The Italian Billionaire's New Year Bride

Phoebe jumped up. Literally, jumped up onto her feet, a wide smile across her face. “We’re dummies,” she declared before spinning around. “Here, Matteo. Here. The library. The place that was going to remain undisturbed. The place that children probably wouldn’t play, and the renovations wouldn’t touch.” She ran over and flicked the main light switch, flooding the room with light.

It was like being hit by a thunderbolt. Of course. Of course.

Phoebe had already made her way over to the shelves. She wagged her finger at him. “It’s time for us to stop sniggering like naughty school kids at the ancient sex manuals and look for the real prize. A red album. It has to be here.”

Phoebe climbed up the shaky rolling steps and started to look at the top shelves. She pointed downward. “Let’s be methodical about this. You look at the shelves underneath me.”

Matteo nodded. His eyes swept along the shelves. A lot of the books were far too thick to be a photo album. Most of them were the wrong color. He pulled out a few, checking they really were books, then pushing them back onto the shelves.

“Right” came Phoebe’s authoritative voice from above him. “Push me along a bit.”

He looked up and pulled a face at her.

“What? There’s no point in me climbing up and down, when you can just push me along.”

“I think you’re enjoying this a little too much.”

She shrugged and gave him a little smile. “Maybe. But push me along anyhow.”

The ladder squeaked and shook as he wheeled her along. “Don’t get used to this,” he murmured.

She laughed above him and his stomach gave a little flip. The horrible dread and associations he’d always had about this place didn’t seem quite so bad when Phoebe was around. Five minutes later—after she’d got used to ordering him around—Phoebe let out a squeal.

“I think I’ve got it!”

Matteo jumped back, stopping at the bottom of the steps. Phoebe spun around above him, clutching a red album in one hand. Excitement seemed to bubble from her. He lifted his arms up toward her. It just seemed so natural. So easy. And Phoebe didn’t hesitate—she let him lift her down the steps.

The album was in her hands. It looked old. She flicked open the front page then stopped and stared at him. “Oh, I’m sorry. Do you want to do this yourself?”

He hesitated. Part of him absolutely did.

But part of him absolutely didn’t.

All of a sudden the lights in the library seemed too bright.

“Give me a second.” He walked over and flipped them off. Somehow it seemed safer to be in the flickering firelight. “Let’s sit down,” he said.

Phoebe nodded and walked back over, sitting down in front of the fireplace with the album on her lap. She waited until he joined her, then opened the first page again.

There was no photo. Instead his parents’ names were written in calligraphy.

June 15, 1980

Roberto Matteo Bianchi and Lucianna Maria Aquino

His mouth suddenly felt dry and he was conscious of Phoebe’s eyes on him. He couldn’t remember ever looking at his parents’ wedding album before. He was sure he’d seen one wedding picture. His father had kept one in a frame, hidden away in his study for years. But the rest? Matteo had never seen them.

He flicked over the next page and caught his breath. His mother. So young. She was twenty-two when she got married. She was sitting in her wedding dress in front of her dressing table looking suitably nervous for a young bride.

Her dress was an Italian lace overlay over a white bodice. It was simple. Round necked and short sleeved. It cinched in at the waist, with the skirt flaring out. Her dark brown curls cascaded over one shoulder and clutched in her hand a bunch of white lilies surrounded by baby’s breath. His mother had always loved those. They’d decorated the house frequently.

Phoebe touched the plastic covering the photo. “Her dress is beautiful,” she murmured. Matteo licked his lips. He’d always known that Brianna was the spitting image of their mother, but never had it been so apparent. They could almost be the same person. That thought was enough to send a cold chill down his spine.

Phoebe flicked the page. The wedding album was filled with all the usual pictures. Matteo’s mother with her own father, looking suitably proud. A gaggle of bridesmaids, all dressed in wide pale pink dresses. A whole host of relatives that even Matteo wasn’t entirely sure of.

But then Phoebe flicked the page again and there was his father. His eyes full of joy and life. It was like a fist closing around Matteo’s heart.

It wasn’t that his father had spent the rest of his life miserable. There had been the odd glimmer of spark and happiness. But the truth was, those moments had been few and far between. After the death of his mother, his father had focused all his energy and attention on business. He’d been ruthless. Sometimes heartless about the decisions he’d made.