Vittorio Vitale poured himself a generous measure of whiskey. Irish. The best. He raised the glass to the view of Rome, bathed in early afternoon golden sunlight. His domain. Finally. He took a sip of the golden drink and the liquid burnt a trail down his throat before settling in his belly, sending out a glow.
A glow of intense satisfaction. Today was the culmination of all of his – he frowned when the buzzer on his desk sounded. He’d asked not to be disturbed under any circumstances. Irritation needled over his skin.
He pressed a button, ‘Tomasso, I specifically requested – ‘
‘Sorry, Sir, I know. But um, your – wait a second, you can’t just – ‘
The door to Vito’s office swung open and a woman appeared on the threshold. His eyes widened. A woman in full wedding regalia. The white dress looked complicated and fussy, with a high neckline and long sleeves. Lace over lace. Stiff. Formal. The voluminous skirt filled the doorway.
Her face was bright pink. Hair sleek and pulled back. A veil was trailing from the top of her head. She clutched an extravagant bouquet in one hand, the flowers looked stiff. Even from here, Vito could see the whites of her knuckles.
His assistant appeared behind the woman. Vito sent him a look and said, ‘It’s fine, Tomasso.’
Vito put down his glass. He’d have to delay his celebration for a moment. He thought of the woman he’d arranged to meet later, one of Italy’s most beautiful models. Tall, willowy, long dark hair like silk. Stunning body. He really didn’t want this interruption to affect his plans.
But, evidently he would have to deal with the woman he’d been due to marry, about two hours ago.
He flicked a glance at his watch and put out a hand, ‘Miss Gavia. Please, come in.’
***
Flora Gavia was so angry she could barely see straight. Had Vittorio Vitale just looked at his watch? As if she was inconveniencing him? The man who she’d waited for in the vestibule of the church for an hour? Before realising with sickening inevitability that he wasn’t coming?
The anger of her uncle was still palpable, his face mottled with rage – even more so after an aide had whispered something in his ear. He’d turned to Flora and screamed at her that it was all her fault, that everything was ruined. And just before he’d stormed off with his wife in tow, her aunt, he’d said, ‘What little use you were to me is now gone. You’ve been nothing but a burden and a drain for fourteen years. You’re dead to me.’
In that moment, Flora had gone numb, putting her emotions on ice. It had been too huge to absorb that the people who had taken her in at just eight years old were effectively walking away from her, leaving her on her own.
But then something had broken through – as the guests had filed out of the church whispering and staring at her – anger, at the man who’d done this to her. Vittorio Vitale.
And now she was here facing him and she was momentarily blinded by his sheer masculine beauty. Tall and broad. Powerfully muscular. He more resembled a prize athlete than a titan of industry. A billionaire.
Short, thick dark hair. Swept back from a high forehead. Bone structure that would make anyone weep with envy. Sharp blade of a nose. A hard jaw. And that mouth. When she’d first seen him she hadn’t been able to take her eyes off his mouth. Lush and tauntingly sexual.
Much to her shock because she was extremely sexually inexperienced – she’d imagined him doing things to her with that mouth. And that had been so disconcerting because no other man had ever made her think of such things, and the marriage between them wasn’t remotely based on romance. It was to be strictly business.
Except there was no marriage. Because he’d stood her up.
‘How could you?’ she demanded emotionally. ‘How could you do something so heartless and cruel? Do you have any idea how it felt to stand there and wait? How humiliating?’
