Mail-Order Prince In Her Bed (Silhouette Desire) Read online

  “Ciao, Michael. You have lost Nonna again?”

  The little boy giggled and flung himself into his father’s arms. “Nonna, Nonna,” he gurgled, obviously delighted with his recent escape.

  “Michael, I’d like you to meet Signorina Maria. Maria, this is my son, Michael.”

  Maria crouched down to hold out a hand to the little boy. “It’s very nice to meet you, Michael.”

  The child buried his face shyly in Antonio’s shoulder.

  “Oh, come now.” Antonio laughed. “When have you not flirted with a beautiful lady?”

  Maria stroked the back of one little hand with the tip of her finger. “It’s all right. We’ll get to know each other—”

  Suddenly a stream of Italian issued from hall. Maria looked up to see the owner of the booming voice enter her rooms. A tall woman with gray hair and a loving smile stood in the doorway. “You little rascal, you don’t run from your nonna.”

  Maria’s Italian was very limited, but she was able to understand a few simple phrases.

  “He’s fine,” Antonio said. “I was just introducing him to Maria. Maria, this is my mother Genevra Teresa Boniface. Mama, please meet Maria McPherson of Washington, D.C.”

  Maria stood immediately and held out her hand. The older woman observed her coolly, nodded but did not clasp her hand. Had she committed a faux pas? Maria wondered. Perhaps women in Italy did not shake hands.

  “You are to work for my son,” she said solemnly in English.

  “Yes. We’re going to be working on a plan to introduce your olive oil to the United States.”

  Genevra shrugged. “I think we don’t need to send it anywhere. We’re doing well without more business.” She gave Maria a sharp look. “We were just fine as we were.” Glancing meaningfully toward her son, she took the little boy from his arms and strode with purpose from the room.

  A noticeable chill lingered in the air behind Genevra Boniface.

  Antonio was silent. He gazed through the glass balcony doors, off into the distance.

  “Did I say something wrong?” Maria asked.

  “No. Nothing.” But he didn’t explain.

  Maria walked to the doors, opened them and stepped outside. She breathed in the sweet air, waited. Antonio seemed deep in thought. After a while, he joined her on the balcony and took her hand in his.

  “I’m sorry. That wasn’t much of a welcome speech.”

  “She seems disturbed that I’ve come.”

  “No. She’s afraid.”

  “Afraid of me?” Maria was shocked.

  “I don’t think she believes you’ve come here to work for me. I expect she thinks that you are my…” He hesitated.

  “Your mistress?” She smiled and shook her head in disbelief.

  “Yes. You see, she was very fond of Anna, my wife. My mother grew up here in Carovigno, with Anna’s mother. They were dear friends, until the other woman passed away. Then I married her daughter, and we had Michael. My mother couldn’t have been happier.”

  “Until your wife died in the accident.”

  “Yes. But even then she found a way to overcome her grief. She took care of Michael. He was just an infant then. She has been wonderful with him. And he is her world.”

  “But how would my coming here threaten her relationship with her grandson?”

  “If you aren’t a simple employee, if you are my mistress…or become my wife, you might take her bambino from her.”

  Maria met his eyes. He was serious.

  “I’ll have to reassure her that I have no designs on you.” She gnawed her bottom lip thoughtfully. “And Michael is charming, a beautiful little boy. He’s clearly attached to his grandmother. Can’t she see that?”

  He let out a wry laugh. “Convincing my mother of anything she has her mind set against is no small task. She apparently has you pegged as a dangerous interloper. Buona fortuna!”

  Maria sighed. She hadn’t bargained on having to deal with family politics in addition to a challenging new job.

  “Come,” Antonio said, pulling her by the hand, “let’s go meet your new clients.”

  “I thought you were my client.”

  “The olives,” he clarified. “They are your real clientele. They produce the liquid gold we hope to bring to America.”

  She went willingly with him. As soon as they left the steps that led down into the garden, he released her hand. She sensed that he didn’t want his mother, or perhaps staff, to see them touching.

  That was fine with her. If theirs was to be a professional relationship, they should get off on the right foot.

  Yet she couldn’t help feeling excited, just by being near him again. Antonio was a tall, strong, sensual man in the way he moved as much as in the way he looked. He made her think of heroes from novels she’d read as a teenager. Men with strength of will, men of honor.

  Hadn’t he been gentleman enough to apologize to her in person for his former valet’s missed appointment? Hadn’t he kept his word when she’d asked him to demonstrate the intimacies between a man and a woman? He was a unique and intriguing male. What woman wouldn’t want to call him her own?

  Yet, she reminded herself not for the first time, this simply wasn’t possible. Not on her terms.

  They walked through the garden, and she brushed her fingertips along the granular surface of the stones that appeared to be hundreds if not thousands of years old.

  To think…thousands of years ago, another man and woman might have walked along this same wall. Another couple might have stopped to embrace and share dreams.

  But she and Antonio were not, she reminded herself, a couple. Not in any sense of the word.

  “What are you thinking?” he asked.

  She jumped, startled by the question. “Possibilities for opening your ad campaign,” she lied.

  “And they are?”

  Fortunately, she had already done some preliminary planning. “Since there are other Italian olive oil companies, as well as Greek and Spanish, vying for the American market, we need to come up with a unique hook. Something no one else has done before.”

  “And you have ideas?”

  “Nothing firm yet. In the time before I left the States, I researched your competitors’ ads—television, radio and print. A couple of them are very effective, and I wish we’d thought of them first.” She sighed. “They have the kind of visual impact we’re looking for.”

  “I see.” He nodded and walked around a tuft of grass growing in the path.

  Their arms brushed—his bare skin against her dress sleeve. A tingle zipped up to her shoulder and through her body. He didn’t move away.

  Abruptly, Antonio stopped at a gate. Beyond it was a field of olive trees, trunks and limbs twisted into bizarrely beautiful shapes. Under each, wrapped around the trunks on the ground, were yards and yards of what looked like white cheesecloth.

  “What’s that for?” she asked, pointing.

  “To catch the fruit that drops prematurely from the trees. The cloth keeps it from bruising or rotting before we can retrieve it.”

  She nodded. “How is the fruit picked?”

  “By hand, in the ancient way. Machines are used by some growers, but that can damage the olives. A few bruised or rotten fruit can spoil the flavor of an entire vat of oil.”

  She smiled at him. “You care very deeply about your product, don’t you?”

  “It is my life,” he said solemnly.

  She could see that. She could also see that the olives probably had saved his life after the death of his wife. If he hadn’t had them, grief might have destroyed him. Without thinking what she was doing, Maria reached up and gently touched his face.

  Antonio didn’t move. Didn’t react to the brush of her fingertips, except through his eyes. They blinked once, then again. Somehow, she couldn’t remove her hand.

  Her fingertips felt magnetized to the flesh of his jaw, lightly stubbled with new growth of his beard. She gently stroked down toward his chin, then let h
er fingers drop away. She started to step back.

  “Don’t!” His voice sounded brittle, hoarse.

  She froze and held her breath. Seconds passed. Heartbeats.

  Suddenly he seized her by the shoulders and hauled her against him. She looked up to see he’d closed his eyes. He lowered his head, and she was sure he was going to kiss her. She didn’t try to move away.

  His lips on hers were firm, demanding.

  He pressed so hard against her mouth that she felt she might bruise, like his precious fruit. Maria gasped for breath, yet he didn’t stop. He was like a starving man. Yet she sensed that what he needed from her was far more complex than sex.

  Her arms came up around his neck. She clung to him, letting his kiss deepen and swell, filling her with her own needs. She felt the sun beating down on her shoulder blades, and the groves around them smelled of new, raw growth and hot soil and the sea that had brought both wealth and invaders.

  And the musky, human scent of a man and a woman in heat.

  One of his arms wrapped around her waist. The other hand clasped her bottom and pressed her hips against his muscled thighs. She felt his erection against the wall of her stomach.

  Suddenly, he broke off the kiss and buried his mouth in her hair atop her head. Her body throbbed with unsatisfied desire. Her breasts pressed against his chest, and she knew he must feel them resting heavily against him.

  “Ma-ria!” he ground out her name.

  “Antonio, I don’t know what to—”

  “No! Say nothing. Just let me hold you a moment longer. Please.”

  She did as he asked. He held her, and she understood that he was holding something else too. His pain.

  “I’m sorry,” he said at last. “I don’t know why I…I just needed to touch and be touched. To hold someone. I wanted to feel again what I had felt a long time ago.”

  So that was it. She was a surrogate for a dead wife. All at once, Maria felt hollow inside. Slowly, she pulled out of his arms.

  “There’s no need for apology,” she said stiffly. “It must have been very difficult for you, these past years.”

  “Still, there’s no excuse for this behavior. I didn’t mean to kiss you, not here. Not without your consent.”

  She sighed. How could she admit to him that his kiss had affected her deeply, thrilled her, drove her toward begging for more from him?

  “I think we’d better keep this on a professional level, as we’d agreed,” she said at last. “I can’t do the job I’ve come to do and deal with this.” She gestured at her disheveled dress.

  “I know. I’m sorry if I forced myself on you. It won’t happen again.”

  “Good,” was the word she said.

  But the ones she thought were, Too bad.

  Six

  “Don’t worry,” Antonio said. “I’ll take Michael with me today.” He held out his arms to his son and the little boy cheerfully flopped into them.

  “But you have so much to do today.” Signora Boniface winced and closed her eyes against another wave of pain. True, he did have work, and in the week since he’d made his promise to Maria, little of it had been done.

  But as far back as Antonio could remember, his mother had suffered from migraine headaches. Even with the Imitrex, it would be an hour or more before she started to feel any relief. Until then, lying in a dark, silent room, was the best treatment. That wasn’t possible with a rambunctious three-year-old.

  “I’ll take him with me to the fields this morning. If you’re feeling better by noon, I can go to the factory then.”

  He’d have to call his plant manager and tell him he wouldn’t be there as planned. It was disappointing and an inconvenience, but he didn’t want to leave the child with one of the servants, who already had enough work. Besides, Michael was a shy child who wouldn’t stay willingly with just anyone.

  Genevra’s little villa was set on the south edge of the gardens. This separate structure, as well as other buildings now renovated as living quarters for his staff and shelter for agricultural equipment, were all enclosed by the three-foot-thick walls, overgrown with ivy and tendrils of morning glory. A second nursery had been designed for her house after Anna’s death, and that was where Michael spent most of his time.

  After making sure his mother was as comfortable as possible, Antonio took Michael with him. They were rounding a tall, lush hedgerow when he ran into Maria. She treated him to no more than a polite business smile, and that stung him. But he told himself he only had himself to blame. He had put her in a difficult position.

  “Buongiorno,” he said.

  Michael giggled and hid his face against his father’s neck.

  “Good morning to you both,” Maria replied. “It’s beautiful out here early in the morning. I thought I’d take a walk to clear my head before starting the workday.” Her office was fully equipped and located within the suite of rooms allotted her in the main house. “Are you off to the factory now?”

  Antonio shook his head. “Change of plans. Michael is spending at least part of the day with me.”

  “That’s nice. A father-son day?”

  “Yes, but not planned. My mother suffers from incapacitating migraines. When she is in the middle of one, she can’t do much of anything. Caring for a child would be impossible.”

  “That’s a shame,” Maria said sincerely as she touched the rim of Michael’s ear. “You are a shy little one, aren’t you?” she purred.

  The little boy snuck a peek at her.

  “Do you think he’d stay with me for a few hours? I’m still just getting my thoughts together before sketching out ideas for our promotion.”

  Antonio considered this. He didn’t want to request tasks of Maria that weren’t part of her job description. But it would really help him out. “If you don’t mind, that would be great,” he agreed. “But I doubt he’ll go with you.”

  “Hmm. Maybe we can find something Michael likes to do.” Having been the neighborhood baby-sitter as a teenager, she’d become quite adept at handling moody little munchkins. “What are his favorite games or books?”

  Antonio thought for a moment, surprised and embarrassed to realize he didn’t know what his son liked to do. Since Anna’s death, Genevra had taken full charge of the child, treating him as her own. A relief to him at first, as he’d been so crushed by his own pain he could barely remember how to breathe. But as time had passed, he’d gotten out of the habit of spending time with his son.

  “Games? I’m afraid I don’t know.” A thought occurred to him. “But he seems to like being taken in his stroller to market. Mercato, Michael?” he asked the child.

  The little boy squealed and started wriggling from his father’s arms before Antonio could put him down.

  “So that’s the magic word,” Maria laughed. “Mercato! Where is his stroller?”

  As soon as Genevra’s maid brought the colorful canvas-shaded vehicle out to the garden, Michael clambered into it on his own and started rocking back and forth, as if to get the engine started.

  “Well, I guess we’re going to market this morning,” Maria said cheerfully. “Anything we should purchase while we’re there?”

  Antonio stared in amazement at his son, setting off so cheerfully with a virtual stranger. Or was it because it was Maria? Such a gentle, sweet woman. Like father, like son?

  He was tempted to go along with them. It would be fun to spend some time with his child. And that would provide ample excuse for hanging out with Maria.

  In the brief time she’d been at the masseria, they had talked frequently but been cautious about being alone together since the steamy episode in the garden. Despite her rejection of him as a lover—for reasons he fully understood—he still wanted her.

  It was an aggravating but unalterable truth. He desired her. Somehow, he was going to have to find a way to deal with that impasse—either by changing her mind, or by quelling his hunger by other means.

  He took several notes from his wallet—the equiva
lent of about a hundred American dollars—and handed them to her.

  “I’m sure Sophia has more than enough food in the kitchen, but if anything special appeals to you, feel free. Or if you need anything at all for yourself,” he added. “The local women are known for their hand-knitted sweaters, and there are all sorts of surprises in the stalls. Just be sure not to pay full price. You bargain for everything here.”

  “Thank you,” she said, taking the money. “I’ll get something for Michael, and maybe a treat for all of us too.”

  He nodded. She looked so beautiful with the morning sun warming her cheeks. Later, the day would grow warm and humid, but in the early morning the coolness of night still seeped from stone and stucco walls and cobbled streets.

  He watched her walk away, chatting easily with Michael as she pushed along his carriage. The child seemed oblivious that a stranger was taking him away. An unexpected chill crept up his spine. It was the second time he’d had that thought. The child usually was bashful around strangers, but clearly there were ways of distracting him. Was this a danger he should worry about?

  Antonio shook off the sensation of foreboding. Maria was with the child, and she was absolutely trustworthy. Nothing would happen to Michael. And they made such an appealing pair. Even as he turned toward the black Ferrari and headed out for his factory, he wished he’d made up a threesome with them.

  Maria strolled along narrow streets of Carovigno, the carriage bumping merrily over smooth cobbles that might have been set in medieval times. Most of the buildings through town were of stone or cement block, covered with plaster and painted white or pastel washes of color. Doors were massive wooden affairs, hinges and locks rusting with age but still offering substantial resistance.

  She felt as if she’d stepped back in time.

  Antonio had told her that Carovigno’s market area was near the top of the hill, outside the castle walls. If she took any upward climbing street, she would run into it.

  The journey up the steep streets wasn’t easy, between the weight of the carriage and its occupant. By the time the ground leveled out, only narrow alleys seemed to remain, sometimes barely wide enough for a single tiny Fiat to squeeze through, or a donkey pulling a cart.