Italian Prince, Wedlocked Wife Page 3

  Lucy crept closer. She stroked Chloe’s hair, tenderly tucking the blankets beneath her chubby legs. The linens made her pause. They were soft against Lucy’s fingers. Luxurious and white, not stained and threadbare from a thousand washings at the quarter Laundromat.

  Slowly she looked around the palatial bedroom. From the windows overlooking Lake Michigan, to the plush, pristine carpet, the room had every luxury and comfort.

  Not like their tiny apartment, where the windows rattled every time the El train went by. Where Chloe’s crib was crammed against Lucy’s bed, which was jammed up against the kitchen counter. Where it was cold all winter, no matter how high Lucy turned up the thermostat. Where spiders and mice kept turning up, no matter how hard or often Lucy cleaned in the middle of the night.

  Chloe turned over in her sleep, stretching in the luxurious bed with a contented sigh. Lucy’s heart went to her throat.

  Her baby deserved a life like this.

  Don’t you want to be rich? she heard Maximo’s voice say. Don’t you wish to spend time with your daughter and buy her everything her heart desires?

  Stroking Chloe’s soft downy hair, Lucy saw the worn-out elbows of her baby’s pajamas, and her throat started to hurt.

  Alex had told her he loved her. He’d proposed marriage. He’d begged Lucy to have his baby. He’d refused to use a condom, laughing at her fears, seducing her, reassuring her. Older than her, with a high-status job, he’d promised to give them both security and comfort and love—forever.

  Against her better judgment, she’d let herself love him. Let herself believe.

  Then she’d come home on Christmas Eve last year.

  Heavily pregnant, weighed down with grocery bags of fresh cranberries and canned pumpkin, she’d been singing “Deck the Halls” when she pushed open the door with her hip. She’d found her apartment empty and dark. All his clothes were gone. His toothbrush. His briefcase. His computer. Even the three-carat engagement ring she’d left lovingly in the velvet box on her dresser, because it no longer fit her pregnancy-bloated finger.

  Everything. Gone.

  A year later, and Lucy still couldn’t hear “Deck the Halls” on the radio without feeling sick.

  He’d left her, but that didn’t matter. What did matter was that he’d left his own child to starve. He’d even tried to deny Chloe was his.

  Lucy would never forgive him for that.

  Just as she would never forgive herself for trusting his easy charm. She could still hear his whisper sometimes at night. “I love ya, Luce. I’ll always take care of you.”

  Liar, she thought, then looked down at her daughter. Alex had lost more than he would ever know.

  But so had Chloe. She had no father.

  Lucy’s eyes narrowed. If she could just see Alex, she could break through his selfish stupor and he would realize what he’d done. He would realize that he loved his daughter. He would act like a decent father, and her daughter would be safe and warm, with two parents to protect her.

  Lucy could still give her precious baby the life she deserved.

  Whatever it took.

  Whatever the catch.

  To give her baby a good life, Lucy would do anything—work herself to exhaustion. Sell her body. Even risk her soul.

  In sudden decision, Lucy softly kissed Chloe good-night. She spoke briefly with Mrs. Plotzky before leaving the elderly babysitter knitting in front of her game show.

  Every step Lucy took was deliberate. Determined.

  She found Maximo in the gold-and-cream hallway, leaning against the wall.

  “Well?” he asked quietly. “What is your decision?”

  She raised her chin. “My daughter will never worry about money again? She’ll have food and a warm house and be happy and safe?”

  “Correct.”

  “And I will be able to speak with Alex in person?”

  His blue eyes glittered. “Oh, yes.”

  “I accept your offer.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  “VA BENE.” Maximo looked down at her with a strange light in his eyes. “Come with me.”

  He took her hand, and she felt the same electricity, the same high-voltage shock. He pulled her back down the hallway and into the elevator. He was Heathcliff carrying her across the moors. He was Mr. Rochester demanding what he had no right to possess…

  He was Prince Maximo d’Aquilla, taking her to his hotel room.

  He stood behind her in the elevator, his hands possessively on her shoulders. Against her will, she closed her eyes. The weight of his hands felt like gold against her skin. Satiny-smooth, gleaming, heavy—forbidden.

  Except Maximo wasn’t Heathcliff. Heathcliff had wanted Cathy so much that he’d been willing to kill for her, die for her. He’d been driven half-mad when he’d lost her.

  The Italian prince standing behind her now, so close that she could feel the warmth emanating from his body, didn’t even see her as a woman.

  You’re not my type. You’re too plain. Too badly dressed. Too young.

  That’s wonderful, she told herself fiercely. She was done with men. Done with love. All she cared about now was Chloe, and giving her a good life at any cost.

  The elevator stopped on the fifth floor, and Maximo led her to the end of a hall. She heard laughter, the chiming of crystal glasses, voices speaking in English and Italian over the sounds of violins. He pushed open the door to his suite.

  Lucy stopped, her mouth agape.

  In the far corner, a string quartet performed Vivaldi’s “Winter.” She recognized two Hollywood celebrities, a senator. Money and power poured from the suite like music.

  She’d expected a hotel suite, but…

  “This is a palace!”

  “I don’t have any palaces in this particular country.” Looking utterly at ease, Maximo took off his coat and tossed it on the upholstered settee beneath the mirrored foyer. “This is just the presidential suite.”

  Just the presidential suite. One night here would probably cost a year of her rent. “You’re having a New Year’s Eve party?”

  He glanced at her, his eyes heavy-lidded, sensual. “I will soon celebrate far more than that. Stay here.”

  Glamorous people were turning to stare. Two women in particular, a blonde and a brunette, whispered to each other as they looked Lucy up and down. She licked her lips nervously. “Perhaps I should wait for you outside—”

  “You will wait here.” His voice rang with authority, demanding immediate obedience. “If anyone speaks to you, you will not explain your presence.”

  “No problem,” she muttered. How could she explain it, when even she didn’t understand?

  She watched him make his way toward the bar across the suite, frequently stopped by his guests. Every woman in the suite, young and old, married and single, seemed determined to get his attention.

  Except for the two gorgeous, elegant women who’d seen her arrive with Maximo. They sashayed toward Lucy like vultures.

  The pretty blonde in a tight red dress looked at her scornfully, and Lucy was suddenly aware of her scuffed tennis shoes, her messy ponytail, her old clothes. The blonde’s lips twisted. “Nice outfit.”

  Lucy flushed. She knew her sweatshirt was not fashionable, but it had once been her mother’s. Working the night shift, that made her feel watched over; plus, the kitten on its front always made Chloe laugh.

  “I’ve heard of slumming,” the blonde drawled, “but this is ridiculous, isn’t it, Esmé?”

  “Now, Arabella. You should be more kind.” The chic brunette gave Lucy a patronizing stare. “She’s probably here to clean the bathrooms.”

  Lucy froze, reminded of the way she’d been teased as a child. Her mom had moved them around so much, Lucy had always been the new kid in school. With her thick glasses and secondhand clothes, she’d been an easy target. And after her mother died, it had been worse. She’d spent countless hours in the school library with books her only real friends.…

  “Esmé. Arabella.�
� Maximo suddenly appeared at Lucy’s shoulder. He leaned forward to kiss the cheeks of the brunette, then the blonde. At his attention, the women preened and tossed their hair, like flowers reaching for the sun.

  He drew back, putting his hand on Lucy’s arm. “I see you’ve met Lucia.”

  Esmé tossed Lucy a cold glare, then pretended to give a little laugh. “Oh. Is she your friend? I thought she was the maid. How very eccentric of you, Maximo. Why go out for a common drive-through hamburger when you could enjoy foie gras in the comfort of your suite?”

  She obviously wasn’t talking about food.

  For Lucy, it was the last straw in a stressful night.

  “Foie gras is outlawed in Chicago, Esmé,” Lucy replied sweetly. “I can’t imagine why anyone would find mashed duck liver appealing, anyway.” She looked the brunette over from her supershort minidress to her platform heels, “It’s so greasy and nasty.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “Why, you little—”

  “Excuse us,” Maximo said, hiding a smile as he pressed Lucy away.

  “It’s almost midnight, Maximo,” Esmé called after them as they reached the bedroom doorway. “Don’t forget our New Year’s kiss!”

  “No!” the blonde cried. “He’s going to kiss me!”

  Maximo closed the door solidly behind them, and just like that, all the noise of the party fell away. They were alone in the bedroom.

  Lucy rubbed her wrist.

  “I’m sorry,” she muttered, although she really wasn’t.

  “Sorry? For what?”

  “For being rude to your mistress.”

  He stared at her, then snorted. “Do you mean Lady Arabella? Or the Countess of Bedingford?”

  Lady? Countess? Apparently royal titles were as common in Maximo’s world as Mr. or Mrs. “Take your pick.”

  He shrugged. “I hardly think a meaningless fling qualifies any woman to claim the title of mistress.”

  “Meaning you’ve slept with both of them?” Her shocked voice ended with a squeak.

  His sensual mouth curved into a smile. “There have been many women in my life. But as for details—a gentleman can hardly be expected to kiss and tell.”

  “Some gentleman,” she huffed. “Can’t you tell that they’re in love with you?”

  “I doubt that very much.”

  “They were ready to scratch my eyes out just for being with you!”

  “You exaggerate. And in any case—” his blue eyes caressed hers “—if any woman chooses to love me, she has only herself to blame. I am always very clear. I am not a man to settle down or give my heart to just one woman. I am faithful to only three things.”

  “Those are?” she spat out, folding her arms.

  “Justice for my family. My own freedom.” He held out a crystal flute of champagne. “And the success of my company.”

  She stared at the champagne he was holding out to her. As a college student, she’d been too focused on her studies to bother with alcohol; as a single mother, she hadn’t had the money or inclination. “Look, I know it’s New Year’s and everything, but I’m just not in the mood. If you want to celebrate, why don’t you ask one of the princesses outside?”

  His dark eyebrow lifted in amusement. “Surely you’re not jealous?”

  She looked away. “I just feel sorry for them, that’s all.”

  “Esmé and Arabella have influence in certain circles, and though I’ve lost personal interest I see no reason to cut off ties with them. I trade in luxury. And that is what I celebrate. The takeover of a small leather-goods company for my conglomerate. I have desired this company for many years,” he said softly. “And it will be mine within the hour. Perhaps you’ve heard of it. Ferrazzi.”

  He watched her from beneath heavily-lidded eyes.

  Ferrazzi. She’d admired their three-thousand-dollar handbags, even sold a few of them to wealthy customers. They were lovely bags, impossibly stylish, with leather as soft as cashmere and hardy as steel.

  But worth that price? The bags weren’t big enough to live in, nor did they magically mop her floor, cook her dinner or wash her clothes. Three thousand dollars for a handbag? That was insane!

  But Maximo seemed to be waiting for a response, and it seemed rude to criticize the company he would soon own. She cleared her throat, struggling to be polite. “Ferrazzi. Yes.”

  His large hand tightened around his delicate champagne flute. “What do you know about it?”

  “Um.” She bit her lip—literally—then finally said with a sigh, “I once worked in the accessories department at Neiman Marcus. Of course I know Ferrazzi handbags. That’s like asking me if I’ve ever heard of Chanel or Prada. You’re buying the company?”

  “Sì.”

  “But it must cost millions!”

  He gave her a cold smile. “Hundreds of millions.”

  She gaped at him, then snapped her mouth closed, muttering, “You obviously have more money than sense.”

  “And you obviously have greater regard for truth than tact. Here.” At a discreet knock on the door, he pushed the flute into her hand. Swiftly downing his own champagne, Maximo answered the door. A slender man in a suit handed him a folder.

  “What is it?” she asked, taking a tentative sip of champagne. Not bad, she thought in surprise. It was a bit sweet and fizzy like soda.

  Closing the door behind him, Maximo opened the folder and glanced over the papers. He handed her the folder. “This if for you to sign.”

  Setting the champagne flute down on a glass table, she opened it with a puzzled frown. “What is it?”

  “A prenuptial agreement.”

  “But—who’s getting married?”

  “You are. To me.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  LUCY looked up from the folder to the handsome prince in front of her. “What are you talking about?” she croaked. “Married? To you?”

  “Correct.”

  “I don’t even know you!”

  His sensual lips curved. “An excellent start for marriage.”

  “You said you’d never settle down with one woman—and you want to marry me?”

  “Sì.”

  “But why?”

  “Let’s start with why you’d want to marry me,” he said smoothly. “My palatial homes all over the world. My vast fortune. You can buy whatever you want without question. You will never need to work again. You will travel in the most exclusive circles of society. Your daughter will go to the best schools.” He took a step toward her. “And then there’s the title.”

  “The title?” she repeated faintly, aware of how close he was to her.

  He stroked a dark tendril of her hair, still wet from when he’d crushed her into the snow. “Wherever you go, for the rest of your life, you will be accepted and admired. As my princess. My bride,” he said. “The Principessa Lucia d’Aquilla.”

  Lucy—a princess?

  Suddenly alcohol seemed like a terrific idea. Snatching up her champagne flute, she drank it all down in a gulp. The expensive bubbles might really have been soda for all she noticed. But when she was finished, her mouth was still dry. She licked her lips, then felt his searing blue gaze. She looked up.

  His hot glance plundered her mouth. As if he’d seized her, kissed her, possessed her by force of his will. She was suddenly aware of her every breath—and his.

  “But people don’t get married for money,” she whispered. “They do it because they care about each other…”

  “Oh, do they?” He ran his hands on her shoulders, tracing upward with a finger along her neck to her jawline. He gently lifted her chin. He looked at her slowly, as if assessing the shape of her face beneath her glasses and messy hair, analyzing the shape of her body beneath her clothes. Finally he met her eyes.

  “Perhaps you are right,” he said abruptly. “Perhaps this will be for more than money. Perhaps I will take you to my bed.”

  “You what?”

  He smiled, a cruelly sensual smile. “This will be even more enjoy
able than I thought. I will make you feel as you’ve never felt before. Make you moan and gasp with pleasure until you forget your own name.”

  She closed her eyes. She knew he could do it. Just hearing him threaten to seduce her, feeling his touch against her skin, was nearly enough to make her forget her name already.

  “Would you like that?” His lips brushed against the tender flesh of her ear. “Would you like, at last, to feel the sensations you’ve only read about in books?”

  A quiet shiver rocked her from her toes.

  Startled, she looked up at him. His expression was arrogant. Knowing. As if he could read into her very soul. As if he somehow knew that her only lover had left her deeply unsatisfied.

  “But you said—you said you didn’t want me,” she stammered. “You said I’m not your type.”

  “I see now that I was wrong.” He gently stroked down her neck with his forefinger and his thumb. “You have your own beauty, different from any I’ve seen before. There is no reason not to enjoy our short marriage. I can show you what love is truly like—show you how passionate love can be.”

  Her heart turned over. “Love?”

  “Marry me, and your feet will barely touch the ground.”

  Oh. That kind of love. Of course, what else could he mean? A playboy like Prince Maximo d’Aquilla would not get emotionally entangled in relationships. He had too many of them.

  “But you said you’d never settle down,” she whispered. “So why now, Maximo? Why me?”

  “You think little of yourself.” He ran his hands down her arms, from her neck to her bare wrists. “You do not know your own worth, Lucia.”

  Lucia. Every time he called her that it was a caress, making her feel exotic, beautiful, desired. She loved the feeling—almost as much as she feared it…

  She took a deep breath.

  If a handsome man seems too good to be true, she repeated to herself fiercely, he’s lying.

  So why was he trying to make her believe he desired her?

  Because he thought she’d refused his proposal.

  The realization gave her the strength to pull away. Narrowing her eyes, she raised her chin.