldn’t afford to have a bad rep in here.

“Matteo Bianchi.” His reply was curt. But he couldn’t hide that wonderful Italian accent that sent tingles down to her toes. Every time she called she forgot about it and spent the first few seconds of their conversation lost in a little fog.

Right now she didn’t have time for a fog. She cut to the chase. “Matteo, the credit card you gave me isn’t working.”

It took a few seconds for a reply. She could almost picture him staring at the name on the phone. How many people did he give credit cards to? “Phoebe?”

“Of course, Phoebe. Who else would it be?”

“Where are you?”

“I’m at a warehouse on the outskirts of New York. I need to buy fabrics, leathers—a whole host of things for the house.” She lowered her voice as the assistant glared at her, obviously labeling her as a time waster. “This place is expensive and you’ve given me a limited amount of time.”

“Let me speak to them.”

Phoebe sighed and handed over the phone to the assistant, pacing at the side while Matteo obviously had a curt conversation with her.

“No, Mr. Bianchi. Your personal guarantee is not good enough.”

Phoebe tried not to smile at the thought of Matteo’s response.

“You’ll need to speak to your credit card provider.”

The assistant rolled her eyes and held the phone a little away from her ear. Phoebe walked over to some large rolls of fabric and started to study them closely.

“The only way around things is for you to come down yourself and bring your alternative credit card. No, we can’t just take the number over the phone. We need to see the card, along with your signature.” The woman let out a sigh. “Yes. That’s the only way.”

She replaced the receiver and gave Phoebe a fake smile. “Mr... Bianchi will be with you shortly.”

“Great,” Phoebe muttered as every little hair on her arm stood on end. Just what she needed, an angry Matteo.

This day was getting better and better.

* * *

Matteo tried not to curse at his driver as they took another wrong turn. It seemed the sat-nav had decided not to work properly and this industrial estate had dozens of identical giant warehouses, along with no map at the entrance to the site.

He was annoyed at himself. He was sure he’d activated that card. But in amongst the family discussions at Christmas it was possible he might have forgotten. And he should have kept a copy of Phoebe’s signature on record so it could be verified, but visiting the house in the Hamptons again had scrambled his normally precise brain.

He hadn’t expected to be hit by the wave of emotions. How much could a five-year-old really remember? But being back in that environment had swamped him in a way he hadn’t expected. And having the unconventional Ms. Gates with him had probably been a blessing. She’d distracted him from too much melancholy. Too much emotion. Too many flashbacks he hadn’t counted on.

And now? Now, more than ever he just wanted to finalize the sale of the house. In his head this was the only way to push all these feelings back into the box where they belonged.

“It’s this one,” said the driver as they pulled up.

Matteo gave a nod and stepped outside onto the frost-covered ground. This shouldn’t take long. He had work to do.

The warehouse was massive, cavernous with an echo that seemed to reverberate all around him. But the first thing that struck him was how methodical everything seemed. The fabrics were stored by color, stacked for what seemed like miles. Large trolleys were pushed around by assistants, who guided customers around the warehouse.

He could pick Phoebe out easily. She was wearing a bright pink coat with matching furry hat and leather gloves. She gave him a rueful smile as he approached. “You might have checked the card worked before you gave it to me.”

He tried to hide his annoyance as he pulled his own from his wallet. He glanced around him. “What do you need me to pay for?”

Phoebe wrinkled her nose. “Nothing...yet. They wouldn’t let me start shopping until I had a credit line.”

“You mean you haven’t even started shopping?” His voice echoed louder than expected.

Phoebe pulled back a little and gave him a frown. “No. I haven’t started.”

Matteo strode over to the counter and thrust his card in front of one of the assistants. “Here’s my card. Can you take the details, so I can leave?”

The assistant gave him an icy stare. It was clear she didn’t like being treated so dismissively. She gave him a haughty smile. “I can take your details now—but you have to produce your card and match the signature to complete your purchases.” She gestured to the side. “You can always get yourself a coffee while your wife shops.”

Matteo started. She thought Phoebe was his wife? He stared at the boutique-style coffee shop housed inside the warehouse. While the smell of coffee was tempting, the waste of his time was not.

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