Italian Prince, Wedlocked Wife
So he would take her. He’d just have to be constantly on his guard. He wouldn’t be vulnerable. He wouldn’t open his heart. He would just enjoy her.
And with any luck, he thought, the old man would die the day after his seduction was complete—and he could send her packing.
CHAPTER SEVEN
SITTING in the backseat of the Rolls-Royce, traveling from Milan to Lake Como that afternoon, Lucy barely recognized herself. Or Maximo, for that matter.
What had happened to the selfish, arrogant prince? In the hours since they’d arrived in Italy, Maximo had been nothing but charming. He’d spent the entire morning following her from one exclusive baby boutique to the next, carrying bags, pushing Chloe in a gorgeous new stroller. It was only when the trunk of the Rolls was full of baby clothes that he’d put his foot down and demanded she buy some clothes for herself.
From Prada to Chanel, Versace to Valentino, he’d patiently waited in every store. While Lucy tried on clothes, he had read new books to Chloe until she fell asleep in her stroller. Then, when Lucy blushingly came out of her dressing room, he’d given his verdict on each outfit with a flash of heat in his eyes. And the occasional murmured “Bellissima.”
At every shop, she’d been flattered and complimented, waited on hand and foot. Her last stop, at the most famous day spa in Milan, she’d had six people waiting on her at once: the first doing her makeup, the second her hair, the third her nails, the fourth her toes, the fifth rubbing her shoulders as the last brought her a caffè americano.
Lucy’s glasses had been replaced by contacts. Her messy ponytail had been washed, cut and carefully blown into a sleek chignon. Her makeup was natural, artless. Wearing a sophisticated blouse and pencil skirt beneath a belted camel cashmere coat, Lucy had never felt so womanly—or so elegant. Her old glasses, along with necessities for Chloe, were now tucked into her patent leather Ferrazzi carryall.
Her three-thousand-dollar diaper bag.
She crossed her high-heeled ankle boots, stroking the exquisite pearls at her collarbone. Maybe Maximo had a point, she mused. Maybe clothes really could change the way a person felt about herself.
Not that she would ever admit that to him. He was too smug already by half.
“You are magnificent, cara,” he said, looking at her in amazement.
She blushed, glancing at him over Chloe’s baby seat. “I was hoping you’d just say I was passable as your wife.”
“Passable? Dio santo! Sei bellissima. You are beautiful, Lucia.”
Lucia. Dressed like this, riding in a limo on the way to an Italian villa, married to a prince, she almost felt like she fit the name. New name. New look. New hope.
It still troubled her that their marriage was timed to last until some poor old man’s death. But as Maximo had said, people died every day. The world was a harsh place. Lucy knew that from experience. Her own mother had died when she was twelve, and she’d never known her father.
But now Chloe would never know such a precarious existence. She would be safe and financially secure. And after she spoke to Alex, she’d have a father. Lucy would make sure of it…
She looked at her baby. Buckled into the child seat, Chloe was contentedly gulping down a bottle. Instead of her ratty old pajamas, she wore a pink dress with a rounded collar, thick white tights and white suede boots lined with sheepskin. Her beautiful new Italian wardrobe would last until she was three years old, and each outfit was softer and cuter than the last. Looking at her happy, adorable baby, grateful tears rose to Lucy’s eyes.
“Thank you,” she whispered. She turned to look at her husband, smiling through the tears. “I can’t thank you enough for this.”
“For shopping?” he said, sounding surprised. His dark eyebrows lowered. “Don’t thank me. I’m starting to regret I ever had the idea. You look far too beautiful. Every man who sees you will want you for himself. In fact,” he growled, “I’m beginning to reconsider that sweatshirt.”
She looked at him with an intake of breath.
His blue eyes twinkled at her, warm as May sunshine.
He was flirting with her!
She tried not to respond, to not let it affect her, but it still made her catch her breath. “You’re a hard man to please.”
“No,” he said. “I just want you to be happy.”
His gaze was like a pure Italian spring warming her soul. Half-dead flowers unfurled in her heart, basking in his light and heat.
No!
She couldn’t be pulled in. She couldn’t let him seduce her. She couldn’t let him have her body—or her heart. Because when he left her—as he would in a matter of months—she’d be a ruined wreck. Three months. Just three months, and she and Chloe would be safe forever. How hard could it be to resist a man for three months?
Very hard, when the man was Prince Maximo d’Aquilla…
Biting her lip, she turned to look out the window as they traveled the snowy single-lane road. Even in Italy, winter held sway. But this winter was different than it’d been in Chicago. Warmer, for one thing. Lake Como was an Italian winter fairyland. The limo sped down the slender dark ribbon of a street into a village clinging to mountains. Snow sparkled in the sun like diamonds, on the edge of a sapphire lake.