Page 5 of My Fake Italian Marriage

The woman did not smile back. She surveyed Cleo with a frigid look which suggested she found the visitor wanting. It was a look Cleo had encountered before, a look that said that even had she been wearing Manolos, she would still not belong in this elegant house with these elegant people—and it had nothing to do with being travel-rumpled from spending the better part of the day in a plane, train, and then a taxi.

But Cleo was not nineteen and easily cowed anymore. She straightened her back, re-arranged her face into her most business-like expression, and spoke to the man in the wheelchair: “I’m Cleo Arendse, and I’m here to meet with whoever is overseeing the winery’s operations until you recover.”

Though she wouldn’t have believed it possible, the woman’s expression turned even frostier. But it was the man in the wheelchair who spoke. “Please, take a seat.”

He waved for her to sit in the gilt armchair closest to his wheelchair. His other arm, she noticed, remained immobile in his lap. “As you can see, I am out of the hospital. There was no need for you to travel all the way from London.”

“With all due respect, being out of hospital and being able to resume full-time work are two very different things. Who is managing the winery in your absence?”

“Silvio is my farm manager. He can give you a tour of the estate.”

“There’s no need for a tour. I only need to speak to him about the current cash flow situation, how your … illness … has affected projected income, and then I’ll leave.”

“Silvio will not be able to help you with this.”

Cleo clasped her hands in her lap. This was ridiculous. She hadn’t expected him to roll out a red carpet for her, but she hadn’t expected to be stone-walled either. She wasn’t the enemy. Her company had given his vineyard a huge cash injection when they bought his company shares. Until Giovanni Fioravanti bought them out, they were partners. “Then I’ll need an office where I can conduct interviews with your management … or whoever handles your sales, distribution and finance.”

“You are looking at him.”

This was not good. No, it was far, far worse. “You do everything yourself?” She didn’t succeed in keeping the incredulity out of her voice.

Signor Fioravanti shrugged, an uneven movement that made him scowl at his own incapacity. “This is a family vineyard,” he said, as if that explained his lack of staff.

But this was not a small vineyard, and he was clearly not in any condition to be running a business this size. Perhaps it would be best if Kevin cut his losses and put the vineyard on the market. But Sarah wouldn’t be happy with that.Tread carefully, she’d said when Cleo called her.They’re our neighbours, and we don’t want even more enmity between the two farms than there is already.

For Sarah’s sake, she needed to give Giovanni Fioravanti a chance. “You must have someone running the business while you recover?”

The old man smiled. At least she assumed it was a smile. “My son, Luca, will be here soon.”

Oh snap. Now she wouldn’t be able to avoid the arrogant arse.

The elegant woman stirred. “May we offer you a drink? Coffee, tea, or lemonade?”

“Tea would be lovely, thank you.” Did they know how to make a decent cup of English tea in Italy? Cleo prayed it would be drinkable. She needed it to soothe the butterflies that were doing the polka in her stomach again.

The woman rang a bell, one of those old-fashioned rope bells Cleo had only ever seen in National Trust houses, then arranged herself on the sofa opposite Cleo. Even seated, the older woman’s back remained ramrod straight. Cleo envied her composure. Inside her tailored blazer, she’d started to sweat. Why had no one warned her April could be this warm in Italy?

She edged the buttons of the blazer open, but it didn’t provide much relief. She hated to think what the humidity was doing to her hair, which was frizzy even at the best of times. It was hard to be taken seriously as a business woman when one looked like a wilder version of little orphan Annie.

“You have a beautiful house,” Cleo said politely.

Signora Fioravanti inclined her perfectly coiffed head, but clearly small talk wasn’t going to be an option, and the silence stretched taut, the passage of time marked only by the ticking of the clock on the mantelpiece above the enormous marble hearth. When the door opened again, Cleo turned in relief, but it wasn’t the homely housekeeper with the much-needed tea. It was theGQmodel.

Luca Fioravanti wore the kind of expensive tailored suit that would have been right at home on the pages of a fashion magazine. He appeared older than in the photograph on the piano, but the perfectly mussed dark hair and expressive dark eyes were the same. The lines crinkling around his eyes suggested he didn’t take life too seriously. In person, he didn’t look quite so perfect, prevented from being just another characterless “pretty boy” by a pair of bushy eyebrows. Unfortunately, they added character and made him even better-looking. Undeniably masculine, and a little predatory.

“Someone left a suitcase on the stairs,” he said testily, wrangling her suitcase through the door. At least, that was what Cleo guessed he said, since he’d spoken in Italian. The only words she recognised were “le scale”. Stairs.

She couldn’t blame him for his annoyance. The suitcase was inconveniently large and unwieldy. As usual, she’d packed way more clothes than necessary for a weekend trip, but she liked to be prepared for every eventuality.

His chiselled features were set in a scowl he’d clearly inherited from his father. Then his gaze settled on Cleo, his eyes widened, and he smiled. “The banker is a woman?” Again in Italian, but she needed no help with this translation.No shit, Sherlock. Hasn’t the 21stcentury arrived in this corner of Tuscany yet?She pressed her lips tight.

“My son, Luca.” Giovanni Fioravanti narrowed his eyes at his son. “He is not usually so lacking in manners.”

Luca abandoned the suitcase by the door and stepped forward. His smile deepened, revealing dimples in his cheeks. Thank heavens Evan had cured her of her addiction to hot, self-centred men. That smarmy charm wasn’t going to work on her anymore.

She rose, hoping her expression didn’t betray her distaste. “I’m Cleo Arendse.” She’d have preferred not to touch him, but he held out a hand and she couldn’t refuse without being rude. Braced as she was to dislike him, the frisson of electricity when their palms touched took her by indignant surprise. Wasn’t that just her luck! She could go on a million dates and not feel an ounce of chemistry, but the moment an arrogant, entitled charmer came within touching distance, there was more chemistry than in a periodic chart.

She glanced up, her gaze meeting his with a jolt. His eyes were dark, so dark they appeared black. They might have looked intimidating, if it weren’t for the fact that he seemed to be laughing at her.

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