His Merciless Marriage Bargain

And then he was gone.

* * *

After the conference call finally ended an hour later, Gio remained at his desk, deep in thought. It had been a difficult call, not because of the subject matter, but because he’d found it almost impossible to focus.

Rachel had said she didn’t want a cold, passionless, loveless marriage. He agreed with her on that point, but he wasn’t worried that they’d have a cold relationship, or passionless, not when he wanted her as much as he did.

He’d been attracted to her from the start, and he’d fought the attraction, just as he’d tried to ignore how much he’d liked kissing her. He loved her mouth, the softness and the fullness, and how she couldn’t quite help kissing him back. It made her sexy. Delicious. He wanted to kiss the rest of her. He wanted to strip her and explore those gorgeous curves—hips, breasts, thighs and in between.

In the beginning he hadn’t understood why he was so drawn to her. She wasn’t like the women he’d dated, and that was her appeal.

But he was tired of all the words. He wasn’t a man of words. He was a man of action.

He’d take her to his bed. He’d show her that he could please her. He’d show her that she could be happy with him.

Gio left his desk and walked to the tall arched leaded glass windows that looked over the narrow lagoon. It was another gray day with wisps and tendrils of fog rising from the water. The fog was supposed to get heavier as the day ended, shrouding the streets and water in a cloak of mystery. He loved this Venice, and Rachel would grow to love it, too.

He’d woo her tonight. He’d delight her, pleasure her, and in his bed, she’d become his. There would be no more fighting or protesting. She’d discover she liked being in his bed, and she’d realize she’d liked being his.

Gio glanced out at the lagoon once more before returning to his desk. The fog made it the perfect night to go out. They would travel in the Marcello gondola, one of the most elegant boats in the city. It had the patina of age, being well over a hundred years old, and glamorous, the outside lacquered in gleaming black paint while the interior was upholstered in black leather and cream and opulent gold leaf.

He knew where he’d take her for dinner, too. Il Sussurro. It was his favorite restaurant on the island, and without a doubt, the most exclusive. It was incredibly difficult to get a reservation, not just because Il Sussurro had only four tables, but because it was booked out years in advance.

Fortunately, Gio did not have to pull any strings to secure a table, as there was always one waiting for him. Indeed, the fifth-floor table was his, just as the fifth floor was his, which wasn’t saying much as the floors of the medieval building were quite narrow, the house built snug, like a ship, each floor consisting of a single room and the central hall with the circular staircase.

Fifteen years ago he helped finance Il Sussurro when no one else would give the chef and restaurateur a loan. The concept of Il Sussurro was like its name—a whisper, a murmur—small enough to be overlooked, maybe even forgotten.

No commercial lender was willing to risk the money on a restaurant that would not even be able to seat twenty-four people each evening. Where was the profit margin in that? While traditional banks questioned the viability of such a venue, Gio immediately grasped the appeal. Privacy. Novelty. Exclusivity.

Intrigued by the vision for the 1384 building, he’d funded the restoration and refurbishment, and Il Sussurro proved to be a huge success.

Gio made a call to Carlo, one of the owners of Il Sussurro, advising his old friend that he’d be dining at his table tonight.

“How many, Gio?” Carlo asked.

“Just two,” Giovanni answered. “And it’s a special occasion.”

“It’s always a special occasion when you join us.”

“Grazie, Carlo. We’ll see you later tonight.”

Hanging up the phone, he called Allegra Paladin, the founder of Paladin, a Venice-based fashion house founded by a former mistress. When he ended the relationship five years ago he’d given her enough money that she’d been able to open her own business.

On the phone, he told Allegra about the dress he was looking for. It was a couture gown from her September show. The dress was floor-length with a formfitting bodice and long sleeves. There might have been a small collar, he wasn’t sure, but the neckline was a deep V, and the color an olive green. Dusty rose flowers were embroidered on the green lace bodice, with larger, looser rose and gold roses scattered on the long sheer skirt.

“I know the one,” Allegra answered, amusement in her voice. “But it’s not your size, my darling.”