Innocent of His Claim (11 page)

But as much as she reveled in his smile, his touch, as much as she yearned for his kiss, she knew she was treading on dangerous ground with him. She wasn’t a starry-eyed young girl any longer.

She knew heartache followed sweet bliss, that as much as they meshed in bed, out of it they clashed. Now that she’d glimpsed another side of Marco, she was even more vulnerable to him.

“I’m anxious to tell Bella the news,” she said, hoping he readily took her hint to leave Florence.

His smile was wide and totally unexpected. “You are making her dreams come true effortlessly. Bravo.”

“Thank you.”

They fell into step on the street, making their way through the growing crowd toward the Bugatti. Delanie smiled to herself. For a man who wanted to blend in, he certainly missed the boat by driving such a flashy car.

“What amuses you so?” he asked as he assisted her into the low passenger seat.

She spread her arms. “This. It’s the red flag you wave in defiance of your attempt to remain the anonymous billionaire. Deep down you want to be noticed.”

His smile fled, his body going painfully stiff in a blink. “You’re wrong. Italian men adore performance cars. I own it because I can.”

He shut the door soundly on the car and his emotions as well. Shutting her out.

She wet her dry lips, hesitant to follow him into his dark place. That had been their pattern but she was tired of it.

“You dreamed of owning a car like this when you were a boy working in the fields,” she said after he slid behind the wheel and sent the Bugatti whizzing down a warren of narrow streets.

He cut her a look that was so boyish and charming she smiled. “It is true. The precise make and model don’t matter but the flashy cars were always red. Always fast and always driven by the man who was in charge of his world.”

“Then you have achieved your goals,” she said.

He shrugged. “Not all.”

What else could he want? A wife? Children? Love?

She refrained from probing. She didn’t want to know how he intended to live his life after she returned to England. Didn’t want to think about him losing his heart to another woman.

With effort, she focused on the reason she had come to Italy. Bella and her wedding. He would move mountains to please his sister and it was her job to make sure all went smoothly.

“Traditionally the father of the bride gives his daughter a special token on her wedding day,” she said, sliding him a look to gauge his reaction. “It would be nice if you stepped into that role for her.”

“I am giving her a vineyard and a villa,” he said, jaw set.

She flexed her fingers when she longed to curl them into fists and pound the dashboard. “I was thinking of something more personal.”

“It is that important?”

“Marco! Of course it is. This is your sister and she will hope to have a personal token from you to remember this special day.”

“Ah, a memento.” He frowned, nodded. “Very well. What should this gift be?”

She just caught herself from reaching out to him, from laying a commiserating hand on his arm. “A piece of jewelry would be lovely. Something for her to treasure.”

“Good idea. We will visit Ponte Vecchio,” he said.

Moments later he whipped the car down a narrow cobbled street and parked. But he didn’t budge, save for the tightening of his fingers on the steering wheel as he stared at the gray buildings stacked neatly on top of each other. She wondered if he even noticed the people traversing the street, or if he was lost in some memory again.

What bothered him about this place? she wondered, seeing nothing remarkable or disturbing about Florence. It was a fairly large city but not nearly as hectic as London or Paris.

“Change your mind?” she asked.

“No, just thinking. Come.”

He helped her leave the car and escorted her down the walkway toward the bridge. The closer they got to it, the more people they encountered. Yet his tension seemed to ease.

“What is this place?” she asked at last.

“This is the home of the most renowned goldsmiths in all of Italy. You will help me choose a gift,” he said, smiling.

“I would be happy to.”

The shops on the bridge were stuck together as if glued. It seemed as if no attempt had been made to make the buildings uniform in size, and several protruded over the deep blue river as if hanging on for dear life.

Delanie knew the feeling as she clung to Marco’s hand, aware he was a powerful yet very tentative lifeline. As they strolled along the walkway with the stone wall to her right and shops clustering the Ponte Vecchio ahead, he told her the fascinating history of the goldsmiths of Florence extending back four hundred years.

She smiled, the sun warm on her face while a cool breeze
from the river whispered around her shoulders. Coupled with the enthusiastic man beside her it was a perfect moment, one she’d never thought she would share with him.

“I feel as if I’m in the company of a tour guide,” she said, half teasing, but it coaxed another smile from him.

Her heart skipped a beat and warmed. Ah, such a very sexy, very handsome tour guide.

“How is it that you know so much about Florence?”

He shrugged, not that tense lifting of broad shoulders that he’d affected the past week, that she hated. No, this was the boyish hike that she found endearing and that hint of old pain she saw in his eyes showed a glimpse of the man she’d fallen so desperately in love with years ago.

And heaven help her but she was doing it again. She was utterly helpless to stop her heart from melting.

“My grandfather Vincienta owned a decanting shop on the edge of Florence. It was beyond the new bridge to the left.” He pulled her to the wall and pointed downriver, but to her the land blended, all looking the same. Besides, she was more fascinated watching the emotions flickering like a movie on Marco’s face, a face that was for once open and relaxed.

“Nonno wasn’t a savvy businessmen. If a friend or a kind face wanted
vino
or
olio
and promised to pay later, he would give it to them on good faith. The debts mounted, so much so that my papa couldn’t hold on to the shop after his father’s death.”

Marco gave a deprecating laugh, but it was the hand tightening on hers that made her flinch, not from pain but from the frustration that coursed from him into her. She sensed whatever change had happened then hadn’t been a good one.

“Mama’s father, Nonno Toligara, offered Papa a job in his small
olio
press and vineyard, but Papa got a better offer from Antonio Cabriotini. My mother begged Papa to refuse the offer but he took it anyway because he never wished to work
for family again, especially not my grandfather who had not wanted him for a son-in-law in the first place.”

“Was your father aware that you … I mean that you weren’t his child?” she settled for, her voice hushed as they started across the bridge.

“According to my nonna, it was a year or more after he went to work for Cabriotini when Father discovered the truth, though my family still kept it from me. I did not understand why life at home changed. Why my parents fought more. Why my papa purposely spent less and less time in my company.”

“How could he ostracize the child he’d raised since birth?” she asked, her other hand coming up to his arm, the muscle so tense she felt as if she were grasping a stone pillar.

He stopped in the lee of the arch leading onto the bridge, his gaze so bleak and pained she wanted to cry. “Papa held to old-world beliefs and I was a bastard in his eyes. A constant reminder of his wife’s betrayal. Though they argued fiercely and he ignored me as much as possible, he never physically mistreated me. In fact, he did me a favor.”

“How can you say that?”

“Papa discouraged me from working with him at Cabriotini’s vineyard or for my Nonno Toligara. He insisted I get an education. That I learn business so I wouldn’t repeat the mistakes of my ancestors,” he said. “I balked at first, thinking if I worked with my father it would strengthen our relationship, that we would become close again. A few months after I began secondary school, my parents died in an auto accident and I was sent to Montiforte to live with my Nonni Toligara.”

“That’s so tragic,” she said, a fist pressed to her heart.

One shoulder lifted. “Yes, but a blessing as well. They saw that I got an education, both at the winery and press and later at the university.” His fingers tangled with hers. “Come.”

What could she say to that? That they would be proud he’d done so well? That he’d done the impossible insofar as he’d regained the family business and made it far better?

It seemed wiser to keep those thoughts to herself as he led her onto the bridge, his hand tightly clasping hers. Ponte Vecchio teemed with people, from single shoppers to mothers with children to couples strolling hand-in-hand.

It was unlike any place she’d seen before. The vibrant colors of the awnings over some shops and the array of finery glistening in the line of windows left her as excited as a child at Christmas.

When they walked past the breaks between buildings, she caught a breathtaking view of the river winding though vineyards and olive groves painted in muted golds and bronze with the shadow of mountains in the distance. It was a vista painters coveted, yet her gaze was drawn time and again to Marco.

He stopped before a shop framed in wood, stained a rich patina by much polishing. A bank of bay windows overflowed with a stunning array of gold jewelry, its glow blinding in the late-day sun.

“This is the place,” he said and dragged her inside.

Delanie craned her neck as she passed a glass case with the most dazzling array of gold bracelets, the size and intricate designs begging a second look. But the next showcase was just as stunning, just as breathtaking as the other.

Everywhere she looked, her gaze fell on the warm liquid sensuality of ultra-fine gold. Or on one arrogantly gorgeous Italian who had yet to release her hand.

“Is it really all eighteen-carat?” she asked Marco as he caught a clerk’s eye.

“Yes, all the goldsmiths here pride themselves on selling the highest grade gold.” He bent over a case. “Which one do you think Bella would like?”

She pointed to a display of pendants suspended on fine twisted gold chains. “Any of these freeform designs should appeal to her.”

“I like the middle one,” he said.

She smiled in agreement. “I think that will be perfect for your sister.”

Marco nodded to the patient clerk and the older man hurried to comply. Delanie grasped the opportunity to put distance between her and Marco, to focus on the array of jewelry instead of on the doubts that were hammering away at her, an insistent ache that left her shaken inside, left her questioning everything to do with him.

How different her life would be if the lies hadn’t gotten between them. If she had walked away from her business and her family. If she were his wife instead of his lover….

“You like?” Marco asked, appearing at her elbow with that same maddening stealth that had stolen her heart so long ago.

With effort she tore her gaze from the dark liquid languor glowing in his eyes to the warmth of the gold pendant suspended from an equally exquisite chain. “It’s fabulous. I’ve never seen anything quite like the chain or the pendant.”

“They are unique blends of modern design and fabled Florentine craftsmanship,” he said, smiling, relaxed, his command of his world so appealing. “In many ways, the Etruscan influence still runs deeply here.”

In the craftsmanship and the people? She’d read about the indigenous people while in school but had trouble dredging up any specifics. Not so for Marco.

But then he’d been born here. He’d been surrounded by this curious mix of old world and new most of his life. The rich cultural wealth that flowed alongside the Apennines coursed in his blood as well.

That only proved again how little she’d known about him ten years ago. How little she’d attempted to learn about his life.

Her cheeks heated as she admitted to herself that she’d been too selfish to think beyond her own world.

She bit her lower lip, the gold before her blurring into a liquid burnished sea. The life she’d wanted was close enough
to taste, to embrace. So why did her heart ache at the thought of leaving here? Leaving Marco?

“Which piece would the lady like to see?” the clerk asked, appearing on the other side of the case as if by magic. As if expecting Marco to buy more of the lavishly expensive jewelry.

For her? Not on her life! She would make love with him but she would not take a token of gold back to London.

Her fingertips grazed the polished edge of the case, blinking frantically to disperse her sudden tears. “Nothing, thank you. I’m just window-shopping.”

Marco edged closer, his arm touching hers lightly, yet sending her insides into a tumble all the same. “Come on. You must like one piece more than the other.”

With Marco so close and behaving so charmingly again she was having trouble thinking straight. If she didn’t know better, she would swear he was flirting with her. But that was preposterous. Wasn’t it?

She rubbed her left temple, frustrated she couldn’t concentrate on anything but Marco standing so close. His unique scent drifted in a silken glide over her skin, leaving her trembling.

Marco in his most arrogant persona she could deal with. But when he was like this, sweet, sexy, attentive, she couldn’t think of anything but falling into his arms, holding him, kissing him, loving him. Dangerous thoughts to have for a man she intended to walk away from—for good this time.

“Can’t decide?” he prodded.

With effort, she shook off the drugging effect that was totally him and pointed toward the pendant she’d been admiring earlier. Only as her vision cleared, she realized that the necklaces were no longer there.

She scanned the case, a frown pulling at her brow. When had the clerk exchanged the tray of pendants for rings?

The little man was quick to hold up a stunning ring for her inspection, carefully setting it on the velvet pillow. Her
breath caught and her pulse raced. She’d never seen such delicate gold filigree or such an amazing rainbow of fire reflecting off one diamond.