Postcards From Rome: The Italian's Pregnant Virgin / A Proposal from the Italian Count / A Ring for Vincenzo's Heir

“Do what exactly?” he said, his eyes hard on hers.

“I will play the part of your fiancée for as long as you want me to. And then after that... After the baby is born... I go.”

He took a step forward, reaching out and taking hold of her chin between his thumb and forefinger. His touch burned. Caught hold of her like a wildfire and raged straight through her body. “Excellent. Esther,” he said, her name like a caress on his lips, “you have yourself a fiancé.”

* * *

Renzo knew that he was going to have to tread extremely carefully over the next few weeks. That was one of the few things he knew. Everything else in his life was upended. He had a disheveled little street urchin staying in one of his spare rooms, and he had to present her to the world as his chosen bride soon. Very soon. The sooner the better. Before Ashley got a chance to drop any poison into the ear of the media.

He had already set a plan in motion to ensure she would not. A very generous payout that his lawyer would be offering to hers by the time the sun rose in Canada. She would not want to defy him. Not when—without this—she would be getting nothing from him due to the ironclad prenuptial agreement they had entered into before the marriage.

Ashley liked attention, that much was true. But she liked money even more. That would take care of her.

But then there was the small matter of his parents. And his parents were never actually a small matter.

He imagined that—regardless of the circumstances—they would be thrilled to learn that they were expecting a grandchild. Really, they would only be all the happier knowing that Ashley was out of the picture.

But Esther was most certainly a problem he would have to solve.

With great reluctance, he picked up his phone and dialed his mother’s number. She picked up on the first ring. “Renzo. You don’t call me enough.”

“Yes, so I hear. Every time I call.”

“And it is true every time. So, tell me, what is on your agenda? Because you never call just to make small talk.”

He couldn’t help but laugh at that. His mother knew him far too well. “Yes, as it happens, I was wondering if you had any plans for dinner.”

“Why yes, Renzo. I in fact have dinner plans every day. Tonight, we are having lamb, vegetables and a risotto.”

“Excellent, Mother. But do you have room at your table?”

“For?”

“Myself,” he said, amused at his mother’s obstinance. “And a date.”

“Dating already. So soon after your divorce.” His mother said that word as though it were anathema. But then, he supposed that was because for her it was.

“Yes, Mother. Actually, more than dating. I intend to introduce you to my fiancée, Esther Abbott.”

The line went silent. That concerned him much more than a tirade of angry Italian ever could. Then, his mother spoke. “Abbott? Who are her people?”

He thought of what she’d said about the mountain cabin her rather larger-than-usual family lived in, and he was tempted to laugh. “No one you would know.”

“Please tell me you have not chosen another Canadian, Renzo.”

“No, on that score you can relax. She is an American.”

The choking sound he heard on the other end of the line was not altogether unexpected. “That,” she said finally, “is even worse.”

“Even so, the decision is made.” He considered telling her about the pregnancy over the phone, but decided that it was one of those things his mother would insist on hearing about in person. She did like to divide her news into priorities like that. She had never gotten over Allegra’s pregnancy news filtering back to her through the gossip chain.

“So very typical of you.” There was no real condemnation or venom in her tone. Though, the simple statement forced him to think back to a time when it had not been true. When he had allowed other people to force his hand when it came to decision making. He tried very hard not to think about Jillian. About the daughter who was being raised by another man. A daughter he sometimes caught glimpses of at various functions.

Just one of the many reasons he worked so hard to keep his alcohol intake healthy at such things. It was much better to remember very little of it the next day, he found.

He had been sixteen when his parents had encouraged him to make that decision. And since then, he had changed the way he operated. Completely, utterly. He was not bitter at his mother and father. They had pushed him into making the best decision they could see.

And hell, it had been the best decision. He had proved that fifty times over in the years since. He had not been ready to be a father. But he was ready now.

“Yes, I am typical as ever. But will we be welcome at your table tonight, or not?”

“It will be an ordeal. We will have to purchase more ingredients.”

“When you say ‘we,’ you mean your staff, whom you pay handsomely. I imagine it can all be arranged?”

“Of course it will be. You will be there at eight. Do not be late. Because I will not wait, and the one thing you do not want, Renzo, is for me to be one glass of wine ahead of you.”

He felt his mouth turn upward. “That,” he said, “is very true, Mother, I have no doubt.”

He disconnected the call. Then, he made another call to the personal stylist his mother had used for years, asking that she clear her schedule and bring along a team of hair and makeup artists.

He was not sure if Esther had enough raw material to be salvageable. It was very difficult to say. The women whom he involved himself with tended to be either classic, polished pieces of architecture, or new constructions, as it were. He had no experience with full renovations.

Still, she was not unattractive. So, it seemed as though he should be able to fashion her into something that looked believable. The thought nearly made him laugh. She was pregnant. She was pregnant with his child. And while it may take a paternity test on his end to prove that to the world—or his parents—they would never ask for a test to prove maternity.

Therefore, by that very logic, people would believe their connection. But he would like to make it slightly easier.

When he went downstairs and found her sitting in the dining area, on the floor by the floor-to-ceiling windows, her face tilted up toward the sun, a bowl of cereal clutched tightly in her hands, he knew that he had made the right decision in bringing in an entire team.

“What are you doing?”

She squeaked, startling and sloshing a bit of milk over the edge of her bowl, onto the tile floor. “I was enjoying the morning,” she said.

“There is a table for you to sit at.” He gestured to the long, banquet-style piece of furniture, which had been carved from solid wood and was older than either of them, and was certainly more than good enough for this little hippie to sit and eat her cereal at.

“I know. But I wanted to sit by the window. And I could have moved a chair, but they’re very heavy. And I didn’t want to scuff the tile. And anyway, the floor is fine. It’s warm from the sun.”

“We are going to my parents’ house for dinner tonight,” he said, because it was as good a time as any to broach that subject. “And I trust you will not sit yourself on the floor then.” The image of her crouched in a corner gnawing on a lamb shank was nearly comical. That would upset his mother. Though, seeing as she had been prewarned that Esther was an American, she might not find the behavior all that strange.

He regarded her for a moment. Her hair was caught up in that same messy bun she’d had it in yesterday, and she had traded her black tank top for a brown one, and yesterday’s long, flowing skirt for one in a brighter color.

She frowned, her dark brows locking together. “Of course not.” He had thought her face plain yesterday, and now, for some reason, he thought of it as freshly scrubbed. Clean. There was something... Not wholesome, for this exotic creature could never be called something so mundane, but something natural. Organic. As if she had materialized in a garden somewhere rather than being born.

Which was a much more fanciful thought than he had ever had about a woman before. Typically, his thoughts were limited to whether or not he thought they would look good naked, whether or not they would like to get naked with him, and then, after they had, how he might get rid of them.

“Good. My parents are not flexible people. Neither are they overly friendly. They are extremely old, Italian money. They are very proud of their lineage, and of our name. I told them that we are getting married. And that you’re American. They are amused by neither. Or rather, my mother is amused by neither, and my father will follow suit.”

Her dark eyes went round, the expression on her face worried. It was comical to him that she might be concerned over what his parents thought. Someone like her didn’t seem as though she would concern herself with what other people thought.

“That doesn’t sound like a very pleasant evening,” she said, after a long pause.

“Oh, evenings with my parents are never what I would call pleasant. However, they are not fatal.”

“I have an aversion to being judged,” she said, her tone stiff.

“Oh, I quite enjoy it. I find it very liberating to lower people’s expectations.”

“You do not,” she said, “nobody does. Everybody cares about pleasing their parents.” She frowned. “Or, if not their parents, at least somebody.”

“You said yourself, you left your parents. And that they weren’t happy with you. Obviously, you don’t worry overly much about pleasing your parents.”

“But I did. For a long time. And the only reason I don’t now is out of necessity. I mean, I would’ve never had any freedom if I hadn’t let go of it.”

There was a strange feeling in his chest, her words catching hold of something that seemed to tug on him, down deep.

About freedom. About letting go.

“Well, on that same subject, there is some work to be done if we are going to present you at dinner tonight.”

“What sort of work?” She looked genuinely mystified at that statement, as though she had no idea what he might be referring to.

As he stood before her in his perfectly pressed custom suit, and she sat cross-legged on the floor looking like she would be more at home at a Renaissance fair than in his home, it occurred to him that she really was a strange creature. The differences between the two of them should be obvious, and yet, she did not seem to pick up on them on her own. Or rather, she didn’t seem to care.

“You, Esther.”

“What’s wrong with me?”

“What did you plan on wearing to dinner tonight?”

She looked down. “This, I suppose.”

“You do not see perhaps a small difference in the way that you are dressed, compared with the way that I am dressed?”

“Did you want me to wear a tux?”

“This is not a tux. It’s a suit. There is a difference.”

“Interesting. And good to know.”

He had a feeling she did not find it interesting at all. “I have taken the liberty of having some clothing ordered for you.” He lifted his hand and looked at his watch. “It should be here any moment.”

Just then, his housekeeper came walking into the room, a concerned expression on her face. “Mr. Valenti, Tierra is here.”

His stylist went by only one name. “Excellent.”

“Should I have her meet you upstairs with all of her items?”

“Yes. But in Esther’s room, if you don’t mind.”

Esther’s eyes widened. “What exactly are you providing me with?”

“Something that doesn’t look like it came out of the bottom of a bargain bin at some sort of rummage sale for mismatched fabrics.”

She frowned. “Is that your way of saying there’s something wrong with what I’m wearing?”

“No. My way of saying that is to say what you’re wearing isn’t suitable. Actually, it’s perfectly suitable if you intend to continue to wait tables at a dusty bar crawling with tourists. However, it is not acceptable if you wish to be presented to the world as my fiancée, and neither is it acceptable for you to wear on the night you are to meet my parents.”

At that, his housekeeper’s face contorted. She began to speak at him in angry, rapid Italian that he was only grateful Esther likely wouldn’t be able to decode. “She is pregnant with my child,” he said. “There is nothing else to be done.”

She shook her head. “You have become a bad man,” she huffed, walking out of the room. That last part she had said in English.

“Why is she mad at you?”

“Well, likely because she thinks I impregnated some poor American tourist while I was still married. You can see how she would find that upsetting.”

“I suppose.” She blinked. “But doesn’t she work for you?”

“Luciana practically came with the house, which I purchased more than a decade ago. It’s difficult to say sometimes who exactly works for whom.”

She frowned. “And now what? You’re going to...buy me new clothes?”

“Exactly. And take your old clothes and burn them.”

“That isn’t very nice.”

He raised his brows, affecting his expression into one of mock surprise. “Is it not? That is regrettable. I do so strive to be nice.”

“I doubt it.”

“Don’t snarl at me,” he said. “And, remember, you have to pretend to be my fiancée. In front of Luciana, and in front of Tierra.”

She scowled, but allowed him to direct her up the stairs, depositing her cereal bowl on the dining room table as she went. He watched the gentle sway of her hips as she began to ascend the staircase. When she was in motion, her clothing seemed less ridiculous. In fact, the effect was rather graceful.

There was an otherworldly quality to her that he couldn’t quite pin down. Something that he had difficulty describing, even to himself. She was very young, and simultaneously sometimes seemed quite old. Like a being who had been dropped down to earth, knowing very little about the customs of those around her, and yet, somehow knowing more than any human could in a lifetime.

And that was fanciful thinking that he never normally allowed himself.

So instead of that, he focused on the rounded curve of her rear. Because that, at least, he understood.

When they reached the bedroom, the stylist had already unveiled a rack of clothing. She was fussing around with the hanging garments, smoothing pleats and adjusting the long, complicated skirts on the various gowns.

“Oh, my,” she said, turning and getting her first look at Esther. “We do have our work cut out for us.”

CHAPTER FIVE

FOR THE NEXT two hours, Esther was pulled, prodded, poked with pins and clucked at. Well and truly clucked at. As though this woman, Renzo’s stylist, was a chicken. And as though Esther was a naughty chick rather than a woman.

Renzo had left them to it, and she was thankful. Since the moment he had walked out, the other woman had begun stripping Esther’s clothes off her body and forcing new undergarments, new dresses and new shoes onto her.

Esther had never felt fabrics like this. She had never seen styles like this on her spare curves. She had been all about experiencing new things since she had left her home, but she hadn’t gotten around to the clothing and makeup. Or hair. That all required a disposable income that she simply didn’t possess. She was more concerned with keeping food in her belly. And clothing herself in the basics, rather than exploring the world of fashion.

But now she felt as though she had been well and truly educated in which colors looked best on her, which shapes best suited her figure. Of course, most of it had happened in abrupt Italian that Esther could understand only parts of, but still. She could see herself.

In fact, right at the moment, she couldn’t take her eyes off herself. She was wearing a dark green gown that had little cap sleeves and a plunging V neckline that showed off acres of skin around her neck and down farther. The kind of daring look that would never have been allowed in her family home.

The skirt was long, falling all the way down to the tops of the most beautiful pair of shoes Esther had ever seen. Of course, they were also the tallest pair of shoes she had ever worn, and she had serious doubts about her ability to walk in them.

Somewhere in the middle of the clothing frenzy, two men had arrived to work on her hair and makeup. And work they had. Her hair was tamed into a sleek, black curtain, a good half a foot cut off the near-unmanageable length.

Her eyes, which she had always thought were almost comically large, didn’t look comical now. Though, they still looked large. They had been rimmed with black liner, the corners of her eyes highlighted with gold. They had brushed something onto her cheeks, too, making them glow. And her lips... A bit of pale, burnished orange gloss colored them, just slightly, highlighting them, just enough.

She looked like a stranger. She couldn’t see so many of the defining features of her face, not the way she usually did. Those dark circles that had permanent residence beneath her eyes were diminished, her nose somehow appearing more narrow, her cheeks a bit more hollow, thanks to a technique they had called contouring.

And then there was her body. She had never thought much about it. She didn’t have overly large breasts, and for convenience, she typically opted not to wear a bra, sticking to plain, high-necked tops in dark colors that she always hoped concealed enough.

Even though this gown still didn’t allow for a bra, it created an entirely different effect on her bustline than the simple cotton tank tops she preferred. Her breasts looked rounder, fuller, her waist a bit more dramatically curved, rather than straight up and down. The shape of the skirt enhanced the appearance of her hips, making her look like she almost had an hourglass figure.

It was strange to see herself this way. With all her attributes enhanced, rather than downplayed.

The bedroom door opened and she froze when Renzo walked in. She felt hideously exposed in a way that she never had before. Because for the first time in her life she was aware that she might look beautiful, and that there was a man who was most certainly beautiful looking her over. Appraising her as he might a work of art.

“Well,” he said, turning his focus to the team of people who had accomplished the effect, and away from her, “this is a very pleasant surprise.”

“She is a dream to dress,” Tierra said. “Everything fits so nicely. And that golden skin of hers allows her to pull off some very difficult colors.”

“You know all of that is lost on me,” he said. “However, I can see that she is beautiful.”

Warmth flooded her. Such a stupid thing. To feel affected by this charade. But she wasn’t entirely sure if she cared at all that it was a charade. What did it matter, really? Even playing a game like this was new. Feeling like she was the center—the focus—of male attention was something that she had scarcely gotten around to dreaming about.

She had been grappling with freedom. Both the cost of it and the gains. With who she wanted to be, apart from everything she’d been taught. Apart from the small rebellions she’d waged hidden in the mountains behind her house, listening to contraband music while reading forbidden books.

To find it especially appealing to link herself up to a man, even in a temporary way. But now, beneath Renzo’s black gaze, she found something deliciously enticing in it.

A swift, low kick of temptation hit her hard, making it difficult for her to breathe. And she couldn’t even quite work out what the temptation was. It reminded her of walking past the bakery down in the town she’d grown up adjacent to, and seeing a row of sweets that looked delicious. Treats she knew she wouldn’t be allowed to have.

That same feeling. Of wanting, feeling empty. Of that intense, unfair sense of deprivation that always followed.

Except, no one controlled her life now. If she wanted a cake, she could buy it and then she could eat it.

Which made her deeply conscious of the fact that if she wanted Renzo, she supposed she could have him, too.

But for the love of cake, she didn’t know what she would do with him. Or what he would do with her if she reached out and tried to get a taste.

She took a deep breath, craning her neck, straightening her shoulders and doing her best to make herself look even more statuesque. She didn’t know why. Maybe to inject herself with a little bit more pride, so she wasn’t just standing there being subjected to the judgment of every person in the room.

It was so strange being the center of attention like this. She wasn’t entirely certain she disliked it.

“That dress is spectacular. However, it is a bit too formal for dinner,” Renzo said, sitting down in one of the armchairs that were placed up against the back wall. “What else is there?”

“Oh,” Tierra said, turning around and facing the rack, pulling out a short, coral-colored dress that Esther had tried on earlier. “How about this?”

Renzo settled even deeper into the chair, his posture like that of a particularly jaded monarch. “Let’s see it.”

“Of course.”

Esther found herself being turned so that she was facing away from Renzo, and then she felt the zipper on the gown give. She gasped, then froze, not quite sure what she was supposed to do next. If she should protest the fact that she was being undressed in front of a man who was a stranger to her, or if that would ruin the charade.

And then it didn’t matter, because the green dress was pulling down at her feet, and her bare back and barely covered bottom were now fully exposed to Renzo.

“Very nice,” he said, his voice rough. “Part of the new wardrobe?”

She knew he meant the black pair of lace panties she was wearing, and she wanted to turn around and tell him off for making this even more uncomfortable. Except, then she would have to turn around. And expose herself even further, and she wasn’t going to do that. Instead, she decided that she would do her best to show him that she wasn’t so easily toyed with.

“Yes,” she said simply.

A few moments later the next dress was on and firmly in place. Then, she turned back to face Renzo, and her heart crawled up into her throat. Because as intense as he always looked, as much impact as those dark eyes always had on her, it was magnified now.

“Come closer,” he said, his tone hard-edged, the command clearly nonnegotiable.

She swallowed hard, taking one unsteady step toward where Renzo was sitting. His dark gaze flicked away from Esther, landing on the style team. “Leave us,” he said.

They did so, quickly and without a word. And when they were gone, it felt as though they had taken all the air out of the room with them.

“Do people always do what you ask?”

“Always,” he said. “Closer.”

She took another step toward him, trying to disguise the fact that her legs were shaking and that she had no idea how she was supposed to walk in heels that were tantamount to stilts.

He rested his elbow on the arm of the chair, propping his chin on his knuckles. “Of course, some people obey more quickly than others.”

“Did you want me to break an ankle? Because I guarantee you if I walk any faster I’m going to.”

He moved swiftly, his movements liquid, his grace making a mockery of her own uncertain clumsiness. He stood, reaching across the space between them and sweeping her up into his arms. Then he turned, depositing her in the chair he had occupied only a moment ago.

She pressed her hand to her heart, feeling the rapid flutter beneath her palm. Her throat was dry, her head feeling dizzy. Her body felt warm. As though she had been burned all over. His arms had been wrapped around her, her shoulder blades pressed up against that hard, broad expanse of his chest.

That was what stunned her most of all. Just how hard he was. There was no give in him at all. His body was as unbending as the rest of him.