Lucy Gordon
Wife By Arrangement
The first book in the Italian Grooms series, 2001
Dear Reader,
Being married to an Italian, I take a special delight in writing about Italian men-the most fascinating and endearing men on earth. I’ve enjoyed telling the stories of the three Martelli brothers.
Although linked by kinship, they are all different. Lorenzo, the youngest, is a merry charmer. Bernardo is aloof, a loner. Renato, the eldest, is head of the family, a man of confidence and power. But his power is a two-edged sword, and his reliance on it nearly destroys his life and that of Heather, the woman who loves him.
And then there is Sicily, their home, one of the most beautiful places on earth, where people’s true passions rise to the surface, giving them the courage to follow their hearts.
With best wishes,
L G
This book is for Nikki Little who gave generously of her time.
CHAPTER ONE
Heather looked up self-consciously. ‘Lorenzo isn’t my lover!’ she insisted. ‘Just-just-’
‘Just good friends?’ Sally suggested wickedly. ‘Well, if the man out there isn’t your lover, he ought to be. Big and sexy with “come to bed” eyes. If he was mine, I wouldn’t waste time
‘Will you keep your voice down?’ Heather said frantically, aware that every woman in the staff room was regarding her with interest. She was taking her afternoon break from the perfume counter of Gossways, London’s most luxurious department store. The worldly-wise Sally was on the next counter.
Heather got to her feet, smiling at the thought of Lorenzo Martelli, the light-hearted, handsome young man who had swept into her life a month ago and made her head spin.
‘I didn’t know you knew Lorenzo by sight,’ she told Sally.
‘I don’t, but he asked for you. Besides, he looks just like a Sicilian should: incredibly sensual, as if he’d take a woman to bed as soon as look at her. Hurry up and get out there, or I’ll have him myself!’
Heather chuckled and returned to her counter, eager to see Lorenzo. He’d come to England on a business trip that was supposed to last two weeks, but he’d been enchanted by Heather’s quiet charm and stayed on, unable to tear himself away from her. They were going out together tonight. Now she was delighted at the thought of seeing him early.
But it wasn’t Lorenzo.
Lorenzo was tall, fair, curly-haired, in his late twenties. This man was past thirty. There was a slight scar on one side of his face and his features, which were too irregular to be handsome, were marred by a touch of harshness.
He was tall and heavily built, his shoulders wide, his hair black. He had the dark eyes and olive skin of the southern Italian, but he had something more. Heather couldn’t put a name to it, but she knew at once why Sally, who judged each man by his bedworthiness, had reacted strongly. It was because he judged every woman the same way. It was there in his eyes, that were lazy without ever quite being off guard: the instinctive question-do I want to sleep with her? Yes? No? Probably yes. How much of a challenge would she be?
Heather was startled to receive such a look. Her fine features were pretty without being beautiful. Her hair was very light brown, but not exactly blonde, and although her slim figure was graceful it wasn’t voluptuous. At twenty- three she’d never known the tribute of a wolf whistle, and no man had ever raked her up and down as this one was doing.
‘Are you the gentleman who was asking for me?’ she asked.
He glanced at the nameplate pinned to her white blouse. ‘I am.’
His voice was dark and deep, with an accent that coloured the words without obscuring them. Not like Lorenzo’s light, teasing tones.
‘You were recommended by a friend of mine whom you served-a Mr Charles Smith, but you won’t remember him among so many customers. I’m buying for several ladies, including my mother. She’s in her sixties, very respectable, but perhaps secretly wishing her life had been a little more exciting.’
‘I know what she’d like,’ Heather said, producing a fragrance that was a little daring, but not outrageous. She was touched and impressed by this man’s understanding of his mother.
‘That will suit her perfectly,’ he said. ‘But now we come to the more delicate part of the business. I have a lady-friend-beautiful, sensual, with very expensive tastes. Her name is Elena, and her personality is extravagant, mysterious and passionate.’ His eyes met hers. ‘I’m sure you understand.’
In a flash she found herself understanding all sorts of things. For instance, how Elena would be very drawn to this man who, despite his lack of conventional beauty, had an impressiveness that-she put a firm brake on her thoughts.
‘Perfectly, sir,’ she said crisply. ‘I’d suggest “Deep of the Night”.’
‘It sounds just like her,’ he agreed shamelessly.
She rubbed a drop of the perfume on her wrist and held it out to him. He inhaled slowly, then took her wrist between his fingers and brought it close to his face. She had a sudden impression of fierce, controlled power behind his civilised manner, as though she’d been strolling through a sedate garden and seen a tiger lurking behind the leaves, ready to spring. She resisted the impulse to snatch her hand back.
‘Admirable,’ he said. ‘I’ll take the large flagon.’
Heather almost gasped. The large flagon was the costliest item in a very costly range. Her commission on this sale was beginning to look very good. Perhaps even good enough to buy a really beautiful wedding dress…
She stopped that thought in its tracks. It was undignified to hope for something that probably wouldn’t happen.
‘Now, another lady, with a different personality-light-hearted and fun.’
“‘Summer Dance” might suit her. It’s fresh and flowery-’
‘But not naive?’ he asked anxiously.
‘Certainly not. Insouciant but sophisticated.’
She tested it on the other arm and again he took her wrist, holding it a quarter-inch from his face. Heather could feel his warm breath against her skin and she wished he would let her go. But that was an absurd over- reaction, she told herself sensibly. He wasn’t looking at her. His eyes were closed and he was in a faraway world, with his various mistresses. His hold on her wrist was quite impersonal.
