The Sicilian's Bought Cinderella

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He grinned. ‘Am I to assume you’re going to accept my offer?’

‘A million euros to act as your arm candy for a few days? Yep, I can do that.’ She could deal with attraction. Deal with it by ignoring it and keeping her wits sharp. ‘But, before I accept your deal, I should point out that no one is going to believe we’re engaged. You’ve only just dumped your last girlfriend.’

He winked, sank onto the sofa and stretched his legs out. His legs were so long his feet slid under the coffee table. ‘Anyone who knows me knows I’m a fast mover.’

‘That’s nothing to be proud of,’ she said tartly.

‘Trust me, I know when to go slow.’

Heated colour spread like wildfire over her cheeks. ‘I won’t accept any funny business.’

She needed to make that very clear. Just because her body reacted so strongly to him did not mean she had any intention of allowing anything to happen between them. She would not be one of those over-caffeinated bobbing meerkats.

Dante could curse himself. He hadn’t meant to make innuendoes but the opportunity had presented itself in irresistible fashion. ‘You are speaking of sex?’

Her face now flamed so brightly it was quite possible it could explode.

‘You have nothing to fear. This arrangement is strictly business. The bride and groom both come from religious families and will put us in separate rooms for the sake of appearances.’

After a terrible night when his brain had refused to shut down, even after he’d thrown the best part of a bottle of bourbon down his neck to assist it, he’d come to the conclusion that this deal had to be platonic. In any other circumstance he would go all-out to seduce Aislin but seduction would add too many complications. He needed to keep his head focused on salvaging the business deal, and that was before he added the small detail of Aislin being the sister of his father’s secret love-child.

If he didn’t believe she was the perfect woman to make Riccardo D’Amore believe him to be a changed man he would have called the whole thing off. But she was perfect. Not only was she not of their world but she had a working brain in her beautiful head and a firm commitment to family Riccardo would adore.

All Dante had to do was keep his hands off her, which he had a great feeling would be easier said than done.

Promises made in the twilight hours were much harder to keep in daylight when her scent coiled around his senses. In the daylight, Aislin was more than beautiful, her beauty enhanced now her hair was dry and its vibrant colour there for him to glory in, a deep russet that reminded him of fallen autumn leaves. It made him think of a fox, which he thought an apt word to describe her. She’d stolen into his cottage like a fox. An exquisite fox.

Today she’d dressed in black leggings, an oversized khaki jumper fraying on the left sleeve and scuffed black ankle boots. These were clothes designed for comfort, obviously old and worn, yet he found them as sexy as if she were wearing a tight cocktail dress with all her currently hidden cleavage on show.

She rubbed her hands over her arms, inadvertently pushing against those same breasts he’d just been imagining. ‘As long as we’re clear on things being platonic then that’s grand.’

‘Is there anything else you want to bring up? Because we need to get going.’

Those strange eyes were back on him again, penetrating like lasers. It was the strangest of feelings; unnerving yet weirdly erotic. ‘I want half the money now.’

‘No.’

‘I need a guarantee. A form of surety. I don’t want to spend a weekend pretending to like you only to have you then refuse to hand the money over.’

‘You don’t like me?’

‘How do I know if I like you? I don’t know you, certainly not well enough to trust you.’

Her lack of sycophancy was refreshing. She was direct, her mouth as unfiltered as her inherent sexiness. ‘Ten thousand.’

‘That’s peanuts.’

‘How much money do you have in your bank account?’

‘The dust of a bag of peanuts.’

He bit back a laugh at her phrasing and spread his hands in a ‘there you are’ gesture.

She fixed him with a stare that made him think she would make an excellent teacher. It was a look that would shut a classroom full of screaming kids up.

He shook his head and gave an exaggerated sigh. ‘Va bene. I can be reasonable. Fifty thousand up front, in cash or transferred into a bank account of your choice, the remainder on Sunday evening. Deal?’

Her exquisitely beautiful face took on the expression of someone sucking an extra-sour lemon. Then she jerked her head into a nod. ‘Yes. Deal.’

He rubbed his hands together and got to his feet. ‘Eccellente. Let’s get going.’

‘Transfer the money and then we can go.’

‘You don’t want it in cash?’

‘I’d prefer it transferred.’

He sighed and pulled his phone out of his jacket pocket. ‘Name of the account?’

‘Miss Orla O’Reilly.’

He looked up briefly with a frown. ‘You don’t want it in your own account?’

‘The money’s not for me. It’s for our sister and nephew. Orla’s skint and the money you’re going to give her once you’ve had the DNA test could take weeks to come through.’

‘You’re not going to keep any of the million for yourself?’

‘I’ll get her to buy me a pizza from it.’

Was she for real? ‘Are you looking for a sainthood?’

She threw her schoolteacher stare at him again.

He shrugged. If she wanted to let the entire million slip through her fingers, that was her loss. ‘The account details?’

She recited them to him.

He looked up from his phone again. ‘You know your sister’s bank details by heart?’

‘She was in a bad car accident three years ago that left her in a coma. I took care of all her finances and stuff while she was in hospital and recovering from her injuries.’

‘Is that why her son was born prematurely?’

A dimness filtered over the grey eyes. She nodded.

Why this information should make his finger hover over the sum he was about to transfer, he did not know. This time yesterday he hadn’t even known of Orla’s existence.

Had his father known she’d been injured?

Had his father known he had a grandchild?

A fresh barb sliced through him at the reminder of the secrets and lies his father had kept from him for twenty-seven years.

Dante stared at the beautiful redhead, knowing he had to keep his focus on the primary reason for keeping her in Sicily and paying her such a substantial amount of money. Aislin was the key to convincing Riccardo D’Amore that he was not the sum of his parents’ parts. Just because they shared a sister did not mean he could allow himself to be sidetracked. Orla’s accident was history...

But the after-effects lived on in her son. His nephew.

They were nothing to do with him, he told himself grimly. They were strangers to him and would remain that way. A shared bloodline did not make them family and, even if it did, Dante had had enough of family.

He’d loved his mother with all his boyish heart and she’d abandoned him. He’d been close to his grandparents but their constant sniping and bad-mouthing of each other, and their respective expectations that he would take sides, had been a drain. His extended family were just as bad. He’d adored his father. Salvatore had been a fantastic if unconventional father when Dante had been small, father and son always there for each other through all the ups and downs life had thrown at them; and now he’d learned that beneath that closeness had been the most monstrous of secrets.

His father had been a gambler and a playboy but Dante would have trusted him with his life.

Turned out his father had been the greatest liar of them all.

Why embrace a sister when every other member of his bloodline had lied, abandoned or emotionally abused him?

No more. He was better on his own.

He hit the confirmation button then went through the additional security needed to transfer such a large sum. Anti-money-laundering regulations were the bane of the honest businessman’s life. ‘Done.’

He held the phone for her to see. ‘The money will credit your sister’s account by the end of the working day.’

She peered at it with a furrowed brow. ‘You transferred two hundred thousand?’

He nodded tersely. ‘I’ve upheld my end of the deal. Now we can go.’

CHAPTER FOUR (#uf83b6f95-f512-5aa9-b7c9-d035f7648afd)

AISLIN GAZED OUT of the car window. The drive from the cottage to Palermo had taken her from farmed fields and intense greenery to the bright lights of Sicily’s capital in only twenty minutes.

Thankfully Dante had sat in the front next to his driver, enabling her to relax into the journey and not spend the trip fighting her growing awareness of him.

The gleam she’d seen in his eyes a few times had made her think he might be aware of her in the same way, but his declaration that this was purely a business agreement had put paid to that notion.

Her limited experience with men meant her instincts could not be relied on. Growing up in a small village in Kerry, there had been a shortage of boys to play with. Secondary school had not been much better on the boy front. By the time she’d started university she’d been desperate for a boyfriend but on her first day had overheard a group of boys ranking the girls on the size of their breasts, their ‘spreadability’ and their looks. It had been enough to make her vomit and, from that point on, she’d kept males at a distance, willing to be friends but not anything more. Some girls might have been happy to be marked out of ten on their prowess but she was not one of them.

It was in the summer term of her second year that Patrick had taken an interest her. Far from immediately trying to dive into her knickers, he’d made an effort to woo her. He’d brought her flowers. He’d asked for her help with an assignment—without a boyfriend to distract her, Aislin had soon distinguished herself as a swot—and it had filled her silly little head with pride that the most popular lad in her year was interested in her.

Weeks later, they’d started dating. Words of love and respect were exchanged, words she’d believed. Six months on, Orla had been driving in a heavy storm when an approaching car had lost control and smashed head-on into hers. Patrick, resenting Aislin’s devotion to her comatose sister and prematurely born nephew, had wasted no time in hooking up with Aislin’s housemate, a girl she had considered a good friend.

She hadn’t dated anyone since. In all honesty, even if she’d wanted to, which she didn’t, there hadn’t been the space in her life to date.

Dante was the first man to occupy her thoughts in three years and, compared to his playboy antics, Patrick was a rank amateur.

She didn’t know if it made it better or worse that Dante didn’t fancy her. It shouldn’t matter at all.

This deal was strictly business.

She couldn’t work him out. One minute he was haggling over the upfront payment, driving down her demands, the next transferring four times the amount they had settled on.

So far, she hadn’t dared tell Orla about the deal, fearful of building her hopes up. She didn’t think Dante would be able to stop the payment but he was a powerful man. Beneath the affable exterior lay a darkness. She had no idea what he was capable of.

It had been dark when she’d landed four days ago, too dark for her to appreciate Palermo’s astounding beauty, especially as she’d been trying to navigate unfamiliar streets in a rental car and driving on a different side of the road than she was used to.

She’d almost forgotten about that rental car. Thankfully, Dante had given the keys to one of his goons with instructions to take it back to the airport.

Driving in daylight through Palermo was like stepping into the medieval past. Were it not for the busy narrow streets filled with people in modern dress, she could believe she’d slipped into a time vortex.

Expecting to be taken to a secluded palatial home guarded with Rottweilers and more goons of the armed variety, she was momentarily taken aback when Dante’s driver pulled up in a street that was only a little wider than the luxurious vehicle they were in, stopping beside a long terrace of five-storey apartments. The street was clean and pretty, the exterior walls painted cream, iron balconies beneath all the upper windows with hanging baskets of flowers creating colour, a few scooters parked close to the walls.

Dante craned his neck to talk to her. ‘We are here.’

‘This is your home?’

She pressed her face against the window for a better look, certain he was having a laugh at her expense. This was an ordinary residential street. Dante was a billionaire. Shouldn’t his main home—during the course of her research she’d discovered he owned a heap of opulent city apartments across Europe—be flashier?