‘Your…what?’
He hooked one ankle over his bent knee, his finger idly flicking the zipper toggle on his Italian leather boot. Flick. Flick. Flick. So relaxed. So casual. So confident and in control it was maddening.
‘You heard—I need a wife for six months. On paper.’ The note of self-assurance in his voice made her dislike of him go up another notch.
On paper? Her eyes widened while her feminine ego shrank. She might not be a social butterfly or model material, but as far as she knew she hadn’t broken any mirrors lately. ‘You mean a marriage of convenience?’
‘But of course.’
Why ‘but of course’? It was ridiculous to be affronted by his unusual proposal, but what woman wanted to be dismissed outright as a potential lover?
But why would he want you? the voice of her conscience sneered. Who would want you? You killed your mother, you maimed your father—all for the sake of going to a stupid party.
Rosa, the housekeeper, came in at that moment carrying a tray with cups and saucers and a steaming percolator of freshly brewed coffee. Rosa handed Luca a cup before turning to give one to Artie. But as soon as Rosa left the room Artie put her coffee on a side table, not trusting her shaking hands to bring the cup safely to her tombstone-dry mouth. Her conscience was right. Why would he want to marry her? Why would anyone?
Luca lowered his crossed ankle to the floor and, reaching for his cup, took a sip of his coffee as if this was a regular old coffee morning. Not one in which he had delivered a bombshell proposal to a virtual stranger.
‘May I ask, why me?’ Artie inserted into the silence. ‘You surely have no shortage of far more suitable candidates for the role.’ Socialites. Supermodels. Not a shut-in like her.
Luca put his cup back in its saucer with unnerving and methodical precision. It hinted at the man he was—self-assured, focused, confident he could get anything he set his mind to. ‘Your father was the one who planted the idea in my—’
‘My father?’ Artie choked over the words.
‘He was concerned about your future, given how badly his financial situation had become and how it would impact on you long-term. He wanted you well provided for, so I devised a plan to make sure we both got what we wanted. You get to keep the castello. I get a temporary wife.’
Artie clasped her hands together, trying to keep control of her galloping pulse. Her legs were threatening to give way beneath her but she was reluctant to sit back down, because it would bring her closer to him than she wanted to be. ‘But why would you want me to be your…your wife?’ Saying the word felt strange on her lips and yet her mind ran with the image it evoked. Images popped into her head of her wearing a white dress and standing next to Luca at an altar. His arms going around her, drawing him closer to his muscled body. His mouth slowly coming down to seal hers in a kiss…
‘You’re exactly the sort of woman my grandfather would approve of as my bride,’ Luca said, his gaze drifting to her mouth as if he was having the same thoughts as her. About kissing, touching, needing, wanting.
Artie arched her eyebrows. ‘Oh, really? Why is that?’
His lips curved in a satirical smile. ‘You’re the sweet, homespun type—or so your father led me to believe.’
What else had her father told him about her? She had made him promise not to tell anyone about her social anxiety. Had he broken that promise? She was pretty sure he hadn’t told Bruno Rossi, the lawyer, otherwise he would have mentioned it yesterday. It was her shameful little secret. Her father’s dependence on her since the accident had made it easy for her to hide it from others, but with him no longer here…
Artie kept her expression neutral but on the inside, she was seething. How dared her father set her up for auction to this incorrigible man? It was positively feudal. And why did Luca Ferrantelli want to please his grandfather? What was at stake if he didn’t? ‘Look, Signor Ferrantelli, I think there’s been some sort of misunderstanding between you and my father. I can’t think of a single set of circumstances in which I would ever consider marrying you.’
Luca’s mocking smile broadened. ‘Perhaps not as sweet and biddable as your father said.’ His tone was musing, the lazy sweep of his gaze assessing. ‘But, no matter. You will do.’
She straightened her shoulders and sent him a look so frosty icicles could have formed on her eyelashes. ‘Please leave. We have nothing left to discuss.’
Luca remained seated on the sofa, still in that annoyingly relaxed pose. But his eyes contained a glint of intractability that made her wonder if she was wise to lock horns with him. She had no experience in dealing with powerful men. She had no experience, period. Any fight between them would be like Tinkerbell trying to take down a Titan.
‘The way I see it, you don’t have any choice. You will lose the castello if you don’t agree to marry me.’
Artie ground her teeth and clenched her fists, anger flicking along her nerve endings like a power surge of electricity. It was all she could do not to slap him. She pictured herself doing it—landing her palm against his lean and chiselled jaw with a resounding slap. Imagining how his rougher skin would feel under the soft skin of her palm. Imagining how he might grasp her by the wrist and haul her closer and slam his mouth down on hers in
