The Billionaire's Bridal Bargain

Lizzie froze in consternation. ‘That must’ve been devastating for him,’ she muttered ruefully, thinking that she had unkindly misjudged Cesare when she had assumed he simply had no heart and no room in his life for anything but business and profit.

‘But today I know that he has finally put Serafina back where she belongs in the past,’ his grandmother proclaimed with satisfaction and patted Lizzie’s hand. ‘Today I am joyful that Cesare has married you and changed the whole course of his life for the better.’

Lizzie suppressed a groan of disagreement. She was discovering where Goffredo’s optimistic outlook came from—he had inherited it from his mother. It was a source of wonder to her that Cesare had grown up surrounded by people with such sunny natures and yet contrived to retain his cold, unemotional attitude to life. Yet he was also careful to maintain a certain distance from his loving family, she conceded reflectively, wondering if he secretly feared that his family loving softness might dull his own ruthless cutting edge.

A couple of hours after that, Lizzie boarded Cesare’s private jet. Her feet, shod in spindly high heels, were killing her. Even the short walk through the airport had been too much and she collapsed into her leather upholstered seat and kicked off her shoes with intense relief.

‘You did very well today,’ Cesare pronounced, disconcerting her as he took his own seat opposite. ‘I don’t think anyone suspected the truth.’

‘Your father knows,’ she reminded him uncomfortably.

‘He’ll believe the truth for all of ten minutes. Give him a few weeks and he’ll persuade himself that we fell madly in love within hours of getting married,’ Cesare forecast with sardonic bite. ‘That’s the way Goffredo functions.’

‘You have a lovely family,’ Lizzie countered, colour springing into her cheeks. ‘Don’t be so critical. They love you very much and they aren’t afraid to show it.’

Cesare stiffened until he recalled his father-in-law’s behaviour throughout the day. Brian Whitaker had turned down the opportunity to make a speech, had kept to his own company in the midst of the crowd and had steadfastly managed not to smile even for the photographs. ‘Your father’s...different,’ he conceded quietly. ‘Not the demonstrative type.’

‘When my mother left him, it soured him on life,’ she muttered ruefully. ‘And life has been tough for him ever since. He’ll be more content living in the house he’s hoping to rent in the village. I think it will be a relief for him not to be looking out of windows at the farm and fretting about the jobs I’m not getting done.’

‘Isn’t it a relief for you as well?’ Cesare prompted, thinking of the long and gruelling hours of work she must have endured while she endeavoured to keep the farm going without help.

Lizzie compressed her lips and frowned reflectively. ‘From dawn to dusk I worried about everything and anything and I’m not sorry to be free of that stress. The bank threatening to withdraw the loan was our biggest fear but then the rent was raised...and, that was a body blow, totally the last straw,’ she confided honestly. ‘That was followed by Chrissie announcing that she was going to drop out of uni and come home because we were having such a struggle. I couldn’t let that happen. She needed to get her education.’

Cesare was listening intently. ‘So that’s why you suddenly changed your mind and agreed to marry me?’ he breathed in a tone of disconcertion. ‘I had no idea that you were under that much financial and emotional pressure.’

‘But you said you knew our situation,’ she reminded him in surprise. ‘I assumed you’d used a private investigator to check us out before you came to visit.’

Level dark eyes gazed back at her, a frown line pleating his ebony brows. ‘No, I didn’t. I didn’t know about the bank loan, the rent rise or your sister’s plans to drop out. I only knew about your father’s ill health and that you were trying to keep the farm afloat on your own.’

‘Well, you know the whole story now,’ Lizzie commented mildly. ‘I was ready to sell my soul for thirty pieces of silver.’

‘No,’ Cesare contradicted, his sibilant Italian accent vibrating in the silence to send a current of awareness travelling down her slender spine. ‘You were desperate to protect your family, regardless of what it might cost you personally. That’s loyalty and I admire that trait.’

As the silence stretched, Cesare went back to work at his laptop. Driven by something stronger than he was, he found himself glancing up to watch Lizzie leaf through a glossy fashion magazine, pulling faces whenever she came on a picture of any garment she considered too extreme while absently fondling Archie’s ear beneath his balloon collar. She was so very natural. What you saw was what you got from Lizzie Whitaker and he had totally misunderstood her. It was a sobering discovery for a male who prided himself on his ability to read others. He had made all too many assumptions about Lizzie, not least that she was a gold-digger, and now that he had discovered that she had been driven more by desperation than greed his innate curiosity about her was finally set free.

‘Why did you dye your hair brown?’ he asked her abruptly.

Lizzie twined a shining silver strand round a self-conscious finger and winced in evident embarrassment. ‘Andrew didn’t like my hair. He thought it attracted too much attention and that it looked white and made people think I was an old lady at first glance,’ she told him uncomfortably. ‘I could see his point.’

‘Did you really want to please him that much?’ Cesare pressed. ‘Your hair’s beautiful, unusual but undeniably beautiful, cara.’

Lizzie shrugged but her face glowed at the compliment. His lean, darkly handsome features held her intent gaze and she switched her attention back to the magazine, a pool of liquid heat gathering in her pelvis that made her squirm with chagrin. He was so very, very good-looking, it was natural for her to stare a little, she told herself ruefully, but she had to keep her feet on the ground and learn to distinguish between what was real and what was more probably fake.

The limousine that collected them from the airport in Italy wended its way along winding roads and through some spectacular scenery. It was late spring and the fields were green with fava beans and wheat dotted with yellow broom. Medieval villages in picturesque hilltop locations were ringed by vineyards and olive groves while the rolling hills were covered with groves of cypresses and umbrella pines. Lizzie was enchanted and plied Cesare with questions.

‘You still haven’t told me where we’re going,’ she complained.

‘We’re almost there.’

Lizzie stared out at the rustic stone farmhouse on the ridge of the hill and blinked because it was not what she expected. Cesare was so sophisticated that she had been convinced that they were heading for some exclusive spa. ‘It just doesn’t look like your style,’ she breathed helplessly.

‘I love old buildings. When I first saw it I was a student out hiking with friends. The roof had fallen in, the first floor had gone and the end wall had collapsed. We took shelter in the barn during a thunderstorm,’ Cesare explained as the driver turned down a dirt track that steadily climbed the hill. ‘I watched the sun go down over the valley and swore I’d buy it with my first million.’

‘Your first...million?’ she exclaimed.

‘It was a money pit,’ Cesare told her cheerfully, his dark eyes gleaming with rueful amusement. ‘I learnt that the hard way.’

The car drew up in a paved courtyard ornamented with urns full of tumbling flowers. As they climbed out, a rotund little woman in an apron hurried out to greet them. Her name was Maria and she was the housekeeper and, seemingly, Cesare’s biggest fan. Ushered into a great vaulted hall, Lizzie looked around herself with keen interest, glancing through to a gracious drawing room rejoicing in a vast pale stone fireplace and an array of vibrant turquoise sofas. The outside might be antique and rustic but the inside was all contemporary elegance.