Bound By The Billionaire's Vows

“I have a condition...”

Can she agree to her husband’s terms?

When heiress Skye learns her marriage to Matteo was built on lies, she demands a divorce. A pawn in his revenge, Skye’s heart shattered when she discovered her husband’s game. The clock is ticking; she needs his signature. But Matteo is not willing to let Skye go so easily—the price of her freedom is one last night together!

CLARE CONNELLY was raised in small-town Australia among a family of avid readers. She spent much of her childhood up a tree, Mills & Boon book in hand. Clare is married to her own real-life hero and they live in a bungalow near the sea with their two children. She is frequently found staring into space—a surefire sign that she is in the world of her characters. She has a penchant for French food and ice-cold champagne, and Mills & Boon novels continue to be her favourite ever books. Writing for Modern Romance is a long-held dream. Clare can be contacted via clareconnelly.com or at her Facebook page.

Also by Clare Connelly

Bought for the Billionaire’s Revenge

Innocent in the Billionaire’s Bed

Her Wedding Night Surrender

Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk.

Bound by the Billionaire’s Vows

Clare Connelly

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ISBN: 978-1-474-07242-7

BOUND BY THE BILLIONAIRE’S VOWS

© 2018 Clare Connelly

Published in Great Britain 2018

by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

By payment of the required fees, you are granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right and licence to download and install this e-book on your personal computer, tablet computer, smart phone or other electronic reading device only (each a “Licensed Device”) and to access, display and read the text of this e-book on-screen on your Licensed Device. Except to the extent any of these acts shall be permitted pursuant to any mandatory provision of applicable law but no further, no part of this e-book or its text or images may be reproduced, transmitted, distributed, translated, converted or adapted for use on another file format, communicated to the public, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of publisher.

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www.millsandboon.co.uk

For Arlene, who is courage, strength

and resilience personified.

Not to mention a very dear friend.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

About the Author

Booklist

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

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

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

EPILOGUE

Extract

About the Publisher

PROLOGUE

Six years earlier

‘CAN YOU SEE IT, Matteo?’

The newspapers loved to say that Matteo Vin Santo didn’t have a heart, but they were wrong.

Observing his grandfather lying weak and pale against the ordinary hospital bed-sheets was making that very organ clutch and grip painfully. The certainty that the man had only hours left to live was ripping it apart completely.

‘See what, Nonno?’

‘Nonno?’ Alfonso Vin Santo smiled, but his lips were chapped and the pain turned the instinctive gesture into a wince. ‘You haven’t called me that in a long time.’

Matteo didn’t respond. His eyes fell to his grandfather’s hands. Hands that had shaped a corporate empire; hands that had been at the helm during its demise. He looked away, focusing on the uninspiring view of the outskirts of Florence.

‘See the water? You always loved the way the sun bounced off it, no?’

Matteo’s eyes swept shut. Though they were in a linoleum-floored hospital room, he pictured exactly what his grandfather was seeing. The view from the terrace of Il Grande Fortuna, the hotel they’d once owned in Rome, overlooking the Tiber in one direction and the Vatican in the other.

Anger—a familiar response when he thought of the hotel—churned his gut. It was fierce in that moment, so fierce it almost took his breath away.

‘Yes. It’s beautiful.’

‘It is more than beautiful. It is perfect.’ Alfonso sighed and then a ghost flickered across his face. A moment of clarity that brought with it pain. ‘It was my fault.’

‘No, Nonno.’ Matteo didn’t mention that bastard Johnson’s name. There was no need to hurt his grandfather further at the end of his life. But he was the man who was to blame. He was the cause of Alfonso’s sadness now—him and his stubborn refusal to sell the hotel back. A refusal he’d taken with him to the grave.

But Matteo could fix it.

He would fix it.

‘I will get it back for you,’ he said, and the words were spoken with such soft determination that it wasn’t clear if Alfonso had even heard. It didn’t matter, though.

The promise was one Matteo made to himself as much as the old man.

No matter what, no matter how, he would return the hotel to his family.

At any cost.

CHAPTER ONE

‘DO YOU HAVE an appointment?’

An appointment? With her own husband? Skye clutched her handbag tighter, thinking of the divorce papers contained within the soft kid-leather. A hint of perspiration ran between her breasts and she shifted uncomfortably. Though the luxurious foyer was well air-conditioned, Skye had been sweltering since touching down at Marco Polo airport earlier that day. Travel weariness, and the exhaustion that had dogged her since walking out on her marriage to Matteo, combined to give her a sense of overwhelming desperation at the task ahead.

‘Signor Vin Santo has a full afternoon. I’m sorry,’ the receptionist murmured, her expression offering no corresponding apology. If anything, it was all manicured smugness.

Skye’s voice was soft when she spoke, weakened by the difficulty of what lay ahead. Divorce was essential—and it had to be now. She’d go to almost any lengths to get Matteo to agree easily. She needed his signature on these papers so she could get the hell out of Italy. Before he discovered the truth. ‘If you tell Matteo I’m here, I’m sure he’ll cancel whatever he has on.’

The receptionist’s disdain was barely concealed. ‘Signorina...?’

Skye’s own smile reflected the other woman’s emotion. It was a common mistake. Skye was only twenty-two and she was often told she looked younger still. The make-up she’d applied painstakingly that morning had sweated off throughout the day, and she stood in the impossibly glamorous offices feeling as out of place as she had been in their marriage. Nonetheless, she had a right to be there. A reason. She tilted her chin, staring down at the receptionist as though this weren’t the culmination of all her nightmares.

‘Signora,’ Skye corrected emphatically. ‘Signora Skye Vin Santo.’

Skye had the satisfaction of seeing the other woman’s mouth form a perfect red ‘o’ of surprise, but she recovered swiftly, reaching for the telephone and lifting it to her ear. Her eyes dropped to Skye’s finger and Skye was glad she’d slipped the ten-carat solitaire back into place for the day. ‘Mi dispiace! I’m so sorry, Mrs Vin Santo,’ the receptionist said, pressing a button and waiting for the phone to connect. ‘I had no idea Signor Vin Santo was married.’

Skye’s nod was dismissive, but the words cut deeply. Why should this woman have known of her boss’s marital status? It wasn’t as though they’d been married long. Skye had walked out on him after just over a month. A month too long.

How had she been so fooled by him even for that period of time? Hell, why had she even married him? That was easy. Out of nowhere, an unwelcome image of Matteo flooded her mind’s eye, reminding her of how he’d been the evening they’d met. In a cocktail suit, so handsome and charming, so intent on seducing her. She’d been so easy to seduce and he’d been so persistent. Fate, she’d told herself at the time. Lies, she’d later discovered. All of it.

She heard the rapid-fire Italian conversation without comprehending. Her eyes were fixed to the view of Venice, a city she’d once adored with all of herself. A city she’d thought she’d spend the rest of her days in. She hardened her heart to its charms now, ignoring the way the gondolas glided past, full of grace and pride; the way the water formed glistening little sunlit peaks and troughs as it was stirred by the activity. She ignored the way the ancient buildings huddled together, singing the secrets of their souls, the way the bridges seemed to emote wisdom and strength. She ignored the dazzling colour of the sky and the birds she could see but not hear—she didn’t need to hear them to remember the way they sounded. The flapping of their wings was the breath sound of Venice.

It was beautiful, but it was no longer for her. Skye spun round, glad to turn her back on the view, even when it meant she was staring at the disdainful receptionist once more. The woman stood—she was taller than Skye had been able to appreciate while seated—and made her way to stand directly in front of Skye.

‘Signor Vin Santo will see you now. Is there something you would like? Some water? A soda?’

Vodka, Skye thought with a wry smile. ‘Mineral water would be good. Thank you,’ she tacked on belatedly. She hadn’t meant to sound rude. Her whole mind was now focused on the job ahead. The most important performance of her life. Getting Matteo to sign the damned papers so she could finally move on—far, far away from him.

‘Certainly, madam. This way.’ The receptionist moved a little ahead of Skye, swishing her hips as she went, and Skye felt a momentary jab of envy for the other woman’s curves. Skye had always been slim, but she’d desperately wanted larger breasts and hips when she was younger and had spent much of her teenage years stuffing her bras with tissues.

‘Here we are,’ the receptionist smiled, noticeably warmer now she knew to whom she was speaking, and stepped aside. ‘He’s waiting for you.’

Why did that conjure a very strong image of a wolf?

Because Matteo was all predator. All strong, ruthless, heartless predator.

And she’d been his prey.

Well, that was no longer the case.

Skye squared her shoulders defiantly, mentally bracing herself and straightening her spine, sucking in a deep breath which she hoped would bring courage.

Still, nothing could have prepared her for that moment. The moment when the door swung open and Matteo stood just inside it.

Nothing.

The air ceased to exist; it was sucked out and she stood in a vacuum. A space devoid of oxygen, gravity, reason and sense. There was just her and Matteo, her husband. Her beautiful, hyper-masculine, ruggedly handsome, lying, cheating husband.

Her throat was dry, her nerves quivering.

Strength be damned.

She wanted to run at him. But to kiss him? Or claw his eyes out? Probably, she realised with a sinking heart, the former. She wanted to wrap her arms around his neck and pull his head down, pull his mouth to hers, to greet him as though she still believed in love and happily ever after.

He looked good enough to eat. It was pure coincidence that he was wearing the suit she’d always loved—the navy-blue one that drew attention to his broad shoulders and dark tan. Her eyes lifted to his face: his square jawline with the stubble that was nothing to do with fashion and everything to do with his impatience with something as dull as shaving; higher, to his generous lips and patrician nose; to cheekbones that were firm and high, slashed into his face in a sign of his determination; and eyes that were so dark they were almost black but for the flecks of gold that glistened in their depths.

Eyes that were staring at her now, undertaking their own inspection, running down her body with the kind of passion and possession she had, once upon a time, found mesmerising and addictive. Eyes that missed nothing, that skated over her stiletto-clad feet, higher to her slim, bare legs and the floaty dress she wore that fell to just above her knees and covered her in a mysterious cloud of pale yellow fabric. Her arms were bare; he caught a glimpse of her wedding ring and grimaced.

Good.

Let him feel the awkwardness of this.

His eyes lifted higher to her face, roaming it freely...marking it for changes?

There were not many. In fact, Skye would have said she looked almost exactly as she had five weeks earlier when she’d left their house, their marriage, their life. All of her changes were internal, except for the heavy fringe she’d had cut a week or so earlier, having decided spontaneously that she needed a change. Some outward sign that she was no longer the same woman who’d been caught up in the Matteo Vin Santo Show.

She had grown up—a lot—in the short space of time. She barely recognised the woman she’d been. So naïve, stupid and so damned trusting!

‘Thank you for seeing me,’ she said, breaking the silence with a businesslike tone, pleased with how crisply she enunciated each syllable. ‘I won’t take up much of your time.’

Ah, how well she knew him! She saw the glint of sardonic mockery in his eyes and she resented him for that. His ability to make her feel foolish and immature even in this, the most adult of circumstances.

He said nothing, though, simply stepping deeper into the room, making room for her to enter his office. She did so with no degree of pleasure. She’d been in the room before, and her eyes fell to the table, taking in the very spot where she’d sat and started to sign the papers. The papers that had been the beginning of the end.

‘You don’t love me, do you?’ She stared at the documents and then her husband as all the pieces of information came together. ‘I asked my lawyer about this. He told me everything. You. My dad. The whole sordid history. This is why you married me!’

His surprise was obvious and it infuriated Skye.

‘You really didn’t think I’d find out? You didn’t think I’d ask about this?’ She waved the contract in the air. ‘It’s all been about this damned hotel, hasn’t it? A hotel my dad bought from your grandfather. A hotel you’ve been trying to buy back for fifteen years. My God! This is what our marriage is all about!’

Silence stretched between them. Silence that pulled, pulled and pulled at her nerve-ends until they snapped.

‘We should talk about this later,’ he said seriously. ‘Just sign the papers and we’ll go for dinner tonight.’

‘Don’t.’ She slammed her palm down on the table. ‘Don’t you dare infantilise me! I deserve to know the truth. I want to hear it from your own mouth. This hotel is why you came to London. Why you met me. Right?’

His eyes narrowed and for a moment she wondered if he would say something to make this better, to alleviate the pain that was cracking through her soul.

‘Yes.’

Skye’s heart shook in her chest. She gripped the chair-back for support. ‘And why you married me?’

He was quiet for a long moment; it was a silence that tore her to shreds. And then he gave a simple, decisive nod that was the death knell to the fragile hopes she still held deep inside.

The memories were swirling through her, threatening to suck her back in time, but the door clicking shut jolted her into the present.

They were alone.

‘Well, Skye, this is...unexpected.’

Her heart thumped painfully in her chest, ramming against her ribcage. God, his accent. How had she forgotten the sensual appeal of his husky, deep, Italian-edged voice?

Be strong. This will be over soon enough.

‘You must have known I’d come back at some point,’ she said with a shrug of her slender shoulders, pleased with how confident the words sounded, even as her fingers were shaking a little.

‘I knew no such thing,’ he countered. His accent was thicker—a sign of his fury, she knew. It was only in moments of deep emotional distress that this happened. ‘You disappeared into thin air after you left my office without so much as the courtesy of a goodbye.’

Skye’s caramel eyes flew wide. ‘Courtesy? You want to talk about courtesy?’

His eyes narrowed warningly. ‘I want to talk about where the hell you’ve been.’

‘Like you care,’ she said with a roll of her eyes.

‘My wife disappeared, leaving no way to contact her. You think I don’t care?’

‘This is all about acquisition and ownership for you, isn’t it? Your wife.’ She shook her head angrily, realising that she was fighting a losing battle. ‘I was in England,’ she said on a sigh.

‘Not at your house,’ he said, and for a second her heart squeezed. Because it was proof he’d looked for her. Proof he’d tried to find her.

‘No.’ A rejection of that tenderness.

She knew why he’d looked for her and it had nothing to do with their sham marriage. He must have been furious to discover that she’d cancelled his purchase. That she’d found out about the pieces he’d been casually, secretly, manoeuvring through their short, disastrous marriage. Had he thought he could keep her so sensually fogged that she wouldn’t wake up and realise what the hell was going on? He had almost been right. He’d come so close to taking the hotel from her without her even realising.

‘Where were you?’ he pushed, his own words hardened with something she knew to be anger. Because Matteo Vin Santo liked to win. He liked to win at all costs, and she’d found out just in time.

‘It’s none of your damned business.’ She glared at him now, the veneer of civility slipping away. She tried to grab it but being here with him, in this room, overpowered by how damned handsome he was, made something inside her snap.

‘You’re my wife,’ he corrected, moving closer so that she caught a hint of his masculine fragrance. Her knees almost buckled. ‘I have every right to know.’

But it was the wrong thing to say. His casual insistence of his rights fired every hint of anger in her body. ‘That’s outrageous.’ Her eyes held the strength of steel when they locked with his. ‘You have no rights. Not where I’m concerned.’

A muscle throbbed at the base of his jaw. ‘You’re my wife.’ As though that explained everything!

‘That’s what I’m here to talk to you about,’ Skye asserted forcefully in an attempt to regain control of the situation, reaching for her handbag at the same moment a sharp knock on the door preceded the interruption of the receptionist.

She brought a bottle of mineral water and a glass with ice cubes and a wedge of lemon into the room and placed them on the boardroom table.

‘Thank you,’ Skye murmured, relieved to have a form of distraction. She hoped it might calm her raging nerves. She twisted the lid, waiting for the hiss of bubbles to silence and the receptionist to leave the room, before tipping half the water into the glass.

‘What, exactly, are you here to discuss?’ he prompted, crossing his arms over his chest. She didn’t need to look at him to know how broad that chest was. She lifted her mineral water and moved towards the window instead, staring down at Venice without really seeing it.

‘Our marriage.’ The words were a ghost. They conjured all the memories she wanted to forget.

The love-at-first-sight romance. The wedding itself. The way their marriage had been marked by nights of complete sensual abandon. Long days of waiting for him to come home hadn’t mattered. She’d been so exhausted she’d napped and eaten, preparing for his return, and then she’d been his willing sex slave. Self-disgust at her stupidity gnawed at her gut.

She twisted the enormous diamond around her finger before sliding it off one last time. ‘And how we’re going to end it.’ She spun round, her back to the view, her eyes landing squarely on his face, locking to his. She bravely held his gaze as she placed the ring on the boardroom table, then hastily stepped away from it as though it might burn her.

His expression was grim, but he said nothing initially. There was no shock. No outrage. No attempt to argue. To win her back.

Because it had never really been about her.

It had been about him, his grandfather, her father, and some stupid hotel she’d never even heard of. A vendetta that she knew nothing about which seemed to have controlled the lives of all those she’d loved. Her father, her husband...

Skye straightened her back, wounded pride forming the shield she needed.

‘I have the divorce papers here,’ she said softly. ‘You just need to sign them and I’ll take care of the rest.’

He expelled a breath; his expression gave little away. ‘Show me.’

Skye could scarcely believe how well this was going! She’d been fretting about meeting Matteo again, yet he was being so reasonable... She told herself she was relieved.

‘Here.’ She pulled the document out of her handbag. It was only five pages long. She passed it to him, careful not to get too close, careful not to let their fingers touch.

His eyes, when they met hers, were scathing. He knew. He knew she was avoiding him.

He skimmed each sheet of paper, reading the words quickly, then placed them on the edge of his desk.

‘And if I don’t want to divorce you?’

Skye froze, the success she’d already been inwardly celebrating shattering. Her face drained of all colour. ‘Don’t be absurd.’ The words were whispered from her before she remembered that she needed to be strong. Confident. Matteo preyed on weakness.

‘What’s absurd about wanting to stay married to you?’

And he strode across the room, closing the distance between them, his eyes locked to hers until she was quivering where she stood. Strength, apparently, deserted her at her moment of need.