The Italian's Marriage Bargain. Carol Marinelli

      

      “The papers won’t be out yet. You’ve got a few hours to come up with something—something to tell your family.”

      “I don’t need a few hours.” The haughty face softened then, an almost apologetic smile brushing over his lips. “Because I already have a solution.”

      “Oh, no—absolutely no.”

      “You would want for nothing.” He gave a devilish smile that had her insides doing somersaults. “Particularly in bed. Marry me, and I’ll sign the resort back over to your father. Marry me, and your parents will have the peace they crave.”

      The Italian’s Marriage Bargain

      Carol Marinelli

       www.millsandboon.co.uk

      MILLS & BOON

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      CONTENTS

       Cover

       Title Page

       Introduction

      CHAPTER ONE

      CHAPTER TWO

      CHAPTER THREE

      CHAPTER FOUR

      CHAPTER FIVE

      CHAPTER SIX

      CHAPTER SEVEN

      CHAPTER EIGHT

      CHAPTER NINE

      CHAPTER TEN

      CHAPTER ELEVEN

      CHAPTER TWELVE

      CHAPTER THIRTEEN

      EPILOGUE

       Copyright

       CHAPTER ONE

      HE WAS beautiful.

      Opening her eyes, trying to orientate herself to her surroundings, Felicity knew there should have been a million and one questions buzzing in her mind. Her hazel eyes slowly worked the room, searching for a landmark, a clue as to what exactly she was doing in this elegantly furnished room, in this vast bed and—perhaps more pointedly, as one heavy arm draped more tightly around her—the question should be begged, what on earth was she doing lying in Luca Santanno’s arms?

      Santanno.

      Just thinking that name sent an icy shiver down her spine, a fierce surge of hatred for a man she’d never even met, a man who with one stroke of his expensive pen had changed her family’s lives for ever.

      But for an indulgent moment before sanity prevailed, before questions demanded answers and the inevitable world rushed in, Felicity gazed across the pillow at her bedfellow, allowing herself a stolen moment of appreciation, a decadent glimpse of a man so exquisitely featured, so picture-perfect it was hard to believe that someone so beautiful could cause so much pain.

      Beautiful.

      From the jet hair that fanned his chiselled face, the long lashes on full, heavy-lidded eyes, to the wide, sensual mouth, a splash of colour amidst the dark shadow of early-morning growth that dusted his strong, angular jaw, every part of him was exquisite.

      An involuntary sigh so small it was barely there escaped Felicity’s lips as her eyes worked the length of him. He was tall. His olive-skinned feet, that should be encased in smart Italian shoes to match the dark suit trousers he wore, hung precariously close to the bottom of the bed, and his legs seemed to go on for ever. Felicity’s gaze avoided the bit in the middle and moved straight to the white cotton shirt he was wearing.

      The dark mascara smudge marring the crisp cotton spoke for itself—she’d been crying.

      Worse than that, she’d been crying in Luca’s arms.

      The realisation truly appalled her. She never cried—never! Never lowered her guard like that. Raking her mind she tried to think of one exception, but none was forthcoming. Even when Joseph had died she’d kept a lid on her grief, refusing to go down that awful path, refusing to let out her pain. Her mind reeled in horror and she mentally fought to slam the window closed, to stop the images not only of last night but of the last few years from flying in, to return to the safe haven she had found, lying in the semi darkness with only beauty on her mind.

      But images were starting to flood in—snapshots she didn’t want to see, pictures she would rather forget—and the pleasant awakening she had relished for such a brief moment was starting to disperse as cruel reality broke through.

      ‘Good morning.’ Even before he spoke Felicity knew his voice—heavily accented, the slow measured cadence making those two simple words strangely erotic. Dragging her attention upwards, she found herself staring directly into the bluest eyes she had ever seen, and she felt the heat of a blush spreading from her chest, up over her neck to her cheeks. She wished she had used those hazy moments earlier to fashion a response to the inevitable questions that would follow.

      ‘Good morning.’ Not the wittiest of answers, Felicity realised, and nowhere near as sexy with her mild Australian accent, but it was all the fog where her brain had once been could come up with. He was pulling his arm free from under her, stretching out lazily on the bed, not even bothering to smother a yawn that showed a long pink tongue and very white teeth, as relaxed and at ease with himself as if he woke up with strange women in his bed each and every morning.

      He probably did, Felicity thought as those blue eyes landed on her again. With looks like that and… She glanced around the room again, just in case her eyes had been playing tricks, but they hadn’t; the heavy mahogany furnishings, the crystalware, the vast golden drapes all reeked of wealth and confirmed the fact that the man who lay beside her could have any woman he wanted—any woman at all.

      And for a shameful, terrifying moment Felicity realised she didn’t even know if she’d already been added to what was undoubtedly a long list.

      ‘I expect you would like some coffee?’ He didn’t wait for her response, just picked up the telephone, reciting in Italian what seemed an inordinately complicated order for a simple coffee. Only then did it dawn on Felicity that they were actually in a hotel.

      And not just any hotel, if she remembered rightly. She was staying at one of Luca Santanno’s luxury hotels.

      The question was though, which one?

      ‘We are still in Australia, I assume?’ she asked as he hung up the telephone. ‘This