His Merciless Marriage Bargain

The elderly butler from the morning was waiting on the third landing for Rachel and he walked her slowly down the hall. The butler gravely opened the door and stepped back, and Rachel entered the Marcello library, a windowless room where the walls were covered in antique ruby brocade paper and narrow gilded bookshelves rivaled massive oil paintings. The center of the room was filled with oversize crimson sofas and thickly padded upholstered armchairs, pieces promising comfort and not just style.

Rachel spotted Gio across the room, dressed in a dark suit and white dress shirt. He looked immaculate and handsome—far, far too handsome—and it suddenly struck her as odd that he hadn’t ever married. He was a man who had everything. Why was he still a bachelor in his late thirties?

* * *

Giovanni turned at the sound of the door quietly closing. He’d been pouring a drink and he straightened when he spotted Rachel hesitating on the threshold. She looked different this evening. Younger, softer, a little less sure of herself.

Earlier today she’d reminded him of Adelisa, but tonight she was just Rachel, and he didn’t know if it was due to the simplicity of her black velvet dress, or perhaps the way she’d styled her hair, the long thick strands twisted and pinned at the back of her neck in a style that struck him as Edwardian. Even her dress and shawl had a hint of old-world elegance. Maybe that was the difference. She looked pretty and fresh without being overdone.

“I’m sorry for being late,” she said a little breathlessly.

He shook his head. “Not late.”

“I think I am, by about ten minutes.”

“It’s just an aperitivo, a predinner drink. Our schedule is not set in stone.” He nodded at the tray with the crystal decanters and glasses. “What can I pour for you?”

“Do you have any wine, or is that not a suitable aperitivo?”

He smiled faintly. “Sparkling wine is definitely suitable. Would you prefer Prosecco, Fragolino, or perhaps Brachetto?”

She moved slowly toward him, expression shy. “Are they all wine? Will you think me terribly gauche when I say I don’t know the difference?”

“They’re all wine with bubbles. And does my opinion matter? Earlier today you said you didn’t care what I thought of you.”

Her shoulders twisted. “I was feeling defensive earlier.”

“And you aren’t now?”

“I’ve had a chance to nap and relax, and gain a little more perspective.”

“And what is that?”

“If we’re to be allies, not adversaries, we need to get along, right?”

For a long moment he just looked at her. “We shall see what you have to say after I show you the papers.”

“What’s in the papers?”

“Let’s have that drink first.” He saw her quick glance, and the worry in her brown eyes. She wouldn’t like what she saw. He wasn’t surprised at the newspapers. It’s what he’d intended, but it changed everything. For him. For her. For all of them.

“It sounds as if a quick lesson is in order,” he said casually. “Prosecco is Italian, it’s a sparkling wine made here in Veneto from Glera grapes. Fragolino is a sparkling red wine, also made in the Veneto, from the Isabella grape, while Brachetto, also a sparkling red, comes from the Piedmont region.” He looked at her. “What sounds good?”

She wrinkled her nose. “Too many choices.”

“Let us simplify. Red or white?”

“White, please.”

“Prosecco it is.” He opened a bottle and filled a flute for her. “I think you made a good choice. This comes from the Marcello vineyard.”

“You have a winery?”

“It’s a small one, but I’m proud of it. The wines are beginning to win awards and receive international recognition.”

“Are you very involved?”

“I bought the ailing vineyard six years ago. We’re just starting to turn a profit. Winemaking is a labor of love. You don’t do it to get rich.”

“Is the Marcello vineyard your labor of love?”

“More than I expected.”

“Now I’m even more embarrassed that I knew nothing about Italian wine.”

“I don’t pretend to be a vintner. I’m an engineer. I build things.”

She took the flute from him, and then looked up into his eyes. “I’d like to see the papers. You have me worried now.”

He walked her to the long table behind the couch. He’d cleared the table of everything but the newspapers and pages he’d printed from various digital media sites.

Every story ran with one or more photos, and every story had a shot of Rachel with Michael, but there were far more photographs of Rachel in Giovanni’s arms than of Michael himself. The baby was a secondary story to Giovanni Marcello passionately kissing the mother of his child.