the villa and gardens the sense of loneliness and isolation was even more acute.
After she had spent more than a year looking after him in his palazzo in Milan, Valentino Fiorenza had announced to Emma six weeks ago he wanted to come back to the villa to die. And now to Emma it seemed as if every breath of breeze that disturbed the leaves on the trees were lamenting his passing. She had loved spending time pushing him around the gardens in his wheelchair, for, although towards the end he had found speech difficult, she had sensed his enjoyment of the peaceful surroundings.
The warmth of the spring weather brought out the heady scent of wisteria and jasmine as Emma walked under the arbour on the second tier of the gardens. She had just stopped to deadhead some of the milk-white climbing roses when a sleek black sports car growled throatily as it turned into the driveway at the back of the villa, like a panther returning to its lair.
She brushed a loose strand of hair out of her eyes and watched as a tall figure unfolded himself from the car. Even from this distance she could see the likeness to his father immediately: the loose-limbed, rangy build, the brooding frown, the chiselled jaw and the arrogant set to his mouth all spoke of a man used to insisting on and getting his own way. But, unlike his father, Rafaele Fiorenza was well over six feet tall and his fit body wasn’t bent over double and ravaged by disease and his glossy black curly hair was thick and plentiful on his head and held no trace of grey. It was casually styled, the wide, deep grooves in amongst the strands suggesting he had used his fingers as its most recent combing tool.
Even though Emma had seen his photograph in the press a couple of times she realised now it hadn’t done him justice. He was quite simply the most arrestingly handsome man she had ever seen.
He was dressed in casual trousers and an open-necked light blue shirt, the cuffs rolled back over his strong tanned forearms, an expensive-looking silver watch around his left wrist and a pair of designer sunglasses, which shielded the expression in his eyes.
He slammed the car door and strode down the steps leading to the second tier, his long, purposeful strides bringing him within a matter of seconds to where she was unconsciously crumbling rose petals in her hand. ‘Miss March, I presume?’ he said in a clipped, distinctly unfriendly tone.
Emma hated talking to people wearing sunglasses, particularly the one-way lens type he was wearing. She always felt at a disadvantage not being able to read what was going on behind that impenetrable screen. She lifted her chin and let the petals float to the ground at her feet. ‘Yes, that is correct,’ she said. ‘I take it you are Rafaele Fiorenza.’
He removed the sunglasses, his black-brown gaze sweeping over her contemptuously. ‘And I take it you were my father’s latest floozy.’
Emma automatically stiffened. ‘I take it you have been misinformed, Signore Fiorenza,’ she returned with arctic chill. ‘I was employed as your father’s carer.’
He gave her a cynical smile but it didn’t involve his dark bottomless brown eyes. ‘So you took care of all of his physical needs, did you, Miss March?’ he said. ‘I must confess my mind is having a bit of a field day with that information.’
‘Then I would say your mind needs to drag itself out of the gutter, Signore Fiorenza,’ she returned with a deliberately haughty look.
His smile went from cynical to devilish. ‘So how do you feel about becoming my bride, Miss March?’
Emma tightened her mouth. ‘I have no intention of doing any such thing.’
He stood looking down at her for a pulsing silence, his eyes unwavering as they held hers. Emma tried her best not to squirm under his piercing scrutiny but in the end she was the first to drop her gaze.
‘I suppose you put him up to it, did you?’ he asked. ‘In a weak moment of his you talked him into signing away a fortune.’
‘That’s a despicable thing to say,’ she said, looking back at him in affront. ‘I had no idea what he had planned. The first I heard of it was when his legal firm contacted me about the terms of the will.’
‘Do not take me for a fool,’ he said. ‘You were living with my father for a year and a half. That is the longest relationship he has had since my mother died. Everyone knows you were sleeping with him. It has been in the papers numerous times.’
Emma felt her cheeks burning but forced herself to hold his gaze. ‘I did not have that sort of relationship with your father. The press made it up just to sell extra copies. They do that with anyone rich or famous.’
His dark eyes glittered with disdain. ‘Come on, now, Miss March,’ he said. ‘You surely do not expect me to believe my father wrote you into his will at the last moment just because you smiled sweetly at him on his deathbed, do you?’
Emma sent him a flinty glare. ‘I have never slept with your father. It’s totally preposterous of you to even suggest it.’
His expression communicated his disbelief. ‘My father was a well-known womaniser,’ he said. ‘You lived with him for well over a year before he publicly announced he was ill. It would be all too easy to assume you wormed your way into his bed to secure yourself a fortune.’
‘I did no such thing!’ she protested hotly. ‘I only agreed to live with your father so long before his health deteriorated because he didn’t want a profusion of carers coming in and out of his life. He was also concerned if people knew he was terminally ill when he was first diagnosed, his investment clients would leave him in droves. His illness progressed slowly at first, but a couple of months ago he realised the end was near. I did my best to support him through the final stages.’
‘I just bet you did,’ he said with a little curl of his lip. ‘Although I must say you are not his usual type. He usually went for busty, brassy blondes. Pint-sized brunettes must have been a taste he had recently acquired.’
Emma felt the scorch of his dark gaze run over her again and inwardly seethed. ‘I resent your reprehensible insinuations,’ she said. ‘I can see now why your father refused to even have your name mentioned in his presence. You have absolutely appalling manners.’
He had the audacity to laugh at her. ‘What a prim little schoolmarm you are,’ he taunted. ‘Miss March suits you perfectly. I bet my father loved you putting him to bed.’
Emma was almost beyond speech and to her immense irritation she could feel her face flaming. ‘You…you have no right to speak to me like—’
‘I have every right, Miss March.’ He cut her off rudely. ‘My father would not marry you, would he? He swore he would never marry again after my mother died. But you obviously thought of a way to get your hands on the Fiorenza fortune by suggesting you marry me instead.’
Emma clenched her teeth as she battled to contain her temper. ‘You are the very last man I would consent to marry,’ she threw at him heatedly.
His eyes were like twin lasers as they held hers. ‘You want more money, is that it, Miss March? I am sure I can afford you. Just tell me how much you want and I will write you a cheque here and now.’
Emma bristled at his effrontery. ‘You think you can wave your wallet around and pay me?’
He gave her a scornful smile. ‘That is the language of women such as you. You saw a big fat cherry just ripe for the picking in my father, did you not? You must have buttered him up rather well to get him to rewrite his will. I wonder what tricks you
