But Vin had toughened up since then. Smartened up. Home could be anywhere. He owned more houses than he could keep track of, mostly as investments but also for his convenience. They were all decorated the same, modern and Spartan in stark black and gray, devoid of many personal details or clutter. That was always how he liked his relationships, too. In his opinion, “love” was a fancy decoration, as tacky and inappropriate as pink flounces or Victorian chintz.
He put his hand to his forehead, feeling a sense of vertigo. He couldn’t let himself return to the vulnerable, tenderhearted boy he’d been. The boy who’d actually cared. The boy who’d felt things. Who’d hungered for things that had nothing to do with money—
It was this place, he thought angrily.
No. He looked at Scarlett sleeping so trustingly in his arms. It was her.
He couldn’t let himself lose his head. He had to keep it together. Stay cool. Stick to the plan.
They would be married soon, he told himself. All he had to do was make her love him enough to sign the post-nup. That was all.
But it was hard for Vin to keep his vow.
* * *
It took four more days, not three, before they were able to wed. The Borgias had been wrong. Even with the town mayor expediting paperwork, even with copies of their birth certificates—Vin’s listed paternity a glaring lie that set his teeth on edge—there were certain formalities that had to be completed, and not even political connections or deep pockets could completely circumvent them.
Four days.
Four days of spending every moment with beautiful, intuitive, keen-eyed Scarlett and the wonderful people who believed themselves to be his family. Four days of listening to Maria prate on excitedly about her plans for their wedding. A required visit to the American Consulate in Florence turned into a pleasurable day of sightseeing with Scarlett, gawking at the Duomo followed by lunch at a charming café in the Piazza della Signoria. Four days of taking long walks in the Tuscan sunshine, eating glorious food.
Four days of talking to Scarlett, of learning about her, of finding new things to admire. One rainy afternoon by the fire, she’d suddenly set down her book and on impulse offered to show him the intricacies of picking a pocket.
He appreciated the lesson and, in return, offered to teach her how to fight. “My dad already showed me,” she said primly. “I tried my punch out on Blaise in New York.”
“I bet you did,” he said, grinning at her. “All right. Here’s how to use your own body weight against an attacker who grabs you from behind. Bet your dad didn’t teach that.”
Vin still smiled, remembering how pleasurably those lessons had ended—in bed together.
Such a strange way to live, Vin thought. He wasn’t accustomed to such a luxurious squandering of time. He usually spent eighteen-hour days in the office, and that was what he should have been doing now, nailing down the details of the upcoming Mediterranean Airlines deal.
Instead, he sent his assistant on to Rome without him. He told his staff to handle everything, promising only that he’d arrive in Rome for the face-to-face meeting required by the other company’s CEO, Salvatore Calabrese.
He’d spent the last twenty years focused on work. He told himself he’d be justified to take a few days off, but this was no mere vacation. He had a clear goal: making Scarlett love him so she’d sign the postnuptial agreement giving him the permanent control he needed to protect his son.
At least that was what Vin told himself as he spent hours walking with Scarlett through brilliantly colored autumn fields, on footpaths laced with cypress trees, holding her hand as they talked about everything and nothing. Hours of lingering together over meals, midday picnics beneath the golden sunlight, evening dinners inside by the fire. Vin found out why Scarlett was such a bad cook. “The day after my mother died, I tried to cook a can of soup over an open stove and nearly burned the house down.” She smiled. “My father declared he’d be in charge of meals for safety reasons. My job was to keep the house clean and focus on school, when I was able to go.”
She smiled about it now, but when Vin broke down the many sources of pain in that sentence—her mother died, they had to cook over an open stove, she wasn’t always able to go to school—he marveled at her resiliency. He admired her strength.