His fierce anger made her draw back in hurt and confusion. They sat in silence until the limo finally pulled through a wrought-iron gate.
“Bene,” he said shortly. “We’re here.”
The limo stopped, and the chauffeur opened her door.
She saw an enormous multitiered villa, white as a neoclassical wedding cake, surrounded by elaborate gardens overlooking a crystal-blue lake. Put all together, it was white and blue and wide as heaven…
“This is my home,” he said quietly. “The Villa Uccello.”
Then she saw the crowds of people lining the front steps.
“Who are they?” she whispered.
“Servants. Neighbors. Here to meet you.” Maximo un-buckled Chloe from her car seat, smiling down at the baby warmly. “And to celebrate your birthday, little one.”
Chloe chattered and waved her hippo in reply as he lifted her from the car.
Maximo had remembered Chloe’s birthday? Lucy rose from the car. She forgot all about the decrepit villa, the wedding-cake Villa Uccello, even forgot the crowds of people waiting for her.
All she could see was her baby, happy in Maximo’s arms.
Why hadn’t Alex ever held Chloe like that? Why had he never held her at all? He hadn’t cared about her birthday—he hadn’t even cared about her birth. He’d ignored his own child, brushed her off like an embarrassment, sent her pictures back unopened. He had abandoned her to struggle—left her to starve.
Maximo, though unrelated by blood, was already acting more like a father to Chloe than Alex ever had. Unlike Alex with his sweet words and faithless proposal of marriage, Maximo d’Aquilla hadn’t bothered to explain a damn thing. In fact, he’d barely bothered about the niceties of proposing—he’d just married her practically by force.
But he’d taken both Lucy and Chloe under his wing. He’d taken her away from desperate hardship, made her his princess and brought her to Italy. He’d made sure she and Chloe would be secure for the rest of their lives.
Maximo d’Aquilla was a man of deeds, not words. And unlike Alex, he told the truth. He’d even had the decency to warn her never to love him…
No problem, she told herself. She wouldn’t love a playboy. Couldn’t.
But she couldn’t prevent the memory of their kiss last night from replaying in her mind. She could still feel his mouth against hers. Demanding. Insisting. Possessing her against her will…Making her want and demand and insist on possessing him in return…
Maximo held out his free hand to her.
“Come, my bride.”
And she obeyed.
As they walked up the steps to the glamorous, palatial villa, people followed them inside the ten-foot-high doors, chattering happily in Italian. A smiling maid took her coat as three footmen carried bags from the car, and the chauffeur drove the Rolls-Royce to park it in the mews.
I’ve entered a fairy tale, she thought in wonder. Just like Cinderella’s castle.
Past the foyer, they entered a large salon with a high ceiling, covered with frescoes of cherubic angels and embracing Renaissance lovers. Lucy sucked in her breath at the sheer size of it—and the elegance. This palace was to be her home for the next three months?
But there was more. Past the antique furniture in the salon, above the soaring marble fireplace, she saw a big silken banner with handpainted words.
Happy First Birthday. Buon compleanno, Chloe!
The room was decorated with hundreds of pink flowers and balloons. Next to the fireplace, she saw a mountain of gift-wrapped presents. Presiding over the gifts was a stuffed giraffe nearly as tall as Lucy wearing a pink bow. And on the table behind the elegant upholstered sofa, there was a pink birthday cake, six tiers high.
Maximo had done this all—for Chloe. A child he’d only met yesterday.
Lucy stopped as tears rushed to her eyes. Yesterday, she’d had neither gifts nor a cake for her beloved daughter. Today, everything had changed.
“Thank you,” she whispered, clutching his hand. “I can’t believe you did this for Chloe.”
“No.” He looked at her. “I did it for you.”