
The Italian's Bride Worth Billions
Author
Lynne Graham
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16.4K
Chapters
11
CHAPTER ONE
GIANNI RENZETTI SWALLOWED a curse when he was informed that his father, Federico, awaited him in his office. He knew what that was about, wished he didnât. But that was life and Gianni always met adversity head-on. As the phenomenally successful and youngest ever CEO of Renzetti Inc, he was determined to stand by his convictions.
His PA couldnât quite meet his eyes when she relayed the news about his fatherâs arrival and the faintest trace of colour edged Gianniâs hard-edged cheekbones, throwing into prominence the striking bone structure and stunning dark good looks that usually granted him a second and even a third glance from women. Of course, his PA would have seen the photos in the newspaper and, momentarily, Gianni was embarrassed rather than powered by the anger that had exploded in him the instant he saw that grubby article.
Here he was, evidently, labelled for life by a moment of sexual idiocy. His wide sensual mouth compressed. Yet his strongest conviction was that his private lifeâfor that read sex lifeâwas an entirely confidential matter. Unfortunately, on this particular occasion, the lines had become blurred. Gianni had been set up and he had, regrettably, succumbed to temptation in a private room at a nightclub. That had resulted in attempted blackmail and the involvement of the police followed by a very sleazy spread of photos in a downmarket tabloid. When the extortion attempt failed, the story had been sold instead.
A resigned blankness in his dazzling dark eyes, Gianni entered his office. He had always had a toxic relationship with his father. His late mother had excluded his father from her will and left her vast wealth in trust for her son and Gianni was well aware of his fatherâs resentment on that score. What relationship the two men had had, however, had nosedived the instant that Gianni stepped into his fatherâs shoes at Renzetti Inc. Federico Renzetti had made several poor business decisions and the board of directors, which included his fatherâs two older brothers, had voted him out, preferring his son, who already ran a highly profitable company of his own. Although at the time Federico had insisted that he was keen to retire, his bitterness had only seemed to increase when his son had lifted the family company into the Fortune 500 category.
âFederico.â Gianni greeted his only surviving parent with the name and formality the older man preferred and extended a stiff hand.
The older man, tall but a little portly in shape from good living, surveyed his son with tight-mouthed censure. âIâm only here to tell you that when the board of directors vote you out at the end of the month, neither I nor your uncles will be supporting you,â he spelt out.
Gianni froze, taken aback by that declaration of intent. He had not been aware that there was any risk of him being voted out. In his experience the directors always put profit first. But evidently, the jungle drums in the family had been busily beating behind his back. A cold chill ran down his spine. Gianni cared about few things beyond work because he was the overachiever he had been raised to be. He ate, breathed, and slept business and he not only thrived as CEO of the family company, but also deeply valued his position of responsibility.
âThis sordid episode has brought the companyâs reputation into disrepute,â Federico Renzetti ground out thinly. âIt cannot be overlooked.â
âIt has brought me into disrepute,â Gianni contradicted steadily. âI made a foolish misjudgement, and I wonât even try to defend myself.â
âYou had sex with a woman in a nightclub!â his father slashed back at him in disgust. âWith a camera on you!â
âNaturally, I was not aware of the hidden camera,â Gianni said drily. âBut neither was I willing to give way to blackmail.â
âYou were in the wrong. You shouldâve paid that scheming slut off to protect the company name!â
âToo late now,â Gianni responded, seeing no reason to argue and prolong the meeting. He saw in his fatherâs eyes that the older man was reaping a certain amount of enjoyment from his downfall and as always that cut him deep. It made him wonder, as he so often had growing up, what he had done to deserve that lack of affection.
âYou have always refused to listen to me and take my advice!â the older man denounced bitterly. âIf you kept a mistress, it would be discreet. There would be no surprises, no scandals.â
Gianni gritted his teeth because he had always believed that a mistress would be as suffocating an addition to his life as a wife. One exclusive woman to satisfy his every desire? Gianni enjoyed freedom and variety but even a mistress would be entitled to expect a fair degree of fidelity. Why would he sign up for that option when most of the young women he met were content to settle for a casual encounter? Furthermore, that kind of detached lifestyle reminded him too strongly of his father and he refused to make such a choice, particularly as the son of a mother who had felt humiliated by her husbandâs mistresses.
âBetter still had you married by now and settled down!â Federico Renzetti continued grimly.
âWhy on earth would I want to get married at twenty-eight?â Gianni demanded with incredulity.
âI was a married man at twenty-three.â
âBack in the day,â Gianni scoffed, resisting a cutting urge to remark that his mother had been the richest heiress in Europe and too good a prospect for his impoverished father to pass up. âFew adults want to settle down that young now.â
âHad you been married, even engaged, the board would have seen some sign of hope and better behaviour on the horizon for you. But you just wonât grow up!â Federico told him in furious condemnation. âWhat have you got against settling down?â
âLike my mother and you were so happy settling down,â Gianni breathed with emphatic distaste.
The older man paled at that unwelcome reminder and stepped back. âI am sorry that you were so aware of our difficulties.â
Discomfiture filled Gianni, for he had not intended to get that personal with his parent and he rarely referred to the mother, who had died when he was thirteen. His memories of her were too private and painful. A charged silence fell for several uneasy seconds.
âLook.â Federico spread his hands in hesitant appeal. âYou could still turn this whole ghastly situation around by just choosing the right woman to marry. However, do you even know any decent women? Youâre unlikely to meet them at the raunchy private clubs and wild parties you frequent,â Federico declared with frustration. âShe would be mature and respectable, and she would have an unblemished reputation.â
âBearing in mind the headlines I attracted over the weekend, I would imagine that a decent woman would be the very last one willing to marry me at the moment,â Gianni countered ruefully.
âDonât talk nonsense,â his father advised him impatiently. âYouâre richer than Croesus. Even the most moral woman would be tempted by all that you have to offer...although, to be frank, she might not be tempted by your conduct.â
âAnd Iâm not tempted by the idea of a gold-digging wife,â Gianni responded with finality. âLetâs not discuss the impossible. I canât credit that a wedding ring on my finger would silence the boardâs concerns.â
âWeâre all old men on the board, Gianni. We equate settling down with growing up, with maturity and stability,â his father fielded drily. âSurely even you could contemplate the picket fence if it delivers the results you want?â
Gianni gritted his teeth and said nothing. He knew party girls, bored socialites and aspiring models. But then he wasnât seriously considering his fatherâs advice, was he? No, he wasnât. He had made a misstep and he would learn by it, even if that meant learning the hard way. He wasnât about to entangle himself in a miserable marriage to satisfy other peopleâs moral scruples. No, not for anything, he swore vehemently.
Her fingers crumpling the letter of refusal from the bank, Josephine Hamilton stared out of the attic window towards Belvedere, the palatial mansion adjacent to her own family home. It belonged to the Renzetti family and Gianni Renzetti was the biggest landowner and employer in the area. Technically, he was also their next-door neighbour. He owned almost every scrap of ground around them and what remained was the size of a postage stamp.
Dating back to Tudor times, Ladymead, the Hamilton family home, was dilapidated. While the Hamilton family fortunes had waned, the Renzettisâ fortunes had steadily risen. Over a century ago, someone on the maternal side of Gianniâs family tree had bought land from the Ladymead estate to build their lavish Edwardian property. Piece by piece over the years, Gianniâs ancestors had bought almost all of Ladymeadâs original land. Only the walled garden, the outbuildings and the strip along the lakeshore still belonged to them, she reflected sadly, wondering if Gianni would now step in like the predator he essentially was to scoop up what was left of her home once debt forced them to sell. Ladymead would sell at a knockdown price, she conceded unhappily.
Slowly descending the rickety and narrow servant staircase, idly wondering when there had last been a servant in her dusty home, she suppressed her overwhelming sense of failure before straightening her shoulders and composing her face. She had to be strong for the sake of her nearest and dearest.
Jo settled the bankâs letter on the kitchen table in front of her grandmother and her two great-aunts, Sybil and Beatrix, better known as Trixie. It was a Hamilton family meeting.
âAnother refusal,â her grandmother, Liz, registered in dismay, her creased and kindly face troubled beneath her halo of white hair.
âBut I lit a candle for success!â Her witchy great-aunt, Trixie, exclaimed in furious disappointment, her earrings and bracelets clattering noisily, her long greying hair flying round her face as she shook her head. âWhy didnât it work?â
The third and youngest sister, Sybil, rolled her blue eyes and lifted her false eyelashes high in true femme-fatale style. âIt didnât work because weâre a bad financial bet for a loan,â she said with the innate practicality that was as much a part of her as her glamorous image. âSo, what now?â
One hand toying anxiously with the end of the long braid of her blonde hair, Jo winced, her dark blue eyes strained in her delicate pointed face. She swallowed hard. âIâve made an appointment to see Gianni and ask if heâs willing to loan us the money. Iâve tried all the banks. Heâs our last hope.â
âNot sure youâll be safe seeing him alone,â Sybil quipped, referring to the shocking newspaper article that everyone local had read and devoured.
Jo ignored that crack. âIâm seeing him this evening when heâs at home for the weekend. I thought it was best to keep it casual.â
âI bet youâre wishing now that youâd said yes to dinner when he asked you out again last Christmas.â Sybil sighed. âAfter all, it was the second time heâd asked you and you rejected him. I shouldnât think those rejections will dispose him to generosity.â
âI think he would have been more shocked if Iâd said yes,â Jo countered, keen to kill that subject.
Jo knew herself well and she had always refused to allow herself to be tempted by the man she suspected was probably her equivalent of Kryptonite. Gianni was the original bad boy and she had been determined not to become another notch on his heavily marked bedpost. He tempted her when no other man had contrived to do so and she was painfully conscious that she was vulnerable with him. But she had also known Gianni since she was a child and she valued even their casual friendship too much to risk losing that unique link.
âIn some cultures, they believe that if you save a life, that personâs life belongs to you,â Trixie mused absently. âGianni hasnât got much return from the effort he put in that day.â
Sybilâs eyes flared. âIt didnât happen that way, even if nobody is prepared to acknowledge it. Jo saved him from drowning, not the other way round!â she argued.
Jo wrinkled her nose. âI was nine years old and he was thirteen,â she reminded her great-aunts gently. âWe were both stupid and we both survived. Thatâs all that really matters.â
Sybil parted her lips to argue and then glimpsed her eldest sisterâs taut face and closed her mouth again. Liz Hamiltonâs son, Abraham, had drowned himself in the lake and nobody liked to discuss that thorny subject around his mother.
Uncomfortably flushed by that reminder of the uneasy link she had formed with Gianni and the secret they had suppressed when they were both too young to do otherwise, Jo rose from the table. She had first met Gianni the year before that incident. Her grandmother had gone to visit his mother, who had endured a long struggle with cancer. Federico Renzetti had been less to everyoneâs taste than his charming, friendly wife, Isabella, who had borne her illness with such stoicism. Gianniâs father had been a cold, distant man with no desire to mix in any way with the locals.
Liz Hamilton had brought roses, which Isabella had adored. High tea with all the trimmings had been served in a sunlit drawing room. Jo had been bored listening to the adult conversation and then Gianni had come in, a tall, rangy twelve-year-old with a shock of glossy blue-black hair and olive skin. Jo had seen the love in his eyes when heâd looked at his frail mother, a love that had been fully reciprocated as his mother had drawn him forward to introduce him, her pride in him patent.
He had been very polite and hadnât grimaced when Isabella had asked him to take Jo outside to entertain her. He had asked her some awkward questions to fill the silence between them, such as why she lived with her grandparents. And she had told him that her mother was dead and that she didnât remember her and that nobody knew who her father was. Gianni had been disconcerted by such honesty, but she had been too naĂŻve to dissemble.
She had told him that she would rather see the library than the garden and he had shown her a shelf with English books and in no time at all she had been curled up in an armchair reading a childrenâs book that had once been his.
âWhat age are you?â he had finally asked her.
âEight,â she had told him proudly.
âYouâre absolutely tiny,â he had remarked.
âIâm not. Youâre just very tall. My goodness, you can read English as well as Italian,â she had gathered, impressed to death by such an accomplishment.
âIf I speak English, I can read it,â Gianni had pointed out. âMy grandmother was English. My mother wanted me to be bilingual. Thatâs why I go to an English school.â
He had attended an elite boarding school, rubbing shoulders with the rich, the titled and the royal. In spite of his motherâs illness, he was rarely at Belvedere, and it was the following year before Jo saw him again and in circumstances she would have preferred to forget.
âThat poor boy,â she recalled her grandmother saying to her sisters. âHis mother has died and he never got to spend any time with her. Heâs only home from school and itâs too late... Sheâs gone. Isabella said his father was extremely strict about his schooling and wouldnât let him take time out to be with her during her last weeks.â
Jo had been sitting in a tree in the front garden when she saw Gianni in the distance striding down to the lake. Aware that he was grieving, she had not even thought of trying to approach him. She wouldnât have known what to say in such circumstances and it wasnât as though they were friends. There was too big an age gap for that. She had watched as heâd walked into the lake and she had leapt down from the tree, wondering if he knew that there was a very steep drop several yards out, wondering why he wasnât wearing swimwear.
And as he had walked, she had remembered a conversation between her great-aunts that she had overheard, a conversation about her uncle Abrahamâs death the year before.
âShe saw him do it!â Trixie had sobbed. âHow could he do that to his mother? She saw him drown from her bedroom window. She watched him walk into the water and keep on walking until he vanished below the surface. She started running and she was screaming.
âBut she was too late. It was all over by the time we got down there.â
At the time, Jo hadnât understood that her uncle had taken his own life, distraught at having lost his familyâs money in dodgy investments. But she had understood that he had drowned and worry about Gianni had made her break the rule that she was never ever to go near the lake without an adult with her. She had run faster than she had ever run in her life and then she had raced straight into the water to reach Gianni. An accomplished swimmer, she had had no fear.
She had shouted at him just as heâd dipped below the surface but assumed he hadnât heard her. In an effort to help him she had moved in deeper, starting to swim just as her feet had got tangled in the weeds below the surface. As panic had taken hold of her, sheâd forgotten everything she had ever learned about how to handle herself in water. Sheâd struggled, flailing her arms wildly as sheâd tried to free her legs and sheâd only sunk deeper and faster into the murky depths.
That was all she remembered until sheâd surfaced again, spluttering and gasping on the shore. Gianniâs eyes had been wild and desperate above hers, a fierce burning gold as heâd turned her over and urged her to breathe.
So, who had saved whom? she still wondered. It had never been discussed because she had never told anyone the truth of what she had suspected: that Gianni, devastated by his motherâs death, had gone into the lake with no plan to come out of it again alive. Certainly, she would have drowned had he not grabbed her and dragged her out of the water to get her breathing again. Ever since then she had given the lake a wide berth, reluctant to revisit those memories.
She had no appetite for her evening meal and her grandmother scolded her, telling her that she was already thin enough. To keep the older woman happy, she agreed to have some soup but, in reality, when Jo was apprehensive all appetite deserted her.
âI suppose youâll offer Gianni the lakeshore land in return,â Liz Hamilton assumed quietly. âYou might as well. Nobody here has fished the lake since your uncle died.â
âI have to offer him something. Our roof wonât go through another winter,â Jo pointed out ruefully.
âThe roof on my shop needs attention as well,â Trixie piped up.
âThe roof of the house is more important,â Sybil countered. âAnd then thereâs the rewiring. Thatâs next on the list before we get disconnected for failing safety standards.â
âYes, one thing does lead to another.â Liz sighed heavily. âThe wiring stymied Joâs plans to open a bed and breakfast here. Everything demands money and we donât have any. We only bring in enough cash to pay the weekly bills.â
Her shoulders down-curving, Jo pushed her soup plate away. Sometimes it all got on top of her: the sheer weight of responsibility, the robbing Peter to pay Paul outlook she had to maintain, the need to stretch every penny until it squeaked. Essentially the family had coped until her uncle had lost the family savings and then her grandfather, who had had a good business head on his shoulders, had died. Jo had planned to use her business degree to find a job but supporting Ladymead and her family had had to come first. And she had had some good ideas to bring in an income from the unused buildings in the rear courtyard. Unfortunately, any changes or improvements required to make money also cost money.
Trixie now had a little shop selling crystals, candles and handicrafts. She was also much in demand for tarot readings locally. Sybilâs heart was in the small animal shelter she ran in the barn, but she also sold the organic vegetables grown in the walled garden via their one surviving employee, Maurice, who was as old as the hills, lived in the courtyard and refused to retire.
Duffy flew in and landed on the chair in front of Jo and began to sing the song from a popular musical about money making the world go around.
âYou said money, the fatal word, and he heard it,â Sybil reproved her big sister.
âItâs better than the biblical quotes, although heâs amazingly soulful when he starts reciting Shakespeareâs sonnets,â Trixie said fondly.
âHeâs a very well-educated parrot,â Liz Hamilton murmured with quiet pride.
Jo left them to it and went to freshen up, Fairy, a graceful greyhound, gliding upstairs with her. Their Scottie, McTavish, who hated everyone but Jo, was out chasing rabbits, which was just as well when she was planning to visit Belvedere. He had a particular vicious dislike of Gianni, and his housekeeper had had to phone her twice recently to come and retrieve the little animal when McTavish had lain in hopeful wait for Gianni.
She smoothed down her faded blue sundress and sighed, loosening her long hair from its untidy fraying braid and deciding simply to brush it to save time. Gianni was such a stickler for punctuality. She couldnât afford to get off on the wrong foot with him, could she?
Fairy by her side, she climbed into the pickup truck that was the only vehicle left at Ladymead, its usage on a strict schedule to allow all of them a chance to take advantage of the freedom it brought. Gianni had a huge garage full of cars of all descriptions, most of them of the fast, sports variety. Her smile dimmed as she recalled their most significant meeting in recent times.
It had been very awkward. Gianni had attended Ralphâs funeral, lingering long enough to offer her his personal condolences on her âlossâ. Ralph Scott had died in a military helicopter crash. He had been a friend, but just about everyone, with the exception of her family, had believed that Jo and Ralph were unofficially engaged. In reality, the engagement had been a story put around by Ralph to save face when heâd discovered that his former fiancĂŠe, Jane, was cheating on him with his best friend. Jo had been shocked when Ralph died but she had grieved only over the loss of a dear friend, not over the loss of a man she loved. She would have liked to explain that to Gianni but with so many people standing nearby she hadnât had the opportunity.
Even so, Gianni had tried to offer her comfort in his own unique way, declaring that loving someone only got you hurt, and when sheâd queried that statement, he had admitted that he had had his heart broken when he was younger and had learned a useful lesson from the experience. She had been stunned that he should have told her something that personal even though she hadnât agreed with his outlook. Ever since she had wondered who the woman was and what had happened between them.
Suppressing those untimely and inappropriate reflections, Jo parked at the front of the house, crunching over the gravel in her grass-stained canvas sandals to the imposing front entrance. The door opened, Gianniâs plump housekeeper, Abigail, bestowing a smile on her before ushering her in.
âMr Renzetti is in the orangery. Itâs lovely there at this time of year with the terrace doors wide and the evening sunshine flooding in,â she said, showing Jo through the big echoing hall out to the leafy splendour of the orangery. âHow have you been? I ran into your grandmother yesterday and she said youâd been terribly busy.â
âThereâs never enough hours in my day,â Jo admitted rather breathlessly as she heard footsteps crossing the tiled floor, strong, sure, like the man himself.
âJojo,â Gianni purred. âWhat are you collecting for this evening?â
He had told her once that Josephine was too much of a mouthful and that Jo made her sound like a boy and he had begun calling her Jojo even though she frowned every time he utilised it.
âC-collecting?â She stammered out the word, colour rising in her cheeks as she stared at him.
At the worst possible moment, she was remembering that grainy image of him in a suit in that room with that half-naked woman. Her tummy flipped, butterflies breaking free. Her grandmother had told her that Gianni was their neighbour and acquaintance and that it was disrespectful to have that rag of a newspaper in their home when he had been extorted and unaware of the camera. She had been ashamed of herself for devouring every dirty detail. And she was even more ashamed to feel the prickling of her nipples as they tightened and the heat rising between her thighs. But at the end of the day, she was a woman like any other and her body betrayed her in his presence because he was that irresistible.
Standing only bare feet away from him, she was shockingly aware of how incredibly handsome he was, how tall, how well built. His beautifully tailored dark pinstriped suit fitted him perfectly and it was designer fashionable, cut to enhance his broad chest and lean muscular thighs. Unaffected by Joâs self-consciousness, Fairy located a rug, turned three times and settled down happily for a snooze.
âFor charity. When you visit youâre always collecting for something but you donât usually go for the formality of making an appointment,â Gianni clarified lazily, studying her with veiled eyes, the stirring sexual pulse at his groin all too familiar and fiercely resisted.
Josephine Hamilton was exquisite. There was no other word. The pretty child had grown into an incredibly beautiful woman with a mane of golden hair, sapphire-blue eyes, a delicate little nose and a luscious pink mouth. She was a slender five feet four or so with the grace of a ballet dancer and sometimes when he saw her, she could still take his breath away. A member of the church choir, she had been among the carol singers that had called at Belvedere the previous Christmas, her lovely face the only one heâd noticed in the crowd, her jewelled eyes shining, golden hair rumpled and, for once, she had been smiling at him.
Gianni laughed at her blank look. âYou were collecting for the homeless last time you were here, and you did very well out of my dinner guests. Your speech could have wrung water from a stone.â
Jo coloured again. âYes, they were very generous, but I wouldnât have called in had I known that you were entertaining.â
âCome and sit down,â he suggested as his housekeeper bustled in with a tray of coffee and cakes.
âNothing for me,â Jo said tightly, both nervous and embarrassed as she sank down into a basketwork cushioned chair.
âYou usually eat like a horse,â Gianni remarked in surprise. âWhatâs wrong? You seem very tense.â
Jo stiffened. âYouâre treating me like a welcome visitor and that doesnât feel right when Iâve come to ask you for a loan,â she confided uncomfortably.
It was so Jojo to just blurt it out like that and he was wryly amused. âIâm not a bank,â he said quietly.
âThe banks said no.â
Gianni concealed his amusement with difficulty. âYou really shouldnât be telling me that in advance.â
Jo lifted her chin. âIâm not stupid. I know you would check that out.â
âWhat do you need the loan for? The money pit?â
Jojo compressed her lips, offended by that label being attached to her home. âThe roof is in a bad way and the wiring is causing problems. I want to set up a bed and breakfast and the regulations are extremely strict.â
Gianni schooled his shrewd gaze. His father had been obsessed with acquiring Ladymead and ridding the neighbourhood of the eccentric Hamiltons and the folksy business operations they had cobbled together to stay afloat. Officially, Gianni had owned Belvedere since he was thirteen and the presence of a Tudor dump on the other side of the screening wall his parent had erected bothered him not at all.
âOf course, Iâm not expecting you to help out of the goodness of your heart.â
âWell, you know I have none of that,â Gianni inserted drily.
âYou didnât report McTavish for biting you,â Jo reminded him in disagreement.
âYouâd never have forgiven me.â
âI know you donât like long-winded speeches, so Iâll get straight to the point. Weâre willing to sell the lakeshore land to you.â
Gianni gritted his teeth and groaned. How did he tell her that when the Hamiltons eventually went bust he would buy Ladymead on the cheap, close the shops and install tenants? It was an historic building, as he had reminded his father, and it couldnât be demolished. But what exasperated him the most was Joâs admission that she was planning a bed and breakfast operation.
âHow on earth could you cope with guests in the house? Youâre already run ragged trying to keep the place going,â Gianni demanded impatiently. âYou would have to renovate the entire house and you would need staff. Trixie would need to stop worshipping at her shrine to nature in the back garden. Sybil would have to stop taking in every stray animal that comes along. Your grandmother, who isnât getting any younger, would never get out of the kitchen. Itâs not a viable proposition.â
âI didnât ask for your opinion,â Jo told him tartly.
Gianni sprang up restively. âToo bad...youâre getting it. Itâs a totally impractical ambition.â
âAnd you just expect me to accept your judgement on that score, do you?â Jo slung back at him angrily.
âI do,â Gianni delivered succinctly. âI know you have a business degree, but youâve not used it or been out in the world. You donât have the experience toââ
âIf being out in the world means shagging some trollop in a questionable club and making sleazy headlines, then I donât think I want to be out in the world as you put it!â Her face flushed, her hands knotted into fists, her sapphire eyes alight with fury, Jo stared him down in challenge.
















































