Summer Romance With The Italian Tycoon

Could her Italian fling...

...become the love of a lifetime?

Wedding planner Madeleine Fitzroy ran from her own convenient wedding, vowing never to settle for anything less than true love. Until she finds herself agreeing to pose as Conte Dante Falcone’s girlfriend! Her overwhelming attraction to brooding single dad Dante is everything Maddie’s ever dreamed of. And soon, Maddie finds herself wondering if their temporary romance could be the love she’s been searching for...

A former au pair, bookseller, marketing manager and seafront trader, JESSICA GILMORE now works for an environmental charity in York, England. Married with one daughter, one fluffy dog and two dog-loathing cats, she spends her time avoiding housework and can usually be found with her nose in a book. Jessica writes emotional romance with a hint of humour, a splash of sunshine and a great deal of delicious food—and equally delicious heroes!

Also by Jessica Gilmore

A Will, a Wish...a Proposal

Proposal at the Winter Ball

Her New Year Baby Secret

A Proposal from the Crown Prince

The Sheikh’s Pregnant Bride

Baby Surprise for the Spanish Billionaire

The Life Swap miniseries

In the Boss’s Castle

Unveiling the Bridesmaid

Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk.

Summer Romance with the Italian Tycoon

Jessica Gilmore

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ISBN: 978-1-474-07782-8

SUMMER ROMANCE WITH THE ITALIAN TYCOON

© 2018 Jessica Gilmore

Published in Great Britain 2018

by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

By payment of the required fees, you are granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right and licence to download and install this e-book on your personal computer, tablet computer, smart phone or other electronic reading device only (each a “Licensed Device”) and to access, display and read the text of this e-book on-screen on your Licensed Device. Except to the extent any of these acts shall be permitted pursuant to any mandatory provision of applicable law but no further, no part of this e-book or its text or images may be reproduced, transmitted, distributed, translated, converted or adapted for use on another file format, communicated to the public, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of publisher.

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www.millsandboon.co.uk

Thanks to everyone at Yorkshire Wildlife Trust for a lovely eight years—especially all the fabulous past and present members of the Development Team. Miss you all! xxx

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

About the Author

Booklist

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

EPILOGUE

Extract

About the Publisher

CHAPTER ONE

MADELEINE PERCHED ON the edge of the small wooden jetty and slipped her bare feet into the cold lake, shivering at the first shock of icy water on her bare flesh. Cold as the glacier-fed lake remained despite the summer sun, the refreshing lap of waves against her hot feet usually soothed her, aided and abetted by the view. Even after nearly a year living in the Dolomites, the magnificent mountains soaring into the sky filled her with utter awe. The only thing marring her enjoyment of the landscape was the graceful castle on the other side of the lake, its delicate spires mirroring the mountain peaks. Madeleine was completely over admiring ancient, imposing seats of power; she much preferred the traditional chalets which populated San Tomo, the small village at the head of the lake.

But today she barely felt the water, hardly noticed the view. Pulling a crumpled envelope out of her pocket, she slipped the heavy cream card out of it and flipped it over, reading the engraved gold words yet again. Not that she actually needed to read it. By now she knew the brief contents off by heart.

Lady Navenby

requests the pleasure of the presence of

the Honourable Madeleine Fitzroy

at the wedding of her son,

Lord Theo Willoughby, Earl of Navenby,

and

Miss Elisaveta Marlowe

at Villa Rosa, L’Isola dei Fiori

31st August

RSVP to Flintock Hall

Madeleine turned the piece of card over and over, aware that she was frowning, her mother’s voice echoing in her head warning her that she would get frown lines. What, she wondered, was the point of an expensive Swiss finishing school if she didn’t know the correct etiquette when one was invited to one’s ex-fiancé’s wedding? Especially if one had made it all the way up the aisle and to the actual altar before said fiancé became an ex?

Not that she had any intention of actually attending this wedding. The last thing anyone really wanted was the groom’s last bride-to-be hanging around like a modern-day Miss Havisham, the ghost of weddings past. But should she send a gift? If so, of what value? Theo and Elisaveta had her blessing, of course. After all, she was the one who had actually halted the wedding, right at the iconic ‘Any persons here present’ part.

No, it wasn’t the happy couple that worried her. They belonged together in a way she and Theo never had. Madeleine stared down at her morose reflection in the water. She just hoped that this new wedding of Theo’s, just a year after their own failed nuptials, wouldn’t resurrect the intense and intrusive press interest in Madeleine herself.

Taking a deep breath, she tried to push the panic back down to where it usually lurked, never quite quelled but never acknowledged. She was safe here, far away from the British press and a scandal which surely most people had forgotten about. It had just been so unexpected. She’d never been a tabloid headline before—and fervently hoped she never would be again.

All she wanted was the whole mess to be forgotten. To move on. To be simply Maddie, no longer the Honourable Madeleine with all that entailed.

Speaking of which—she glanced at the watch on her wrist—‘simply Maddie’s’ lunch break was nearly up. It took twenty minutes to walk around the small lake to the castle, where emails, to-do lists and myriad duties awaited her. Maddie shoved the envelope back into her pocket and scrambled to her feet, mentally calculating what she had to do that afternoon. Confirm numbers with the McKellans, finalise menu choices with the Wilsons and chat to the florist about the Shepherds’ desire to only have buttercups and daisies in all their floral arrangements. The florist considered herself an artist and Maddie wasn’t looking forward to conveying the bride’s wishes and the ensuing conversation about the barbaric taste of the English.

Maddie was fully aware that it was more than a little ironic that a woman who had officially Had Enough of weddings and ancestral stately homes had secured a job combining both these elements. Yet here she was, wedding and event planner at Castello Falcone, ensuring the mainly British brides—and their grooms—had the perfect Italian wedding experience. At least she was getting a salary for her labour. The first money she had actually earned in her twenty-six years, as opposed to working all hours for love, board and an allowance. It was liberating, literally and metaphorically.

And by the end of the year, she would have enough money saved to head off somewhere where nobody had ever heard of the Honourable Runaway Bride.

Just one more moment. Maddie turned back to the mountains, raising her arms in a silent commune with the sun, with the landscape, with the heady fresh air. Closing her eyes, she basked in the sensual warmth of the sun on her face, the scent of pine. She stayed still for several seconds, arms still raised high, head tilted back until the sound of the church bell, dolefully ringing out the quarter-hour, reminded her that she really needed to be getting back. She lowered her arms and opened her eyes, only to freeze in place.

A man was getting undressed on the other side of the lake.

It wasn’t a big lake, but long and skinny, the distance from one shore to the other widthways less than three hundred metres, perfectly swimmable if you didn’t mind the cold. Which meant Maddie had a clear view of the small cove on the opposite shore and of the man purposefully and neatly divesting himself of trousers, of shirt, of socks and shoes until he stood there in just a pair of swim-shorts.

Look away, her conscience bade her. He was perfectly entitled to his swim, whoever he was. And she had places to be and many, many things to do. She certainly shouldn’t be here ogling—because that, she guiltily admitted, was exactly what she was doing. Only she couldn’t tear her gaze away.

He was tall and perfectly sculpted. Long, muscular legs led to a slim, defined torso which broadened out into a strong set of shoulders. Maddie could make out tousled dark hair, although his features were blurred. Unexpectedly desire hit her, hot and heavy, swirling low in her stomach, weakening her knees. Nostalgia followed, equally potent. It had been so long since she had experienced anything this intense. If ever.

‘So you’re reduced to gawping at half-naked strangers,’ she muttered, half in self-disgust, half in self-deprecation as she made herself turn away. ‘Face it, Maddie, this journey of discovery of yours is going to have to include getting back in the dating game. You want someone to really, passionately love you? They’re going to have to get to know you first.’

Not that she had ever really dated. A series—a very short series—of monogamous, semi-serious relationships with suitable young men that she had eventually ended when she considered herself to be in real danger of dying from actual boredom, until she had allowed herself to get engaged to Theo Willoughby. Engaged even though he had never, not once, made her tremble with desire. Nor, she admitted, had she him. No wonder they’d both been content to drift through the two years of their engagement barely seeing each other—and barely touching when they did.

She took one last look back and stilled. The man was looking across at her, and even over the lake she could sense his predatory intenseness. Heat flickered through her veins as she stood there, trapped under the weight of his gaze, über-conscious of his semi-nudity, all that flesh so splendidly displayed, feeling, under the weight of his gaze, as if she were equally unclad. Her mouth dried, her limbs heavy, under his spell, as if he were some male Medusa, turning her into a statue with a look alone.

Somehow Maddie summoned up the resolve to turn away, to walk nonchalantly as if she didn’t know that he was still staring at her, as if his gaze wasn’t burning holes in her back. And then, just like that, the pressure lessened, and when she plucked up the courage to glance back he was in the water, cutting through the lake with single-minded, bold strokes.

She paused to watch him swim. She had no idea who he was, but the unsettling encounter combined with the wedding invitation had to be a sign. Theo had moved on—to be fair, he had moved on the second she had halted the wedding if not before—and it was time she shook off all those labels that had held her back for so long: dutiful daughter, the runaway bride, the Honourable Madeleine. It was time simply Maddie discovered the joys of falling in love as well as the joys of working for a living. She’d promised herself the chance to live, to have fun in this time of exploration. It was time she stopped hiding behind her work, behind her fear, and seized every opportunity.

Of course, there weren’t that many opportunities for spontaneous romance in Castello Falcone or San Tomo, the tiny village which traditionally served the Falcone family. The pleasure spots of Lake Garda were twenty kilometres away, Verona and Milan further still. It was the peace and solitude which had drawn her here in the first place.

Lost in thought, Maddie barely noticed as she walked through the small, cobbled village square, with the church at one end and the magnificent wooden town hall at the other, passing through the narrow streets on autopilot. It wasn’t until she found herself back on the lake path that Maddie realised that she’d missed the turning, which took her around the back of the castle and in through the discreet staff exit, and instead she was heading towards the much grander—and private—gated driveway. She stopped, irresolute. It would take longer for her to turn around and go the right way and it wasn’t as if staff were actually forbidden from using the main entrance.

The fact this path would take her past the small cove where the mystery man was bathing had nothing to do with her decision to carry on. She focused on the path ahead, determined not to look to the right at any point, yet unable to stop her gaze sliding lakewards, just a little, as she approached the cove.

Nothing. No one. No piles of clothes. No bathers. Just a small curve of sand and the water.

That couldn’t be disappointment tightening in her chest, could it? Because that would be ridiculous. If things had come to such a pass that voyeurism was how she was getting her admittedly very few kicks then maybe she should just admit defeat and start creating memes of kittens.

Putting her head down, Maddie trudged determinedly on, only to stop with a shocked gasp as she ran straight into something hard. Something that emitted an audible ‘oof’ as her head rebounded off it. Maddie stepped back, embarrassed heat flooding her as she looked up, an apology spilling from her lips, only for the words to dry up as she looked into a pair of steely blue eyes. Eyes fixed directly on her.

‘Trovi bella la veduta?’ the owner of the eyes enquired sharply.

Maddie spoke fluent Italian, but every word she had ever known deserted her. ‘I... I’m sorry?’ She cringed as her words emerged, brisk and clear and so utterly English she sounded like Lady Bracknell opining on handbags.

‘I asked,’ and she cringed further as the man switched to perfect English, ‘if you were enjoying the view?’

Oh, no—oh, absolutely no way was this happening. Maddie stepped back and took in the man properly. Tall, dark-haired, looked as if he was sporting a decent pair of shoulders under the white linen shirt, hair ruffled and still wet. Still wet...

The swimmer.

* * *

Dante raised an eyebrow, but the slim, blonde woman didn’t say anything further, fixing her gaze firmly on the second button of his shirt. He raked her up and down assessingly—tall, with a willowy grace when she wasn’t running into people—her long, silky blonde hair twisted into a smooth ponytail. She didn’t look like one of the wedding guests who trooped through the castle gates with clockwork regularity to swill Prosecco and party into the early hours, rarely taking the time to notice the exquisite setting, but who else could she be? So few tourists found their way to the small San Tomo lake, most preferring the well-trodden loveliness of the more famous Garda and Como or to head deeper into the mountains.

The woman’s pale cheeks flushed a deep rose-pink as she finally lifted her head and met his gaze full-on. Her own gaze was steady, strengthened by a pair of cool grey eyes which reminded Dante of the lake on a winter’s day; almost silver, tinged with a darkness that spoke of hidden depths.

‘I wasn’t looking where I was going—please forgive me,’ she said, her voice clear and bell-like.

‘Distracted, maybe? The views can quite take one’s breath away.’ He allowed a knowing intonation to creep into his voice but, although her colour heightened, her expression stayed cool.

‘The mountains are magnificent, aren’t they? I can’t imagine ever taking them for granted, ever not being overawed.’

‘Glad to hear they’ve made an impression, signorina...’ He paused and waited, watching her torn between good manners and reluctance to prolong the conversation.

‘Fitzroy, Madeleine Fitzroy.’ She smiled then, the kind of polite smile which was clearly a dismissal. ‘I am so sorry again. It was nice to meet you.’ And with that she turned and walked away, back along the path. A calm, collected walk as if she was not at all flustered. Dante stayed still for a moment, enjoying the sway of her hips, the curve of her waist, set off by her neat linen shift dress.

The ping of his phone reminded him of his duties. He couldn’t stand here for ever, no matter how pretty the view. Tomorrow he would go for a long hike, up into the mountains, just as he had when he was a boy. But today he needed to catch up with paperwork, get to know any new staff who had started in the last few months, settle back into the castle after far too many months since his last fleeting visit.

The woman had disappeared around the curve of the lake path and Dante set off in the same direction. The path was as familiar as his own reflection, memories around every turn. Even now, after all these years, after all these regrets, he had to stop the moment Castello Falcone came fully into view. Had to admire the way the natural stream had been diverted to create a continuous cascade through fountains and ponds to fall down the terraced slopes. Appreciate how the natural and formal so seamlessly blended together in the landscaped gardens—and, rising above it all, the many spires of Castello Falcone. The setting was more fairy-tale than any movie-set designer could imagine, centuries of scandal and secrets locked up inside those walls. His own included.

His phone pinged again, this time telling him he had a call, and he pulled it from his pocket, frowning. He’d promised Arianna he’d try and take a break this summer, but he could never truly switch off. Too much rested on him. He flipped the phone over, his mood lightening when he saw his sister’s name on the screen, mentally calculating the time difference. It must be midnight in New Zealand.

‘Ciao, Luciana. E tutto okay?’

‘Why wouldn’t it be?’

Dante suppressed a smile at the familiar voice. After a decade on the other side of the world his sister had an accent that was a unique mixture of her native Italian and a New Zealand twang, and she usually spoke English, even to him, liberally strewn with Italian endearments and curses. His chest tightened. How he wished she were closer, were here to help him raise Arianna.

‘It’s late,’ he pointed out mildly. ‘I’m surprised to hear from you, that’s all.’

‘I just want to make sure that you’re okay, mio fratello. Are you at the castello?’

‘Arrived this morning,’ Dante confirmed as he resumed his walk up the sweeping driveway, reaching one of the sets of stone steps flanking the terraces. ‘Arianna’s au pair will bring her along in a couple of days when I’ve made sure everything is ready.’

‘Good; it’s time she returned there. It’s not healthy to keep away. For either of you.’

Dante did his best to bite back his curt reply, but the words escaped regardless. ‘Her mother died thanks to the treacherous mountain roads. I was on the other side of the world. Arianna was left all alone...’

‘The roads didn’t kill Violetta,’ his sister cut in. She knew her cue; after all, they’d had this conversation more times than Dante could remember. ‘The mountains didn’t kill her...not even the ice on the road was responsible. It was the driver of the car she was in. It was the drink and drugs. Arianna was safe enough with her nanny, with all the rest of the staff. Stop torturing yourself, Dante. It’s been over five years.’

Over five years? What did years matter when the end result was the same? His daughter left motherless, his wife’s death a dark stain on his soul.

‘I know how long it’s been, Ciana.’ How long to the day, to the hour. Just as he knew how unhappy his wife had been. How, once she’d got over the initial excitement at living in a castle, she’d felt caged in by the mountains, isolated by San Tomo’s remote location, how much she resented him for travelling so much, working so much—although that work paid for her extravagant lifestyle. That unhappiness, that resentment, that isolation had killed her—and Dante knew exactly who was to blame.

It wasn’t the ice, or the car, or her lover, or the drink or the cocaine that had killed his wife. He had. And no matter how hard he worked he would never be able to atone, never make it up to his daughter. ‘I’m fine, Luciana. Looking forward to spending the summer here. To getting away from Roma for a couple of months.’ He glanced back towards the lake. ‘I’ve already been for a swim.’

‘The first swim of summer? How I miss it. I always knew it was the holidays as soon as I was in the lake. No study, no etiquette, no expectations for two whole months.’ Luciana’s voice was filled with melancholic nostalgia. Dante rolled his eyes, glad she couldn’t see him. He knew full well his sister’s house had stunning mountain views on every side, that she could walk down to a lake ten times the size of San Tomo in less than five minutes and her three sons spent most of their time on the water.

‘There’s plenty of room if you want to come for a visit any time.’ The offer was genuinely meant, but Dante knew she was unlikely to make the two-day flight back to her native country any time soon, not with three boys aged between five and eight and the extensive vineyard she owned with her husband to manage.

‘Grazie—it’s been too long since I saw my niece. Now, Dante, I wanted to ask you a favour.’

Here it was, the reason for the call. ‘Mmm?’ he said noncommittally.

‘My amico, Giovanna, you remember her? She recently got divorced—her husband was not a nice man—and she’s moved to Milan. She could really do with a friend. Will you take her out? Maybe for dinner?’ Luciana’s voice was sly and Dante didn’t try and hide his sigh.

‘I’m not planning to spend any time in Milan this summer,’ he said as repressively as possible. He should have known this conversation was coming; after all, it was at least three months since his sister had last tried to set him up.