Lucy Gordon
The Tuscan Tycoon’s Wife
The third book in the Counts of Calvani series, 2003
Dear Reader,
I’ve saved my favourite Calvani until last.
Where the others are sophisticated, he is uncomplicated; a gentle giant with a huge warm heart that loves but does not judge. Many women would like him as a brother. But Selena isn’t “many women.” She’s the one woman Leo can’t forget, a hard-living rodeo rider who can challenge him on any level. Tough on the surface, lonely inside, she touches his heart because he can see how much she needs him-even if she can’t see it herself.
She thinks he’s as poor as she is-and that’s fine by her. It’s when she finds that he’s not only rich but aristocratic that the trouble starts… The only person who understands her feelings is Liza, Count Calvani’s longtime love and eventual countess. It’s Liza’s intervention that reconciles the lovers, and brings the whole family together for the happy ending that unites them all.
Enjoy!
This book is dedicated to Janet Stover, 2001 World Champion Barrel Racer and Olympic medalist, who told me all about barrel racing, and rodeos.
CHAPTER ONE
‘SELENA, you need either a miracle or a millionaire.’
Ben eased himself out from under the battered vehicle, monkey wrench in hand. He was lean, elderly, and had spent thirty years as a garage mechanic. Now those thirty years were telling him that Selena Gates wanted him to revive a corpse.
‘This thing’s had it,’ he said gloomily surveying the van, which was actually a Mini Motor Home, with the accent on Mini.
‘But you can make it go again?’ Selena begged. ‘I know you can, Ben. You’re such a genius.’
‘You stop that,’ he said with an unconvincing attempt at severity. ‘It doesn’t work on me.’
‘Always has so far,’ she said, with perfect truth. ‘You can make it go, can’t you, Ben?’
‘For a bit.’
‘As far as Stephenville?’
‘Three hundred miles? You don’t want much! All right, it’ll probably just about make it. But what then?’
‘Then I’ll win some money in the rodeo.’
‘Riding that washed up brute?’
‘Elliot is not washed up,’ she flared. ‘He’s in his prime.’
Ben grunted. ‘Been in his prime a few years, if you ask me.’
Any mention of her beloved Elliot touched a nerve, and Selena was about to defend him fiercely when she remembered that Ben, good friend that he was, was fixing her van on the cheap, and calmed down.
‘Elliot and I will win something,’ she said stubbornly.
‘Enough for a new van?’
‘Enough to get this one fixed as good as new.’
‘Selena, there ain’t enough money in the world to get this ramshackle old bus fixed as good as new. It was falling to bits when you bought it, and that was way back. You’d do better sweet-talking a millionaire into buying you a new van.’
‘No point in me chasing a millionaire,’ Selena sighed. ‘Haven’t got the figure for it.’
‘Sez who?’ Ben demanded loyally.
‘Sez me!’
He regarded her tall, ultra-slim figure. ‘Maybe you’re a little flat-chested,’ he admitted.
‘Ben, under these old jeans I’m flat everything.’ She grinned with rueful self-mockery. ‘It’s no use. Millionaires like their women-’ with both hands she traced the outline of a voluptuous figure. ‘And that’s something I never was. Haven’t got the hair for it either. You need long, wavy tresses not-’ she pointed to her boyish crop.
It was a startling red that blazed out like a beacon, telling the world, ‘I’m here!’ There was no way to overlook Selena. Smart, cheeky, independent, and optimistic to the point of craziness, she was her own woman. Anyone who challenged that soon learned the other lesson of that red hair.
‘Besides,’ Selena said, coming to her clincher argument, ‘I don’t
Ben scratched his head. ‘They aren’t?’
‘No way,’ Selena said, like someone articulating an article of faith. ‘They have too much money.’
‘Too much money is what you could do with right now. Or a miracle.’
‘A miracle would be easier,’ she said. ‘And I’ll find one. No-it’ll find me.’
‘Darn it, Selena, will you try to be a bit realistic?’
‘What for? What good did being realistic ever do me? Life’s more fun if you expect the best.’
‘And when the best don’t happen?’
‘Then think of another best and expect that. Ben, I promise you, somewhere, somehow, a genuine twenty- four-carat miracle is heading my way.’
Leo Calvani stretched his legs as far as he could, which wasn’t far. The flight from Rome to Atlanta took twelve hours, and he travelled first class because if you were six foot three, and forty-two inches of that was leg, you needed all the help you could get.
Normally he didn’t consider himself a ‘first class’ kind of man. Wealthy, yes. Afford the best, no problem. But frills and fuss made him nervous. So did cities, and fine clothes. That’s why he travelled in his oldest jeans and denim jacket, complete with scuffed shoes. It was his way of saying that ‘first class’ wasn’t going to get him.
An elegant stewardess hovered over him as solicitously as if he didn’t look like a hobo. ‘Champagne, sir?’
He took a moment to relish her large blue eyes and seductively curved figure. It was an instinctive reaction, a tribute paid to every woman under fifty, and since he was a warm-hearted man he usually found something to enjoy.
‘Sir?’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘Would you like some champagne?’
‘Whisky would be better.’
‘Of course, sir. We have-’ she rattled off a list of expensive brands until Leo’s eyes glazed.
‘Just whisky,’ he said, with a touch of desperation.
As he sipped the drink he yawned and wished the journey away. Eleven hours gone and the last was the worst because he’d run out of distractions. He’d watched the film, enjoyed two excellent meals and flirted with the lady sitting beside him.
