His Merciless Marriage Bargain

Giovanni sat down in his desk chair and leaned back. “How could you have so much faith in a stranger, when you knew I’d rejected all your other attempts to see me?

“Because Antonio had such faith in you.” She saw his expression darken and she felt a pang of anxiety, but she’d started down this path and had to finish. Fighting the flurry of nerves, she lightly patted the baby’s back, as much to soothe him as to calm herself. “He said you were the best of the best and absolutely trustworthy. He’d said more than once that the Marcellos would not have what they do today if it wasn’t for you and your sacrifices.”

“It’s never a sacrifice when you’re helping your family.”

“But you still gave up your needs for theirs.”

“Just what did Antonio tell you?” he asked. “I’m interested in knowing. It would help keep his memory alive.”

She shot him a look over the baby’s head. It was obvious that Giovanni wasn’t asking so much as commanding her to share. She smiled faintly, thinking how nice it must be to have so much power over others. He wasn’t just accustomed to people doing what he wanted, but when he wanted it and exactly the way he wanted it.

He must have caught the curve of her lips. “You’re smiling,” he said.

Her shoulders twisted. “I was just thinking we’re so different, and our expectations are so different. I arrived here in Venice, shaking and nervous, so nervous that I hadn’t slept in days and couldn’t eat. I was so worried about the outcome. I was certain you’d refuse me, certain you wouldn’t see us, but hoping, praying, you might.” She was talking too much, practically babbling, but she couldn’t stop herself now that she’d begun. “You see, I came prepared to plead and beg, fight and cry. I came determined to get on my knees if need be—”

“You are aware that is not how you presented yourself this morning at my front door? There was no begging or pleading. You showed up armed and dangerous.”

“We both know that first impressions matter. If I started out weak, you wouldn’t have respected me or taken my request seriously. And I need you to respect me, not because it will change me, or the outcome of my life, but because it will change Michael’s.”

Giovanni looked at her from beneath his lashes, his blue gaze piercing, assessing, his firm mouth pressed into an uncompromising line. But something had changed. The very air felt different, charged somehow with an energy and emotion she couldn’t decipher. Her stomach cramped from exhaustion and far too many nerves. “I think this is our cue to leave. I have rooms booked at the Hotel Arcadia, and we’ll return there now so Michael can be changed and have another bottle before taking his afternoon nap.”

For a long moment there was silence, and then Gio leaned forward. “I think you should stay here.”

She blinked, confused. “Here? Why?”

He rose and walked toward her. “You’ve started something, calling the paparazzi and inviting them here. You unleashed the wolves, and once they’re out, they don’t go away. They’re circling, waiting for you—”

“You make it sound as if they’re going to attack!”

“Because they will. And you’re not going to be able to control them.” He stopped in front of her, his gaze raking her first, and then the baby, who was contentedly gumming his fist. “It’s not safe for you out there anymore.”

Rachel’s heart was racing, and not because he was frightening her, but standing this close she could feel his incredible physical energy as strongly as when he’d held her and kissed her outside in front of the cameras and anybody else watching. “They are photographers, not assassins.”

“They might as well be assassins. They’re not your friends. They’ll want a piece of you, again and again.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Then I’ll send for your things from the Arcadia and we’ll get you settled here—”

“No!”

He ignored her protest. “It’s not safe for you out there. You can’t be running around Venice, hopping in and out of water taxis with my nephew, and there is no need, either, when we can accomplish everything we need here, in privacy.”

“I’m not…comfortable…staying here.”

One of his black eyebrows lifted.

“It’s your home, not mine,” she said too quickly. “I’m not suggesting you’d be a poor host, but I would be a poor guest. I don’t sleep well and I spend half the night pacing, unable to relax.”