His Merciless Marriage Bargain
Before he could answer, the door opened and the maid appeared. Gio looked at Rachel. “Would you like American coffee or an espresso?”
“Do you have coffee by the pot? I feel like I need gallons of it today.”
Gio gave the instructions to his maid and then waited for her to leave. “It’s been done,” he said as the door closed. “I had my PR firm release the information last night.”
Her jaw dropped, horrified. “What?”
Gio reached for the stack of folded papers on the seat of the empty chair next to him. He’d read them earlier and saved them to show her. He placed the papers in front of her, with the English version on top to make it easier for her, watching her expression as she scanned the paper’s bold headline.
Italian Billionaire Marcello to Marry
American Lover!
“You really did tell them,” she whispered.
“I needed to. Media outlets from all over the world have been calling my company, and the company has been trying to send everyone to the PR agency, but it’s out of control right now.”
She lifted the paper, unfolding it to see the accompanying photo. It was a new one, taken of them yesterday in the coffee shop off the piazza.
For a long moment she said nothing, and then she sighed, the sound that of disappointment and perhaps resignation. “Are they all like this?” she asked, shuffling through the papers to glance at each.
“Yes.”
She flipped through the papers again. “How long will this…attention…last?”
“As long as we remain newsworthy.”
“I’d like to end the newsworthy element as soon as possible.”
“I could not agree more. It’s why we’re going to push forward quickly, and do a news dump, releasing all the announcements and information at one time so there are no more surprises and no more big headlines.”
“How does that work?”
“We’re sending out the invitations for our engagement party today. Once they are in the mail, we’ll make an announcement about the party and perhaps do an exclusive interview with one of the bigger tabloids, inviting them into the palazzo and letting them have a look at the party preparations, or even better, plans for our wedding.”
“But you’re so private. Won’t that just whet the paparazzi’s appetite for more?”
“I think once I’m more accessible, they’ll grow bored.”
“You hope,” she said.
“I do.”
She looked up at him, her eyes bright, her cheeks pink, her emotions right there on the surface. He liked her transparency. He liked that she wasn’t the schemer he’d first thought. She was nothing like the kind of women he spent time with, and maybe that was why he was drawn to her. She was fresh and real and emotionally accessible. Her emotions made her more beautiful: the light that shone in her eyes, the quick curve of her lips, the vexed expression when provoked.
She was provoked now. “You expect me to capitulate, don’t you? You’re expecting me to just acquiesce and marry you.”
“Yes.”
“You will be disappointed.”
“I don’t think so. I think you will soon discover that love is overrated, especially when the sex is deeply satisfying.”
She flushed and her jaw firmed.
“Or perhaps you’ve never enjoyed sex—”
“That’s enough,” she choked. “Nothing about this conversation is appropriate.”
“How are we to make love if we can’t even discuss it?”
“We’re not going to make love, or get married. I have agreed to a pretend engagement. That is all.”
She was so flustered, her cheeks were dark pink, her voice breathless. He didn’t think she was faking it, either. Rachel was a different species of woman, and it made him wonder, if she was this emotional and sensitive at the breakfast table, what would she be like in his bed?
The thought made him hard, and a little impatient. He pushed the papers back toward her. “Then what do we do? Have photographers chase you every day? Lie in wait for you and Michael as you run errands? The life you once had is gone, Rachel. This is your life now.”
She said nothing, her chin jutting in displeasure.
He could change that expression with a kiss. He was tempted, too, but first, he needed to explain something. She needed to understand his concerns.
Gio searched through the papers until he found the one that had reprinted the photo of her carrying Michael to the doors of the palazzo. The photographer had zoomed in on the baby, taken a close-up of him wrapped in the blanket. The headline was simple. It read, The Billionaire’s Baby, but it was enough.
The one photo, coupled with the three words, summed up the dangerous situation Rachel had unwittingly created. Michael was a story, a fascinating story, and people wanted a piece of it. Of him.