The Italian's Christmas Proposition / Christmas Baby For The Greek. Cathy Williams

signatures on the dotted line were technically not there yet, but that was a formality. Hands had been shaken and, as soon as the horror of the Christmas season was over and done with, the lawyers would be summoned and the finishing touches put to a purchase that meant a great deal to him.

      Bob and Margaret Taylor, the most unlikely of clients, were beaming up at him. Bob, yet again, was congratulating him in his bluff, Yorkshire accent for getting past the post.

      ‘Land’s worth a bob or two.’ He slapped Matteo’s arm and winked. ‘Can’t tell you how many wanted to get their greedy paws on it but you’re the first person the missus and I feel we can trust to do the right thing.’

      ‘Honoured that you think that,’ Matteo responded with sincerity.

      He’d been here at this eye-wateringly pricey resort for the past three days, wooing Bob and his wife. A different type of approach for a very different type of deal.

      Around him, Yuletide merriment had been a constant backdrop, getting on his nerves, reminding him that it was high time he did what he always did every single Christmas—escape. Escape to his villa on the outskirts of Venice, which was a mere couple of hours from here.

      He worked in London and had a penthouse apartment there, indeed lived most of his life there, but his elegant, yellow-stone villa here in Italy was his bolt-hole and the only place where he felt perfectly at peace. Every year he removed himself from the canned carols, the ridiculous Santa lookalikes ringing bells outside supermarkets and the pounding of crowds on pavements, frantically hunting down presents, wrapping paper, Christmas decorations and all the paraphernalia that seemed to arrive earlier and earlier in the shops with every passing year.

      Two weeks away from it all, isolated in his sprawling manor with two trusted employees to cook and clean for him while he worked. God bless broadband and the Internet. It enabled him to avoid the chaos of the festive season while still keeping on top of each and every detail of what was happening in his various offices across the globe. He might live in England but he was Italian and this bolt-hole in Italy reminded him of his heritage and everything that went with it. He threw money at his PA, told her to do as she wished when it came to entertaining the troops at various office Christmas parties and he disappeared.

      ‘Just a couple more “i”s to dot and a couple more “t”s to cross and it’s yours, lad, and we couldn’t be happier.’

      Intensely private and remote, Matteo felt the twist of something highly emotional swell inside him because this was the one and only deal he had ever done that had real personal significance. His background, his childhood—in a way the very reason he was where he was now—all lay in that land he was on the verge of buying and the halfway house within it. It was a place of retreat for foster kids, an escape where they could feel what it was like to be in the open countryside, with nature all around them. Horses to ride, quiet, secret places to go and just be, chickens to feed and eggs to collect. An idyll.

      So many years ago, but a fortnight spent there, when he had been just ten and about to go off the rails in a big way, had done something to him, had given him something to hold onto. He had found an anchor in a restless, rudderless existence and had somehow held onto that. Bob and Margaret hadn’t been in charge at the time. They had come later, and of course he’d kept that connection to the place to himself, as he kept everything of a personal nature to himself. But with ownership of that special place within his grasp… Yes, he felt strangely emotional.

      Shaking Bob’s hand as they made plans for their final meeting, Matteo was ill prepared for what happened next.

      A scene.

      A blonde woman bearing down on them from nowhere. The high pitch of her voice was as piercing as the scrape of fingernails on a blackboard. Heads spun round, mouths opened and closed and there was a flurry of activity as stunned hotel employees and guests alike gasped and wondered what was going on.

      For a split second, Matteo was utterly lost for words. Next to him, Bob and Margaret were also stunned into immobility.

      ‘Who do you think you are… Matteo whoever you are…? How dare you mess with Rosie? People like you should be strung up! And I guess you’re going to run away and leave her all broken-hearted. And I bet you won’t even look back. You have no morals at all! She’s been hurt too many times!’

      ‘Are you talking to me?’

      ‘Who else could I be talking to? Is your name Matteo?’

      ‘Yes, but there seems to have been some kind of misunderstanding…’

      Matteo, already on the back foot, peered around the tall blonde to see a shorter, plump girl, wearing an expression of dismay, borderline panic and acute embarrassment.

      For a few seconds, he was utterly nonplussed. She was staring directly at him and she had the bluest eyes he had ever seen. Her hair was vanilla-blonde, a tangle of unruly curls framing a heart-shaped face that was, just at the moment, suffused with colour. Her mouth was a perfect bow shape and her skin was satiny smooth.

      Words failed him. He stared. He registered that she was calling his name and then, somehow taking advantage of that moment of weird disorientation he had experienced at seeing her, he realised she was leading him away from the others with a sharp tug on his arm.

      ‘Please, please, please…’ Rosie was whispering, simultaneously tiptoeing and tugging him down so that she could whisper into his ear, ‘Could you just play along with this for the moment? I’ll explain in a bit. I’m really, really sorry, but all you have to do is…’

      Is what? Matteo thought. Through the confusion of his thoughts, he felt her small, delicate hands clutch at his arm. She was so much smaller than Matteo, his tall form and muscular body towering over her.

      ‘Who the hell are you?’ Matteo kept his voice low, a whispered conversation that he knew looked a lot more intimate than it was. He was thinking fast but was disconcerted by the softness of her body and the sweet, floral scent of her hair. She was much shorter than him and her reaching up to him somehow emphasised the fullness of her breasts, pushing against her jumper, just brushing against him.

      ‘Rosie. Sorry. Sorry, sorry, sorry. I had no idea my sister would rush down here like a tornado…’

      ‘This isn’t what I expected from you, son. You know how traditional I am when it comes to treating other people the way you would want to be treated yourself.’ This from behind him—Bob’s voice, thick with disappointment.

      How the hell did the woman know his name? And who was she anyway? His head was clearing and one thing was certain—the ramifications of what was going on were becoming patently obvious.

      No deal.

      Lengthy unravelling of this mess was going to take time and time was not on his side. Bob was making noises under his breath, wondering whether he hadn’t made a dreadful mistake, while his wife was trying to be the voice of reason. The deal was disappearing into the ether. He had no idea who was the woman imploring his help. His assumption was it was some kind of set-up somehow to extract money from him. He was made of money. Public accusations of some kind? Blackmail? Press somewhere waiting in the wings, cameras at the ready?

      His levels of anger bordered on volcanic. Of key importance was to take this scene away from Bob and his wife and sort out the consequences later. Damage limitation was essential. He wanted this deal and he was going to do whatever it took to seal it.

      And the only thing he could think of doing right now was to follow the lead of the pink-faced girl still looking at him and play along, much as he didn’t want to.

      He smiled and Rosie went a shade pinker.

      ‘Rosie,’ he murmured, spinning her round and edging them both back to the group, who had fallen silent during their whispered tête-à-tête, including the screeching sister. ‘You know we talked about this…’

      He looked at Bob and Margaret with a self-deprecating smile and anchored the fiery little blonde closer