Italian Mavericks: Bound By The Italian's Bargain: The Italian's Ruthless Seduction / Bound to the Tuscan Billionaire / Bought by Her Italian Boss

Perversely, he hadn’t recognised her at first. She’d been wearing a large black hat, a black wig and dark glasses. Even when she’d revealed her identity to him, he hadn’t reacted the way he would have expected, with a mad rush of rampant desire. When she’d expressed her condolences, then added a sincere apology for the way her mother had treated her father, his only emotion had been sadness. Looking back, Sergio could only imagine that grief over his father’s death had dampened his hormones to a point where not even being in Bella’s provocative presence could rouse him. He recalled actually wanting to talk to her more. But when someone else had come up to speak to him—he couldn’t remember who—she’d said a hurried goodbye and disappeared.

He’d never told Jeremy or Alex that the mysterious brunette was Bella. He hadn’t been into chatting, or confiding, at that particular time, depression taking hold of him for several weeks after the funeral. When he’d finally dragged himself out of the black pit, Sergio had regretted giving Bella his phone number. Not because he’d thought she would ever contact him but because his foolish gesture had brought her back into the forefront of his mind. It had taken a supreme effort of will to push her back to a place where she was no more than a frustrating memory, but every now and then—like tonight—she would break out of the mental dungeon into which he’d locked her and give him hell.

It was pathetic, really. Exasperated with himself, he slipped his phone in his trouser pocket and headed for the door, determined not to waste another moment of headspace on that infernal woman. But within seconds of locking the door another thought crossed his mind.

Maybe she was pregnant!

This time, Sergio’s laugh was both rueful and self-mocking. In the old days a single woman falling pregnant would have been a disaster. But this wasn’t the old days. If Bella had happened to accidentally fall pregnant—a highly unlikely idea, he now appreciated—she wouldn’t need his help. She had enough money to hire nannies and any other help she needed. She certainly wouldn’t ask any man—especially himself—to make an honest woman out of her. That was total fantasy. As much as Sergio had had many fantasies about Bella over the years, none of them had included marriage.

Women like Bella were not made for marriage. They were made to be admired and desired. Made to be bedded, not wedded. As for children...clearly Bella had never felt the urge to reproduce. Yet she could have, if she’d wanted to. A lot of celebrity women had babies outside marriage. No, clearly Bella wasn’t interested in that kind of commitment. Sergio wasn’t surprised, given she’d been raised by a woman whose ambition for her daughter to become rich and famous had been nothing short of obsessive. Sergio believed Dolores had only married his father so that he could pay for her daughter’s tuition in singing and dancing. She’d seduced the Italian widower when he had been lonely and vulnerable, then trapped him into marriage with a supposed pregnancy that had miraculously disappeared as soon as the ring had been on her finger. Sergio could not prove that she’d never been pregnant at all, but he’d always suspected. When she’d asked for a divorce as soon as Bella’s career had taken off, his suspicions had been confirmed. Not that he’d said as much to his father. The poor man had been shattered, having truly loved Dolores. And Bella as well.

Sergio didn’t blame Bella entirely for what she’d become. Stage mothers were notorious for producing damaged children. And Bella was definitely damaged. Why else would she become involved with a succession of men whose reputations preceded them and who would never make her happy? It galled Sergio that Bella lived her life like one long reality show, played out in front of the media, allowing herself to be paraded in front of the paparazzi by men who were more interested in her as a trophy than a person.

And who are you to judge, Sergio? his conscience reminded him quite savagely. She’s no longer a person to you either. She hasn’t been, not since the night of her sixteenth birthday party. That was the night she became your object of desire, a desire so strong that nothing, not time or distance, or having another woman in your bed, can totally obliterate it. You think you care about her? That’s a laugh.

His phone ringing at that precise moment sent his heart leaping into his mouth. Snatching it out of his pocket, Sergio didn’t even bother to look at the caller ID.

‘Yes?’ he said somewhat brusquely.

‘Alex here, mate. Sorry, but we’re stuck in traffic. Going to be a bit late.’

‘Damn it all, Alex,’ Sergio snapped, frustrated that it wasn’t Bella calling him back. ‘The reason I bought a place at Canary Wharf was because it was supposedly close to everything.’ And also because the tower that housed his luxury apartment had a heated pool, a fantastic gym and a top-class restaurant.

‘Yeah, well, Thursday night, you know. And Jeremy was pathetically slow getting dressed. Look, we shouldn’t be more than fifteen minutes. Go sit at the table and have a drink till we get there. You sound like you need one.’

Sergio sighed. ‘You could be right.’

‘Anything wrong?’

‘Not really. Just a bit tired.’ He might have told them about Bella’s call if he’d known what it was about. But he didn’t, damn it all. Maybe he’d never know. Maybe she’d never ring back. Hell, he wasn’t sure if he could stand that.

‘Well, it’s been a big day,’ Alex said. ‘But a great one. You are one incredible negotiator, buddy. Now go relax with a whisky, and we’ll be there soon.’

CHAPTER TWO

BELLA DIDN’T STOP shaking for a good five minutes after she’d hung up. Even then her heart was still racing, her mouth dry, her head whirling. Never in her life had she ever had a full-blown panic attack. But she knew all about them, a colleague of hers suffering from severe panic attacks before opening nights. Bella knew all the symptoms. She’d just never experienced them personally.

Admittedly, she’d been a bit nervous before ringing Sergio, but that was only natural. She still felt guilty over the way her mother had treated his father. If she was strictly honest with herself, she didn’t feel she had the right to ask Sergio for help. Not after what her mother had done. If anyone was to blame for that panic attack, it was her mother!

Bella hadn’t found out till the middle of last year just how badly her mother had treated Sergio’s father, Dolores admitting one night whilst supposedly giving her daughter advice about men and marriage that she herself had used a pretend pregnancy to trap her Italian boss into marrying her; that she’d never really loved the man; that she’d been willing to do anything to secure the financial support she’d needed to make her daughter into a star. Her earlier claim that she’d asked for a divorce because her husband no longer loved her had been a lie.

Bella had been so appalled by her mother’s cold-blooded confessions that she’d felt compelled to seek out the man whom she’d once affectionately called Papa and apologise. Tracking him down had proved difficult—there was no mention of him on the internet—but she’d finally managed with the help of a private investigator, only to discover Alberto was close to death in a Milan hospital. Guilt had seen her dropping everything and flying over to Milan, determined to tell him in person that she always remembered him with great fondness and that she really appreciated all he’d done for her.

By the time she’d arrived at the hospital, however, he’d already died. So she’d gone to his funeral instead. In disguise, of course. She hadn’t wanted to cause the family—especially Sergio—any embarrassment, knowing that if the paparazzi recognised her, then the service could turn into a three-ring circus.

It had been one of the most difficult days of her life, sitting all by herself in that huge cold cathedral, silently witnessing Sergio’s palpable grief and wondering if her mother was indirectly guilty of his father’s death. It was often said that stress could cause cancer. And clearly, Dolores had given Alberto Morelli loads of stress and unhappiness during the eight years their marriage had lasted.

Yet he’d never shown that unhappiness around her. He’d been very good to her, sweet and kind, as had Sergio, who’d been a wonderful big brother, always willing to listen to her sing, or watch her dance. Looking back, she realised he’d been amazingly patient with her, not a virtue one often associated with teenage boys. Sergio had only been fifteen when her mother had married his father, she a rather silly and very precocious ten-year-old. He’d been a quiet boy, rather reserved in personality but awfully clever. And surprisingly good at sport. They’d often played basketball together in the backyard when he’d wanted a break from his studies.

She’d missed him terribly when he’d been sent away to a university in Rome, his father not wanting him to forget his Italian roots. She’d been thirteen at the time, a very skinny thirteen, the only girl in her class not to have hit puberty. She’d only seen Sergio three times a year after that, at Easter and Christmas when he’d flown back to Sydney for a few days, then for the two weeks during July when the family had holidayed at the family villa on Lake Como.

Oh, how she’d loved those holidays! What fun the two of them had had together, swimming and boating and just generally larking around.

Not the last time, though, she recalled, Sergio spending most of his time in his room, studying for his final exams. By the following year, their parents had already separated, Sergio had gone to Oxford for further studies and she’d been on her way to Broadway, and stardom. Their relationship—which she’d imagined had been close—had suddenly no longer existed. She’d missed her big brother at first but soon she’d been consumed by her career and the attention that went with it. Out of sight had eventually been out of mind.

They’d crossed paths only once in the years since, at an after-concert party in London. She hadn’t recognised him at first, he’d been so handsome and impressive looking, having finally filled out his tall, lanky frame. But his eyes had been the same. Hard to forget eyes like that. So dark and so beautiful, and she’d felt unsettled by the hardness in his gaze. It hadn’t taken her long to realise he’d still been angry with her mother—and with her too, she’d supposed—his politeness having a chilly edge to it.

There’d been no chilliness in his eyes at his father’s funeral, however, only sadness and a gentleness, which by then she hadn’t felt she deserved. Thank God she’d been wearing dark glasses, because behind them she’d been weeping silent tears of wretchedness and remorse. She knew that she should have contacted both him and his father after the divorce. Should have shown some regret and gratitude. Some decency! But she’d been too caught up at the time with the sudden burst of fame, with finally being on the verge of fulfilling her mother’s rabid ambition, and yes, Bella, admit it...fulfilling your own. She could excuse herself by saying she’d only been eighteen, but that was no excuse. No excuse at all!

Bella had been quite overcome when Sergio had written down his private number on a business card and told her to ring him if she ever needed anything, anything at all. His compassionate and unexpectedly generous gesture had threatened the last of her emotional control, so when a very attractive redhead had come up to them and linked arms with him, she’d stuffed the card into her handbag, said a hurried goodbye and fled before she’d burst into noisy tears in front of everyone.

Tears threatened again now. Tears of frustration and misery. She hadn’t slept well last night. She hadn’t slept well in ages. Truly, she could not go on like this. She had to get away. Away from everyone who she knew down deep didn’t have her best interests at heart. They only wanted what they could get out of her, which was why they kept pressuring her to take on more and more work. Bella had acquired a long list of hangers-on over the last few years. At present she had a manager, a Hollywood agent, a PA, a publicist, plus her own personal stylist. Then, of course, hovering in the background, was her mother.

They all wanted their cut. All wanted their piece of her.

She had no time to herself. No time for a personal life. No time for anything but work.

Lately, she’d begun to feel as if she were on a roller-coaster ride that never stopped. She never stopped. Well it had to stop. She had to stop. And she had to stop right now!

‘So stop being such a lily-livered coward and ring Sergio back,’ she ordered herself.

Stiffening her spine, Bella ignored her suddenly pounding heart, grabbed her phone and hit redial.

CHAPTER THREE

SERGIO WAS SITTING at the table with the best view of the river, sipping a glass of Scotch on the rocks and doing his best to relax, when his phone rang.

His heart jumped, his gut twisting into knots as he glanced at the caller ID, a wave of relief hitting him with the force of a tsunami. Because it wasn’t Alex, ringing again to say they would be even later. The caller ID was blocked. Which meant it was Bella, calling him back. Thank God. Sergio suspected he would not have been able to sleep tonight if she hadn’t. He would have had to do something really ridiculous, like hire a private investigator to find out her number, or her address. Or some way of contacting her.

How pathetic was that?

Truly, Sergio, get a grip!

But it was futile advice, his fingers tightening around the phone as he lifted it to his ear. But his voice—when he spoke—sounded wonderfully calm and seemingly relaxed. ‘Hello, Bella.’

‘Heavens! How did you know it was me?’

‘You blocked your ID,’ he explained. ‘No one else who uses my private number does that.’

‘Oh, I see...’

‘So what happened earlier? Why did you hang up?’

‘Sorry about that. But Mum suddenly came to my door and I didn’t want her to know I was ringing you.’

Sergio was truly taken aback. ‘Your mother lives with you?’

‘Lord, no. I live by myself in New York. But I came back to Sydney a few days ago for a holiday. More fool me,’ she added drily. ‘Look, have I called you at a bad time? Are you too busy to talk? Where are you? I can hear quite a bit of noise in the background.’

A loud group of men had just passed by Sergio’s table.

‘I’m in a restaurant, waiting for some friends of mine to arrive. But they’re running late. London traffic is not conducive to punctuality.’

‘New York’s just as bad. So you’re still living in London?’

‘I bought an apartment here,’ he told her, wondering what she was getting at. He was also beginning to see that his earlier concern for her welfare had been ridiculous. But that was typical of his reactions where Bella was concerned. They were always over the top and dangerously lacking in logic.

‘So how can I help you, Bella?’ he asked, knowing full well that her problem would be nothing like he’d been imagining.

‘I was wondering...do you still have that villa on Lake Como? You didn’t sell it after your father passed away, did you?’

‘No. I would never sell the villa. It’s been in the Morelli family for generations. Why?’

‘I...I need to get away, Sergio. Somewhere private and peaceful. I was hoping to rent it from you for two or three weeks. Maybe even a month.’

‘I see,’ he said, suppressing his annoyance with difficulty. If she wanted to rent a damned villa on Lake Como there were plenty on the market. Why ask for his? One part of him wanted to tell her to go to hell. But that other part—the one that still wanted her, despite everything—could not resist the opportunity to see her again. In the flesh. Her absolutely gorgeous exquisite flesh.

‘So when would you be wanting to stay there?’ he asked, casually.

‘Straight away,’ she said. ‘Or at least as soon as I can get there. Like I said, I’m in Sydney at the moment.’

At her mother’s house, he thought bitterly, the one his father had generously given to that gold-digger as part of their divorce settlement.

‘I gather that Dolores won’t be coming with you to the villa, then?’

‘Good God, no. I want to come alone.’

That shook him, since he had presumed that she would be coming with her latest lover. Suddenly, Sergio could not contain a rush of dark excitement. He’d never pursued Bella over the years, despite his obsessive desire for her. And he could have, once he was older, especially after their wine bars had been such a great success and the money had started rolling in. After all, she was no longer his stepsister, no longer forbidden fruit. So why hadn’t he?

For lots of reasons, he accepted. Pride mostly. He was Italian, after all. He would not have reacted well to rejection. Running after a woman—any woman—was not his style. Running after the daughter of the gold-digger who’d broken his father’s heart would have felt like the ultimate betrayal, plus the height of stupidity. After all, the apple never fell far from the tree, did it? If Bella had responded to his advances, he would never have been sure if her feelings were real, or faked, especially after he’d become seriously rich.

But this was different. Her placing herself in his debt made it different.

‘I’m sorry, Bella,’ he said, relishing his moment of power over her, ‘but I can’t let you rent the villa any time soon. I’m going to be staying there myself all during July.’

‘Oh,’ she said, conveying a wealth of disappointment and dismay in that one word.

‘But you can stay there with me free of charge,’ he offered. ‘If you don’t mind having a bit of company.’

‘Just you?’ she said, sounding slightly hesitant. ‘I mean...you won’t have anyone else there with you?’

‘No. Just me. And Maria, during the daytime.’

‘The same Maria who used to do the cooking and cleaning back in the old days?’

‘The one and the same. But she doesn’t live in now. She’s married and lives in a nearby village with her husband, Carlo. He does the garden, when it needs to be done, and the pool, during the summer. Maria comes in regularly when someone is staying there. Which isn’t all that often since my father passed away.’

Her sigh sounded sad. ‘I still feel terrible about your father.’

Sergio gritted his teeth. He didn’t want her apologising again.

The sight of Alex and Jeremy entering the foyer brought Sergio to a quick decision. ‘I’m sorry to cut you off, Bella, but my friends have just arrived. If you could give me your phone number, I promise I’ll ring you back later this evening and we’ll make concrete plans.’ A quick mental calculation reassured him that it would still be morning in Australia, even at midnight in London. ‘Meanwhile, book a flight to Milan and get yourself packed. And for pity’s sake, don’t tell your mother where you’re going. In fact, don’t tell anyone where you’re going. I don’t want the paparazzi hovering over the villa in a helicopter trying to get a shot of the infamous Bella and her latest lover, okay?’

‘What? Oh, yes, yes, I see what you mean. They do like to jump to conclusions, don’t they? Especially about me. I promise I won’t tell a single soul. Gosh, you’ve no idea how much I appreciate this, Sergio. I always—’

‘Have to go now, Bella,’ he interrupted brusquely. ‘Your number, please?’

She gave him her number and he hung up just as Alex and Jeremy reached the table, Sergio turning his phone right off before slipping it back in his pocket.

The face he lifted to greet his friends would have looked calm enough. Sergio was not in the habit of showing his emotions, which was just as well, given the thoughts that were going on in his head. He could still hardly believe it. Bella! In his home and in his debt!

Sergio had never believed himself a ruthless man. Or a vengeful one. It seemed he was even more Italian than he’d thought.

‘Sorry we’re late,’ Alex said as he pulled out a chair and sat down.

Alex, Sergio finally noted, had dressed casually in dark blue jeans and a pale blue shirt, whilst Jeremy was still wearing a suit. Not the navy pinstripe he’d worn earlier today but a superb grey three-piece with a purple shirt and a lilac tie.

‘Setting up a date for tomorrow night?’ Jeremy asked as he too sat down.

‘Sergio doesn’t go on dates,’ Alex said drily. ‘He has sleepovers.’

‘Cheapskate,’ Jeremy said, though affectionately. ‘The least you can do is pay for a girl’s dinner before you take her to bed. So who are you sleeping with these days?’

‘That’s none of your business,’ Sergio returned coolly, deciding right then and there not to tell either of them about Bella’s call. He didn’t want either of his friends swaying him from the course of action he’d decided to take. ‘Come on, let’s hurry up and order. I’m starving.’

That was another thing about this restaurant that Sergio liked. The speed with which drinks and meals were delivered. In no time a bottle of champagne was opened and poured, two plates of herb bread arriving at the same time to soak up some of the alcohol.

It would have been a highly enjoyable evening if his mind hadn’t been on other things. Namely how he was going to seduce Bella, which of course was what he had every intention of doing. In all honesty he hadn’t had much practice at actual seduction. Tall, dark and handsome men—especially well-heeled ones—rarely had to resort to outright seduction. But just tall, dark and handsome might not cut it with Bella. He supposed he could tell her he was now a billionaire—women like Bella could never have enough money—but that wouldn’t be nearly as satisfying as having her come to his bed willingly, not because she was attracted to his money, but because she was attracted to him.

Sergio mulled over what approach would appeal to Bella all through his entrée. He came to the conclusion during his main course that her relationship history suggested she was attracted to bad boys, something Sergio was not. At least...not till now.

I can do bad boy, he decided over dessert. Because of course, now that he had the opportunity, he would do anything—anything at all—to have Bella in his bed, at least once. No, not just once. Once would not be nearly enough to obliterate the heat that was already gathering in his tortured loins. He would need a whole month of sex before he’d grow tired of her. And not just straightforward sex either. He wanted to have her every which way there was, wanted to experience all the wildly wanton things that those other boyfriends of hers would have insisted upon.

And when the month was over, after he’d had his fill, he would send her on her merry masochistic way, after which he would set about finding himself a nice girl to marry.

Good plan, that, he decided as he devoured his last mouthful of crème caramel. Though maybe good was not the right word.

‘You’re in a strange mood tonight, Sergio,’ Jeremy remarked over coffee. ‘I know Alex and I are the major talkers in our trio but you usually contribute a little more to the conversation. So what gives? You having woman trouble?’

Sergio smothered a laugh. Woman trouble didn’t even begin to describe the effect Bella’s call had had on him. But he did feel somewhat calmer now that he had a definite plan in mind to deal with his ongoing and obsessive desire for her. All that remained was to execute that plan successfully and she would cease to be a problem.

Meanwhile, he decided to broach the subject he’d been going to bring up before Bella had rung. After all, the three of them might not get together again in person for ages and, as they were fellow members of the Bachelors’ Club, he believed they had a right to know what his future intentions were.

‘In a way,’ he replied enigmatically. ‘The opposite sex certainly does figure in what I am about to say.’

‘That sounds ominous,’ Alex said.

‘Not ominous. But serious. Yes. I’ve decided that I’m going to get married.’

Alex sucked in sharply whereas Jeremy just smiled.