Page 10 of My Fake Italian Marriage

As his father had pointed out in the hospital, everything they had, everything Luca had, depended on the vineyard’s success. He hadn’t known until today how bad things had become at the vineyard, or how entwined the family’s finances were with the vineyard. It wasn’t only the winery at risk, but the entire estate, their home, their income, his more-than-comfortable lifestyle. They needed more than the bank to look the other way while Giovanni recuperated. They needed someone to turn the business around, and that person certainly wasn’t him.

He sneaked a glance at Cleo as she worked her way through an audit report that had left him nauseous.

She looked nothing like any investment banker he’d ever imagined. Everything about her was big and bold: big, bouncy, cinnamon-brown curls, generous curves, a wide mouth painted bright red. His first impression had been of bouncy energy and constant motion, but her enthusiasm had definitely flagged as the afternoon wore on.

What had that mysterious phone call been about? Had Cleo’s boss already made the fatal decision? She gave nothing away, though Luca had tried his trademark smile, flattered her, and given all the non-verbal body cues that suggested interest and attention. He’d even listened patiently as she droned on about inflationary considerations, as if he were a rookie and not a lawyer who’d graduated top of his class from one of Italy’s oldest universities.

Tempted as he was to be blunt and ask her outright what she intended to do, his father would not be happy if he didn’t make every attempt to charm her on to their side. And Luca had spent a lifetime keeping his father happy.

When she finally set aside the audit report and rose from the desk, stretching and rolling her neck, he sent up a prayer of thanks. If he hurried, he could drop her back at the house and still make football practice. That would ease the tension headache gathering at the base of his skull, and then he could think, come up with a plan for how to deal with her tomorrow.

He drove her back to the main house and walked her to the front door.

“You’re not staying?” she asked, when he said goodbye.

“No, I am going into town.”

She looked relieved.You and me both,carina.

“A hot date?” She smiled for the first time since they’d discovered the vineyard’s financial state of affairs.

He shrugged as the front door opened to reveal his mother. She waved Cleo inside, and Luca blew out a breath of relief. Duty done, now it was time to play. He was halfway down the stairs when his mother called him back. “Where are you going?”

“Football practice.”

She rolled her eyes. Since he’d already seen that expression at least three times this afternoon on Cleo’s face, it had ceased to have any effect. “Your father will want you to stay for dinner.”

He knew it was childish, but he pouted. “Don’t I get time off for good behaviour?”

A flicker of a smile softened her face. “Then will you do it for me? Our guest won’t want to spend the evening making conversation with us.”

He didn’t think their guest wanted to spend the evening making conversation with him either, but how could he resist when his mother asked him like that?

“Fine. I guess I can skip practice this once.” His less-than-gracious acquiescence earned him a narrow-eyed look, but she said nothing as he followed her inside the house.

Cleo waited inside the grand vestibule. At the sight of him, her eyebrow lifted enquiringly.

His mother fixed him with a meaningful look. “Show our guest around the house,” she said in English, “and then you can show her to her room. Pierina has put her luggage in the West Bedroom.” She turned to Cleo. “Drinks will be served in the Blue Salon at seven.” Then she swept away, leaving them alone in the echoing vestibule.

“What happened to your hot date?” Cleo asked.

“Nothing that can’t be re-scheduled.”

Her contemptuous look suggested he’d somehow confirmed her low expectations of him. It was a look he was well used to, so he shrugged it off and responded with his trademark smile.

“I don’t need a tour. I have work to do, so please just show me to my room.”

“Nonsense.” He upped the wattage on the smile, though his headache was pounding again. “I wouldn’t want to disappoint my mother. Besides, you’ll need to find your way around the house.”

He had an ulterior motive for giving her a guided tour of thepiano nobile, the main floor of the house. Years ago, when he and Gio had still been in their teens, their father had taught them a handy trick to understand what made a woman tick. “Your home is an extension of you,” he’d said. “How a woman responds to your home tells you a lot about what she wants from you.”

There were four types of women, he’d taught them.

At the top of the social strata, were the women who came from vast inherited wealth and impeccable breeding, women to whom their mansion would be nothing more than a country villa. “They are the hardest to impress,” his father had explained. “High maintenance, but a connection to a woman like that will lift us all up.”

Next were the women who showed polite interest, women who looked as if they comfortably belonged. Women like their mother. This was the type of woman he and Gio were expected to marry, the kind of wives who would be a credit to the family, and who would be capable of one day being mistress of the estate.

Third were the gold diggers. “They’ll be impressed, but will try to hide it. They’ll put on a fake front to appear as if they belong, but if you look carefully, you’ll see the hunger in their eyes and you’ll know that all they want from you is your money and your lifestyle. These are the ones to avoid.”

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