His Merciless Marriage Bargain. Jane Porter

A family is nurture, and relationships, and those develop over years. You can’t simply force one to accept an outsider—”

      “Michael is not an outsider. He’s Antonio’s son.” She’d gone pale, her expression strained. “And my sister’s son,” she added after a half beat, “and I know you have no love for my sister, but she cared for your brother, deeply—”

      “We’re in private now. You can drop the script. There’s no need for theatrics.”

      “You don’t even know the facts.”

      “I know enough.”

      “Well, I thought I did, too, but I was wrong, and Juliet’s no longer here because I got it wrong. Michael has no one but us and you can think what you want of Juliet, and me, but I insist you give him a chance—” She broke off as the door opened and a young, slim, dark-haired woman entered carrying a huge, ornate silver tray filled with silver pots and smaller sterling silver dishes along with a pair of china cups and saucers.

      Rachel was grateful for the interruption. She needed a moment to compose herself. She still felt so rattled by his kisses. There had been nothing light or friendly in the way he took her mouth, claiming her as if she belonged to him, shaping her to his frame. She did not belong to him, and to have his tongue stroke the inside of her mouth, creating the dark seductive rhythm that made her body ache—

      The sound of Giovanni speaking to the maid broke her train of thought. Heart thudding, Rachel knotted her hands in her lap, realizing she hadn’t just gotten Giovanni’s attention, she’d given him control. She’d wanted his assistance, but clearly help would be on his terms, not hers.

      The young maid placed the silver tray on a table next to the couch, not far from where Rachel was sitting, before leaving.

      Giovanni crossed to take one espresso and handed her the other.

      Rachel took the small cup and saucer. “When will you permit Michael to join us?”

      “As soon as he’s finished his bottle.”

      “He’s awake then?”

      “Yes.”

      “And he’s okay?”

      “Apparently my staff is already besotted with him. Anna said the girls are fighting over who is to hold him next.”

      “Allow me to resolve the argument. Send for him, and I’ll hold him.”

      “You haven’t had your coffee yet.”

      “I can multitask.”

      “And deprive my staff of the opportunity to kiss and cuddle a baby?”

      “But by keeping him from me, you deprive me.”

      “Is it such a deprivation?” Gio’s voice was pitched low. “I would think it’s a relief. Your letters made it sound as if you were at your wit’s end—exhausted, and overwhelmed, close to breaking.”

      She flushed. “You read my letters.”

      “As did my attorneys.”

      Heat rushed down her neck, flooding her limbs. “So you were stonewalling me.”

      “I had my own investigation to do.”

      “You took your time.”

      “I don’t respond well to threats.”

      “I never threatened you!”

      “Your letters demanded I act before I was prepared to—”

      “This isn’t about you! It’s about a child who has lost both his parents. It’s selfish to deny him a chance at a better life.”

      “We’ve returned to the material demands, haven’t we?”

      “Material is only part of it. There is the cultural aspect, as well. The baby might have been born in Seattle but he is only half-American, and he needs to know you, his father’s family. He needs to be part of you.”

      “Why aren’t you enough?”

      “I’m not Italian, or Venetian.”

      “And you think that’s important?”

      “Yes.”

      His lips compressed, his jaw firming “I doubt you value his Venetian ancestry and heritage as much as you value the Marcellos’ wealth and clout.”

      “Can’t I want both for him?”

      “But I don’t think you really want both.”

      “That’s not true. I’ve worked hard to get to where I am now, but even with an excellent job, I barely make ends meet. And as a single woman, not yet twenty-nine, I’m in no position to raise a child on my own, much less a Marcello—”

      “What does that even mean to you? A Marcello?”

      “Your family is old, and respected. Your history goes back hundreds of years. The Marcellos have contributed significantly to modern Italy, but you personally have done so much for Italy’s economy that just last year you were awarded the Order of Merit for Labor.” She saw his black eyebrow arch, his expression almost mocking. “And yes,” she added defiantly. “I did my homework. I had to in order to find you.”

      “Fourteen years ago the Marcello holding company was on the verge of bankruptcy. No one wanted to do business with us. No one trusted us. I have poured myself into the company to rebuild it, sacrificing a personal life in order to make the business my focus. And so, yes, I know manufacturing, construction and real estate, but I’m not interested in expanding the family.”

      “But the family has been expanded,” she said quietly. “With or without your consent.”

      “You’re revealing your hand,” he replied. “I see where you’re going with this. How we all owe him, because he is my brother’s son. His heir.”

      “That’s not where I’m going.”

      “No? You’re not about to play the Marcello heir card?”

      She dampened her lips, trying to hide her sudden flurry of nerves because she had played that card, and she’d played it with the press. “I’m not asking for a piece of your company. I’m not wanting Michael to inherit Marcello shares or stock, but I do believe you can, and should, give Michael a proper education and the advantages I could not provide for him.”

      Giovanni’s lip curled. “You didn’t ever want to leave Michael here. In fact, you never intended to actually let him go. How could you? You wouldn’t be able to justify the child support you feel you deserve.”

      “This isn’t about me.”

      “Isn’t it? Because let’s be honest, a six-month-old has very few material needs. Milk, a dry diaper, clean clothes—”

      “Time, love, attention.”

      “Which you want to be compensated for.”

      “No,” she said sharply, before holding her breath and counting to ten. She had to stay calm. She couldn’t get into a fight, not now, not before anything was settled, and certainly not before Michael had been returned to her. “I wish I didn’t need your money. I’d love it if I didn’t need help. I’d love to be able to tell you to go fly a kite—” She hesitated as she saw him arch a brow. “It’s an expression.”

      “I’m familiar with it.”

      “I was trying to be polite.”

      “Of course.”

      His sarcasm made her want to take a poker iron from the fireplace and beat him with it, which was something, considering the fact that she was not a violent person, and did not go through life wanting to hit things, much less human beings. “I don’t want to be compensated. But I can’t work and care for Michael at the same time,