Ruthlessly Bedded by the Italian Billionaire. Emma DarcyЧитать онлайн книгу.
tilted his head, eyeing her curiously. ‘Do you like this kind of chancy existence?’
She instantly bridled at this personal probe. It smacked of a much superior existence, which he had probably enjoyed all his life. ‘Yes, I do. I don’t have to answer to anyone,’ she said pointedly.
‘You prefer to be independent.’
She frowned at his persistence. ‘Would you mind keeping still while I sketch?’
In short, shut up and stop disturbing me.
But he wasn’t about to take direction from her. He probably didn’t take direction from anyone.
‘I don’t want a still-life portrait,’ he said, smiling the heart-fluttering smile again. ‘Just capture what you can of me while we chat.’
Why did he want to chat?
He couldn’t be attracted to her. It made no sense that a man like him would take an interest in a woman so obviously beneath his status. Jenny forced herself to draw the outline of his head. Getting his hair right might help her with the more challenging task of capturing his face.
‘Have you always wanted to be an artist?’ he asked.
‘It’s the one thing I’m good at,’ she answered, feeling herself tense up at being subjected to more curiosity.
‘Do you do landscapes as well as portraits?’
‘Some.’
‘Do they sell?’
‘Some.’
‘Where might I buy one?’
‘At Circular Quay on Mondays and Tuesdays.’ She flashed him an ironic look. ‘I’m a street vendor and it’s tourist stuff—the harbour, the bridge, the opera house. I doubt you’d be interested in buying.’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘I think a name artist would be more your style.’
He didn’t rise to the note of derision in her voice, affably remarking, ‘You might make a name for yourself one day.’
‘And you want the pleasure of discovering me?’ she mocked, not believing it for a moment and feeling more and more uneasy about why he was engaging in this banter with her.
‘I’m here on a journey of discovery.’
The whimsical statement teased her into asking, ‘Where are you from?’
‘Italy.’
She studied his face; smooth olive skin, definitely a Roman nose, and that sensual mouth seemed to have Latin lover written all over it. His being Italian was not surprising. As she started sketching his features, she commented, ‘If you wanted a taste of Venice, surely it would have been much easier to go there.’
‘I know Venice very well. My mission is of a more personal nature.’
‘You want to find yourself?’ she tossed at him flippantly.
He laughed. It gave his striking face even more charismatic appeal. Jenny privately bet he was a devil with women and wished she could inject that appeal into his portrait, but the vibrant expression was gone before she could even begin to play with it on paper. The sparkle in his eyes gave way to a look of serious intent—a look that bored into her as though determined on penetrating any defensive layer she could put between them.
‘I came for you, Isabella.’
His soft and certain use of her friend’s name shocked her into staring at him. How could he know it? She signed her portraits Bella, not Isabella. Her mind reeled back over this whole strange encounter with him; the fact that he didn’t fit her kind of clientele, his too-acute observation of her, his curiosity about her work, the personal questions. A sense of danger clanged along her nerves. Was she about to be unmasked as a fraud?
No!
He thought she was Bella. Which meant he hadn’t known her friend. He must have got the name from one of the stall-holders who knew her as Isabella Rossini. Was he playing some supposedly seductive pick-up game with her? But why would he?
‘I beg your pardon!’ she said with as much indignation as she could muster, hating the idea of him digging for information about her, and thinking he could get some stupid advantage from it.
He gestured an apology. ‘Forgive me for not being more direct in my approach. The estrangement in our family makes for a difficult meeting and I hoped to ease into it. My name is Dante Rossini. I’m one of your cousins and I’m here to invite you back to Italy for a reunion with all your other relatives.’
Jenny was totally stricken by this news. Bella had told her she had no family. There’d been no talk of any connections in Italy. But if there had been an estrangement, perhaps she’d never heard of them, believing herself truly orphaned by the plane crash which had killed her parents. On the other hand, was this man telling the truth? Even if he was, how would Bella have responded to it? No one from Italy had cared about her all these years. Why bother now?
Fear fed the burst of adrenaline that drove her to her feet. Fear chose the words that sprang off her tongue. ‘Go away!’
That jerked him out of his air of relaxed confidence.
Jenny didn’t wait for a response to her vehement command. She slammed down the stick of charcoal, ripped the half-done portrait off the easel, crumpled the sheet of paper up in her hands and threw it in the wastebin to punctuate an emphatic end to this encounter.
‘I don’t know what you want but I want no part of it. Just go away!’ she repe ated, her eyes stabbing him with fierce rejection as he rose from the chair, suddenly taking on the appearance of a formidable antagonist.
‘That I cannot do,’ he stated quietly.
‘Oh, yes you can!’ Her mind wildly seized on rein forcements. ‘If you don’t I’ll go to the forum management, tell them you’re harassing me.’
He shook his head. ‘They won’t act against me, Isabella.’
‘Yes, they will. They’re very tight with security.’
He frowned at her. ‘I thought you knew the Rossini family owns all the Venetian Forums. That you chose to buy one of our apartments here in Sydney because of the family connection.’
Her mind completely boggled. Had Bella known this? She had never mentioned it. And what did he mean…all the Venetian Forums? Was there a worldwide network of them? If so, the Rossini family had to be mega-wealthy and no one was going to take her side against this man. She was trapped on his territory.
‘I’ve already spoken to the management here about you,’ he went on. ‘If you need them to identify me, assure yourself that I am who I say I am, I’m happy to accompany you to the admin office…’
‘No! I’m not accompanying you anywhere!’ she almost shouted at him in panic.
Her raised voice attracted the attention of passers-by, including Luigi, the photographer, who dropped his hustling for clients to stroll over and ask, ‘Having trouble here, Bella?’
She couldn’t rope him in to help her, not against the man who had the management in his pocket. Luigi depended on his job here. The two men were eyeing each other over—both macho Italian males—and the bristling tension told her neither one of them was about to back down.
‘It’s okay, Luigi. Just a family fight,’ she said quickly. He would understand that. Her experience of working in the forum had taught her that all Italian families got noisy over a dispute and were best left to themselves to sort out the problem.
‘Well, tone it down,’ he advised. ‘You’ll be scaring customers away.’
‘Sorry,’ she muttered.
He