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He led her through the expensive house, listening to the sound of her shuffling footsteps behind him as they made their way to the kitchen. The house itself was old. Stonework dating back centuries. But inside, all of the modern conveniences had been supplied. He made his way to the large stainless steel fridge and opened it. “You may have your pick of what’s inside.”
As soon as he said that, he realized that most of the food was still ingredients, and not exactly a meal. But surely, there would be something. Then he remembered that his housekeeper often left portions in the freezer for him just in case.
He didn’t often eat at home, and he would just as soon go out if there was no staff on hand to make him something. But he was not going back out tonight.
He looked until he found what looked to be a container of pasta. “Here you go,” he said, setting it down in front of a wide-eyed Esther.
He didn’t stay to see what she did after that. Instead, he strode from the room, taking the stairs two at a time and heading toward his office. He paced the length of the room for a moment, then turned to his desk, taking hold of his phone and dialing his ex-wife.
It took only two rings for Ashley to answer. That didn’t surprise him. If she was going to answer, of course she would do it quickly. Otherwise, had she intended to ignore him, she would have done so steadfastly. She was nothing if not extreme.
“Renzo,” she said, sounding bored. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
“You may not find it such a pleasure to speak to me, Ashley. Not when you hear what I have to say.”
“I have not actually found it a pleasure to speak to you for quite a few months.”
“We were only married for six months, so I hope that’s an exaggeration.”
“It isn’t. Why do you think I had to find other men to satisfy me?”
“If you are talking about emotional satisfaction, I have several answers for that. However, if you mean to imply that I did not satisfy you physically, then I’m going to have to call you a liar.”
Ashley huffed. “There’s more to life than sex.”
“Yes indeed. There is, in fact, the small matter of the woman who is currently downstairs in my kitchen.”
“We’re divorced now,” Ashley said, her voice so sharp it could cut glass. “Who is or is not in your kitchen—or bed—is none of my concern.”
“It is when it’s Esther Abbott. A woman who claims that she had an agreement with you. For her to carry our child.”
There was a pause. He was almost satisfied that he had clearly succeeded in rendering Ashley speechless. It was such a difficult thing to do. Even when she had been caught in bed with someone else, she had done her best to talk, scream and cry her way out of it. She was not one to let it rest. She was never one to let someone else have the last word.
Her silence now was telling. Though, of her absolute surprise, or of her chagrin at being found out, he didn’t know.
“I thought it might save us. But that was before... Before the divorce was final. Before you found out about the others.”
“Right. The five other men that you were with during the course of our marriage?”
Ashley laughed. “Seven, I think.”
It didn’t matter to him. Five, seven or only the one he had actually witnessed. He had a feeling the truth didn’t matter to Ashley either. It was all about scoring points.
“So this is true,” he said, his tone harsh.
“Yes,” she replied, her voice tight.
“How?” he bit out.
She huffed out an impatient-sounding laugh. “Well, darling, the last time we were intimate you used a condom. I just...made use of it after you discarded it. It was enough for the doctor.”
He swore. At her. At himself. At his body. “Is there nothing too low for you?”
“I guess that remains to be seen,” she said, her tone brittle like glass. “I have a lot of living left to do, but don’t worry, Renzo, you won’t be part of it. My depths will not be of any concern to you.”
“This woman is pregnant with our child,” he said, trying to bring it back around to the topic at hand. To the reason he had some creature-ish backpacker in his home.
“Because she is stubborn. I told her she didn’t have to continue with it. In fact, I told her I refused to pay the remainder of the fee.”
“Yes,” he bit out. “I have had a discussion with her. I was only calling you to confirm.”
“What are you going to do?”
That was a good question. An excellent question. He was going to raise the child, naturally. But how was he going to explain it? To his parents. To the media. These would be headlines his child would read. Either he would have to be honest about Ashley’s deception, or he would have to concoct a story about a mother abandoning her child.
That would not do.
But surrogacy was not legal in Italy. No agreement would be binding within these borders. And he would use that to his advantage.
“There is nothing to be done,” he said, his tone swift, decisive. “Esther Abbott is pregnant with my child. And I will do the responsible thing.”
“Renzo,” she said, her voice fierce, “what do you intend to do?”
He knew. There was no question. He had been in a situation similar to this before. Only then, he had had no power. The woman involved, her husband, his parents, had all made the decisions around him. His ill-advised affair with Jillian costing much more than his virginity.
At sixteen, he had become a father for the first time. But he had been barred from having anything to do with the child. A story carefully constructed to protect her marriage, her family, that child and his reputation had been agreed on by all.
All except for Renzo.
He would not allow such a thing to happen again. He would not allow himself to be sidelined. He would not put him, or his child, in such a precarious position. There was only one thing to do. And he would see it done.
“I shall do what any responsible man would do in this situation. I intend to marry Esther Abbott.”
* * *
Esther had never seen anything quite like Renzo’s kitchen. It had taken her more than ten minutes to figure out how to use the microwave. And even then, the pasta had ended up having cold spots and spots that scalded her tongue. Still, it was one of the best things she had ever tasted.
That probably had more to do with exhaustion and how long she’d gone without eating than anything else. Pasta was one of her favorite newly discovered foods, though. Not that she’d never had noodles in some form. It was just that her mother typically made them for soups, and not the way she’d had it served in Italy.
Discovering new foods had been her favorite part of travel so far. Scones in England with clotted cream, macarons in France. She had greatly enjoyed the culinary adventure, nearly as much as the rest of it.
Though, sometimes she missed brown bread and stew. The kinds of simple foods her mother made from scratch at home.
A swift kick of loneliness, of homesickness, punched her low in the stomach. It was unusual, but it did happen sometimes. Most of her home life had been difficult. Had been nothing at all like the way she wanted to live. But it had been safe. And for most of her life, it had been the only thing she’d known.
She blinked, taking another bite of her pasta, and allowing the present moment to wash away the slow-burning ache of nostalgia.
She heard footsteps and looked up. Renzo strode into the kitchen, and that dark black gaze burned away the remaining bit of homesickness. There was no room for anything inside her, nothing beyond that sharp, cutting intensity.
“I just spoke to Ashley.”
Suddenly, the pasta felt like sawdust in Esther’s mouth. “I imagine she told you the thing you didn’t want to hear.”
“You are correct in your assessment.”
“I’m sorry. But it’s true. I really didn’t come here to take advantage of you, or to lie to you. And I really couldn’t have forged any kind of medical documents. I had never even been to a doctor until Ashley took me for the procedure.”
He frowned. She could tell that she had said something that had revealed her as being different. She did that a lot. Mostly because she didn’t exactly know the line. Cultures were different, after all, and sometimes she thought people might assume she was different only because she was American.
But she was different from typical Americans, too.
“I lived in a small town,” she said, the lie rolling off her tongue easily. She had always been a liar. Because if ever her parents asked her if she was content, if ever her mother had asked her about her plans for the future, she’d had to lie.
And so, covering up the extent of just how strange she was became easier and easier as she talked to more people and picked up more of what was expected.
“A town so small you did not have doctors?”
“He made house calls.” That part was true. There had been a physician in the commune.
“Regardless of your past history, it seems that you were telling the truth.”
“I said I was.”
“Yes, you did. It is an unenviable position you find yourself in—or perhaps it is enviable, depending on your perspective. Tell me, Esther, what are your goals in life?”
It was a strange question. And never once had she been asked. Not really. Her parents had spoken to her about what she would do. About what her duty was, about the purposes of women and what they had to do to be fulfilled. But no one had ever asked her if it would fulfill her. No one had ever asked her anything at all.
But he was asking. And that made something warm glow inside her.
It made her want to tell him.
“I want to travel. And I want to go to school. I want to get an education.”
“To what end?” he asked.
“What do you mean?”
“What do you wish to major in? Business? History? Art?”
“Everything.” She shrugged. “I just want to know things.”
“What do you want to know?”
“Everything I didn’t before.”
“That is an incredibly tall order. But one that is certainly possible. Is there a better city in the world to learn about history? Rome.”
“Paris and London might have differing opinions. But I definitely take your point. And yes, I agree I can get quite an education here simply by being here. But I want more.”
He began to pace, and there was something in that stride, attention, a purpose, that made her feel a bit like a small, twitchy little field mouse standing in front of a big cat. “Why shouldn’t you have more? Why shouldn’t you have everything? Look around you,” he said, sweeping his hand in a broad gesture. “I am a man in possession of most everything. For what reason? Simply because I was born into it. And yes, I have done all that I can to ensure I am worthy of the position. I assumed the helm of the family business and have continued to navigate it with proficiency.”
“That’s very nice for you,” she said, mostly because she had no idea what else she was supposed to say.
“It could be very nice for you,” he said, leveling his eyes on her. Her skin prickled, somewhere beneath the surface, where she couldn’t tamp it down, not even by grabbing hold of her elbows and rubbing her forearms vigorously.
“Could it?”
“I am not going to be coy. I am a billionaire, Ms. Abbott. A man with a limitless supply of resources. Ashley was not as generous with you as she might have been. But I intend to give you the world.”
She felt her face growing warm. She cleared her throat, reaching up and tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, just so she had something to do with the reckless energy surging through her. “That’s very nice. But I only have the one backpack. I’m not sure the world would fit inside it.”
“That is the catch,” he said.
“What is?”
“You will have to give up the backpack.”
She blinked. “I’m not sure I understand.”
“I am a man with a great deal of power—that, I should think, is obvious. However, there are a few things I am bound by. Public perception is one of them. The extremely conservative ideals of my parents are another. My parents have gone to great lengths in my life to ensure that I became the man that I am today.” His jaw seemed to tighten when he said that, a muscle there twitching slightly. “And while I was certainly pushing the edges of propriety by marrying Ashley, I did marry her. Marriage, children, that is what is expected of me. What is not expected? To have a surrogacy scandal. To have it leak out to the public that my wife conspired against me. I will not be made a fool of, Esther,” he said, using her first name for the first time. “I will not have the Valenti name made foolish by my mistake.”
“I don’t understand what that has to do with me. You’re going to have to be very direct, because sometimes I’m a little bit slow with shorthand.”
He frowned. “Just how small is that town you’re from?”
“Very small. Very, very small.”
“Perhaps the size of the town makes no difference. Admittedly, we are in a bit of an unprecedented situation. Still, my course is clear.”
“Please do enlighten me.”
He paused, looking at her. Which shouldn’t have been significant. He had looked at her before. Lots of times. People looked at each other when they talked. Except, this time when he looked at her it felt different.
But this was different. Whether or not that made any sense, it was different. His gaze was assessing now, in a different way from what it had been before. As though he were looking deeper. Beneath her clothes, the thought of which made her feel hot all over, down beneath her skin. As though he were trying to see exactly what her substance was.
He looked over her entire body, and she felt herself begin to burn everywhere his gaze made contact. That strange, restless feeling was back between her thighs, an intense heaviness in her breasts.
She sucked in a sharp breath, trying to combat the sting of tears that were beginning to burn there. She didn’t know why she wanted to cry. Except that this felt big, new and completely unfamiliar. Whatever this was.
“Esther Abbott,” he said, his words sliding over her name like silk, “you are going to be my wife.”
CHAPTER FOUR (#u633deefd-4c0e-5d93-98af-310e7f0fd309)
ESTHER FELT LIKE she was dreaming. She had a strange sense of being detached from her body, of looking down on the scene below her, like it was happening to somebody else and not her. Because there was no way she was standing in the middle of a historic mansion, looking at the most beautiful man she had ever seen in her entire life, his proposal still ringing in her ears.
Beautiful was the wrong word for Renzo, she decided. He was too hard cut. His cheekbones sharp, his jaw like a blade. His dark eyes weren’t any softer. Just like the rest of him, they were enticing, but deadly. Like broken edges of obsidian. So tempting to run your fingers over the seemingly smooth surface, until you caught an edge and sliced into your own flesh.
It struck her just how ridiculous it was, fixating on her mental use of the word beautiful. Fixating on his appearance at all. He had just stated his intention to make her his wife. His wife.
