Delucca's Marriage Contract Read online

  She’d felt sick to think that it had come to this—the ultimate rejection, if she said no. But then, in a blinding flash of inspiration, a scenario had taken shape. A burgeoning sense of hope had filled her as she said slowly, ‘What if we meet and Delucca doesn’t want to marry me?’

  Her father waved a hand dismissively. ‘Of course he’ll want to marry you. You’re a beautiful young woman, and you’re bringing with you the opportunity he needs to break into the global market. He won’t let that slip away.’

  But Keelin had been barely listening to her father any more, her heart palpitating at the thought of a way out of this crazy scenario without having to burn her bridges entirely. So she’d agreed to meet with Delucca and here she was now, seconds away from that meeting.

  She’d exhaustively researched him in the meantime and found that clearly he was obsessed with proving that the persistent rumour of links to the Mafia were just that. In every interview he put the focus on his business concerns and moving forward. He was the epitomy of casual Italian elegance, and to Keelin’s chagrin she hadn’t been able to repress a shiver of awareness when she’d seen his photos. He was darkly gorgeous, masculine. An air of intensity about him. And also danger.

  He seemed hell-bent on proving himself to be a million miles removed from the scandals of his father’s life, a man who had been brutally murdered by a rival Mafia faction.

  And when it came to lovers he was never pictured with the same stunning woman more than twice. They were all of the same ilk: tall, brunette, sleek and gorgeous. Discreet, and oozing effortless classy style. Which was in keeping with his apparent bid not to draw adverse attention to himself. True, he skirted on the edges of being known as a playboy, but was never photographed behaving badly. And there were no salacious kiss-and-tell stories. So the playboy moniker was pretty benign.

  Evidently he didn’t let women get in his way when it came to his ruthless ambition. And respectability and discretion were important to him. So this gave Keelin all the ammunition she needed. A man like that couldn’t want a wife! And she’d decided she needed to make herself over into everything that might possibly repel him from this union.

  She’d ended up with an over-the-top trashy caricature of the kind of girl she’d known in her school peer group: rich, privileged, shallow, vain. And hopefully the kind of woman someone like Giancarlo Delucca would run screaming from.

  She checked herself now in a nearby mirror—dress: short; long red hair: big; make-up: a lot. She made a face. Her mother would approve wholeheartedly. She spritzed more perfume on, swallowing back a sneeze at the overwhelming fumes.

  A peremptory knock came to the hotel room door and Keelin’s belly swooped alarmingly. She wasn’t ready for this, she felt ridiculous. He’d see through her in an instant.

  The knock came again, a little sharper. She steeled herself. She had to be ready. This was a fight for her independence and future.

  Fixing what she hoped was a bright vacuous smile on her face she walked to the door and opened it. But the smile faltered when she had to lift her eyeline to the hunk in the dark blue suit on the other side.

  One thing got through to her shocked brain: no mere picture could have prepared her for Giancarlo Delucca in the flesh.

  * * *

  Gianni reeled as he tried to take in the woman before him and not suffocate with the wave of noxious perfume that had enveloped him as soon as she’d opened the door.

  His first impression was excess and everything in him recoiled from it. Lots of vibrant red hair, lots of make-up and a tight sleeveless bandeau dress that was eye-wateringly short, showing off acres of suspiciously tanned-looking skin, and an abundant amount of equally faux-tanned cleavage.

  The woman in front of him didn’t remotely resemble the picture he’d seen in O’Connor’s office. Anger pierced him to think he’d been deceived. And rendered speechless for a moment, a state he was not used to, they just stared at each other.

  And then the perfume seemed to dissipate mercifully, bringing some oxygen to his brain, restoring his faculties. He pushed the anger down, telling himself he was being too hasty.

  Just as he thought that, he saw the gold necklace nestling close to that upsurge of cleavage. Joined-together looping letters spelled out K-e-e-l-i-n. Diamonds twinkled from either end.

  His last lover had favoured nothing more obvious than tiny diamond stud earrings. But he forced himself to look at his potential future wife, smile and say smoothly, ‘Miss O’Connor, it’s a pleasure to meet you. I’m Giancarlo Delucca, welcome to Italy.’

  She blinked, smiled and stepped back. ‘Please excuse me. I just got back from doing some shopping near the Via del Corso.’

  Gianni walked into the room, aware that even though she was in spindly high heels, she’d be tall without them. About five foot eight, he guessed. A dart of awareness pierced him, surprising him.

  He heard the door click behind him and he had the most bizarre urge to turn around and escape. Fast. He pushed it down. He’d agreed to this cold-blooded agreement for lots of reasons, but also because he’d decided that he could handle a marriage that was a business transaction, not an emotional or romantic endeavour.

  He steeled himself and turned to face Keelin again. For a second something about her over-the-top look felt slightly off but he got distracted by those unbelievably long legs and that impressive cleavage. Dio. He’d expected fresh-faced natural beauty. An intelligent refined woman, not a tarted-up society girl.

  Keelin waved an arm to indicate the hundreds of luxe bags and gushed, ‘Thank you so much for the welcome gift of the credit card, such a thoughtful gesture. Shopping in Rome is my absolute favourite. It’s made me feel right at home.’

  She glanced up from under her lashes in a way that set his teeth on edge, even as he realised that under all that smoky eye make-up her eyes were as huge and stunning as he might have expected. A kind of mossy green he’d never seen before.

  ‘I’m afraid I saw the word trousseau and I got a little excited. They’re delivering the rest tomorrow.’

  ‘The rest?’ He blanched at that, eyes widening slightly.

  ‘Oh, yes.’ She trilled a little laugh. ‘This is just a few things to keep me going.

  ‘Actually—’ she looked around speculatively and bit her lip ‘—the Harrington Hotel is a beautiful hotel, Mr Delucca, but I’m used to a little more space. At The Chatsfield, for instance, they’re so wonderful about storing shopping.’

  Gianni bit down the distaste—he’d chosen this hotel because of its hushed discreet exclusivity. The Chatsfield’s opulent luxuriousness tended to attract more attention, which Gianni instinctively shied away from.

  ‘Anyway,’ Keelin said brightly, drawing Gianni’s attention back to her, ‘this is fine for now, and I just heard a rumour that Sheikh Zayn and Sophie Parsons might be staying here.’ She rolled her eyes theatrically. ‘Did you see the pictures of their wedding? So glamorous and romantic. I’d love to catch a glimpse of them.’

  No, Gianni thought grimly. He hadn’t seen pictures of some society wedding. However, it rang a bell and he did recall something now about James Chatsfield hitting the headlines again for living up to his playboy reputation in some exclusive ski resort, which was just another reason to prefer the discretion of The Harrington.

  Keelin was smiling at him guilelessly. She looked sweet but vacant. And for the first time Gianni felt something inside him tighten in rejection of a wife who would be little more than a glossy appendage on the end of his arm. Even though that’s what he’d told himself he’d be happy with for the sake of a deal.

  Before he could formulate another sentence though, Keelin had moved over to a small table with an ice bucket on top. As she bent forward slightly Gianni couldn’t help but let his eyes follow the lean lines of her body. She was slim and toned, yet as undeniably curvy as she�
�d been in the photo. That at least hadn’t lied.

  The swell of her breast against the taut material of the dress made heat pulse in his groin. It confounded him. His head rejected everything about this woman but his body was running to a different beat. A much more visceral one.

  Keelin was pouring the sparkling golden liquid into a glass. She turned back to him and said brightly, ‘Champers?’

  Gianni noticed that she had full lips and the slightest overbite, an anomaly that made him think of carnal things, like how her mouth would look wrapped around—

  ‘I love champagne, a little weakness of mine, I’m afraid.’

  She was thrusting a full glass at him and breaking apart the completely unwelcome X-rated image before he could respond. Gianni took it and watched as she turned to put the bottle back, the tight black sheath of her designer dress stretching over those curves again, teasing him.

  When she turned back, his eyes tracked to her breasts and she caught him looking, but before he could lambast himself for this completely unsuave behaviour, she was saying excitedly, ‘Do you like the look? I love Italian designers.’

  She held up her glass and smiled brightly. ‘Cheers, Mr Delucca.’

  Gianni forced down the sense of things veering out of his control to see that wide smile caked in so much lipstick. He held up his glass too. He would not be deterred by some bad taste and heavy make-up. Or by the fact that the photo he’d seen must have been taken when she was sixteen.

  All this woman needed was a little finessing. He would hire an expert stylist to make her over. Already he was imagining what she might look like without that dreadful tan job and make-up. In a dress that flowed over her curves.

  He felt as if some measure of control was returning for the first time since she’d opened the suite door. He smiled. ‘Please call me Gianni.’

  For a second he thought he saw a flash of something like panic in those huge eyes but it disappeared and she frowned, a small line marring the otherwise smooth perfection of her forehead. ‘But isn’t your name Giancarlo?’

  Her Irish accent mangled his name charmingly. ‘I prefer Gianni.’

  She shrugged and smiled before throwing back at least half a glass of the champagne in one go. ‘Gianni, it is then.’

  She reached for the bottle again to refill her glass and a memory of his drunk father exploded into his head. Angry and unsettled at that intrusive and unwelcome image because it reminded him of so much more, Gianni put his glass down on a nearby table.

  She looked at him, surprised, and he said abruptly, ‘I’m afraid I can’t indulge. I just came to see how you were settling in. Needless to say we have lots to talk about.’

  She looked at him blankly for a moment before what he said seemed to register and then she let out a slightly embarrassed giggle. ‘Oh, you mean the wedding. Of course, silly me. Yes, lots to talk about.’

  She threw back more champagne and the action alternately annoyed and aroused him. His recent sense of being in control eroding slightly. ‘We’ll meet downstairs in the bar at seven-thirty?’

  She nodded enthusiastically. ‘Fab, can’t wait.’

  Gianni pulled a card out of his inside pocket and handed it to her; for a moment she did that blank thing again before taking it.

  He quashed the flash of irritation and explained, ‘Those are my private numbers in case you need to contact me in the meantime.’

  She looked at him and smiled and for a second lust rose again to drown out all of the very mixed things Gianni was feeling. This meeting had definitely been surreal and disturbing in a way he hadn’t expected.

  He backed away, determined not to allow the sense of disappointment to rise. ‘Till later, Keelin. I look forward to getting to know you.’ He had to quash the uncharitable thought that there wasn’t much more to know.

  She tipped her glass towards him and some champagne sloshed out onto the stunning carpet but she was oblivious. ‘Ciao.’ She giggled, ‘See? I’m already practically fluent.’

  Gianni smiled but it was hard. He let himself out of the suite and took the lift back to the lobby and strode back out to this waiting car. The sense of relief was enormous. But he refused to be dissuaded by the fact that his evidently not very bright fiancée had apparently spent what looked to him to be the national debt of a small country in the space of a few hours. He’d given her the credit card after all, as a little sweetener. So, she was a shopaholic? What woman wasn’t? He just needed to guide her in a more tasteful direction.

  As his car moved off smoothly into the Rome traffic, a muscle pulsed in his jaw. He didn’t mind the prospect of making over his fiancée; after all, style was something that had to be learned. He knew because he’d done it. But the image of her knocking back the champagne stuck in his craw; the thought of her hostessing a private dinner party filled with VIPs made his skin go clammy with panic.

  He thought then of the women he’d chosen as lovers—their impeccable taste and style. Their ability to seamlessly blend into any social environment without drawing adverse attention to themselves, or him. Keelin was like a vivid bird of paradise in comparison, and not in a good way. It made him nervous. He was under so much scrutiny because of his father that he’d made it part of his life’s ambition to never give anyone an excuse to say, Like father like son.

  He needed to project an air of unimpeachability and stability, so people would trust him professionally. His early life had been a litany of violence, fear and ugliness. Gianni forced himself to take a deep breath. Keelin was not of that world. She was just a bit garish. He could handle this, handle her. He would have to, because marrying her meant a fast track to that respectability and acceptability he craved.

  Gianni made a terse call to his assistants instructing them to make sure that a table had been booked for dinner that evening. He sighed and told himself that he was not dissuaded from his course just because his fiancée appeared all too coarse.

  * * *

  Keelin paced in the hotel suite, agitation making her movements jerky. She angrily kicked off the too-high shoes and opened another window to try and get rid of the noxious stench of perfume. As soon as Gianni had left she’d tipped the remaining contents of the glasses and bottle down the sink. She’d normally never touch the stuff, because it gave her thumping headaches and she could feel one brewing now.

  She felt silly all over again, like a child playing dress-up, even though it was something she’d never indulged in because she’d been too busy adoringly trailing her father and looking for the smallest sliver of attention.

  Also, she had not been prepared for the physicality of Gianni Delucca, or that he would have such an effect on her. It was disconcerting to say the least. She recalled the way his dark gaze had rested on her breasts and how a flash of heat had bloomed in her solar plexus. It had almost knocked her off her feet with its force.

  She’d put blinkers on where men were concerned for a long time, after a traumatic incident in her last year of secondary level school. She’d allowed herself to be vulnerable one time too many in a bid to seek the kind of male attention she’d been starved of from her father and it had resulted in a nightmare scenario that had shocked her out of her teenage angst and rebellion, and forced her to grow up overnight.

  And until now no one had managed to make her feel remotely interested...but one look at Gianni and a slumbering part of her had woken right up.

  She struggled to refocus and not think about her disturbing reaction to him—had she at least helped to convince him that she was a dizzy, overindulged, spoilt, shopaholic heiress with nothing between her ears except which celebrities might be staying in the hotel? The fact that she’d pulled that nugget of information from a headline she’d seen recently was a pure fluke.

  She hoped it was doing the trick, and yet her act felt tawdry and flimsy now. She itched to get out of the t
oo-tight dress and back into her favourite jeans and shirt, hair pulled messily into a knot on top of her head. She also longed to get out and see some of Rome’s best known sights but unfortunately she couldn’t play the part of herself right now. The stakes were too high.

  For a long time Keelin had been weak enough to believe that a man’s love and attention could fill the aching chasm in her soul, until she’d realised that it was only herself she could rely on for that sustenance, and that any such notions had been borne out of the lack of love her parents, and father in particular, had shown her. Freud would have analysed her in seconds, she’d been so pathetically transparent.

  She’d come to understand that her focus had to be on concrete things like staking her claim on her family business—not wishy-washy notions that the unconditional love of a man would heal something that had broken a long time ago.

  She assured herself she could do this. Gianni Delucca, and his disturbing brand of masculinity and fathomless dark eyes that had watched her far too carefully, was not going to deter her from her path.

  * * *

  That evening Gianni looked at his watch impatiently. Keelin was late, over half an hour late to be precise. For someone who was a stickler for punctuality, this grated on his still-jangling nerves. He’d never waited for a woman in his life. And he really did not relish overhearing the bar staff discussing rumours about a merger between the Harrington and the Chatsfield hotels. The last thing he wanted was a blaze of publicity to accompany this wedding. He was about to take out his mobile when he heard a hush descend on the exclusive Harrington Hotel bar and the hairs on the back of his neck prickled just before he looked up.

  Keelin stood silhouetted in the doorway. Every head turned towards her. Gianni’s eyes felt like they might explode out of his skull with a mixture of horror and unwelcome desire. He’d thought her dress earlier was short, but what she wore now would have made it look like a nun’s habit. Her legs were completely bare, all the way up to where her modesty was just about preserved by the multicoloured lamé material of her dress. If it could even be called that.