which they most certainly are not. Rather, we’re approaching this from a cerebral angle. And that, in my opinion, vastly increases our chances of making the union work.”
“Cerebral?” She almost choked on her after-dinner coffee. “Is that how you’d define it?”
“How else? After all, it’s not as if either of us is looking for love in a second marriage, both of us having lost our true soul mates, the first time around. We harbor no romantic illusions. We’re simply entering into a binding contract to improve our children’s lives.”
Unnerved as much by his logic as his unremitting gaze, she left the table and went to stand at the window. “You omit to mention the extent to which I would benefit financially from such an arrangement.”
“I hardly consider it important enough to merit attention.”
“It is to me.”
“Why? Because you feel you’re being bought?”
“Among other things, yes.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
She shrugged. “Finally we agree on something. In fact, the whole idea’s preposterous. People don’t get married for such reasons.”
“Why do they get married?”
Beleaguered by his relentless inquisition, she floundered for a reply and came up with exactly the wrong one. “Well, as you already made clear. For love.”
Yet in the end, at least for her, life had rubbed off all the magic, and what she’d believed was love had turned out to be lust. Infatuation. Make-believe. An illusion. The only good thing to come out of her marriage had been Matthew, and if Joe had lived, she knew with certainty that they’d have ended up in divorce court.
From across the room, Raffaello Orsini’s hypnotic voice drifted into the silence, weaving irresistible word pictures. “You would be marrying for love this time, too. For love of your son. Think about him, cara mia. Hear his laughter as he runs and plays with a companion, in acres of gardens. Imagine him building sand castles on a safe, secluded beach, or learning to swim in warm, crystal clear waters. See yourself living in a spacious villa, with no monetary cares and all the time in the world to devote to your child. Then tell me, if you dare, that our joining forces is such a bad idea.”
He was offering Matthew more than she could ever hope to provide, and although pride urged her not to be swayed by what was, in effect, a blatant bribe, as a mother she had to ask herself if she had the right to deprive her son of a better life. Yet to sell herself to the highest bidder… what kind of woman did that make her?
Torn, confused, she considered her options.
Money could buy just about anything, and it was all very fine for high-minded people to scorn it as the root of all evil, but until they found themselves having to scrape and save every last cent in order to make ends meet, they were in no position to cast judgment on those who faced just such a situation every day.
On the other hand, it was claimed by those who ought to know that there were never any free lunches, and if something seemed too good to be true, it probably was. The kind of lopsided bargain Raffaello Orsini was proposing might well end up costing more than it was worth. Would she really be doing Matthew any favors if she ended up losing her self-respect?
Marshaling her thoughts, she said, “You’ve gone to great pains to explain how the arrangement might benefit me, Mr. Orsini, but exactly what’s in it for you?”
From the corner of her eye, she saw him go to the bar and pour cognac into two brandy snifters. “When Lindsay died,” he replied, joining her at the window and passing one glass to her, “my mother and aunt moved into my house, to take care of Elisabetta and, if I’m to speak with truth, to take care of me, too. It’s as well that they did. At the time, I was too angry, too wrapped up in my own grief, to be the kind of father my daughter deserved. These two good women put their own lives on hold and devoted themselves to ours.”
“You were very lucky that they were there when you needed them.”
He swirled his brandy and warmed the bowl of the glass between his hands. “Very lucky, yes, and very grateful, too.”
She heard the reservation in his tone and glanced at him sharply. “But?”
“But they have indulged Elisabetta to the point that she is becoming unmanageable, and I am at a loss to know how to put a stop to that without hurting their feelings. She needs a consistently firm hand, Corinne, and I am not doing such a good job of providing one, in part because the demands of my work take me away from home at times, but also because…” He shrugged ruefully. “I am a man.”
His use of her first name left Corinne giddy with such insane pleasure that she lost all control over her tongue. “So I’ve noticed.” Then appalled at how he might interpret her answer, she rushed to explain, “What I mean is, that like most of your breed, you seem to think because you decree something, it shall be done.”
He actually laughed at that, the sound as rich and dark as buckwheat honey, then just as suddenly sobered. “You’ve read Lindsay’s letters. You know what she wanted. What you can do for me, Corinne, is carry out her dying wishes. Take her place in Elisabetta’s life. Shape my daughter into the kind of woman that would make her mother proud.
“It will be no easy task, I assure you, so if, as I suspect, you think I’m the one doing all the giving, please think again. What I offer to you can, for the most part, be measured in euros. It is impossible to put a price on what you have to offer to me.”
“You’re very persuasive, Mr. Orsini, but the fact remains, logistics alone make the idea impractical on any number of fronts.”
“Name one.”
“I signed a three-year lease on my town house.”
“I will break it for you.”
“I have obligations…debts.”
“I will discharge them.”
“I don’t want your money.”
“You need my money.”
He had an answer for everything. At her wit’s end, she took a different tack. “What if you don’t like my son?”
“Are you likely to dislike my daughter?”
“Of course not. She’s just a child. An innocent little girl.”
His raised hand, palm facing up, spoke more eloquently than words. “Exactly. Our children are the innocents, and we their appointed guardians.”
“You’d expect me to disrupt my son’s life and move to Sicily.”
“What is there to keep you here? Your parents?”
Hardly. Their disenchantment with her had begun when she was still in her teens.
A chef? they’d sneered, when Corinne had shared her ambitions with them. Is slaving over a hot stove all day the best you can aspire to after the kind of education we’ve given you? What will people think?
