‘There’s no easy way to say this. I’m dying.’
Pietro froze. He felt his body go into a kind of shocked stasis. ‘What?’ he heard himself query after a long moment, and the word was almost sucked out of him.
‘Dying. My oncologist thinks I’ve probably got a few months in me yet.’
He leaned forward, and the determination in his gaze sent shivers running down Pietro’s spine.
‘They won’t be good months, though. I want Emmeline as far away from me as possible. I want her happy. Safe. Protected. I want her blissfully unaware of what’s happening to me.’
Pietro felt as though a slab of bricks had landed on his chest and was determinedly squeezing all the air out of him. He’d lost his own beloved father to cancer twenty years earlier. The idea of going through that again turned his blood to ice.
‘That can’t be right.’ He ran a palm over his eyes and stared at the Senator with renewed interest. He looked so well. Just as always. ‘Have you had a second opinion?’
‘Don’t need one.’ Col shrugged. ‘I saw the X-rays. Cancer everywhere.’
Pietro swore in his own tongue. It had been a long time since he’d felt so powerless. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘I don’t want your apology. I want your help. Damn it, I’m begging you for it.’
Inwardly, Pietro groaned. He would do almost anything for the older man. But marrying his daughter...?
‘Surely Emmeline would prefer to find her own partner...’
‘Who?’ Col scoffed. ‘Some fortune-hunter? She’s going to be worth billions of dollars when I die. Billions. Not to mention inheriting the estate and the oil rig off Texas. And she’s got no experience with the world.’ He grunted angrily. ‘That’s my fault. After her mother died I wanted to protect her. I wanted to keep her away from all that was ugly. I did a damned good job. But now I find myself with a twenty-two-year-old daughter who’s about to be orphaned—and, hell, Pietro, I need to know that someone will look after her.’
‘I will,’ he assured Col, meaning it.
‘The occasional email won’t cut it. I need her living under your roof. Emmeline needs looking after.’
‘You say she doesn’t know about the cancer?’
‘Absolutely not. And she’s not going to.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘I want to spare her this pain. I owe her that much.’
Pietro felt frustration gnawing through him. Of all the requests he’d expected, this was nowhere on the list he’d prepared.
‘It’s the only thing I’ve ever asked of you, Pietro. Promise me you’ll do this. For me.’
CHAPTER ONE
‘YOU DON’T LIKE ME, do you?’
She regarded the handsome Italian thoughtfully, taking in his expensive suit, thick dark hair, dark chestnut eyes and lips that looked as if they were made to curse and kiss. Lower, there was the cleft in his chin, then broad shoulders and a muscled chest. Yes, even though he was wearing that suit she knew it would be muscled. There wasn’t an ounce of spare flesh on him—just toned, honed body.
A shiver ran down her spine as she wondered just how the hell she was going to go through with this.
Marriage to this man? Talk about a baptism of fire. No experience—and she had very little anyway—could have prepared her for this.
He didn’t answer. Had he even heard? She’d asked the question quietly, in a sort of stage whisper.
She sucked in a breath and focussed on him anew. ‘I said—’
‘I know what you said.’
His voice was accented. Thick with spiced consonants and mystery. He drummed his fingers—long fingers, with neat nails and a sprinkling of hair over the knuckles—on the arm of his chair.
‘It’s late. Would you like a coffee? Something stronger?’
Emmeline shook her head and her hair, which was long and lay flat down her back, moved a little, like a shimmering curtain. ‘I’m fine.’
He compressed his lips and stood, moving across the room with a stride that spoke of raw, feral power. She watched as he took the glass lid off a decanter and tilted it, filling a round highball tumbler with amber liquid. He threw at least half of it back in one go and then spun the glass in his hand, his fingers moving easily around its circumference as he rotated it purposefully.
‘I know this all seems crazy...’ Emmeline murmured, her eyes large as they found his.
The force of meeting his gaze startled her and she looked away again just as quickly.
His lips curled in an expression of derisive acknowledgement. ‘Un po,’ he agreed. ‘A little.’
‘The thing is, I don’t want to upset my father. I’ve never been able to bear the idea of hurting him.’
Her eyes flicked to his again, and this time she held his gaze, forcing herself to be brave. If she wanted this man to be part of her plan, her bid for freedom, then she needed him to know she wasn’t afraid. Even though the charcoal depths of his eyes made her stomach flip and churn, she kept her courage.
‘Since my mother died he’s wrapped me up in cotton wool. And I’ve let him.’
She bit down into her lower lip. Contrary to his first impression, it was a full, pleasingly shaped lip, Pietro realised distractedly, before throwing back another measure of Scotch.
Emmeline’s sigh was a soft exhalation. ‘I’ve felt for years that I should assert myself more. That I should insist on the freedoms and privileges that any other person my age would have.’
‘So? Why have you not?’
For Pietro’s part, the very idea of Emmeline’s rarefied existence was abhorrent. Virtually from infancy he had bucked against restraint of any kind. He had always wanted more of everything—particularly independence and maturity.
‘It’s hard to explain.’ Even to herself!
She had struggled for years to come to terms with the life she was leading—choosing to lead, in many ways.
‘After Mom’s suicide he fell apart. Keeping me safe, knowing I was protected—it became an obsession for him. I couldn’t bear to see him hurt again like he was when she died.’
Pietro froze, his body
