looked up into his cool blue eyes and went hot, then cold, feeling a frisson of awareness streak through her. She wasn’t afraid, but the sensation was too sharp, too intense to be pleasurable. “And you really must stop manhandling me, Signor Marcello,” she answered faintly, her heart thudding violently.
“Why is that, Miss Bern?”
She stared up into his face, her gaze locking with his. There was nothing icy about his eyes now. No, they glowed with intelligence and heat and power. There was a physicality about him that stole her breath, knocking her off balance. She tried to gather her thoughts but his energy was so strong she felt it hum through her, lighting her up, making her feel as if he’d somehow stripped her bare.
Gulping for air, she looked down at his strong straight nose and the brackets on either side of his mouth. His face was not a boy’s but a man’s, with creases and lines, and if she didn’t dislike him so much, she would have found the creases beautiful. “You are giving the paparazzi quite a show, you know,” she whispered.
His strong black brows pulled.
“All the manhandling won’t look well in tomorrow’s papers. I’m afraid there are too many incriminating photos.”
“Incriminating photos—” He broke off abruptly, understanding dawning.
His hand dropped even as his gaze scanned the wide canal and the narrow pavement fronting the water and old buildings. She saw the moment he spotted the first of the cameras, and then others. His dark head turned, his gaze raking her, the blue fire blistering her. “What have you done?”
His voice was deep and rough, his accent more pronounced. Her pulse drummed and her insides churned. She’d scored her first hit, and it scared her. She wasn’t accustomed to battling anyone, much less a powerful man. In her work, she assisted, providing support and information. She didn’t challenge or contradict.
“I did what needed to be done,” she said hoarsely. “You refused to acknowledge your nephew. Your family falls in step with whatever you say, and so I’ve pressed the issue. Now the whole world knows that your brother’s son has been returned to your family.”
* * *
Giovanni Marcello drew a slow deep breath and then another. He was shocked as well as livid. He’d been played. Played. By a manipulative, money-hungry American no less. He despised gold diggers. Greedy, selfish, soulless. “You contacted the media, inviting them here today?”
“I did.”
Rachel was no different from her sister. His fingers curled a little, the only sign that he was seething inwardly. “You’re pleased with yourself.”
“I’m pleased that you’ve been forced out of hiding—”
“I was never hiding. Everyone knows this is my home. It’s common knowledge that I work here, as well.”
“Then why is this the first time I’ve had a conversation with you? I’ve reached out to your company staff again and again, and you’ve never bothered to respond to anything!”
Who was she to demand anything from him? From the start her family had only wanted one thing: to milk the Marcellos. Her sister, Juliet Bern, wasn’t in love with his brother, rather she wanted Antonio’s money. And once she could no longer blackmail Antonio, Juliet turned on his family, and then once Juliet was gone, it was Rachel’s turn. Disgusting. “I owe you nothing, and my family owes you nothing. Your sister is gone. Well, my brother is gone, too. Such is life—”
“Juliet said you had a heart of ice.”
“Do you really think you’re the first woman to try to entrap Antonio?” Or me? Gio silently added, as he’d been played for a fool once, but he’d learned. He knew better than to trust a pretty face.
“I didn’t entrap anyone. I didn’t sleep with anyone. I find no pleasure in this, Signor Marcello. If anything, I’m horrified. I am not reckless. I do not fall in love with strangers, or make love to handsome wealthy Italian men. I have scruples and morals, and you are not someone I admire, and your wealth doesn’t make you appealing. Your wealth, though, can help a little boy who needs support.”
“So I’m to applaud you?”
“No. Just have a conscience, please.”
From the corner of his eye, Giovanni saw a photographer move, crouching as he crept forward, snapping away. His gut tightened, his chest hot with barely leashed anger.
He couldn’t believe she’d managed to draw him out of the palazzo and into this scene, a very public scene with witnesses everywhere.
With his position at the helm of the family business, he’d worked hard to keep personal affairs out of the news. It’d taken nearly a decade to restore his family’s fortune and his family’s reputation, but finally the Marcellos were a name to be proud of and a brand that garnered respect. It hadn’t been easy to redeem their name, but he’d managed it through consistent, focused effort. Now, in one reckless moment, this American was about to turn the Marcellos into tabloid fodder once more.
He wasn’t ready. He was still struggling to come to terms with his brother’s death and refused to have Antonio’s memory darkened, his name besmirched, by those consumed with greed. “This isn’t a conversation I intend to continue on the streets of Venice,” he ground out. He was usually so good at avoiding confrontations. He knew how to manage conflict. And yet here they were, staging an epic soap opera, just a block off the Grand Canal. It couldn’t be more public. “Nor am I about to let you abuse my family. If there is to be a story, I shall provide the story, not you.”
“It’s a little late for that, Signor Marcello. The story has been captured on a half-dozen different cameras. I guarantee within the hour you’ll find those images online. Tabloids pay—”
“I’m fully aware of how the paparazzi works.”
“Then you’re also aware of what they have to work with—me handing the baby to your employee, you chasing after me and now us arguing in front of my water taxi.” She paused. “Wouldn’t it have been so much easier to have just taken my phone call?”
His gaze swept her face. He felt an uneasy memory of another woman who looked very much like this American Rachel Bern...
Another beautiful brunette who had been exquisitely confident...
He pushed the memory of his fiancée, Adelisa, from mind, but her memory served a purpose. It reminded him of his vow that he’d never let a woman have the upper hand again. Fortunately, he knew that stories could be massaged, and facts weren’t always objective. Rachel had come to give the photographers a fantastic shot, something they could take to every newspaper and magazine, and Gio could help her with that. He could ensure the paparazzi photographers with their telephoto lenses had something significant to capture, something that would derail her strategy.
Giovanni pulled her to him, one arm locking around her waist, the other hand free to lift her face. Holding her captive, he cupped her chin and jaw, angling her face up to his. He saw a flare of panic in her eyes, the brown irises shot with flecks of green and gold, before he dropped his head, capturing her mouth with his.
She stiffened, her lips still, her breath bottling. He could feel her fear and tension and he instantly gentled the kiss.
