His Merciless Marriage Bargain

The Italian’s shock heir...

Raising her sister’s child has left Rachel Bern penniless and desperate. Since her orphaned nephew’s family has ignored her attempts at contact, she has no choice but to bring him to the Marcellos’ Venetian door.

Losing his brother devastated Giovanni Marcello. Rachel’s news is another bombshell, and he can’t believe that she doesn’t have an ulterior motive. One kiss should unravel her deception, until their smoldering chemistry has Gio reconsidering...

Gio exacts a high price for acknowledging his heir, but Rachel cannot help but succumb to his outrageous demands. Even if it means walking down the aisle!

“This is my city and my home, and you are the outsider here. If there is to be a story, it’s going to be my story, not yours,” Gio answered, reaching out to lift a dark glossy tendril of hair from Rachel’s cheek.

He felt carnal and hungry. Desire ran hot in his veins.

“The only story is the truth. You have a nephew you refuse to acknowledge, never mind support.”

“But is he my nephew?”

“Yes, you know he is. I’ve sent you the birth certificate and we can do a DNA test while I’m here—”

“Proving what?” he retorted. Before she could answer, he reached for her again, his hand coiling in her long dark hair, tilting her head back to take her mouth in a long, searing kiss.

She didn’t stiffen or resist. If anything, she leaned into him and he wrapped an arm around her slender frame holding her against him as he deepened the kiss, his tongue sweeping her mouth, tasting her, weakening her defenses. By the time he lifted his head, she was silent, no fight left in her. Her wide brown eyes looked up into his.

“You should never underestimate your opponent, Rachel,” he said quietly, running his thumb lightly across her soft flushed cheek. “And you most definitely shouldn’t have underestimated me.”

Conveniently Wed!

Conveniently wedded, passionately bedded!

Whether there’s a debt to be paid, a will to be obeyed or a business to be saved… she’s got no choice but to say, ‘I do!’

But these billionaire bridegrooms have got another think coming if they think marriage will be that easy…

Soon their convenient brides become the objects of an inconvenient desire!

Look out for these Conveniently Wed! stories

Bought with the Italian’s Ring by Tara Pammi

Bound to the Sicilian’s Bed by Sharon Kendrick

Imprisoned by the Greek’s Ring by Caitlin Crews

Coming soon!

His Merciless Marriage Bargain

Jane Porter

www.millsandboon.co.uk

New York Times and USA TODAY bestselling author JANE PORTER has written forty romances and eleven women’s fiction novels since her first sale to Mills & Boon in 2000. A five-time RITA® Award finalist, Jane is known for her passionate, emotional and sensual novels, and loves nothing more than alpha heroes, exotic locations and happy-ever-afters. Today Jane lives in sunny San Clemente, California, with her surfer husband and three sons. Visit janeporter.com.

Books by Jane Porter

Mills & Boon Modern Romance

Bought to Carry His Heir

At the Greek Boss’s Bidding

A Dark Sicilian Secret

Duty, Desire and the Desert King

At the Greek Boss’s Bidding

Hollywood Husband, Contract Wife

The Disgraced Copelands

The Fallen Greek Bride

His Defiant Desert Queen

Her Sinful Secret

A Royal Scandal

Not Fit for a King?

His Majesty’s Mistake

The Desert Kings

The Sheikh’s Chosen Queen

King of the Desert, Captive Bride

Visit the Author Profile page at millsandboon.co.uk for more titles.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Introduction

Conveniently Wed!

Title Page

About the Author

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

EPILOGUE

Extract

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

RACHEL BERN STOOD outside the imposing doors of the Palazzo Marcello shivering, the wind grabbing at her black coat and ponytail, sending both flying.

Overhead, thick gray clouds blanketed the sky and the rising tides sent water surging over the banks of the lagoon, wetting the streets of Venice, but the stormy weather wasn’t so different from her weather in Seattle. She’d grown up with rain and damp. This morning she wasn’t shivering from cold, but nerves.

This could go so very wrong. It could blow up in her face, leaving her and Michael in an even worse situation, but she was at her wit’s end. If this didn’t get Giovanni Marcello’s attention, nothing would. She’d tried everything else, tried every other form of communication, but every attempt resulted in silence and the silence was destructive. Crushing. She was taking a huge risk, but what else could she do?

Giovanni Marcello, an Italian billionaire, was also one of the most reclusive businessmen in Italy. He rarely socialized. He had no direct email or phone, and when Rachel finally reached Signor Marcello’s front office management, they were noncommittal about relaying messages to the CEO of the holding company, Marcello SpA. And so she was here, at the Palazzo Marcello in Venice, the family’s home for the past two hundred years. Until the turn of the twentieth century, the Marcellos had been a shrewd, successful manufacturing family that had earned its place in society through hard work and wealth, but in the past forty years, the family had expanded from manufacturing and construction into real estate and, under the helm of Giovanni Marcello, investing in world markets. The Marcello fortune had quadrupled through Giovanni’s management, and they had become one of the most powerful and influential families in Italy.

Thirty-eight-year-old Giovanni continued to head up the holding company based in Rome, but she’d just discovered through her hired investigator that he rarely put in an appearance at the office, choosing instead to work from Venice. Which was why she was now here on his doorstep, exhausted and jet-lagged from traveling with a six-month-old baby, but determined. He couldn’t ignore her any longer. There would be no more shutting her out, or more importantly, Michael.

Heart aching, eyes stinging, she glanced down at the bundle in her arms, the baby thankfully finally sleeping, and silently apologized for what she was about to do. “It’s for your sake,” she whispered, bringing him close to her chest and giving a light squeeze. “And I’m not going far, I promise.”

Even in his sleep, the baby wriggled in protest. She smiled ruefully, easing her hold, but she couldn’t ease the guilt. She hadn’t slept since they left Seattle, but then, she hadn’t slept in months, not since she’d become his full-time caregiver. At six months he should be ready to sleep through the night, but maybe he felt how unsettled she was, or maybe he was missing his mother...

Rachel’s eyes stung and her heart smarted. If only she’d done more for Juliet after Michael’s birth, if only she’d understood how distraught she had been...

But Rachel couldn’t turn back time, and so she was here, about to hand him over to his father’s family. Not forever, of course, just for a few minutes, but to make a point. They needed help. She was broke and about to lose her job, and it wasn’t right, not when his father’s family could, and should, help.

Swallowing, she raised her hand and knocked firmly on the door, and then, in case the knock couldn’t be heard inside, she pressed the button for the doorbell mounted on the wall. Did the bell even work, she wondered? Had anyone heard her?

Between the wind and the lapping of water and the voices of tourists and travelers on the lagoon, she wasn’t sure if anyone was stirring within the palazzo. She knew she was being watched, though, and not from within the building, but from the photographers stationed outside. There was one across the lagoon and another on a balcony of an adjacent building, as well as another parked in a tethered gondola. She’d seen the cameras as she stepped off the water taxi and was glad to see them as she’d been the one to tip them off, teasing the various media outlets that something significant was happening today, something to do with a Marcello baby.

It was easy enough to accomplish when one’s job hinged on publicity, marketing and customer relations for AeroDynamics, one of the largest airline manufacturers in the world. Normally her PR efforts were to attract new, affluent customers—sheikhs, tycoons, sports figures, celebrities—by showcasing AeroDynamics sleek jet designs and luxurious interiors, but today she needed the media because they could apply pressure for her. Their photos would draw attention, and subsequent public scrutiny, and Giovanni Marcello would not like it. He valued his privacy and would take immediate steps to curtail the attention. But before he did that, she needed to make sure that she got the right action and the proper results. She didn’t want to shame the Marcellos, or alienate them. She needed them on her side—correction, on Michael’s side—but her actions now might do the opposite and push them further away—

No, she couldn’t go there. She wouldn’t think that way. Giovanni Marcello had to accept Michael, and he would, once he saw how much his nephew looked like his brother.

Rachel lifted her hand to knock again, but the door swung open before she could rap a second time. A tall thin elderly man stood in the doorway. Shadows stretched behind him. From the doorstep, the space appeared cavernous, with a glinting of an ornate chandelier high overhead.

She looked from the grand light fixture to the elderly man. He wore a plain dark suit, a very simple suit, and she suspected he wasn’t family, but someone who worked for the Marcellos. “Signor Marcello, per favore,” she said calmly, crisply, praying her Italian would be understood. She’d practiced the phrase on the flight, repeating the simple request over and over to ensure she could deliver the words with the right note of authority.

“Signor Marcello non è disponibile,” he answered flatly.

Her brows furrowed as she tried to decipher what he’d said. Non was not. Disponibile could mean just about anything but she sensed it was a negative, either way.

“È lui non a casa?” she stumbled, struggling to remember the words, not at all sure she was getting the tense right, or the correct words, never mind the words in the proper order. Her little phrase book only gave her so many options.

“No. Addio.”

She understood those words. No, and goodbye.

She moved forward swiftly before he could close the door on her, using her low-heeled boot to keep the door ajar.

“Il bambino Michael Marcello,” she said in Italian, before switching to English as she thrust the infant into the old man’s arms. “Please tell Signor Marcello that Michael will need a bottle when he wakes.”

She drew the diaper bag strap from her shoulder and set the bulging bag down on the doorstep at the man’s feet. “He will also need a diaper change, probably before the bottle,” she added, fighting to keep her voice even, almost impossible when her heart raced and she already itched to reach out and wrench the baby back. “Everything he needs is in the bag, including his schedule to help him adjust. If there are questions, my hotel information is in the bag, along with my cell number.”

And then her voice did break and her throat sealed closed and she turned away, walking quickly before the tears could fall.

It’s for Michael, she told herself, swiping tears as she hurried toward the canal. Be brave. Be strong. You’re doing this for him.

The baby wouldn’t be away from her for more than a few minutes because she fully expected Giovanni Marcello to come after her. If not now, then surely at her hotel, which was less than five minutes away by water taxi, as she’d left all her contact details in the diaper bag.

And yet, every step she took carried her farther from the palazzo and closer to the water taxi waiting for her, and now with Michael out of her arms, she felt hollow and empty, every instinct in her screaming for her to turn around and go back and have this out with Giovanni, face-to-face.

But what if Giovanni refused to come to the door? How was she to force Giovanni out for the necessary conversation?

The old man shouted something, his voice thin and sharp. She didn’t understand, but one word did stand out. Polizia. Was he threatening to call the police? She wasn’t surprised if he was. It’s what she’d do if someone just abandoned a six-month-old infant to her care. Numb and heartsick, she kept her focus on the water taxi tethered in the canal. The driver was watching her and she waved, signaling that she was ready to go.

Seconds later, a hand seized her upper arm. The fingers gripped her tightly, the hold painful. “Ouch!” Rachel winced at the painful hold. “Let go.”

“Stop running,” the deep male voice ground out, the voice as hard as the punishing grip, his English perfect with just the slightest accent.

She turned around, the persistent wind having loosened dark strands from her ponytail, making it hard to see him through the tangle of hair. “I’m not running,” she said fiercely, trying to free herself, but he stood close, his grip unrelenting. “Can you give me some space, please?”

“Not a chance, Miss Bern.”

She knew then who this tall man was, and a shiver raced through her as she pushed long strands of hair behind her ears. Giovanni Marcello wasn’t just tall, he was impressively broad through the shoulders, with thick black hair, light eyes and high cheekbones above a firm, unsmiling mouth. She’d seen pictures of him on the internet. There weren’t many, as he didn’t attend a lot of social events like his brother Antonio had, but in every photo he was elegantly dressed, impeccably groomed. Polished. Gleaming. Hard.

He looked even harder in person. His light eyes—an icy blue—glittered down at her and his strong, chiseled features were set. Grim.

She felt a flutter of fear. It crossed her mind that beneath the groomed exterior was something dark and brooding, something that struck her as not entirely civilized.

Rachel took a step back, needing her distance even more now.

“You said you weren’t running,” he growled.

“I’m not going anywhere, and there’s no need for you to be on top of me.”

“Are you unwell, Miss Bern? Are you having a breakdown?”

“Why would you ask that?”

“Because you’ve just abandoned a child on my doorstep.”

“He’s not being abandoned. You’re his uncle.”

“I strongly suggest you retrieve the child before the police arrive.”

“Let the police come. At least then the world will know the truth.”

He arched a black brow. “So you are unwell.”

“I’m perfectly well. In fact, I couldn’t be better. You have no idea how difficult it has been to locate you. Months of investigation, not to mention money I couldn’t afford to spend on a private investigator, but at least we are here now, face-to-face, ready to discuss new responsibilities.”

“The only thing I have to say to you is collect the child—”

“Your nephew.”

“And return home before this becomes unpleasant for everybody.”

“It’s already unpleasant for me. Your help is desperately needed.”

“You, and he, are not my problem.”

“Michael is a Marcello. He’s your late brother’s only child, and he should be protected and provided for by his family.”

“That is not going to happen.”

“I think it will.”

His eyes narrowed, the icy blue irises partially hidden by dense black lashes. “You are deliberately trying to provoke me.”

“And why not? You’ve done nothing but irritate and provoke me for the past few months. You had many opportunities to reply to my emails and phone calls, but you couldn’t be bothered to reach out, so now I’m returning to you what is yours.” Which wasn’t actually true—she wasn’t leaving Michael here, but she didn’t have to let him know that.

“You’re definitely not sound if you’re abandoning your sister’s son—”

“And Antonio’s,” she interrupted tautly. “If you recall your lessons in biology, conception requires a sperm and an egg, and in this instance it’s Juliet’s and Antonio’s—” She paused, grinding down to hold back the rest of the hot painful words, words that ached and kept her from sleeping and eating. Juliet had always been foolish and impractical, her dreams littered with hearts, flowers, expensive sports cars and wealthy boyfriends. “The DNA paperwork is inside his diaper bag,” she continued. “You’ll find his medical records and everything you need to know about his routine in there, too. I’ve done my part. Now it’s your turn.” She gave him a brittle nod and turned away, grateful for the water taxi that still waited for her.

He caught her once more, this time by the nape, warm fingers sliding beneath her ponytail to wrap around her neck. “You’re going nowhere, Miss Bern, at least not without that child.” His voice had dropped, deepening, and she shuddered at the sensation burning through her.

His grip was in no way painful but her skin tingled from head to toe. It was almost as if he’d plugged her into an electric socket. As he turned her to face him, goose bumps covered her arms, and every part of her felt unbearably sensitive.

She looked up into his cool blue eyes and went hot, then cold, feeling a frisson of awareness streak through her. She wasn’t afraid, but the sensation was too sharp, too intense to be pleasurable. “And you really must stop manhandling me, Signor Marcello,” she answered faintly, her heart thudding violently.

“Why is that, Miss Bern?”

She stared up into his face, her gaze locking with his. There was nothing icy about his eyes now. No, they glowed with intelligence and heat and power. There was a physicality about him that stole her breath, knocking her off balance. She tried to gather her thoughts but his energy was so strong she felt it hum through her, lighting her up, making her feel as if he’d somehow stripped her bare.

Gulping for air, she looked down at his strong straight nose and the brackets on either side of his mouth. His face was not a boy’s but a man’s, with creases and lines, and if she didn’t dislike him so much, she would have found the creases beautiful. “You are giving the paparazzi quite a show, you know,” she whispered.

His strong black brows pulled.

“All the manhandling won’t look well in tomorrow’s papers. I’m afraid there are too many incriminating photos.”

“Incriminating photos—” He broke off abruptly, understanding dawning.

His hand dropped even as his gaze scanned the wide canal and the narrow pavement fronting the water and old buildings. She saw the moment he spotted the first of the cameras, and then others. His dark head turned, his gaze raking her, the blue fire blistering her. “What have you done?”

His voice was deep and rough, his accent more pronounced. Her pulse drummed and her insides churned. She’d scored her first hit, and it scared her. She wasn’t accustomed to battling anyone, much less a powerful man. In her work, she assisted, providing support and information. She didn’t challenge or contradict.

“I did what needed to be done,” she said hoarsely. “You refused to acknowledge your nephew. Your family falls in step with whatever you say, and so I’ve pressed the issue. Now the whole world knows that your brother’s son has been returned to your family.”

* * *

Giovanni Marcello drew a slow deep breath and then another. He was shocked as well as livid. He’d been played. Played. By a manipulative, money-hungry American no less. He despised gold diggers. Greedy, selfish, soulless. “You contacted the media, inviting them here today?”

“I did.”

Rachel was no different from her sister. His fingers curled a little, the only sign that he was seething inwardly. “You’re pleased with yourself.”

“I’m pleased that you’ve been forced out of hiding—”

“I was never hiding. Everyone knows this is my home. It’s common knowledge that I work here, as well.”

“Then why is this the first time I’ve had a conversation with you? I’ve reached out to your company staff again and again, and you’ve never bothered to respond to anything!”

Who was she to demand anything from him? From the start her family had only wanted one thing: to milk the Marcellos. Her sister, Juliet Bern, wasn’t in love with his brother, rather she wanted Antonio’s money. And once she could no longer blackmail Antonio, Juliet turned on his family, and then once Juliet was gone, it was Rachel’s turn. Disgusting. “I owe you nothing, and my family owes you nothing. Your sister is gone. Well, my brother is gone, too. Such is life—”

“Juliet said you had a heart of ice.”

“Do you really think you’re the first woman to try to entrap Antonio?” Or me? Gio silently added, as he’d been played for a fool once, but he’d learned. He knew better than to trust a pretty face.

“I didn’t entrap anyone. I didn’t sleep with anyone. I find no pleasure in this, Signor Marcello. If anything, I’m horrified. I am not reckless. I do not fall in love with strangers, or make love to handsome wealthy Italian men. I have scruples and morals, and you are not someone I admire, and your wealth doesn’t make you appealing. Your wealth, though, can help a little boy who needs support.”

“So I’m to applaud you?”

“No. Just have a conscience, please.”

From the corner of his eye, Giovanni saw a photographer move, crouching as he crept forward, snapping away. His gut tightened, his chest hot with barely leashed anger.

He couldn’t believe she’d managed to draw him out of the palazzo and into this scene, a very public scene with witnesses everywhere.

With his position at the helm of the family business, he’d worked hard to keep personal affairs out of the news. It’d taken nearly a decade to restore his family’s fortune and his family’s reputation, but finally the Marcellos were a name to be proud of and a brand that garnered respect. It hadn’t been easy to redeem their name, but he’d managed it through consistent, focused effort. Now, in one reckless moment, this American was about to turn the Marcellos into tabloid fodder once more.

He wasn’t ready. He was still struggling to come to terms with his brother’s death and refused to have Antonio’s memory darkened, his name besmirched, by those consumed with greed. “This isn’t a conversation I intend to continue on the streets of Venice,” he ground out. He was usually so good at avoiding confrontations. He knew how to manage conflict. And yet here they were, staging an epic soap opera, just a block off the Grand Canal. It couldn’t be more public. “Nor am I about to let you abuse my family. If there is to be a story, I shall provide the story, not you.”