Summer Romance With The Italian Tycoon. Jessica GilmoreЧитать онлайн книгу.
weren’t original, don’t worry. In fact they weren’t even Renaissance like the rest of the castle, but a nineteenth-century addition, according to the architect I consulted,’ Maddie said hurriedly, her gaze fixed anxiously on him. ‘What do you think?’
The apartment was now one huge room, much lighter thanks to the clever use of mirrors picking up the faint light and reflecting it back into the room. The same imposing four-poster—a bed that legend had it Dante’s great-grandfather times several greats had used to seduce women away from their husbands, until he had foolishly turned his wandering eye on a Borgia wife—was still in situ, but, placed at one end of the room and heaped with cushions, it looked inviting rather than intimidating. The matching wardrobe and chest of drawers also looked more fitting, now they no longer dominated the space.
The fireplace had been opened out and was, despite the summer’s day, filled with logs ready to be lit. A comfortable chaise, loveseat and sofa were grouped around it. A small dining table, already laid for two, sat on one side of the room, low bookshelves lay opposite it and thick rugs covered the cold stone floor.
Dante stood stock still, taking it all in. How could such a dark, stately space feel so welcoming just because a couple of walls had been removed?
It wasn’t just the walls though. It was the mirrors, it was the choice of painting, the cream rugs with the hint of gold, the dainty china on the table, the...hang on, the what?
‘Why is the bathtub in the middle of the room?’ Dante blinked again, but sure enough it was still there. Mounted on a tiled dais, the antique cast-iron bath that had used to reside in the bathroom now sat slap bang in the middle of the room. A freestanding wooden towel rail stood on one side; a slender console table on the other held candles and bath oils.
‘We turned the bathroom into a wet room.’ Maddie glanced at him, long eyelashes shielding her expression. ‘Guido offered to email you the plans, but you said you trusted us to do the details.’
‘Si.’ Dante was still transfixed by the bathtub. Noting how it was in every possible eye line. How a man could lie in bed and watch his bride bathe, the candlelight casting a warm glow over her skin. ‘And this is the kind of detail you like? The idea of watching someone bathe?’
‘I...’ She stopped.
Dante waited, lounging against the wall, eyes fixed on her as intently as hers had been fixed on him.
‘Many luxury rooms have the bath in the main space.’ Maddie turned away, but Dante had already spotted the red on her cheeks, on her neck. ‘It’s nothing new.’
‘I’m quite aware of that,’ Dante said silkily. ‘It can definitely add a certain intimacy to an evening.’ He deliberately took his time over the word ‘intimacy’, drawing out every letter as he spoke. ‘That’s not what I asked, Madeleine. I asked if you like to watch people bathe.’
‘I...’ she began again, then paused, before turning and determinedly fixing her gaze on his, head high, as proud as a young goddess. ‘I owe you an apology. I intruded on a private moment earlier today and I...’ She paused again, her eyes darkening. Dante watched, fascinated.
‘No, actually I don’t apologise,’ she said, head even higher. ‘You were bathing on a public beach—anyone could have seen you. If anyone should apologise, you should for trying to embarrass me.’
Dante stayed stock still, torn between amusement at her indignation—and shame. She was right; he was trying to embarrass her. Why? Because of the thrill that had shot through him when he noticed her watching him, had realised how enthralled she was, how safe it had been to retaliate, to look back with a lake between them?
He was her employer, had power over her. It was beneath him to indulge in these kinds of games.
‘Mi scusa, you are right. It was wrong of me. It won’t happen again. Thank you for your tour, signorina; enjoy your evening.’ With a nod of his head Dante turned and left, vowing as he did so to keep every interaction with Madeleine Fitzroy professional and brief. They might be sharing the castello for the rest of the summer, but it was a big space. There was really no need for them to interact at all.
DANTE LOOKED OUT of the window. The lake was calm, the sun reflecting off it in myriad dancing sparkles, the mountains rising behind in a majestic semicircle. His chest tightened with the all too familiar mixture of longing and loathing. Once the castello had been his home, the place he loved more than any other. Now it was a constant reminder of his marriage. His greatest failure.
He resolutely turned back to his computer screen, but as he did so his gaze fell on the framed photo on his desk; a black and white portrait of a young woman cradling a baby. Violetta with a newly born Arianna.
If Dante had had his way all pictures of Violetta would have been destroyed the day after her funeral, but he knew that their daughter needed to grow up seeing her mother around her house, to know her face, to hear her name spoken. So he had gritted his teeth and kept Violetta’s photos and portraits on walls and desks in Rome and here in the castello—and if he felt the bitterness of guilt and self-loathing each time he saw her face then wasn’t it simply what he deserved?
He couldn’t regret a marriage which had brought him his daughter, but he could excoriate himself for being the kind of fool to fall for a beautiful face and to project his own hopes and dreams into the woman who wore it. If he’d been older, wiser, had actually bothered to look behind the mask, then he would have seen that all Violetta wanted was the title and the castello—and the second of those had palled soon enough. She was bored, he worked too hard, was away too much. He thought motherhood might soothe and focus her. He’d been tragically wrong.
Wrong and blind. Too caught up in his own narrative. He’d never make that mistake again. How could he trust himself when love had proved nothing but a lie? Violetta had loved the title. He had loved a façade.
The tragedy was he had really fallen hard for that façade. Loved it truly and sincerely. Part of him mourned it still.
‘Al diavolo,’ he muttered. It was a beautiful summer’s day; somewhere in the castello grounds his daughter was playing. Work could wait, especially on a weekend. He’d learned that lesson at last. But as he pushed his chair back his computer flashed up a video-call alert. Dante hovered, uncertainly, before lowering himself reluctantly into his seat and pressing ‘accept’. Only a few people had his details. It must be important.
‘Ciao!’
Dante leaned back as the screen filled with his sister’s beaming face. Luciana was ageless, five years older than him, mother of three, but no wrinkles marred her olive skin, her hair as dark and lustrous as it had ever been. Only her eyes, he noted, seemed dull with fatigue, her smile maybe a little more forced than usual. ‘Twice in one week. To what do I owe the pleasure?’
‘Is that any way to greet your only sister?’ Luciana asked, not giving him time to answer. ‘Where’s my niece? Did she arrive safely?’
‘She’s out playing and yes, she’s already familiarised herself with every corner, just like we used to do.’ Luciana and Dante had been heartbroken when their parents moved from the castle to the austere townhouse in Milan when Luciana hit her teens. Dante had sworn then that when he was the Conte he would never live anywhere else.
For four years he hadn’t. He’d thought they were happy years. Had he been wilfully blind or simply ignorant?
‘And? How are things with your mystery girlfriend?’ Luciana’s gaze sharpened. ‘Did you tell me her name?’
Of course he hadn’t—and Dante knew his sister was fully aware of that fact. ‘I don’t believe so.’ He sat back even further, legs outstretched, grinning as his sister narrowed her eyes at him.
‘Dante,