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His Virgin Bride: The Fiorenza Forced Marriage / Bought: For His Convenience or Pleasure? / A Night With Consequences
His Virgin Bride
The Fiorenza Forced Marriage
Melanie Milburne
Bought: For His Convenience or Pleasure?
Maggie Cox
A Night With Consequences
Margaret Mayo
Contents
Cover
Title Page
The Fiorenza Forced Marriage
About the Author
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
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Bought: For His Convenience or Pleasure?
About the Author
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
A Night With Consequences
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
Copyright
MELANIE MILBURNE says: ‘I am married to a surgeon, Steve, and have two gorgeous sons, Paul and Phil. I live in Hobart, Tasmania, where I enjoy an active life as a long-distance runner and a nationally ranked top ten Master’s swimmer. I also have a Master’s Degree in Education, but my children totally turned me off the idea of teaching! When not running or swimming I write, and when I’m not doing all of the above I’m reading. And if someone could invent a way for me to read during a four-kilometre swim I’d be even happier!’
To one of my most loyal fans, Anu Sankaran, who has encouraged me from book one. Thank you so much for your lovely e-mails and fabulous personal reviews!
This one is just for you. x
CHAPTER ONE
EMMA looked at the Italian lawyer in heart-stopping shock. ‘There must be some sort of m-mistake,’ she said, her voice wobbling with disbelief. ‘How could I possibly be included in Signore Fiorenza’s will? I was just his carer.’
‘It is no mistake,’ Francesca Rossi said, pointedly tapping the thick document in front of her. ‘I have it here in black and white. Valentino Fiorenza changed his will a matter of weeks before he died.’
Emma sat in a stunned silence. She had lived with and nursed the multimillionaire for eighteen months and not once had she thought something like this would happen. ‘But I don’t understand…’ she said after a moment. ‘Why on earth would he leave me half of his estate?’
‘That’s exactly what his son has been asking,’ Francesca Rossi said with a speaking glance. ‘I believe he is on his way over from London as we speak. As his father’s only remaining heir one can only assume he was expecting The Villa Fiorenza and the bulk of his father’s assets to pass directly to him.’
Emma chewed at her bottom lip for a moment. ‘You said the terms of the will are rather strange….’
‘They are quite unusual,’ Francesca agreed. ‘In order to inherit your share you must be legally married to Rafaele Fiorenza within a month and stay married to him for a year.’
Emma felt her stomach drop like a gymnast mistiming a tricky manoeuvre on the bar. ‘M-married in a month?’ she croaked. ‘For a year?’
‘Yes, otherwise the estate in its entirety will automatically pass to a previous mistress of Valentino’s, a woman by the name of Sondra Henning. Did he ever mention her to you?’
Emma wrinkled her brow. ‘No, I don’t think so…but then he was a very private man. He didn’t talk much about anything, especially towards the end.’
The lawyer leafed through the document before looking back up at Emma. ‘Signore Fiorenza stipulated that upon marriage to his son you are to receive a lump sum of fifty thousand euros, and then for every year you remain married to Rafaele you will receive an allowance,’ she said. ‘A rather generous one, in fact.’
Emma’s stomach did another fall from the bar. ‘H-how generous?’
The lawyer named a sum that sent Emma’s brows shooting upwards. ‘I guess it does seem rather a lot to walk away from…’ she said, thinking of her sister’s recent phone call. Fifty thousand euros at the current exchange rate would not completely solve Simone’s financial situation, but it would certainly go a long way to help her get back on her feet.
‘It is a lot to walk away from,’ Francesca said. ‘Even without factoring in the allowance, the villa, as you know from staying there, is considered one of the most beautiful showpieces around Lake Como. You would be a fool to forfeit such an asset, even a half share of it.’
‘What is Rafaele Fiorenza like…I mean as a person?’ Emma asked. ‘I’ve seen photos of him in the press from time to time, but his father barely mentioned him. And as far as I know he wasn’t at the funeral. I got the feeling there was bad blood between them.’
‘I have not met him personally,’ Francesca said. ‘Apparently he left home when he was a young adult to study abroad. He is a high-flying stock trader now. But, yes, as you said he is often featured in gossip magazines throughout Europe and further abroad. Word has it he is a bit of a playboy and a very wealthy one at that.’
‘Yes, I did get that impression,’ Emma said, and then with another little crease of her brow added, ‘but what if he doesn’t agree to the terms of his father’s will? If he’s so wealthy why would he agree to be married to a perfect stranger?’
‘The entire estate involves a great deal of money, even for a rich man,’ Francesca said. ‘Besides, the villa was where he spent most of his early childhood until he went to boarding school abroad. I cannot see him walking away from such a gold mine without at least inspecting the candidate his father chose to be his bride.’
Emma felt every fine hair on her body lift up like the fur of a startled cat. ‘I haven’t said I would agree to marry anyone,’ she said, ‘especially a man who didn’t even have the decency to visit or communicate with his dying father.’
‘Given he has had little or no contact with his father for the last decade or so you might have a hard time explaining your relationship,’ Francesca said. ‘I know you were employed as Valentino’s carer but the press haven’t always seen it that way and neither, I suspect, will Rafaele Fiorenza.’
Emma straightened agitatedly in her chair. When she had first taken on the position as Valentino Fiorenza’s carer she had not been prepared for how the press would misinterpret her relationship with him. Every time she had accompanied him out in public it seemed the paparazzi were there to document it, often times misconstruing the situation to make her appear a gold-digger, content to hook up with a man three times her age. She still cringed as she thought of the last photo that had appeared in the press. Weakened by the progression of his bone cancer Valentino had been too proud to use a walking stick and had relied increasingly on Emma’s support. The photographer had captured a moment where Emma’s arms had gone around her employer’s waist to keep him from falling, making it appear she was intimately involved with him. Even her sister Simone had rung her from Australia and asked if what everyone was saying was true.
‘He can think what he likes, but there was absolutely nothing improper about my relationship with his father,’ Emma said. ‘Valentino was an invalid, for pity’s sake. He employed me to take care of his day-to-day needs. I grew fond of him certainly, but that happens with just about every home care client I take on. Looking after someone as they count down their last days is incredibly poignant. I know it’s not wise to become emotionally involved, but from the very first day Valentino Fiorenza struck me as a very lonely soul. He had wealth but not health and happiness.’
‘Well, let us hope Rafaele Fiorenza understands the situation,’ Francesca said. ‘In the meantime I take it you are staying on at the villa?’
‘Yes,’ Emma said. ‘I wasn’t sure what else to do. Some of the staff have taken leave and I didn’t want the place left unattended until I heard from the son. I’ve been looking for alternative accommodation but with not much luck so far. I let my previous lease go as Signore Fiorenza insisted I move in with him from day one.’
‘You do realise of course that Rafaele Fiorenza stands to lose rather a lot if you do not agree to the terms,’ Francesca said in a serious tone. ‘Even though he might not need the money it would still be wise to take some time to think it over before you come to a final decision for his sake as well as your own.’
Emma shifted uncomfortably in her chair. ‘I realise it is a difficult situation for him…but I’m not sure I can agree to such a thing. It doesn’t seem…right…’
‘There are a lot of people who would see it differently,’ the lawyer said. ‘They would not baulk at a short term marriage of convenience in exchange for a fortune.’
Emma nibbled at her bottom lip for a moment. ‘You mentioned the marriage has to last a year. Is there any way of negotiating on that time frame?’
‘No, I am afraid not, but, as I said earlier, for every year you remain married to Rafaele you will be paid an allowance.’ Francesca rolled back her office chair and offered her hand across the desk. ‘I hope it goes well for you whatever you decide, Miss March,’ she said. ‘Signore Fiorenza Senior was clearly very fond of you. He would not have been an easy person to nurse, I would imagine. The Fiorenza family has had its share of tragedy. The boys’ mother died when they were very young children and if that was not bad enough the younger of the two boys, Giovanni, died in a tragic accident when he was about eight. Over the years Signore Fiorenza became increasingly bitter and reclusive, not to mention terribly stubborn.’
‘Yes, he was certainly stubborn,’ Emma said. ‘But I couldn’t help feeling it was all a bit of a front. He liked to rant and rave a lot but he was as soft as butter towards the end. I really liked him. I will miss him.’
‘You never know, Miss March, the son may turn out to be perfect husband material,’ the lawyer said with a wry smile. ‘It would not be the first time a marriage of convenience in this country turned into something else entirely.’
Emma backed out of the lawyer’s office with a strained smile and made her way to the bank of lifts. But all the way down to the ground floor she felt a fluttery sensation disturbing the lining of her stomach, like a thousand tiny moths all frantically looking for a way out…
Every time Emma stepped through the elaborate wrought-iron gates of the Villa Fiorenza she stood for a moment or two in awe. The massive gardens set on four tiers were nothing short of breathtaking, the lush green of yew hedges and elm and beech trees and cypress pines a perfect backdrop for the crimson and pinks and reds of azaleas and roses and other fragrant spring blooms. The villa itself was equally breathtaking; set above the stunning crystal-blue beauty of Lake Como, it was four storeys high and built in the neo-classical style lending it an allure of old-world grandeur that never failed to take Emma’s breath away.
Most of the rooms of the villa were no longer in use, the antique furniture draped in shroud-like sheets and the shutters pulled tight across the sightless windows, giving the grand old place a slightly haunted look. And without the presence of daily staff bustling about the villa and gardens the sense of loneliness and isolation was even more acute.
After she had spent more than a year looking after him in his palazzo in Milan, Valentino Fiorenza had announced to Emma six weeks ago he wanted to come back to the villa to die. And now to Emma it seemed as if every breath of breeze that disturbed the leaves on the trees were lamenting his passing. She had loved spending time pushing him around the gardens in his wheelchair, for, although towards the end he had found speech difficult, she had sensed his enjoyment of the peaceful surroundings.
The warmth of the spring weather brought out the heady scent of wisteria and jasmine as Emma walked under the arbour on the second tier of the gardens. She had just stopped to deadhead some of the milk-white climbing roses when a sleek black sports car growled throatily as it turned into the driveway at the back of the villa, like a panther returning to its lair.
She brushed a loose strand of hair out of her eyes and watched as a tall figure unfolded himself from the car. Even from this distance she could see the likeness to his father immediately: the loose-limbed, rangy build, the brooding frown, the chiselled jaw and the arrogant set to his mouth all spoke of a man used to insisting on and getting his own way. But, unlike his father, Rafaele Fiorenza was well over six feet tall and his fit body wasn’t bent over double and ravaged by disease and his glossy black curly hair was thick and plentiful on his head and held no trace of grey. It was casually styled, the wide, deep grooves in amongst the strands suggesting he had used his fingers as its most recent combing tool.
Even though Emma had seen his photograph in the press a couple of times she realised now it hadn’t done him justice. He was quite simply the most arrestingly handsome man she had ever seen.
He was dressed in casual trousers and an open-necked light blue shirt, the cuffs rolled back over his strong tanned forearms, an expensive-looking silver watch around his left wrist and a pair of designer sunglasses, which shielded the expression in his eyes.
He slammed the car door and strode down the steps leading to the second tier, his long, purposeful strides bringing him within a matter of seconds to where she was unconsciously crumbling rose petals in her hand. ‘Miss March, I presume?’ he said in a clipped, distinctly unfriendly tone.
Emma hated talking to people wearing sunglasses, particularly the one-way lens type he was wearing. She always felt at a disadvantage not being able to read what was going on behind that impenetrable screen. She lifted her chin and let the petals float to the ground at her feet. ‘Yes, that is correct,’ she said. ‘I take it you are Rafaele Fiorenza.’
He removed the sunglasses, his black-brown gaze sweeping over her contemptuously. ‘And I take it you were my father’s latest floozy.’
Emma automatically stiffened. ‘I take it you have been misinformed, Signore Fiorenza,’ she returned with arctic chill. ‘I was employed as your father’s carer.’
He gave her a cynical smile but it didn’t involve his dark bottomless brown eyes. ‘So you took care of all of his physical needs, did you, Miss March?’ he said. ‘I must confess my mind is having a bit of a field day with that information.’
‘Then I would say your mind needs to drag itself out of the gutter, Signore Fiorenza,’ she returned with a deliberately haughty look.
His smile went from cynical to devilish. ‘So how do you feel about becoming my bride, Miss March?’
Emma tightened her mouth. ‘I have no intention of doing any such thing.’
He stood looking down at her for a pulsing silence, his eyes unwavering as they held hers. Emma tried her best not to squirm under his piercing scrutiny but in the end she was the first to drop her gaze.
‘I suppose you put him up to it, did you?’ he asked. ‘In a weak moment of his you talked him into signing away a fortune.’
‘That’s a despicable thing to say,’ she said, looking back at him in affront. ‘I had no idea what he had planned. The first I heard of it was when his legal firm contacted me about the terms of the will.’
‘Do not take me for a fool,’ he said. ‘You were living with my father for a year and a half. That is the longest relationship he has had since my mother died. Everyone knows you were sleeping with him. It has been in the papers numerous times.’
Emma felt her cheeks burning but forced herself to hold his gaze. ‘I did not have that sort of relationship with your father. The press made it up just to sell extra copies. They do that with anyone rich or famous.’
His dark eyes glittered with disdain. ‘Come on, now, Miss March,’ he said. ‘You surely do not expect me to believe my father wrote you into his will at the last moment just because you smiled sweetly at him on his deathbed, do you?’
Emma sent him a flinty glare. ‘I have never slept with your father. It’s totally preposterous of you to even suggest it.’
His expression communicated his disbelief. ‘My father was a well-known womaniser,’ he said. ‘You lived with him for well over a year before he publicly announced he was ill. It would be all too easy to assume you wormed your way into his bed to secure yourself a fortune.’
‘I did no such thing!’ she protested hotly. ‘I only agreed to live with your father so long before his health deteriorated because he didn’t want a profusion of carers coming in and out of his life. He was also concerned if people knew he was terminally ill when he was first diagnosed, his investment clients would leave him in droves. His illness progressed slowly at first, but a couple of months ago he realised the end was near. I did my best to support him through the final stages.’
‘I just bet you did,’ he said with a little curl of his lip. ‘Although I must say you are not his usual type. He usually went for busty, brassy blondes. Pint-sized brunettes must have been a taste he had recently acquired.’
Emma felt the scorch of his dark gaze run over her again and inwardly seethed. ‘I resent your reprehensible insinuations,’ she said. ‘I can see now why your father refused to even have your name mentioned in his presence. You have absolutely appalling manners.’
He had the audacity to laugh at her. ‘What a prim little schoolmarm you are,’ he taunted. ‘Miss March suits you perfectly. I bet my father loved you putting him to bed.’
Emma was almost beyond speech and to her immense irritation she could feel her face flaming. ‘You…you have no right to speak to me like—’
‘I have every right, Miss March.’ He cut her off rudely. ‘My father would not marry you, would he? He swore he would never marry again after my mother died. But you obviously thought of a way to get your hands on the Fiorenza fortune by suggesting you marry me instead.’
Emma clenched her teeth as she battled to contain her temper. ‘You are the very last man I would consent to marry,’ she threw at him heatedly.
His eyes were like twin lasers as they held hers. ‘You want more money, is that it, Miss March? I am sure I can afford you. Just tell me how much you want and I will write you a cheque here and now.’
Emma bristled at his effrontery. ‘You think you can wave your wallet around and pay me?’
He gave her a scornful smile. ‘That is the language of women such as you. You saw a big fat cherry just ripe for the picking in my father, did you not? You must have buttered him up rather well to get him to rewrite his will. I wonder what tricks you had up your sleeve, or should I say skirt?’
Emma had never felt closer to slapping a person. She curled her hands into fists, fighting for control, anger bubbling up inside her at his despicable taunts. ‘How dare you?’ she bit out.
He rocked back on his heels in an imperious manner. ‘You are quite the little firebrand behind that demure façade, eh, Miss March? No wonder my father took such a shine to you. Who knows? We might make quite a match of it after all. I like my women hot and flustered. I think you might do very well as my bride.’
Emma gave him a look that could strip paint. ‘You are the most obnoxious man I have ever met,’ she bit out. ‘Do you really think I would agree to become involved with someone like you?’
He gave her another cynical smile. ‘I am not sure I should tell you what I think right now, Miss March,’ he drawled. ‘You might follow through on your current desire to slap my face.’
Emma hated that she had been so transparent. It made her feel he had an advantage over her being able to read her body language so well. What else could he see? she wondered. Could he tell she was deeply disturbed by his arrant masculinity? That his sensually shaped mouth made her lips tingle at the thought of what it would feel like to have him kiss her?
Her reaction to him was somewhat of a bewildering shock to her. She was normally such a sensible, level-headed person. She had never considered herself a sensualist, but then she had so little experience when it came to men.
Rafaele Fiorenza, on the other hand, looked as if he had loads of experience when it came to women. His tall frame, classically handsome features and magnetic dark brown eyes with their impossibly long dark lashes were a potent combination any woman would find hard to resist. Emma could imagine he would be a demanding and exciting lover. She could almost feel the sexual energy emanating from him; it created a crackling tension in the air, making her feel even more on edge and hopelessly out of her depth. The thought of being legally married to him for any length of time was disturbing in the extreme. The lawyer had spoken of a marriage of convenience, but what if Rafaele wanted it to be a real marriage?
In order to pull her thoughts back into line she said the first thing that came to her head. ‘You didn’t go to your father’s funeral.’
‘I am not one for hypocrisy,’ he said, shifting his gaze from hers to sweep it over the property. ‘My father would not have wanted me there, in any case. He hated me.’
Emma frowned at his embittered tone. ‘I’m sure that’s not true. Very few parents truly hate their children.’
His eyes came back to hers, his inherent cynicism glittering like black diamonds. ‘I can only assume he thought by forcing me to marry his little nursemaid it might have some sort of reforming effect on me,’ he said. ‘What do you think, Miss March? Do your skills extend to taming decadent playboys?’
Emma could feel her colour rise all over again and quickly changed the subject. ‘How long has it been since you were here last?’ she asked.
He drew in a breath and sent his gaze back over the stately mansion. ‘It has been fifteen years,’ he said.
‘You have lived abroad all that time?’ she asked.
He turned back to look down at her. ‘Yes. I’ve been primarily based in London but I have a couple of properties in France and Spain. But now my father is dead I intend to move back here.’
Hearing him speaking in that deep mellifluous voice of his did strange things to Emma’s insides. He spoke English like a native and even had a trace of a London accent, which gave him a sophisticated air that was lethally attractive. She could imagine him travelling the globe, with a mistress in every city clamouring for his attention. He was everything a playboy should be: suave, sophisticated and utterly sexy. Even his aftershave smelt erotic—it had a citrus base and some other exotic spice that made her think of hot sultry musk-scented nights.
‘Um…I have a spare set of keys for you,’ she said as she led the way to the front door. ‘And there’s a remote control for the alarm system. I’ll write down the code and password—they might have changed since you were here last.’
