Bride By Choice

Everyone was watching them.

In sight of them all he went down on one knee before her and said, “Elena, will you marry me?”

“Get up,” she said frantically.

“Not until you promise to marry me.”

“Then you’ll stay there forever.”

“Okay, if I stay here forever, will you marry me?”

And suddenly everyone was clapping and cheering and Lorenzo was on his feet kissing her exuberantly, and she seemed to have said yes, although she never recalled saying it. But you couldn’t reject a man who’d knelt before you in front of his whole family. Could you?

Dear Reader,

Being married to an Italian, I take a special delight in writing about Italian men—the most fascinating and endearing men on earth. I’ve enjoyed telling the stories of the three Martelli brothers.

Although linked by kinship, they are all different. Renato, the eldest, is head of the family, a man of confidence and power. Bernardo is aloof, a loner. Lorenzo, the youngest, is a merry charmer. Lovable and thoughtless, he has much to learn, but the right woman can teach him.

And then there is Sicily, their home, one of the most beautiful places on earth, where people’s true passions rise to the surface, giving them the courage to follow their hearts.

Bride by Choice is about Lorenzo, who intended to stay fancy-free—until he met Helen, daughter of a New York Sicilian family. She was determined never to marry a Sicilian—until Lorenzo won her heart. He taught her that love could conquer prejudice, and when she broke his heart he became a stronger man, ready to endure anything to win the woman he loved.

With best wishes,

Bride By Choice

Lucy Gordon

www.millsandboon.co.uk

CONTENTS

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

PROLOGUE

‘THEY’LL be calling you any minute,’ Heather said, looking up at the screen that gave boarding details at Palermo Airport.

Lorenzo gave a sigh of pleased anticipation. ‘Can’t be soon enough for me. New York, here I come!’

‘Well, try to remember what you’re there for, little brother,’ Renato reminded him. ‘You’re Lorenzo Martelli, Export Manager for Martelli Produce, visiting America to establish the firm in a big, new market; not Lorenzo Martelli, playboy, there to spend money enjoying yourself.’

‘You can’t stop him doing that,’ Heather chuckled. ‘But he might sell a few vegetables between orgies.’

She had to admit that her brother-in-law looked like a playboy. With his light brown curly hair, deep blue eyes, good-looking face, and athletic figure, he might have stood as a symbol of healthy, thoughtless young manhood: with the emphasis on “thoughtless”, she decided with wry affection.

It was almost incredible that only a few months ago she had fancied herself in love with Lorenzo, had actually come out to Sicily to marry him, only to discover that her true love was his older brother Renato after all. Most women would have found her choice puzzling. Renato was a hard, difficult man who frowned more than he smiled, except for those he loved. Lorenzo had a smile for everyone, and was, in Renato’s caustic words, ‘too handsome for his own good or anyone else’s’.

But Heather had seen beyond looks and discovered that it was the prickly Renato who touched her heart. She had been married to him for eight months now, and was expecting his child. It had been natural for the two of them to come to the airport to see “their” brother off to the States.

‘Call us when you reach the Elroy Hotel,’ Renato reminded him now. ‘And don’t forget—’

‘Will you stop?’ Lorenzo pleaded plaintively. ‘What with your instructions and the list Mamma’s given me of people to visit I shan’t have a moment to myself. She was so determined I shouldn’t forget the Angolinis that she called them yesterday, and the next thing I knew I was promising to spend next Thursday evening with them.’

‘Our grandfather and Marco Angolino were young men together before Marco emigrated with his wife and son,’ Renato reminded him. ‘Their friendship was very close.’

‘But that was years ago and Marco is dead,’ Lorenzo objected. ‘I’m having dinner with the son, who’s now an old man, his wife, who’s an old woman, his three sons who are all older than I am, and his four daughters, Elena, Patrizia, Olivia, and Carlotta—all unmarried.’

The nervous way he said “unmarried” made Renato grin. ‘In other words, you think they’re on the catch for you,’ he said. ‘Conceited oaf!’ He aimed a friendly punch at his brother’s shoulder.

‘Let’s just say that the Angolinis are butchers, and I feel as if I’m being laid out on the slab for inspection,’ Lorenzo observed gloomily.

‘Definitely you should marry one of those girls,’ Renato said, turning the screw with brotherly malice. ‘With their meat and our vegetables it’s a match made in heaven.’

‘Get lost,’ Lorenzo told him without rancour.

The boarding call came. They all rose, and Lorenzo hugged his sister-in-law eagerly. Renato gave his brother the fierce, unembarrassed embrace of one Latin male to another.

‘Behave yourself!’ he barked. ‘If you cause our mother a moment’s anxiety I’ll personally put an end to you. Now get going!’

As Lorenzo strode off, turning at the last minute to wave at them, Renato said, ‘The annoying thing is that those daughters really will lay themselves out to trap him. Too many women do. That’s his trouble.’

‘Well, you know one woman who fell for you instead,’ she reminded him, and knew, by the pressure of his hand, that she’d said what he needed to hear.

As they walked away she said, ‘You’re worried about him, aren’t you? Don’t be. He’s a good salesman.’

‘I know. I’m just bothered by the conviction that when he’s in America he’s going to go just that little bit too far.’ He slipped an arm about his wife’s shoulders. ‘But it’s too late to worry about that. Little brother’s on his own now.’

CHAPTER ONE

SNOW was on the ground and a bitter wind cut through the darkness of an early February afternoon, but New York still glittered and nothing could dim the glory of Elroys, the most glamorous, the most expensive hotel on Park Avenue.

There was a new security man at the staff entrance, who didn’t recognise Helen until she showed him her pass with its proud words, Helen Angolini, Management Trainee, and the even prouder words, “First Class”. She’d joined a training program in which only one applicant out of a hundred was accepted, worked her way up from Third Class, through Second Class, and now she was on the last stage before a full appointment.

‘Not that I’ll ever get appointed if I’m late,’ she groaned to herself as she dashed for the elevator to the eight floor. ‘Can’t this thing go any faster?’

‘I didn’t think you’d be here for this function at all,’ said a voice beside her. It was Dilys, her fellow trainee, whom she’d overlooked in her agitation. They’d joined on the same day, soon become flatmates, and been “partners in crime” (as Dilys was fond of putting it) ever since. ‘You’ve just gotten back from Boston,’ she observed.

‘Right, and I was supposed to be going straight to my parents’ house from the airport. But Mr Dacre called and said to look in at the hotel first. That’s why I’ve still got my luggage with me.’

At that moment the elevator doors opened, and Dilys grasped Helen’s arm, steering her towards the ladies’ room. ‘Dump your things in here,’ she said. ‘And put your glad rags on.’

She was a petite blonde with a come-hither eye. Helen was taller, more statuesque, with shoulder-length hair as black as a raven’s wing, and dark, expressive eyes. In her mid-twenties her lush beauty was reaching its height, but she thought her appearance reflected too accurately her Sicilian ancestry, and longed for blue eyes and fair skin.

Yet while she might disparage her looks she knew how to dress them to advantage. Her warm skin cried out for deep tones, and now she looked through her luggage until she found a dress of dark red silk that caused her eyes to glow theatrically. A vigorous brushing made her hair gleam and bounce richly about her shoulders.

Dilys regarded her with satisfaction. ‘Great! Now let’s go and knock ’em dead.’

‘Don’t you ever think of anything but men?’ Helen chuckled, already knowing the answer. ‘This is supposed to be a working function.’

‘So? I like to mix business with pleasure. C’mon! Let’s inspect the talent.’

The Imperial Room took up one corner of the eighth floor. On two sides it had floor-length windows hung with luxurious drapes. A dozen round tables groaned under food and wine. The huge room was already packed. All the big names of Elroys were there, and she could see Jack Dacre, her immediate superior, a hard taskmaster but with a kind heart. He signalled and edged towards her through the crowd.

‘Glad you got here,’ he rumbled above the din.

‘My plane was delayed. I’m sorry I’m a bit—’

‘No sweat. Tell me about your trip tomorrow. I’ve heard good things about your work while you were away. What do you know about this function?’

‘Nothing. It wasn’t even planned when I left.’

‘Right. All thrown together at twenty-four hour’s notice. It’s the Continental Restaurant. The Italian section grew so popular that it’s being hived off into a restaurant of its own. Most of the people here tonight are connected with food. Grab a drink.’

He vanished to do some mingling. Helen obtained a glass of light wine, and edged her way in the direction of Braden Fairley, the Managing Director. He was talking to a handsome giant with light brown, curly hair. Something in the way the young man was standing told Helen that it was taking all his good manners to seem attentive, but the expression of courteous interest on his face never wavered.

Then Fairley’s attention was claimed by another guest, making him turn slightly, giving Helen a better view of the stranger just as he glanced up. Their eyes met. His, she noticed with pleasure, were deep blue and irresistibly merry. She couldn’t help smiling back. He glanced at Fairley, blowing out his cheeks in a plea for sympathy, which she gave him willingly. Then the Managing Director resumed his monologue, and Helen moved along.

From beside her came a soft, appreciate growl. ‘Mmm, he’s yummy, isn’t he?’ Dilys murmured.

‘Who’s yummy?’

‘Who’s yummy? she asks, when she can’t take her eyes off him!’

‘I’m looking at Mr Fairley,’ Helen said stiffly.

‘Sure you are. Between Fairley and a guy who looks like a Greek god, you’re going to look at Fairley. Who wants to waste time on a Greek god?’

‘Don’t be fanciful! Greek god! No way!’

‘All right. Life-guard, then. I like that better. More chance of getting him where you want him.’

‘I don’t want him any way,’ Helen said unconvincingly.

‘Aw, c’mon! He must be six foot two, and look at those shoulders. They should build doors wider to let them through. There’s no fat on him, you can see that, and with those long legs and flat stomach—well, if he isn’t a life guard he ought to be.’

‘You can’t tell about his legs, or his stomach.’

‘You can if you look properly,’ Dilys chuckled. ‘I glided by just now and he winked at me.’

‘He looks as if he’d wink at anything in a skirt.’

‘Hey, you noticed!’ Dilys said with ironic admiration. ‘And you should see the gleam in his eye! One look, and you just know he’s scheming to take you to bed.’

‘Oh, go away!’ Helen said, laughing. ‘Simply standing next to you could ruin my reputation.’

‘See ya!’ Dilys said, and slid away in search of more prey.

It was incredible, Helen thought, how her eyes seemed to be drawn to the handsome young man of their own accord. She tried to ignore him but she kept glancing back in his direction without meaning to. And at last the inevitable happened and she found him looking back. Embarrassed, she tried to assume an air of lofty indifference, but somehow it turned into a smile of pleasure because his presence was like sunshine.

He was dressed informally but expensively in slacks and a silk shirt, and Helen had to admit that everything Dilys said had been true, although ‘Greek god’ was a bit of an overstatement, she thought, giving the matter serious attention. But ‘life-guard’ definitely, and with a look of relish that said the world was there to be enjoyed, and what were they waiting for?

Suddenly she found herself thinking of wine goblets filled to the brim, of golden plates piled high with the fruits of the earth, hot suns, lovers’ meetings, passion, satiation; all the good things, the complete, perfect, richly coloured, overflowing things that spoke of abundance and fulfilment.

No, not spoke. Sang. As she was singing now.

For pity’s sake! she thought in alarm. Pull yourself together.

With an effort she got down to some work. There was glossy literature distributed everywhere, and she scanned it quickly, absorbing everything with her retentive memory until she felt confident of being able to do what was expected of her. Then she plunged into the crowd, at her sparkling best.

After half an hour she took a short breather. Looking around for some refreshment she found a glass of champagne put into her hand by a lean young man with very blond looks and a kind face.

‘You look as if you need it, my darling,’ he said, a tad theatrically.

‘I do, I do,’ she said thankfully. ‘Bless you, Erik.’

He was an under manager at Elroys. They had been to the theatre together a few times and once she had taken him to meet her parents. Their relationship was as much friendly as romantic, but she knew that in the hotel they were considered an item.

‘Back to work,’ she said, finishing the champagne. ‘There’s a mountain to climb yet.’

She returned to the fray for more smiling and shaking hands, until after an hour she felt ready for another breather, and edged to the side of the room.

‘It gets to you, doesn’t it?’ said a voice beside her. She looked up to find the ‘life-guard’ grinning down at her. They laughed together, and it was as though she had been laughing with this charmer all her life.

‘You escaped alive, then?’ she said.

‘At last. He’s a dear old boy but he says everything ten times. My face muscles are frozen at “smile”.’

Close up he was even more overwhelming, towering over her like a friendly giant. Helen was suddenly glad that she looked her best tonight. She knew what the dark red dress could do for her, and if his admiring gaze was anything to go by it was doing it very nicely, thank you!

He gave a hunted glance over his shoulder and took her elbow. ‘Let’s get engaged in deep conversation before anyone else collars me.’

They drifted into one of the window bays and stood looking down the long canyon of Park Avenue, far below, glittering with lights.

‘Wow!’ he said softly.

‘Yes, it’s incredible, isn’t it?’ she said. ‘Is this your first trip to New York?’ She couldn’t quite place his accent beyond the fact that he wasn’t American.

‘It’s my first trip to the States,’ he said. ‘I’ve only been here two days and I’m overwhelmed.’

‘Sit down,’ Helen said, ‘and I’ll get you something to eat.’ She scooped up a collection of savouries from a table, refilled his glass, and settled thankfully on a sofa beside him.

‘That sigh told volumes,’ he said with a smile.

‘I didn’t sigh, did I?’

‘Like a woman who hadn’t sat down for a month. Have you been walking the streets? No! I didn’t mean it like that.’ He struck his forehead in horror, while Helen went into gales of laughter.

‘That’s what you say for ladies of easy virtue,’ he groaned. ‘I didn’t mean that at all, I just—oh, God!’

‘Ladies of easy virtue don’t waste time standing on street corners these days,’ Helen chuckled. ‘Not in New York, anyway. They have penthouses and mobiles. Some of them have social secretaries. Now I suppose you’re wondering how I know that?’

He pulled himself together. ‘Certainly not,’ he said with an attempt at dignity. ‘You’re a modern young woman with a wide knowledge of social conditions. And I wish I’d died before I opened my mouth.’

She would have forgiven him much for calling her a modern young woman. But no forgiveness was necessary. He delighted her.

The next moment he delighted her even more by putting his foot in it again, eyeing her identification badge and saying, ‘Besides, since you work here, you must meet all kinds of lady in the hotel—’

‘Not that kind of lady,’ Helen said virtuously. ‘The Elroy doesn’t allow them.’

This time he just covered his eyes in an attitude of despair. Helen regarded him with pleasure. He had reddened with confusion, and it made him look much younger than she guessed he was. Late twenties, she reckoned. Thirty, tops.

He uncovered his eyes, pulled himself together, and looked more closely at her badge. Something he saw there seemed to strike him, for he glanced at her in surprise. But before he could speak she refilled his glass and brought him some more to eat, trying to cover his confusion.

‘Are you going to be connected with the new Italian Restaurant?’ he asked, indicated a glossy brochure.

‘I don’t think so. I’m just here because Mr Dacre thinks of me as Italian, and it’s so unfair.’

‘Why is it unfair?’

‘Because it’s not true. I have an Italian name, which means that my parents are Italian, but I’m not. I can’t convince anybody of that—including them. I’m an American. I was born in Manhattan, I grew up in Manhattan, I’ve never set foot in Italy in my life. I have a career and my own apartment, but Mamma still says, “When are you going to settle down as a good wife to a nice Italian boy?”’

‘And what do you say?’ he asked, fascinated.

‘I say there’s no such thing as a nice Italian boy. They’re all like Poppa.’

‘And you don’t like your father?’

‘I adore him,’ Helen said truthfully. ‘I also adore my brothers, but I’ll go to the stake before I marry anyone like them. Honestly, they still think they’re back in the old country. And my brothers have never seen the old country.’

Indignation was bringing a sparkle to her eyes which turned them into pure magic, he thought. She should get mad more often. It suited her. But he knew better than to voice such an old-fashioned compliment. He didn’t want her wine poured over the shirt he’d bought only that afternoon. To draw her out he asked, ‘What part of Italy is the “old country”?’

‘Sicily,’ she said in tones of deep exasperation. ‘A land where “men are men and women know their place”. Would you believe, I’ve actually heard my father say that?’

‘Easily. If the men of Sicily are used to their privileges they’re not going to give them up without a fight.’

‘Well, I know how to fight too,’ she said darkly.

‘I’ll bet you do. If I was brave and foolhardy I might say that you show your Sicilian ancestry every time you open your mouth.’

‘What?’

‘I mean that Latin temper of yours. Pure southern Italian.’ Catching her wrathful eye on him, he added hastily, ‘But since I’m a coward I won’t say it.’

‘Very wise!’ Then she sighed and said, ‘I’m sorry. I go on about it too much, and I shouldn’t bend your ear. That’s not what you came here for.’

‘Isn’t it?’ he murmured. ‘I’m beginning to think that’s exactly what I came here for.’

Next moment a glamorous young woman detached herself from the crowd, flung an arm about his shoulders and planted a theatrical kiss on his mouth.

‘Bye, sweetie,’ she intoned breathily.

Helen recognised Angela Havering, a fellow trainee whom she’d never liked, she now realised. Angela bestowed a second kiss for good measure before floating off on the arm of another man.

‘I didn’t know you were so well acquainted with Angela,’ she observed.

‘Just met her this evening. Like you, really.’

‘But I don’t call you sweetie,’ she pointed out.

‘You can if you want to. Have a drink with me when this is over.’

She laughed and shook her head. ‘I can’t. I must be going soon. I have urgent things to do.’

‘Such as?’

‘Oooh—’ she mused, ‘really important things, like planning a slow, painful death for Lorenzo Martelli.’

There was a clatter as his glass hit the table and he struggled not to choke.

‘What happened?’ she asked.

‘Nothing,’ he said, gasping slightly. ‘My glass slipped. Why do you want to kill Lorenzo Martelli?’

‘Well, it’s either that or marry him.’

‘Is—is it?’ he asked, slightly wild-eyed.

‘In a few minutes I have to go and join a family party at my parents’ house, to meet this Martelli character. He’s a Sicilian, over here on a visit. His family and mine were friends years ago, so he can’t be in New York without looking us up.’

‘But why have you got to marry him?’

‘Because my parents have set their hearts on it.’

‘But if you haven’t met him—?’

‘It’s crazy, isn’t it? They fixed tonight up while I was in Boston, and all I heard were hints about what a fine match he was and how he was bound to be looking for a good Sicilian bride—’

‘Couldn’t he find one of those in Sicily?’

‘That’s what I said. The truth is, he’s probably so fat and ugly that he has to scour the world.’

He nodded wisely. ‘Bound to be. You’re right to make a stand.’

‘Anyway, they’re welcome to him. Tonight I’ll sit there good as gold saying “Yes, Poppa”, and “No, Poppa”, like the perfect, dutiful Italian daughter.’

‘Dutiful?’ he couldn’t resist saying. ‘You?’

‘They want dutiful, so I’ll give them dutiful with knobs on. I may want to kick Lorenzo Martelli’s shins, but I won’t do it. Not tonight, at any rate. If I have to see him a second time, I won’t answer for the consequences.’

‘Hey, c’mon, he’s not really to blame.’

‘He is to blame,’ Helen said firmly. ‘Simply by existing he darkens the earth, and I’ll be doing everyone a favour by exterminating him.’

He looked nervous. ‘Have you decided exactly how?’

‘Well, I thought of boiling in oil, but it’s probably too good for him.’

‘And very unimaginative.’

‘You’re right,’ she agreed. ‘Something with scorpions and spiders would be better.’

He shuddered.

‘Aren’t you being a bit hasty? You might fall for him and want to marry him.’

She gave him a speaking glance. ‘Death would be preferable,’ she said firmly. ‘Mine if necessary, but his for choice.’

‘Why have you got your knife into this guy? Is being Italian really so bad?’

‘Being an Italian man is like being the devil,’ she said firmly. ‘They’re old-fashioned, domineering, unreliable and faithless. Especially faithless.’

‘Why especially faithless? I mean, if you’re going to do them down, do them down on all counts, not just one.’

‘It’s the chief one. Do you know what they called Italian husbands? Married bachelors. It’s expected. A faithful husband is a considered a wimp. Creeps!’

‘But apart from that, you think they’re OK?’ he asked wryly.