HE WASN’T SURE why, but Cesare paused outside the restaurant a moment, looking through the deep-glass windows at the elegant scene inside. The room was warmly lit, the crowd painfully fashionable.

He stood on the outside looking in and couldn’t fail to appreciate the irony. As a child, he’d often been like this: standing outside rooms of wealth and privilege, kept physically distinct, separate from and unwanted by that world. Even as a teenager with a scholarship placement at the best school in England he’d felt outside the norm. He’d been different and everyone had known it. Unlike the sons of ancient, wealthy families who’d formed the student ranks, he’d been only the son of a poor single mother, a woman who’d served as a nanny to that kind of family.

Now, though, as he looked into the restaurant, he knew places like this existed for the likes of him. He would walk in and people would part as a wave, making way for him, admiring him, wanting his attention. He knew because it was what always happened these days.

He scanned the trendy ‘it’ spot until his eyes landed on his table. He recognised Laurence immediately, the man who was so desperate for Cesare to invest in his hedge fund he was practically at begging point. A dark smile tinted Cesare’s lips. When he’d been a young boy thrown into the world of the British aristocracy, and seen as lesser than it in every way, he’d sworn he would make men of this ilk pay. He’d sworn he would be better, bigger, more successful always. He swore he would make his fortune and he swore he would make them pay.

His eyes slid unconsciously to Laurence’s companion. Not his companion, his cousin, Cesare remembered, his smile turning mocking now. It was an obvious ploy to win Cesare’s favour, or perhaps distract him from matters of business. His reputation as a womaniser was well-established and he was unapologetic for that. He liked women, different women and often. If Laurence thought having her at this dinner meeting would make an ounce of difference to Cesare’s investment plans, he didn’t understand the kind of fortitude and intention Cesare brought to his business life.

Jemima Woodcroft was every bit as beautiful in the flesh as all the billboards would have you believe, though. The supermodel leaned across to her cousin, speaking close to his ear, and Laurence nodded, laughing. She in turn smiled, and her eyes flashed with something that sparked a light of curiosity inside Cesare.

Something else, too. Desire.

She was just the kind of woman Cesare usually chose to take to bed: beautiful, sophisticated and, if the media reports were to be believed, as happy to employ a revolving door with her bed as he was with his. Her hand pulled her hair over one shoulder, and manicured fingers toyed with its length distractedly, so two vivid images leaped into his mind unbidden: her nails running down his body, pale fingers against tanned flesh and her hair forming a curtain around her face as she straddled him, looking down at him, her face tortured by passion.

Suddenly, the night was looking up.

He pushed into the restaurant with a sense of anticipation. Like the steady beating of a drum, it filled his chest. The world was at Cesare’s feet—he’d worked hard to make sure of that—and he doubted he’d ever grow tired of reaping the rewards.

CHAPTER ONE

‘I STILL FIND it hard to see what’s in it for me.’

Cesare Durante spoke with a voice that was naturally husky and deep, his accent ever so slightly Italian but also cultured and British. Jemima observed him from beneath shuttered lashes, wishing he hadn’t so completely lived up to her expectations. Everything she’d read about the self-made billionaire had told her what he’d be like: intelligent but charming, with the kind of looks that would make almost anyone weak at the knees.

But there was an arrogance about him too, an arrogance that communicated itself with every curve of his lips, every flash of his sharp, perceptive eyes.

When he’d introduced himself even his name had dispelled any idea that there might be a lingering softness buried in his broadly muscled chest. ‘Cesare,’ he’d said, almost as a command, the pronunciation faithful to the Italian, so it sounded like ‘Che-zar-eh’. From his lips it emerged as a rumble, a deep, rolling wave that crashed over Jemima and momentarily robbed her of breath.

‘The fund’s versatility is the main selling point,’ Laurence interjected with a confidence she knew he didn’t feel.

‘If my investors find out I’ve tanked a third of the fund’s value, I’m screwed, Jem. That’s like a hundred million quid. I need to get Durante on side—it’s the only way I can keep things afloat. Please help. Please.’

Even as a child she’d have done anything Laurence asked of her, but after her brother’s death Laurence and Jemima had been bonded in that unique way grief conspired to bring about. Laurence was the only person who could understand the void in her life and, at the same time, he was the only person who could go halfway to filling it. They were family, they were friends, they were two souls who’d known intense loss and guilt, and she’d do anything he asked of her.

Just as he’d do anything for her. She knew that was why he’d made such irresponsible, reckless investments: to save Almer Hall. He knew the extent of debt her parents were in and that even her income wasn’t equal to it. He was working himself into the ground, taking lavish risks, because he knew what the Hall meant to them and she loved him to bits for that.

‘Most funds have a range of assets.’ Cesare Durante’s expression showed displeasure. ‘I didn’t fly in from Rome for a middling sales pitch. Tell me what else you’ve got.’

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