Page 25 of My Fake Italian Marriage

“It’s not you, it’s him. He’s a Stringer.”

When she raised an eyebrow, he explained. “A man who strings women along. He likes to have a woman in his life—or his bed—but won’t commit until he absolutely has to.”

“Is that what you do?”

He laughed. “I don’t string women along. I’m honest up front that she should expect nothing from me but a good time.” Maybe he was a stereotype, but he was no heartbreaker. “He was a fool to let you go.”

She shook her head, not believing him. No doubt she thought he was merely flattering her. He gripped the steering wheel tighter as unexpected anger surged through him. What kind of man made a woman feel she wasn’t good enough? All women were unique and beautiful in their own ways, and this woman was certainly attractive, intelligent, and surprising. “How long ago did you break up?”

“Six months, eight days and a handful of hours, give or take.”

Recent enough for the hurt still to be fresh. He resisted the urge to squeeze her hand where it lay on her thigh. He was a sucker for a damsel in distress, but Cleo Arendse was a strong woman, and didn’t need his help. So he kept his hands on the steering wheel and dropped the subject.

* * *

It was late afternoon when they arrived at their hotel, a converted eighteenth-century villa set in lush green gardens on the shore of the glacier lake. Luca stretched as he climbed out the car, pausing to breathe in the crisp mountain air. Their arrival was greeted by a burst of sun through the clouds, turning the lake from grey to blue, and bringing out the vivid pinks of the oleander bushes surrounding the car park.

Though they’d arrived a day early, the car park was brimming over with cars, and on their short walk from the car to the reception desk, they were stopped by no less than three people Luca knew, all querying after his father’s health.

“Bringing you into the family business at last, is he?” asked Vincenzo, a vintner from Piedmont. Luca smiled politely but said nothing.

“Is this your girlfriend?” another asked.

“Cleo’s here from London,” he replied, deliberately evading the truth, and grateful she didn’t understand enough Italian to follow the exchange. While her presence—and her sharp business brain—would be an asset at the show, he’d prefer that word did not get out that she was representing an outside investor that now owned a controlling stake in the vineyard. It was bad enough everyone in Montalcino knew, but they were his community and had his back. Here, he could not be so sure of support. With her passion for honesty, he suspected Cleo wouldn’t appreciate even that small deception.

At last, they made it to the reception desk.

“Luca Fioravanti,” he said to the desk clerk. “I booked a suite.”

The clerk turned to her computer screen, as an older man with slicked-back hair and dressed in a navy suit stepped out of the back office. “Signor Fioravanti, it is a pleasure to have you with us again. We haven’t seen you here in too long. I am sorry to hear your father is ill. We will miss him this year.”

“Graziano, it’s good to see you again.” Luca clasped the hotel manager’s hand. “My father is truly sorry he cannot be here.”

Graziano beamed. “And this lovely woman is your wife?”

Cleo gasped, and Luca turned to look at her. Her face was pale, and her hand had flown to her throat.

He followed her wide-eyed gaze to see a couple emerging from the restaurant across the lobby, a snappily dressed, fair-haired man with his arm around a petite blonde in a sedate sage-green dress. They were a beautiful couple, and their clothing screamed “designer”, but Luca didn’t recognise them, so perhaps they weren’t celebrities.

Cleo turned away, ducking her head as if she could make herself invisible.

“Cleo? Is that you?”

She straightened her shoulders, lifted her chin, and faced the approaching couple. “Hello, Evan. Fancy seeing you here.”

The Arse. Luca was familiar enough with British slang to know what the term meant, and as the man leaned in to give Cleo a proprietary kiss, he understood why she called him that.

“This is unexpected.” Evan looked her up and down, heat in his eyes as he took in the way the teal dress clung to her curves. “What are you doing here?”

Cleo adjusted her glasses self-consciously. The nervous gesture brought out Luca’s most protective instincts, and he stepped closer in a show of moral support.

“We’re here for the wine show,” Cleo answered. “And you?”

“He surprised me with a romantic weekend away,” the blonde answered for him.

Evan cleared his throat, not with unease, but as if preparing to make an announcement. “Cleo, this is my fiancée, Lady Katherine Herbert-Smythe.”

Six months and eight days, Cleo had told him, and her ex, the ex who hadn’t wanted to commit, was already engaged to another woman. A woman he clearly wasn’t embarrassed to be seen in public with, judging by the way he presented her—like a prize he’d won.

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