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“You are my wife because I chose you for my wife. You cannot believe I want to end our marriage before it has really begun.”
The hot sulphur of his glare tinged her tender emotions. “You want out of our marriage. You say so. You do not want to be the mother of my bambini. Fine. Non è problema. Go.”
For the second time she was being told to leave Rico’s life. Only this time if she went, would he ever let her back in?
Apparently he truly did want to remain married. Knowing that, could she leave him? Did she want to leave him? The answer was simply no.
“I don’t want out of our marriage.” She whispered the words.
“Then you sleep in my bed.”
More praise for Lucy Monroe…
“Lucy Monroe captures the very heart of the genre. She pulls the reader into the story from the first to the last page.
The Italian’s Suitable Wife is nonstop romance from the first page to the last.
You’re going to love it!”
—Debbie Macomber
Mama Mia!
Harlequin Presents®
They’re tall, dark…and ready to marry!
If you love marriage of convenience stories that ignite into marriages of passion, then look no further. We’ve got the heroes you love to read about and the women who tame them.
Watch for more exciting tales of romance, Italian-style!
Coming next month:
His Convenient Wife (#2431)
by Diana Hamilton
Available only from Harlequin Presents®
The Italian’s Suitable Wife
Lucy Monroe
To my critique partners, Erin and Kati.
Your friendship is something I will always treasure.
Thank you for being in my life and being the special women that you are.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER ONE
HIS lips hovered above hers.
Would they make contact? They never had before, no matter how much she ached for it. He started to lower his head and her heart kicked up its pace. Yes. Oh, yes. This would be the time. But even as she strained toward him, he began to back away. His image dissolved completely as the discordant note of a ringing telephone tugged her toward consciousness.
Gianna Lakewood picked up the cordless handset still half immersed in dreamland, a land where Enrico DiRinaldo was not engaged to supermodel, Chiara Fabrizio.
Her voice still husky from sleep and the emotions elicited by her dream, she said, “Hello?”
“Gianna, there’s been an accident.” The sound of Andre DiRinaldo’s voice brought her eyes wide-open as tension immediately tightened her grip on the phone.
“An accident?” she asked, sitting bolt upright and flipping on the bedside light almost in the same motion.
“Porco miseria. How do I say this?” He hesitated while she waited with a premonition of dread for what was to come. “It is Enrico. He is in a coma.”
“Where is he?” she demanded, jumping out of bed and clutching the phone to her ear, her green eyes wild with the fear coursing through her. She didn’t ask what happened. She could find that out later. She needed to know where Rico was and how soon she could get there. She started shucking out of her pajamas.
“He is in a hospital in New York.”
New York? She hadn’t even known Rico was in the States, but then she’d avoided news of him since his engagement to Chiara had been announced two months ago.
She hopped over to the nightstand, one leg still encased in cotton pajama bottoms, and grabbed a notepad and pen from the drawer. “Which one?” She wrote it down. “I’ll be there as soon as I can!”
She hung up before Andre could say another word. He would understand. He had thought to call her even though it was the middle of the night whereas Rico’s parents would have waited until morning in misguided courtesy. Because Rico’s brother knew that Gianna had loved Enrico DiRinaldo since she was fifteen years old.
Eight years of unnoticed and unrequited love, even his recent engagement to another woman had not been able to dampen those feelings.
She rushed around her tiny apartment, throwing together the necessary items for her trip to New York. She considered checking into flights, but discarded the idea. It was a two-and-a-half-hour drive, but it would take longer to get to the airport, book a flight and make the plane trip to New York. She wasn’t like the DiRinaldos. She couldn’t command first class attention, or even hope to get on the next available flight unless an economy seat was vacant.
She didn’t bother to take a brush to her chestnut-brown, waist-length hair, leaving it in the braid she slept in. Nor did she take time to throw on makeup. She barely dressed, leaving off her bra and slipping into a worn pair of jeans, lightweight sweater and tennis shoes, no socks.
A scant two hours later she walked into the hospital and asked to see Rico.
The woman behind the information desk looked up and asked, “Are you family?”
“Yes.” She lied without compunction. The DiRinaldos had always said she was family. The only family she had left. The fact she could claim no blood relation was irrelevant at
