The Italian Billionaire's New Year Bride

But Matteo didn’t seem to hear her. He moved between phone calls. Hanging up on the mobile and giving rapid instructions—still in Italian—into the house phone.

When he finally hung up he looked as if he’d aged ten years in a few minutes. “What is it?” she persisted.

“Brianna. She went into hospital yesterday and didn’t let Vittore tell me. Things are bad. They have to deliver the baby in the next few hours. I have to go home.”

Phoebe blinked then nodded. “Absolutely. Of course you do. I’ll pack.”

“No.”

His voice was sharp. It was almost as if he’d switched off and gone into automatic pilot. “You stay here. You finish the house. Make it ready for the viewing next week that will complete the sale. That’s what I need you to do right now.”

“But your family?” Phoebe took a deep breath. “Maybe you should speak to Vittore before you take off. Let him know you’re worried. Tell him why. He’ll be with Brianna for the next few hours.”

He drew back and looked at her as if she were crazy. “I can’t tell Vittore something like that on the phone. That’s ridiculous. I need to be with my family right now. I can’t stay here with you.”

It was like a chill washing over her body. It wasn’t the words. It was the way that he said them. In the last twenty-four hours she’d never felt as connected to someone as she did to Matteo. But he was acting as if the last twenty-four hours hadn’t happened—as if they meant nothing at all. Had she been stupid? Had she imagined something that wasn’t actually real? Her automatic reaction was to self-protect. To withdraw. “I’m not asking you to. I absolutely understand you going to your sister. I would never ask you not to do that.”

She turned around, trying to ignore the pain washing over her body.

She put her hand on the metallic rail of the staircase and held her breath, squeezing her eyes closed for a second, and praying that he might reconsider—praying that he might say something else. Anything to acknowledge the connection between them. Anything that might make her realize this wasn’t all one-sided. That he might love her as much as she loved him.

But there was nothing. Matteo completely ignored her. He shouted a few commands in Italian to some of the staff at the villa then stalked off into his study to grab a few items.

A few minutes later the car pulled up in front of the villa, ready to take him straight to the airport. Phoebe hadn’t moved much. She’d only made it to the top of the stairs.

There was a fist clenching around her heart. She knew how upset he was. And she got it. She did.

But she also knew that no matter how worried or upset she was about her mother, she wouldn’t treat Matteo so dismissively. She would at the very least try and take a few minutes to explain—to let him understand.

But it seemed that Italian men were different. She knew Italians were famous for family loyalty. But she couldn’t imagine that Matteo could love his family any more than she did hers.

But, it appeared, it didn’t matter. Matteo appeared a few moments later with a bag in hand.

“Matteo?”

He glanced up at her. But the look he gave her was so detached—a world away from the connection of earlier. Her insides felt as though she were on a roller coaster.

His shutters were back in place. The ones he continually hid behind. The ones she’d thought she’d broken through.

He let out a sigh. But it seemed almost dismissive. He shook his head. “It’s better this way, Phoebe.” He paused then added, “Better for us both.” He turned and swept out of the door into the dark night.

It appeared that her plane ride home would be taken alone—the thing that she’d always dreaded.

She couldn’t depend on Matteo after all. And why should she?

She was just an employee.

Chapter Eight

PHOEBE WORKED ON automatic pilot. It was easy. She’d already made the plans for the house and just saw them through to perfection.

The staff in the villa looked after her well. All of them could speak English and translated anything for her that she required and dealt with any orders or deliveries she needed.

By the end of the week the villa was immaculate and ready for viewing.

And Matteo hadn’t called. Not once.

Nor did he call when she contacted the family solicitor to arrange the viewing.

Nor did he call when she arranged her flight home.

Curiosity was killing her. Her fingers found the Hampton house listed for sale on the Internet. The photographs were gorgeous, capturing the true beauty of the surroundings and the stunning views.

And it seemed that word had spread. Her phone hadn’t stopped ringing with offers of new jobs. The solicitor in Italy sent her photographs to use from the villa for her portfolio. She updated her website adding the Italian villa and the Hampton house.

She never discussed the flight home with anyone. The first flight she’d actually refused to board, frozen to her seat in the departure lounge, trying to remember all her breathing exercises.

Thankfully for her, one of the airline staff had taken pity on her. Marsha had experienced many nervous flyers and had been due to fly home herself. She’d distracted Phoebe before the next flight, and held her hand through the take-off and the landing. Laughing off the fact that Phoebe must have practically crushed every bone in her hand.

And after she’d returned, nothing. Not a word. Not a single word from Matteo.

* * *

“You tell us this now?”

Vittore was furious, and didn’t care who knew about it.

Brianna seemed calmer. She walked over to the bassinet and laid Jay down with barely a flicker of emotion. It was only as she moved back over toward Matteo, taking his arm and steering him sharply out of the room, did he see the little flicker at her jaw. She gestured with her head for Vittore to follow, before closing the doors firmly behind her.

“What?” was her only response.

Matteo licked his dry lips. “I’m sorry,” he said simply. “I wanted to tell you both before. But...it didn’t seem appropriate.”

Vittore was in his face in an instant. “In thirty years—you couldn’t find an appropriate time? We’ve spent our whole lives together, Matt. This was the first time you thought to tell us?” His face was scarlet and his hands were in fists at the sides of his body.

“Of course it wasn’t! But I haven’t known since I was five. I figured it out. Papa would never discuss it.

Never. On the few occasions I tried to ask him about it, it was clear I was upsetting him. He always told me to leave it.”

“You found her. You never told us that before.” Brianna’s voice was quiet, but packed with emotion. Vittore turned to their sister, his face wracked with confusion; it was clear he expected her to be angry too.

Matteo sucked in another breath. “Yes.” His voice shook. He couldn’t help it. “I thought she was sleeping.”

Once he’d started telling his brother and sister, things had just spilled out, often in the wrong order. But he couldn’t keep it together any longer. He’d spent the last month practically on Brianna’s shoulder and it was clear she was suspicious of his overly protective behavior. At first, she’d thought he was just a smitten uncle. But after a few weeks, she’d become more in tune to his observations and questions.

Ever since he’d taken that panicked flight home from Rome he’d felt as if he’d been living on a knife edge. Phoebe’s words had constantly echoed in his brain. The last look on her face haunted him.

He tried to persuade himself it was for the best. He’d never be enough for the bright shining star that was Phoebe Gates. Things would cool, fade and be a disappointment for her. Walking away at this point was actually protecting her—saving her from any future pain he might cause.

But the truth was he’d been so focused on his family he hadn’t left any room for her. It was a mistake. A massive mistake. And the only person he’d been trying to protect was himself. Protecting himself from actually sharing the love and emotional commitment that came from being in a loving relationship with someone who could potentially hurt him. Just as his mother had.

He’d felt abandoned by his mother. Let down.

Surely if she’d loved him more she wouldn’t have committed suicide—wouldn’t have left him, Vittore and Brianna?

He’d also felt responsible. If he’d sounded the alarm sooner—maybe something could have been done—maybe his mother’s life could have been saved and he wouldn’t have grown up with his heart locked away. Scared to let anyone hurt it again.