Page 11 of My Fake Italian Marriage

The last group of women were those who were easily impressed, who looked in awe at the house’s excesses. “Village girls and servants,” his father had said with contempt. “And only good for one thing.”

Gio had fallen in love with one of those “village girls”. And then he’d committed the cardinal sin of marrying her, and been excommunicated from the family for his disobedience. Luca did not intend to make the same mistake.

Fortunately, he wasn’t the falling in love type.

Which category would Cleo fall into? He couldn’t quite place her. She was like a raw diamond that had been polished to a smooth finish. Would she be awed by the grandeur of the formal apartments, or would she look as if she belonged?

He studied her reactions as he led her from room to room, through the reception rooms with their displays of antiques and priceless tapestries, the little yellow salon that was his mother’s domain, to the small music room and the library, rooms that were only used for entertaining these days.

But Cleo was impossible to read. She showed polite interest, the kind of practical detachment that suggested she wasn’t a stranger to wealth, but when he led her into the ballroom, with its high, painted ceiling and ornate chandelier, she gasped, her eyes going big and round.

“You grew up here?” she asked breathlessly. Her lapse in composure gave him hope. Village girls were by far the easiest conquests. They could be sweet-talked and manipulated. Maybe he still had a chance to win her around and enlist her support in preserving the vineyard long enough for Gio to come home and take his rightful place.

He grinned. “This is a great room to play football in when the weather’s bad.”

Her awed gaze travelled down from the overhead chandelier, over the long French windows with views over the terraced gardens, to the ornately patterned parquet floor, before finally returning to him. She swallowed, and he smiled at that unconscious giveaway. Yes, handled right, Cleo Arendse could be an easy conquest, and maybe this day wouldn’t be a write-off after all.

“Aren’t there anynormalrooms?” she asked.

“What do you mean by normal?”

“A kitchen, a laundry room, a TV den?”

He shrugged. “The entertainment rooms are downstairs. But the kitchen is Pierina’s territory, and she’s very protective of her space. If you need anything, you can ring from your room and she’ll send it up.”

Her face hardened. “There is no way I will ask your staff to run up and down the stairs to wait on me.”

“Suit yourself. But don’t say you weren’t warned.”

He led her up the sweeping marble staircase to the main bedroom level. The West Bedroom lay at the furthest end of the house from his parents’ wing. It overlooked the kitchen courtyard, and the windows were smaller than those at the front of the house. He suspected Cleo wouldn’t realise these more modest accommodations were an intentional slight.

“It’s still light outside. Would you like a tour of the gardens?” he offered, leaning against the door jamb. “They are famous, and we open them to the public only a few times a year.”

She shook her head, setting her wild curls bouncing, and angled herself behind the door, using it as a barrier between them. “Thank you, but no. I have work to do before dinner.”

Hadn’t she had enough of work for the day? He certainly had.

He leaned forward, into her space, and watched with satisfaction as her pupils dilated and her breath hitched. “Don’t be late for dinner.”

“I won’t.” She pushed against the door, effectively shutting it on him, and he had to leap back to avoid his expensive leather shoes getting caught under it. Then the door slammed shut, and he found himself on the wrong side of it. An odd, discordant sensation jarred through him, and he frowned as he identified it. Rejection. She wasn’t going to be an easy conquest after all.

Blowing out a frustrated breath, he headed downstairs to the basement gym. Since he wasn’t able to blow off steam at football practice, he needed another way to work off the day’s unpleasant discoveries.

ChapterSix

L’onestà è la miglior politica.

(Honesty is the best policy.)

Left alone in what looked more like a hotel suite than a guest room in a private home, Cleo let out a shaky breath and took in her temporary new home. It was elegant, tastefully decorated in stark black and white, with a high-beamed ceiling and smooth-tiled floor, but it lacked the welcoming comfort of the guest bedroom at Sarah’s villa a few miles away.

Her first order of business, as she unpacked the meagre wardrobe she’d brought with her and hung it into the lavender-scented closet, was to phone Sarah.

“How did the Fioravantis take the news that you’ll be their house guest for two whole weeks?” Sarah asked once she’d been filled in.

Cleo sighed. “I haven’t told them yet. They don’t want me here.” The old hurt, which she’d believed had long ago scarred over, throbbed fresh as she said the words.

“It won’t be so bad,” Sarah reassured her. “The next couple of weeks will fly by, and you’ll be home before you know it. I’m just sorry Tommaso and I won’t be attending this year’s Lario show. We’d have so much fun there together! But I’ll fetch you for Sunday lunch. You don’t plan to work on Sunday?”

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