fighting for control, anger bubbling up inside her at his despicable taunts. ‘How dare you?’ she bit out.
He rocked back on his heels in an imperious manner. ‘You are quite the little firebrand behind that demure façade, eh, Miss March? No wonder my father took such a shine to you. Who knows? We might make quite a match of it after all. I like my women hot and flustered. I think you might do very well as my bride.’
Emma gave him a look that could strip paint. ‘You are the most obnoxious man I have ever met,’ she bit out. ‘Do you really think I would agree to become involved with someone like you?’
He gave her another cynical smile. ‘I am not sure I should tell you what I think right now, Miss March,’ he drawled. ‘You might follow through on your current desire to slap my face.’
Emma hated that she had been so transparent. It made her feel he had an advantage over her being able to read her body language so well. What else could he see? she wondered. Could he tell she was deeply disturbed by his arrant masculinity? That his sensually shaped mouth made her lips tingle at the thought of what it would feel like to have him kiss her?
Her reaction to him was somewhat of a bewildering shock to her. She was normally such a sensible, level-headed person. She had never considered herself a sensualist, but then she had so little experience when it came to men.
Rafaele Fiorenza, on the other hand, looked as if he had loads of experience when it came to women. His tall frame, classically handsome features and magnetic dark brown eyes with their impossibly long dark lashes were a potent combination any woman would find hard to resist. Emma could imagine he would be a demanding and exciting lover. She could almost feel the sexual energy emanating from him; it created a crackling tension in the air, making her feel even more on edge and hopelessly out of her depth. The thought of being legally married to him for any length of time was disturbing in the extreme. The lawyer had spoken of a marriage of convenience, but what if Rafaele wanted it to be a real marriage?
In order to pull her thoughts back into line she said the first thing that came to her head. ‘You didn’t go to your father’s funeral.’
‘I am not one for hypocrisy,’ he said, shifting his gaze from hers to sweep it over the property. ‘My father would not have wanted me there, in any case. He hated me.’
Emma frowned at his embittered tone. ‘I’m sure that’s not true. Very few parents truly hate their children.’
His eyes came back to hers, his inherent cynicism glittering like black diamonds. ‘I can only assume he thought by forcing me to marry his little nursemaid it might have some sort of reforming effect on me,’ he said. ‘What do you think, Miss March? Do your skills extend to taming decadent playboys?’
Emma could feel her colour rise all over again and quickly changed the subject. ‘How long has it been since you were here last?’ she asked.
He drew in a breath and sent his gaze back over the stately mansion. ‘It has been fifteen years,’ he said.
‘You have lived abroad all that time?’ she asked.
He turned back to look down at her. ‘Yes. I’ve been primarily based in London but I have a couple of properties in France and Spain. But now my father is dead I intend to move back here.’
Hearing him speaking in that deep mellifluous voice of his did strange things to Emma’s insides. He spoke English like a native and even had a trace of a London accent, which gave him a sophisticated air that was lethally attractive. She could imagine him travelling the globe, with a mistress in every city clamouring for his attention. He was everything a playboy should be: suave, sophisticated and utterly sexy. Even his aftershave smelt erotic—it had a citrus base and some other exotic spice that made her think of hot sultry musk-scented nights.
‘Um…I have a spare set of keys for you,’ she said as she led the way to the front door. ‘And there’s a remote control for the alarm system. I’ll write down the code and password—they might have changed since you were here last.’
‘I noticed you trimming the roses,’ Rafaele said. ‘What happened to the gardeners? Do not tell me my frugal father refused to pay them?’
Emma gave him another haughty look. ‘Your father was very generous towards the staff,’ she said. ‘They were all provided for in his will, as I am sure you know. They are just having a couple of weeks’ break. I was keeping an eye on things until you arrived.’
‘What a multi-talented little nurse you are,’ he said. ‘I wonder what else you can turn a hand to.’
Emma fumbled through the collection of keys, conscious of his dark satirical gaze resting on her. Her heart nearly jumped out of her chest when his hand came over hers and removed the keys.
‘Allow me,’ he said with a glinting smile.
She stepped to one side, trying to get her breathing to even out while her fingers continued to buzz with sensation from the brief contact with his.
He opened the heavy door and waved her through with a mock bow. ‘After you, Miss March.’
Emma brushed past him, her nostrils flaring again as she caught the alluring grace notes of his aftershave as they drifted towards her. She watched as he came in, his coolly indifferent gaze moving over the black and white marbled foyer with its priceless statues and paintings.
‘It’s a very beautiful villa,’ she said to fill the echoing silence. ‘You must have enjoyed holidaying here with all this space.’
He gave her an unreadable look. ‘A residence can be too big and too grand, Miss March.’
Emma felt a shiver run over her bare arms that had nothing to do with the temperature. Something about his demeanour had subtly changed. His eyes had hardened once more and the line to his mouth was grim as he looked up at the various portraits hanging on the walls.
‘You are very like your father as a younger man,’ she said, glancing at the portrait of Valentino Fiorenza hanging in pride of place.
Rafaele turned his head to look at her. ‘I am not sure my father would have liked to be informed of that.’
‘Why?’ Emma asked, frowning slightly as she looked up at him.
‘Did he not tell you?’ he said with an embittered look. ‘I was the son who had deeply disappointed him, the black sheep who brought shame and disgrace on the Fiorenza name.’
Emma moistened her lips. ‘No…he didn’t tell me that…’ she said.
He moved down the foyer and stood for a moment in front of a portrait of a young woman with black hair and startling eyes that were black as ink. Emma knew it was his mother, for she had asked Lucia, the housekeeper. Gabriela Fiorenza had died of an infection at the age of twenty-seven when Rafaele was six and his younger brother four.
‘She was very beautiful,’ Emma said into the almost painful silence.
‘Yes,’ Rafaele said turning to look at her again, his expression now inscrutable. ‘She was.’
Emma shifted her weight from foot to foot. ‘Um…would you like me to make you a coffee or tea before I go?’ she asked. ‘The housekeeper is on leave, but I know my way around the kitchen.’
‘You
