Page 1 of Seduced by Her Billionaire Fake Fiancé

One

ANDIE SCOTT HAD NEVER been prone to nervousness. Even as a girl, she’d had a habit of barreling into any situation, all guns blazing. Or leaping before she looked, as her mother used to say.

But this wasn’t just any situation and Max Valentino was not just any man.

With a heart that was racing faster than she thought might be safe, Andie sat in her parked car, in front of the elaborate wrought iron gates, waiting for the voice to come back onto the intercom. Outside, it was cold. She’d driven through patches of snow on the way here, and just having her driver-side window down filled the car with frigid air and made it seem like a refrigerator.

“Signore Valentino has agreed to see you,” the woman said, though the intercom crackled a little. A moment later, the gates swung inward, revealing a sweeping drive lined with poplar trees, ancient and huge, so she couldn’t help but take in a deep breath. Hills rolled away on either side, the glorious setting sun to her left, and as she approached the villa, a large lake was surrounded by rose bushes, and citrus trees.

She pulled her hire car to a stop on the graveled park in front of the double width and height front doors. Stifling a yawn courtesy of jetlag and stress, Andie stepped out of the car, stretching her arms above her head. The shirt she wore was a soft cashmere, and it pulled loose of the waistband of her jeans as she lifted her arms over her head, so the cold afternoon air brushed her skin, giving her goosebumps. Or was that the sense that she was being watched?

Her eyes darted to the windows, of which there were many embedded in the terracotta walls of this side of the villa, though they were too darkly tinted to see through properly, and she shivered, but not just because it was early January.

She came around to the back of the car, removed her jacket first and pulled it on, then the document wallet she’d brought, nerves firing in her veins as she crossed to the wide cement steps that led to the door. In the centre of the steps, the tread was lower from centuries of use. Andie, as always, was transfixed by the history and sentiment of Italy, but she ignored anything not relevant to her current predicament.

This conversation was ‘do or die’.

She didn’t want to think how much was riding on the success of her negotiations, but if she didn’t act quickly, the business would be gone forever. Her parents’ legacy sold to the highest bidder, with Andie powerless to stop the sale or have any say in the future direction of the company.

Losing her mother had almost destroyed her. Sending her brother to rehab had been like drinking acid. Watching her father be hollowed out by both events and not knowing how to take away his pain because her own was too damned much had made her feel a guilt she could barely handle.

But if the business was sold, leaving them with nothing of her parents’ hard work and success, she’d never forgive herself.

“Not on my watch,” she ground out, holding the documents close to her chest as she jabbed her finger into the gold doorbell.

The door swept inwards a moment later and a woman—presumably the same woman who’d been speaking with her through the intercom—looked at Andie without smiling.

“Signorina Scott?”

“Call me Andie,” she responded, conscious of how American she sounded in this large, echoing hallway.

“This way, please.” The older woman’s voice was accented and slightly disapproving, though Andie couldn’t, for the life of her, think why. It didn’t matter, anyway.

She hadn’t flown to Italy to make friends. This was about one thing and one thing only.

They walked down the corridor, past a wide, red-carpeted staircase with a winding, carved timber handrail, on black and white tiles that shone with the golden reflection of the chandelier overhead. At the end of the corridor, the woman knocked on a heavy oak door.

“Yes.” The voice inside was deep and rumbling, and even more laced with disapproval than the housekeeper’s had been.

Andie swallowed past a lump in her throat, half-wishing she could walk away. Forget about this whole stupid idea. And itwasstupid. Preposterous and risky. But it was also her last resort. She couldn’t let the family business go.

She wouldn’t.

“Go on,” the woman said, opening the door and pushing it from the outside, revealing a sliver of an office.

Andie hesitated, aware that the next few minutes were going to fundamentally change her life, no matter how they went.

She reached for the necklace she wore—a simple chain but with her mother’s engagement ring dangling from the centre of it—praying for strength as she forced her legs into action, carrying her across the threshold of an office which, she noted quickly, was quite magnificent. The ceilings here were just as high as they had been in the hallway, the walls an ancient, slightly textured finish with a picture rail from which impressive artwork was suspended. The windows framed captivating views of the countryside, and where there were no windows, there were shelves, some loaded with ancient leather books, others with small statues and pieces of, she presumed, personal significance. There were no photos.

But it was the large timber desk in the centre of the room that drew her gaze quickly, like a magnet, and more specifically, the man behind it.

Max—Massimo—Valentino, the oldest son in the Valentino family, was famously driven, ruthless, and cold. She’d heard rumours about him, knew it was generally presumed that the death of his best friend had something to do with his penchant for pushing people away, though Andie also knew how hard he worked, because in the last six weeks, she’d researched him. She’d done a deep dive into his family’s company—their dealings, their forecast, their strategies—and she knew that in order to achieve what he had, it took long, long days and almost indefatigable focus.

It was that focus she was counting on.

That, and the rivalry with the Santoros that defined the Valentino family.

“Signore Valentino, thank you for seeing me.”

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