Ruthlessly Bedded by the Italian Billionaire

‘He was the youngest of our four children. Your father, Alessandro—’ his grandfather sighed, shaking his head, still grieved by the loss of his eldest son ‘—he was my boy in every way. As you are, Dante.’

Yes, Dante thought. Even in looks, both he and his father had inherited Marco’s thick wavy hair, his deeply set dark-chocolate eyes, strong Roman nose, and the slight cleft centring their squarish chins.

‘Roberto…he was softer,’ his grandfather went on in a tone of rueful reminiscence. ‘It was obvious from early on he would not be a competitor like Alessandro, but he does well enough with his artistic talent. And Sophia, our first girl…we spoilt her, gave her too much, indulged her every whim. I cannot really blame her for the behaviour I now have to pay for. Then came Antonio…’

His eyes closed, as though the memory of his youngest son was still cloaked in darkness. It took a visible effort to speak of him. ‘He was a very bright child, mischievous, merry, given to creating amusing mayhem. He made us laugh. Isabella adored him. Of our four children, he looked most like her. He was…her joy.’

Dante heard the pain in every word and knew that Marco had shared his wife’s joy in the boy.

‘School was too easy for him. He wasn’t challenged enough. He looked for other excitement, adventures, parties, physical thrills, experimenting with drugs. I didn’t know about the drugs, but Isabella did. She kept it from me. When she died, Antonio confessed that she had been trying to make him stop and he had urged her to try the drug, to see for herself how marvellous it would make her feel and how completely harmless it was.’

His eyes opened and black derision flashed from them as he bitterly repeated, ‘Harmless…’

‘Tragic,’ Dante murmured, imagining the horror of discovering how his wife’s death had occurred, and the double grief his grandfather had suffered.

‘Antonio should have died, not my Isabella. So I made him dead as far as my world was concerned.’

Dante nodded sympathetic understanding. None of this had touched his life and he still felt somewhat stunned that so much had been kept totally suppressed by the family. No doubt it was a measure of his grandfather’s dominating and singularly ruthless power that not one word of the mother/son drug connection had leaked out, not privately nor publicly.

A mirthless little laugh gravelled from his grandfather’s throat. His eyes seemed to mock himself as he said, ‘I thought I might make peace with him. It’s bad enough for any man to have one son die before him. Losing Alessandro was…but at least I had you, my son’s son, filling that gap. Antonio was completely lost. And is completely lost. There can be no making peace with him.’

Dante frowned. ‘Do you mean…?’

‘I hired a firm of private investigators to find him, bring me news of the life he’d made for himself, information that would tell me if it was viable to set up a meeting between us. The owner of the firm called on me yesterday. Antonio and his wife died in a plane crash two years ago—a small private plane he was flying himself. Bad weather, pilot error…’

‘I’m sorry, Nonno.’

‘Too late for making peace,’ he muttered. ‘But he did leave a daughter, Dante. A daughter whom he named Isabella, after his mother, and I want you to fly to Australia and bring her here to me.’ His eyes suddenly blazed with a concentration of life. ‘I want you to do it, Dante, because I know you’ll do everything in your power to make her come with you. And there is so little time…’

‘Of course I’ll do it for you, Nonno. Do you know where she is?’

‘Sydney.’ His mouth twisted with irony. ‘She even works in the Venetian Forum we built there. You will have no trouble finding her.’ He leaned over, picked up a manila folder which was lying on the low table beside his chaise. ‘All the information you need is in here.’

He held it out and Dante took it.

‘Isabella Rossini…’ The name rolled off his grandfather’s tongue in a tone of deep longing. ‘BringAntonio’s daughter home to me, Dante. My Isabella would have wished it. Bring our grand-daughter home.…’

CHAPTER THREE

SATURDAY was always the best day for Jenny at the Venetian Forum. It had a carnival atmosphere with weekend crowds flocking to the morning markets set up on either side of the canal, staying on for lunch at the many restaurants bordering the main square. In their stroll around the stalls, people invariably paused to watch her drawing her charcoal portraits, many tempted to get one done of themselves or their children. She made enough money on Saturday to live on the entire week.

It was even better when it was sunny like today. Although it was only the beginning of September—the start of spring—it almost felt like summer, no clouds in the brilliant blue sky, no chilly wind, just lovely mild warmth that everyone could bask in while they looked at the marvellous array of Venetian masks, original jewellery, hand-painted scarves, individually blown-glass works of art—so many beautiful things to buy. The photographer was busy, too, taking shots of people on the Bridge of Sighs, or on their gondola rides. He wasn’t in competition with her. Hand-drawn portraits were different.

She finished one of a little boy, pocketed her fee from the pleased parents, then set herself up for the next subject in line, a giggly teenage girl who was pushed onto the posing chair by a couple of equally giggly girlfriends.

A really striking man stood to one side of them. Was he waiting his turn in the chair? Jenny hoped so. He had such a handsome face, framed by a luxuriant head of hair, many shades of brown—from caramel to dark chocolate—running through its gleaming thickness, and perfectly cut to show off its natural waves. It was a pity she couldn’t capture the colours in a charcoal portrait, but his face alone presented a fascinating challenge; the sharply angled arch of his eyebrows, the deeply set eyes, the strong lines of his nose and jaw with the intriguing contrast of rather full, sensual lips and a soft dimple centred at the base of his chin.

She kept sneaking glances at him as she sketched the girl’s portrait. He didn’t move away, apparently content to linger and observe her working. A very masculine man, she thought, taller than most and with a physique that seemed to radiate power.

He was dressed in expensive clothes, a good quality white shirt with a thin fawn stripe and well-cut fawn slacks. The fawn leather loafers on his feet looked like Italian designer shoes. A brown suede jacket was casually slung over one shoulder. She guessed his age at about thirty, mature enough to have made his mark in some successful business, and carrying the confidence of being able to achieve anything he wanted.

Definitely a class act, Jenny decided, and wondered if he was idling away some time before a luncheon date, probably at the most expensive restaurant in the forum. It was almost noon. She half-expected some beautiful woman to appear and pluck him away. Which would be disappointing, but people like him weren’t usually interested in posing for a street artist.

Gradually it sank in that he was studying her, not how she worked. It was weird, being made to feel an object of personal interest to this man. She caught his gaze roving around the chaotic volume of her dark curly hair, assessing the features of her face, which to her mind were totally unremarkable, skating down her loose black tunic and slacks to the shabby but comfortable black walking shoes she’d been wearing since breaking her ankle.

Hardly a bundle of style, she thought, wishing he’d stop making her self-conscious. She tried to block him out, concentrating on finishing the portrait of the teenager. Despite keeping her focus on her subject, her awareness of him did not go away. He remained a dominating presence on the periphery of her vision, moving purposefully to centre stage and taking the chair vacated by the teenager as the sale of the completed portrait was being transacted.

Jenny took a deep breath before resuming her own seat. Her nerves had gone all edgy, which was ridiculous. She’d wanted to draw this man, he was giving her the opportunity. Yet her hand was slightly tremulous as she picked up a fresh stick of charcoal, and the blank page on the easel suddenly seemed daunting. She had to steel herself to look directly at him. He smiled at her and her heart actually fluttered. The smile made him breathtakingly handsome.

‘Do you work here every day?’ he asked.

She shook her head. ‘Wednesday to Sunday.’

‘Not enough people here on Monday and Tuesday?’

‘Those days are usually slow.’

He tilted his head, eyeing her curiously. ‘Do you like this kind of chancy existence?’

She instantly bridled at this personal probe. It smacked of a much superior existence, which he had probably enjoyed all his life. ‘Yes, I do. I don’t have to answer to anyone,’ she said pointedly.

‘You prefer to be independent.’

She frowned at his persistence. ‘Would you mind keeping still while I sketch?’

In short, shut up and stop disturbing me.

But he wasn’t about to take direction from her. He probably didn’t take direction from anyone.

‘I don’t want a still-life portrait,’ he said, smiling the heart-fluttering smile again. ‘Just capture what you can of me while we chat.’

Why did he want to chat?

He couldn’t be attracted to her. It made no sense that a man like him would take an interest in a woman so obviously beneath his status. Jenny forced herself to draw the outline of his head. Getting his hair right might help her with the more challenging task of capturing his face.

‘Have you always wanted to be an artist?’ he asked.

‘It’s the one thing I’m good at,’ she answered, feeling herself tense up at being subjected to more curiosity.

‘Do you do landscapes as well as portraits?’

‘Some.’

‘Do they sell?’

‘Some.’

‘Where might I buy one?’

‘At Circular Quay on Mondays and Tuesdays.’ She flashed him an ironic look. ‘I’m a street vendor and it’s tourist stuff—the harbour, the bridge, the opera house. I doubt you’d be interested in buying.’

‘Why do you say that?’

‘I think a name artist would be more your style.’

He didn’t rise to the note of derision in her voice, affably remarking, ‘You might make a name for yourself one day.’

‘And you want the pleasure of discovering me?’ she mocked, not believing it for a moment and feeling more and more uneasy about why he was engaging in this banter with her.

‘I’m here on a journey of discovery.’

The whimsical statement teased her into asking, ‘Where are you from?’

‘Italy.’

She studied his face; smooth olive skin, definitely a Roman nose, and that sensual mouth seemed to have Latin lover written all over it. His being Italian was not surprising. As she started sketching his features, she commented, ‘If you wanted a taste of Venice, surely it would have been much easier to go there.’

‘I know Venice very well. My mission is of a more personal nature.’

‘You want to find yourself?’ she tossed at him flippantly.

He laughed. It gave his striking face even more charismatic appeal. Jenny privately bet he was a devil with women and wished she could inject that appeal into his portrait, but the vibrant expression was gone before she could even begin to play with it on paper. The sparkle in his eyes gave way to a look of serious intent—a look that bored into her as though determined on penetrating any defensive layer she could put between them.

‘I came for you, Isabella.’

His soft and certain use of her friend’s name shocked her into staring at him. How could he know it? She signed her portraits Bella, not Isabella. Her mind reeled back over this whole strange encounter with him; the fact that he didn’t fit her kind of clientele, his too-acute observation of her, his curiosity about her work, the personal questions. A sense of danger clanged along her nerves. Was she about to be unmasked as a fraud?

No!

He thought she was Bella. Which meant he hadn’t known her friend. He must have got the name from one of the stall-holders who knew her as Isabella Rossini. Was he playing some supposedly seductive pick-up game with her? But why would he?

‘I beg your pardon!’ she said with as much indignation as she could muster, hating the idea of him digging for information about her, and thinking he could get some stupid advantage from it.

He gestured an apology. ‘Forgive me for not being more direct in my approach. The estrangement in our family makes for a difficult meeting and I hoped to ease into it. My name is Dante Rossini. I’m one of your cousins and I’m here to invite you back to Italy for a reunion with all your other relatives.’

Jenny was totally stricken by this news. Bella had told her she had no family. There’d been no talk of any connections in Italy. But if there had been an estrangement, perhaps she’d never heard of them, believing herself truly orphaned by the plane crash which had killed her parents. On the other hand, was this man telling the truth? Even if he was, how would Bella have responded to it? No one from Italy had cared about her all these years. Why bother now?

Fear fed the burst of adrenaline that drove her to her feet. Fear chose the words that sprang off her tongue. ‘Go away!’

That jerked him out of his air of relaxed confidence.

Jenny didn’t wait for a response to her vehement command. She slammed down the stick of charcoal, ripped the half-done portrait off the easel, crumpled the sheet of paper up in her hands and threw it in the wastebin to punctuate an emphatic end to this encounter.

‘I don’t know what you want but I want no part of it. Just go away!’ she repe ated, her eyes stabbing him with fierce rejection as he rose from the chair, suddenly taking on the appearance of a formidable antagonist.

‘That I cannot do,’ he stated quietly.

‘Oh, yes you can!’ Her mind wildly seized on rein forcements. ‘If you don’t I’ll go to the forum management, tell them you’re harassing me.’

He shook his head. ‘They won’t act against me, Isabella.’

‘Yes, they will. They’re very tight with security.’

He frowned at her. ‘I thought you knew the Rossini family owns all the Venetian Forums. That you chose to buy one of our apartments here in Sydney because of the family connection.’

Her mind completely boggled. Had Bella known this? She had never mentioned it. And what did he mean…all the Venetian Forums? Was there a worldwide network of them? If so, the Rossini family had to be mega-wealthy and no one was going to take her side against this man. She was trapped on his territory.

‘I’ve already spoken to the management here about you,’ he went on. ‘If you need them to identify me, assure yourself that I am who I say I am, I’m happy to accompany you to the admin office…’

‘No! I’m not accompanying you anywhere!’ she almost shouted at him in panic.

Her raised voice attracted the attention of passers-by, including Luigi, the photographer, who dropped his hustling for clients to stroll over and ask, ‘Having trouble here, Bella?’

She couldn’t rope him in to help her, not against the man who had the management in his pocket. Luigi depended on his job here. The two men were eyeing each other over—both macho Italian males—and the bristling tension told her neither one of them was about to back down.

‘It’s okay, Luigi. Just a family fight,’ she said quickly. He would understand that. Her experience of working in the forum had taught her that all Italian families got noisy over a dispute and were best left to themselves to sort out the problem.

‘Well, tone it down,’ he advised. ‘You’ll be scaring customers away.’

‘Sorry,’ she muttered.

He shrugged and moved off, tossing an airy wave at Dante. ‘Make him take you to lunch. He looks as though he can afford it. A bit of vino…’

‘Excellent idea!’ her nemesis agreed. ‘I’ll help you pack up, Isabella.’

He turned and collected the folding chair he’d been sitting on before Jenny could say a word. She felt totally undermined by his arrogant confidence, helpless to fight the situation, yet desperate to escape it. He wasn’t family to her, and what had seemed a harmless deception—a temporary lifeline that would help her and not hurt anyone—was turning into a murky mess that she didn’t know how to negotiate.

‘Why turn up now? Why?’ she demanded of him as he carried the chair over to where she stood beside the easel.

‘Circumstances change.’ He flashed that smile again. At close quarters it probably made every woman go weak at the knees and Jenny was no exception. Dante Rossini had megawatt sex appeal. ‘Let me explain over lunch,’ he added, his dark-chocolate eyes warm enough to melt resistance, his voice a persuasive purr.

Her spine tingled. Her heart pounded in her ears. Her mind screamed danger. No way could she give in to the charm of the man. If she didn’t somehow extricate herself from this situation, it would lead to terrible trouble.

‘You’re too late,’ she blurted out. It was the truth. Bella was dead. But she couldn’t reveal that. ‘I don’t need you in my life. I don’t want you,’ she threw at him, wildly hoping he would accept that his mission was futile.

‘Then why set yourself up in the Venetian Forum?’ he shot at her, his eyes hardening with disbelief at her hysterical claims.

Bella had set her up. Confusion roared through Jenny. Had there been some artful plan behind her friend’s kindness in inviting her to share the apartment, getting her employed here by using the Rossini name? Had Bella imagined it might catch the attention of the forum management enough to mention it to the Rossini family?

Was I bait?

Her first meeting with Bella…the offer that had seemed too good to be true…wanting to believe luck had smiled on her for once. Jenny shook her head. It was all irrelevant now. She shouldn’t have stayed on, using Bella’s name, getting herself in this awful tangle.

‘Think what you like,’ she snapped at the cousin who’d come too late. ‘I’m out of here.’

She instantly busied herself, packing up the easel, her inner agitation making her hurry so much she fumbled and dropped the box of charcoal sticks. He swooped and picked it up, holding it out to her, making it impossible to completely ignore him. He was still holding her fold-up chair, as well.

‘Thanks,’ she muttered, snatching the box from him, stowing it in the carry-case.

‘I’m not about to go away, Isabella,’ he warned.

Her nerves quivered, sensing the relentless force of the man. With all that wealth and power behind him, he was undoubtedly used to people falling in with him. Being rebuffed and rejected would sting his ego, make him more persistent. It was imperative now to plan a disappearing act, get back to the apartment, pack only essentials, catch a bus, a train, a plane…anything that took her away. He wouldn’t look for Jenny Kent. She was of no interest to him.

The carry-case was ready to go. She folded up the stool she used when sketching, tucked it under one arm, then steeled herself to face Dante Rossini and put an end to this danger-laden meeting. It took all her willpower to lift her gaze to his and hold it steady as she spoke to him, pouring a tone of flat finality into her voice.

‘Don’t waste any more of your time. Isabella Rossini has not occupied any place in your family all these years and that isn’t about to change because you suddenly want it to.’ She held out her hand. ‘Just give me the chair and let me go.’

He shook his head, unable to come to grips with her stance, not about to accept it, either.

Jenny panicked at the thought of having to endure more argument from him. ‘Keep it then,’ she cried, her hand jerking in a wave of dismissal as she turned away and forced her trembling legs to march across the forum, heading for the elevator that would shut him out and take her up to the apartment he couldn’t enter.

The chair didn’t matter.

It would have to be left behind anyway.

The only way to disappear was to travel lightly, go fast and far, leaving no trace for anyone to pick up.

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