The Italian Millionaire’s Marriage

  The Italian Millionaire’s Marriage

  Lucy Gordon

  Harriet isn't interested in netting a rich husband – but her little shop is thigh-deep in debt so she's tempted when gorgeous Italian millionaire Marco Calvani makes her a proposal. If Harriet returns to Rome with him, Marco will loan her the money to pay off her creditors. If they marry, he'll write off the loan!

  Lucy Gordon

  The Italian Millionaire’s Marriage

  The second book in the Counts of Calvani series, 2003

  Dear Reader,

  After Venice, Rome is my favorite Italian city, a place that once ruled the world, and the Romans still know it. There is an instinctive pride that makes Roman men, like Marco Calvani, especially fascinating. They deal with life on their own terms, and woe betide anyone who crosses them. Aloof on the surface, they conceal passion that is irresistible, but only for the right woman.

  Marco, the cool-headed Roman banker, viewed his cousin Guido’s adventures in love with wry amusement, certain that when his own time came he could keep his dignity. In The Italian Millionaire’s Marriage we find him determined to marry, but not to risk his feelings. He seeks a marriage of convenience with the granddaughter of his mother’s dearest friend.

  Harriet is not what he expected: Half Italian, half English, she has a passion for antiques. She sees in Marco a passport to the great art treasures of Rome, and agrees to an engagement-but only an engagement. How can this man, who likes to be always in control, admit to himself that winning her love is growing more important every day? It is only when he’s ready to cast aside pride and dignity that he finds the courage to be honest about his feelings. But by then it’s almost too late…

  PROLOGUE

  ‘I DO not need a husband, do you understand that? I do not need a husband. And I certainly don’t want one.’ These last words were said with a mild shudder that shocked Harriet d’Estino’s listener.

  ‘Harriet, calm down,’ she begged.

  ‘A husband? Good grief! I’ve lived twenty-seven years without troubling myself with a creature so bothersome and unnecessary-’

  ‘Will you just listen?’

  ‘-and when I find my own sister matchmaking for me- Stars above! You’ve got a nerve, Olympia.’

  ‘I wasn’t matchmaking,’ Olympia said placatingly. ‘I just thought you might find Marco useful.’

  Harriet made a sound that would have been a snort if she hadn’t been a lady.

  ‘No man is ever useful,’ she said firmly. ‘The breed isn’t made that way.’

  ‘All right, I won’t argue.’

  They were half-sisters, one English, one Italian. Only their rich auburn hair linked them to their common parent, and each other. But in Olympia, the younger, the glorious tresses were teased into a glamorous creation. In Harriet, the same colour hung, straight and austere on either side of an earnest face.

  Their clothes too revealed their opposing characters. Olympia was dressed in the height of Italian fashion. Harriet looked as though she’d put on whatever was comfortable and handy. Olympia’s figure was slender and seductive. Harriet was certainly slender. It was hard to be sure about anything else.

  Olympia looked around her at the exquisite shop in the heart of London’s West End. It was filled with fine art and antiques, several of which caught her interest.

  ‘He’s splendid,’ she exclaimed, noticing a bronze bust of a young man.

  ‘First-century Roman,’ Harriet said, glancing up. ‘Emperor Caesar Augustus.’

  ‘Really dishy,’ Olympia purred, studying the face close up. ‘That fine nose, that aristocratic head on the long, muscular neck, and that mouth-all stern discipline masking incredible sensuality. I’ll bet he was a tiger with the women.’

  ‘You spend too much time thinking about sex,’ Harriet said severely.

  ‘And you don’t spend enough time thinking about it. It’s disgraceful.’

  Harriet shrugged. ‘There are more interesting things in life.’

  ‘Nonsense, of course there aren’t,’ Olympia said with conviction. ‘I just wish you were as interested in living men as dead ones.’

  ‘Listen to you!’ Harriet riposted. ‘You’ve just been mooning over a man who’s been dead for two thousand years. Anyway, dead ones are better. They don’t tell lies, get legless or chat up your friends. And you can talk to them without being interrupted.’

  ‘So cynical. Mind you, Marco’s pretty cynical, too. Otherwise he’d have married long ago.’

  ‘Aha! He’s a grey-beard!’

  ‘Marco Calvani is thirty-five, loaded, and extremely good-looking,’ Olympia said emphatically.

  ‘So why aren’t you marrying him? You said he asked you first.’

  ‘Only because his mother’s an old friend of Pappa’s mother, and she’s got this sentimental idea of uniting the two families.’

  ‘And he does what she tells him? He’s a wimp!’

  ‘Far from it,’ Olympia said with a little chuckle. ‘Marco is a man who likes his own way all the time. He’s doing this for his own reasons.’

  ‘He’s a nutter!’

  ‘He’s a banker who devotes his life to serious business. He reckons it’s time to make a serious marriage and he isn’t into courting.’

  ‘He’s gay!’

  ‘Not according to my friends. In fact, his reputation is of a ladykiller, with the emphasis on killer. You might say he “loves ’em and leaves ’em” except that he doesn’t love ’em. No emotional involvement just a quick fling and goodbye before things get too intense.’

  ‘You make him sound irresistible, you know that?’

  ‘It’s only fair to tell you the downs as well as the ups. Marco doesn’t go for moonlight and roses, so you can see why he’d be doing this. It would be more of a merger than a marriage, and I thought that since you were serious, too-’

  ‘I’d be happy to take on one of your rejects. Gosh, thanks Olympia.’

  ‘Will you stop being so prickly? I took all this trouble to warn you that he might turn up here next week-’

  ‘And I’m grateful. I’ve been planning a vacation on the other side of the world. Next week will suit me just fine.’

  ‘Dio mio!’ Olympia threw up her hands in sisterly exasperation. ‘It’s impossible to help some people. You’ll end up an old maid.’

  Harriet gave a cheeky grin that transformed her face delightfully.

  ‘With any luck,’ she said.

  CHAPTER ONE

  ‘M Y DEAR boy, have you really thought this through?’

  Signora Lucia Calvani’s face was full of concern as she watched her son lock the suitcase. He gave her a brief smile, warmer for her than for anyone else, but he didn’t pause.

  ‘What is there to think through, Mamma? In any case, I’m doing what you required of me.’

  ‘Nonsense! You never do anything except to suit yourself,’ she retorted with motherly scepticism.

  ‘True, but it suits me to please you,’ Marco replied smoothly. ‘You wanted a union between myself and the granddaughter of your old friend, and I consider it suitable.’

  ‘If you mean that you like the idea, kindly say so, and don’t address your mother like a board meeting,’ Lucia said severely.

  ‘I’m sorry.’ He kissed her cheek with a touch of genuine contrition. ‘But since I’m doing as you wished I don’t understand your concern.’

  ‘When I said I’d like to see you marry Etta’s granddaughter I was thinking of Olympia, as you well know. She’s elegant, sophisticated, knows all the right people in Rome, and would have been an admirable wife.’

  ‘I disagree. She’s frivolous and immature. Her sister is older and, I
gather, has a serious mind.’

  ‘She’s been raised English. She may not even speak Italian.’

  ‘Olympia assures me that she does. Her pursuits are intellectual, and she sounds as if she might well suit my requirements.’

  ‘Suit your requirements?’ his mother echoed, aghast. ‘This is a woman you’re discussing, not a block of shares.’

  ‘It’s just a way of talking,’ Marco said with a shrug. ‘Have I forgotten to pack anything?’

  He looked around his home which was at its best in the brilliant morning sun that came in through the balcony window. He stepped out for a moment to breathe in the fresh air and enjoy the view along the Via Veneto. From this apartment on the fifth floor of an elegant block he could just make out St Peter’s in the distance, and the curve of the River Tiber. In the clear air he caught the sound of bells floating across the city, and he paused a moment to listen and watch the light glinting on the water. He did this every morning, no matter how rushed he might be, and it would have surprised many people who thought of him as a calculating machine and nothing else.

  The inside of his home, however, would have reinforced their prejudices. It was costly but spartan, without any softening touch, the home of a man who was enough unto himself. The cool marble of the floors gleamed. The furnishings were largely modern, adorned with one or two valuable old vases and pictures.

  It was typical of Marco that he had chosen to live in the centre of Rome, for his heart and mind, his whole presence were Roman. Height, bearing, and the unconsciously arrogant set of his head all spoke of a man descended from a race of emperors.

  Nor was it far-fetched to see him as one, for were not international bankers the new emperors? At thirty-five he lorded it over his contemporaries in the financial world. Buying, selling, merging, making deals, these were the breath of life to him, and it was no accident that he spoke of his prospective marriage in a businesslike way that scandalised his mother.

  Now he gave her his most charming smile. ‘Mamma, I wonder that you dare to reprove me when you yourself proposed the merger.’

  ‘Well, somebody has to arrange proper marriages for this family. When I think of that old fool in Venice, getting engaged to his housekeeper-’

  ‘By “old fool” I take it you mean my Uncle Francesco, Count Calvani, the head of our family,’ Marco said wryly.

  ‘Being a count doesn’t stop him being an old fool,’ Lucia said robustly. ‘And being his heir doesn’t stop Guido being a young fool, planning to marry an English woman-’

  ‘But Dulcie comes from a titled family, which is very proper,’ Marco murmured. He was teasing his mother in his dry way.

  ‘A titled family who’ve blown every penny on gambling. I’ve heard the most dreadful stories about Lord Maddox, and I don’t suppose his daughter’s much better. Bad blood will tell.’

  ‘Don’t let either of them hear you criticising their ladies,’ Marco warned her. ‘They’re both in a state of positively imbecile devotion, and will resent it.’

  ‘I’ve no intention of being rude. But the truth is the truth. Someone has to make a good marriage, and there’s no knowing what that bumpkin in Tuscany will do.’

  Marco shrugged, recognising his cousin in this description. ‘Leo probably won’t marry at all. There’s no shortage of willing females in the area. I gather he’s very much in demand for brief physical relationships on account of-’

  ‘There’s no need to be coarse,’ Lucia interrupted him firmly. ‘If he won’t do his duty, all the more reason for you to do yours.’

  ‘Well, I’m off to England to do it. If she suits me, I’ll marry her.’

  ‘And if you suit her. She may not fall at your feet.’

  ‘Then I shall return to you and report failure.’

  He didn’t sound troubled by the prospect. Marco had found few women who were unimpressed by him. Olympia, of course, had turned him down, but they’d known each other since childhood, and were too much like brother and sister.

  ‘I worry about you,’ Lucia said, studying his face and trying to discern what he was really thinking. ‘I want to see you with a happy home, instead of always wasting yourself on affairs that don’t mean anything. If only you and Alessandra had married, as you should have done. You could have had three children by now.’

  ‘We were unsuited. Let’s leave it there.’ His voice was gentle but the hint of warning was unmistakable.

  ‘Of course,’ Lucia said at once. When Marco’s barriers went up even she knew better than to persist.

  ‘It’s time I was leaving,’ he said. ‘Don’t worry, Mamma. I’m simply going to meet Harriet d’Estino and form an impression. If I don’t like her I won’t mention the idea. She won’t know anything about it.’

  As he boarded the plane for London Marco reflected that he was behaving unlike himself. He believed in thinking things through, but he was committing an impulsive action.

  An apparently impulsive action, he corrected the thought. He was an orderly man who lived an orderly life, because success flourished from good order. That meant stability, the correct action performed at the correct time. He’d intended to marry at thirty, and would have done so if Alessandra hadn’t changed her mind.

  That thought no sooner lived than he killed it. Everything concerning his aborted engagement, including the emotional fool he’d made of himself, was past and done. A wise man learned from experience, and he would never open himself up like that again.

  His mother’s suggestion of a sensible marriage had been a godsend. To found a family, without involving his heart suited him exactly.

  He arrived in London in the late afternoon, taking a suite at the Ritz and spending the rest of the day online, checking various deals that needed his personal attention. The five-hour time difference between America and Europe was too useful to be missed, and it was past midnight before he was through. By that time the Tokyo Stock Exchange was open and he worked until three in the morning. Then he went to bed and slept for precisely five hours, efficiently, as he did everything.

  This was how he spent the night before meeting the woman he was planning to make his wife.

  He breakfasted on fruit and coffee before setting out to walk the short distance to the Gallery d’Estino. He judged his time precisely, arriving at a quarter to nine, before it was open. This would give him a chance to form an impression of the place before meeting the owner.

  What he saw, he approved. The shop was exquisite, and although he could discern little of the merchandise through the protective grilles over the windows, what he could make out seemed well chosen. His mental picture of Harriet d’Estino became clearer: a woman of elegance, mental elegance, as well as intellect. He began to warm to her.

  The warmth faded a little as nine o’clock passed with no sign of the shop opening. Inefficiency. The unforgivable sin. He turned and collided with someone who yelled, ‘Ouch!’

  ‘My apologies,’ he murmured to the flustered young woman who was hopping about on the pavement, clutching one foot.

  ‘It’s all right,’ she said, wincing and nearly losing her balance until Marco took hold of her.

  ‘Thanks. Did you want to go in?’

  ‘Well it is past opening time,’ he pointed out.

  ‘Oh, gosh yes, it is, isn’t it. Hang on, I’ve got the key.’

  While she scrabbled through a large collection of keys he studied her and found nothing to approve. She wore jeans and a sweater that looked as though they’d been chosen for utility, and a blue woollen hat that covered her hair completely. She might have been young. She might even have been attractive. It was hard to tell since she looked like a worker on a building site. Harriet d’Estino must be desperate for staff to have employed someone so gauche and clumsy.

  After what seemed like an age she let him in.

  ‘Just give me a moment,’ she said, dumping her packages and starting work on the grilles. ‘Then you can have all my attention.’

  ‘Actually I was
hoping to see the owner.’

  ‘Won’t I do?’

  ‘I’m afraid not.’

  The young woman grew suddenly still. Then she shot him a nervous glance and her whole manner changed.

  ‘Of course, I should have realised. How stupid of me. It’s just that I’d hoped for a little more time-that is, she hoped for a little more time-I’m afraid Miss d’Estino isn’t here just now.’

  ‘Can you tell me when she will be here?’ Marco asked patiently.

  ‘Not for ages. But I could give her a message.’

  ‘Could you tell her that Marco Calvani called to see her?’

  Her eyes assumed the blankness of someone who was playing ‘possum’.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Marco Calvani. She doesn’t know me but-’

  ‘You mean you’re not a bailiff?’

  ‘No,’ Marco said tersely, with an instinctive glance at his Armani suit. ‘I’m not a bailiff.’

  ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘I think I’d know if I was a bailiff.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said distractedly. ‘Of course you would. And you’re Italian, aren’t you? I can hear your accent now. It’s not much of an accent, so I missed it at first.’

  ‘I pride myself on speaking other languages as correctly as possible,’ he said, enunciating slowly. ‘Would you mind telling me who you are?’

  ‘Me? Oh, I’m Harriet d’Estino.’

  ‘You?’ He couldn’t keep the unflattering inflection out of his voice.

  ‘Yes. Why not?’

  ‘Because you just told me you weren’t here.’

  ‘Did I?’ she said vaguely. ‘Oh-well-I must have got that wrong.’

  Marco stared, wondering if she was mad, bad or merely half-witted. She pulled off the woolly cap, letting her long hair fall about her shoulders, and then he realised that she was speaking the truth, for it was the same rich auburn shade as Olympia’s hair. This was the woman he’d been considering as a wife. He took a deep cautious breath.