The Borghese Bride
Autore
Sandra Marton
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Chapter 1
CHAPTER ONE
ITALY was in the midst of the hottest summer anyone could recall. This last week in July, people said, would go down in the records.
For Dominic Borghese, the last week in July was already memorable. It had been for the last five years.
Dominic took a pair of dark glasses from the visor in his cherry-red Ferrari and slipped them on as he sped along a narrow road in the Tuscan hills.
He’d made errors in his life. He’d never been too proud to admit that. A man didn’t rise from the gutter as Dominic had without making an occasional misjudgment, but the memory and the scale of the errors he’d made that last week in July five long years ago stayed with him.
One involved a loan he never should have made.
The other involved a woman.
Of the two mistakes, the loan was easiest to write off. In fact, he was on his way to do that this morning. It had bothered him for years that he’d agreed to the loan in the first place. Not the money, but the terms he’d accepted.
Dominic had no wish whatsoever to acquire ownership of the company the Marchesa del Vecchio had put up as collateral. She was an old woman; he’d accepted her offer rather than simply given her the amount she’d requested because he’d known her pride would not let her take the money otherwise.
Now, thanks to his accountants and some discreet inquiries, he knew she would not be able to pay the debt. Well, he’d find a way to tell her he was wiping the slate clean when he saw her in less than an hour. If that wounded her precious, blue-blooded pride, so be it.
Dominic stepped down on the gas pedal.
The other mistake, which he’d made at the start of that same week five years before, was impossible to rectify.
He’d been in New York on business, attended a charity function that bored him out of his skull, gone out on the terrace to get away from the idle chatter, the flashbulbs, the women coming on to him with faces made perfect by injections and nips and tucks and God only knew what…
And found himself in his apartment less than an hour later, making love to a nameless woman with a beautiful face, a soft voice and a desire as quick and hot as his… a woman who’d slipped from his bed while he slept.
He’d never seen her again.
And he’d never forgotten her.
Dominic’s jaw tightened.
It was stupid to still think about her, but he knew the reason. She’d been a mystery that night, a blond, blue-eyed vision in a white silk suit, refusing to give him her name, saying as he took her in his arms that this was all a dream and that it must stay that way.
How could a man forget a mystery?
He could still remember the taste of her mouth, the scent of her skin, the feel of her body under his hands.
Stupid, indeed. If only he could expunge the memory of the woman as easily as he was going to expunge the debt of the marchesa…
Dominic sighed.
For a man who’d begun life with the deck stacked against him, these odds really weren’t bad. One out of two. Surely, he could live with that.
He relaxed a little, shifting his long legs under the dashboard, loosening his grip on the leather-covered steering wheel. There was no point in even thinking about the woman. Thinking about the marchesa was different. He’d be at her palazzo in half an hour and he still hadn’t come up with an easy way to tell her he didn’t want her money; not the principal, not the interest, and most assuredly not the company she’d put up as collateral.
Thinking about it made him smile. If those he did business with knew what he was planning, they’d never believe it.
At thirty-four, Dominic owned the world, or so people said. Men who’d come up the hard way, as he had, admired him. Men who had inherited their wealth instead of wresting their first million from a sweltering emerald pit in a Brazilian jungle, smiled to his face and slandered him behind his back. Dominic knew it but didn’t give a damn. Only a fool would judge a man by the blueness of his blood.
So what if they could trace their ancestry back through the centuries? He could trace his to an alcoholic mother who’d chosen his surname because she guessed he’d been conceived one dark night near the walls of the Villa Borghese.
At twelve, the sordid little story had been painful to hear. By thirty, just about the time he realized he’d already earned more money than most of his detractors would make in a lifetime, it had lost its bite.
The most recent rumor said that he was descended from an illicit liaison between a sixteenth-century Roman prince and a housemaid.
Dominic found it amusing.
Gossip couldn’t touch his wealth or his power, and it certainly didn’t keep women from his bed.
They were always stunning, their faces often familiar to readers of society and celebrity columns. They were women with good minds—dull ones bored him—and invariably they had careers and pursuits of their own. Dominic preferred it that way because he had no wish for commitment. Not yet. Thirty-five had always seemed the right age to find a wife who would look good on his arm, make sure his home was a quiet, comfortable haven, and give him an heir.
A son would truly make the name Borghese legitimate.
Wealth, power, legitimacy. What more could one ask from the bastard son of a street-walker?
But not just yet.
He had a year to go before he turned thirty-five. Until then, he was going to go on enjoying his freedom…and occasionally toy with the idea of having his people locate the woman from that hot July night in New York. He’d almost done it five years ago, but why give a simple sexual encounter more importance than it deserved? Just because he couldn’t get her out of his mind…
“Hell,” Dominic muttered, and floored the gas pedal.
Concentrate, he told himself. Concentrate on the task that lay ahead. Perhaps if he reviewed that first encounter with the marchesa, he’d find a hint in it of how he could tell her to keep the three million American dollars he’d lent her and keep her pride as well.
It was a significant sum of money and he wasn’t a bank, which was precisely what he’d told the lady the day she’d come to see him at his office.
Come to see him? That was putting a spin on it. The marchesa had invaded his office. She was eighty years old and frail-looking, but she’d managed to bully her way past the information desk in the lobby, past the receptionist on the floor that belonged only to him, and almost past his secretary.
Nobody, not even the Marchesa del Vecchio, could get by Celia.
“There’s a woman insisting on seeing you,” Celia had told him and when Dominic sighed, she’d put her hands on her hips and said no, not that woman—he’d been in the process of politely easing himself out of a relationship that had gone stale. This woman, Celia had said, was elderly. She had a sharp tongue and a short temper.
Dominic had lifted one dark eyebrow. “Do I know her?”
“She says you met at the opera. She is the Marchesa del Vecchio.”
“I don’t recall.”
Celia told him the rest, that the marchesa had somehow talked her way past both the desk and the reception area.
“Really.” Dominic’s green eyes narrowed. “Tell the people at both desks that if such a thing happens again, they’re fired. And tell the marchesa I’ll see her. Five minutes, Celia. That’s all. After that—”
“Ring your private line. Yes. I know.”
He stood in the doorway to greet his uninvited guest. She was a slender, white-haired woman with a ramrod-straight posture that had probably been bred into her elegant bones, though now she needed an ebony walking stick to maintain it.
“Marchesa. What a delightful surprise.”
“Nonsense. I am sure that my visit is a surprise, Signore Borghese, but I am not so foolish to think it is a delightful one. Why would a handsome young man like you be happy to see an old woman like me?”
She was forthright. Dominic liked that. Few people were when dealing with him. He helped her to a chair across from his desk and sat down.
“May I offer you some tea?”
“It is four in the afternoon, signore. Do you generally take tea at this hour?”
“Well, no. To be honest—”
“I have heard you are always honest. It is the reason I am here.” The marchesa rapped her stick sharply against the terrazzo floor. “Sherry,” she barked at Celia, hovering in the doorway. “Very dry.”
Dominic glanced at his secretary. “For both of us, prego,” he said smoothly and tried to make small talk with his visitor, who clearly had no interest in accommodating him. He breathed a small sigh of relief when, at last, they were alone with a silver tray bearing two small glasses and a decanter on the table between then. “Marchesa,” he said, lifting his glass.
The marchesa nodded, took a delicate sip of sherry and got down to business.
She told him something all Italy had known for some four hundred years. The del Vecchio money came from land holdings outside Florence and from a family-owned business called La Farfalla di Seta. The business had been started in the fifteenth century by the third Marchesa del Vecchio, whose husband had gambled away his fortune and left her penniless. That marchesa and her daughters, schooled in the delicate arts of sewing and embroidery as ladies were in those days, fed herself and her household by making lingerie of fine silk and lace. It was hand-stitched, hand-embroidered, and handsomely priced.
It was very expensive still. Dominic knew from personal experience. Lingerie from La Farfalla di Seta was a gift much appreciated by beautiful women.
“I have heard of it,” he said politely.
“The Silk Butterfly,” the marchesa said with distaste. “That is how it is known in America, where our business is now located. I do not like that name. We are an old and honorable family enterprise with our roots, our heart, in Firenze. In Florence,” she’d added, as if Dominic might not understand the language of his birth. “But I am not a fool, signore. I know that it is American taste that leads the way. Like it or not, those who expect to succeed must follow.”
“Please, call me Dominic. And tell me why you’ve come here, Marchesa.”
The old woman didn’t bother offering courtesy for courtesy by suggesting he dispose with her title. Instead, she put down her glass and folded both gnarled hands around the silver head of her walking stick.
“The Silk Butterfly is my most prized possession.”
“And?”
“And, I need six billion lire.”
“Three million U.S. dollars?” Dominic blinked. “I beg your pardon?”
“My granddaughter is in charge of our operation. She tells me we face competition. She tells me we are in desperate need of modernizing, that we must move from where we have been for fifty years to a different location. She tells me—”
“She tells you a great deal,” Dominic said with some amusement, “this granddaughter of yours. Are you sure she is right?”
“I am not here for advice, signore.”
“Dominic.”
“Nor am I here so you can question my granddaughter’s decisions. She has been in charge of La Farfalla for several years. More importantly, I raised her after the death of her parents. She is Italian enough to understand the importance of the company to our famiglia, but American enough to understand the importance of staying in business, which we will not do without an infusion of capital. That is why I have come to you, signore, as I said. I need six billion lire.”
Dominic’s private telephone line rang. Celia, he thought, and not a moment too soon.
“I see,” he said, reaching for the phone. He put his palm over the mouthpiece and smiled politely. “Well, I wish I could help you, Marchesa, but I am not a bank. And, as I’m sure you realize, my time—”
“—is valuable,” the old woman snapped. “As is mine.”
“Of course. Forgive me, but this call—”
“The call is from the watchdog who guards your door. Tell her I am not yet done, signore, and I shall do my best to take no more than five more minutes of your precious morning.”
Dominic couldn’t recall the last time someone had spoken to him that way. Those who came to him for a favor shuffled their feet, at least metaphorically. The marchesa was an irritant, an annoyance… and a breath of fresh air.
He put the phone to his ear, told Celia to hold his calls, then steepled his hands under his chin.
“Why would you come to me for money, Marchesa? As I said, I am not a bank.”
Her answer was blunt. “I have been to the banks. They turned me down.”
“Because?”
“Because they are foolish enough to think a small company cannot succeed, because they think the days when women were willing to spend hundreds of dollars for a frivolous garment are over, because they believe my granddaughter should not bear the entire responsibility for The Silk Butterfly.”
“And you think they’re wrong?”
“I know they are,” the marchesa said impatiently. “Women will always covet expensive nonsense and if they don’t buy it themselves, men will buy it for them.”
“What about your granddaughter? Are you so sure she’s capable of running The Silk Butterfly?”
If a woman like the marchesa could be said to snort, that was what she did.
“My granddaughter has a degree in business from an American university. She is smart, determined, and capable of doing anything she sets her mind to. She is like me.”
Dominic nodded. He had no doubt that was true. He could easily envision a middle-aged duplicate of the old woman seated opposite him, a sharp-tongued spinster with a stern expression and a no-nonsense attitude.
“All right,” he said. “You want me to lend you money. Tell me why I should.”
“Borghese International recently acquired a French fashion group.”
Dominic was impressed. The news of the financial coup had not yet become public knowledge.
“And?”
“And,” the marchesa said impatiently, “surely you can see the benefits of incorporating our name and clientele under the one umbrella.”
Dominic sat back. There might be some benefit, yes. He could get an answer from his research team, but he doubted it would be worth three million dollars. And why would the marchesa tell him the importance of La Farfalla to her family and then offer to sell it to him?
“Let me understand this, Marchesa. You are asking me to buy—”
“I am asking you to lend me money, young man. How many times must I repeat myself? You will make the loan, I will agree to repay it in five years at a rate of interest upon which we will agree.”
“So, you don’t wish to sell to me?”
“Are you deaf? No. I do not wish to sell to you or anyone else. I speak of a loan. Only a loan.”
Puzzled, Dominic shook his head. “I repeat, Marchesa, I am not a bank.”
For the first time since she’d entered his office, the marchesa seemed to hesitate.
“I am willing to admit there is some small risk in what I ask.”
“And?”
“And, for the courtesy of making me the loan, I will give you a five percent interest in The Silk Butterfly.”
Dominic said nothing. Five percent of a failing company was a pathetic offer, but he was too polite to tell her that.
“Should I not be able to repay you…” The marchesa drew a deep breath. “Should such an unlikely thing happen, you will become the sole owner of La Farfalla di Seta. And your French fashion group will be able to make their own garments using that name.”
The old woman sat back, hands still folded around the walking stick, but now Dominic saw that her hands trembled. For the first time he realized what it had taken to bring her here. She had to be in desperate financial straits. She’d probably pledged all her assets to keep the company going, but what she was putting on the line now were her family’s name and heritage—her most valuable possessions.
His people would confirm tomorrow what he was sure he knew today. The marchesa was broke and in debt up to her eyeballs, and what she was offering in return for three million dollars was probably not worth half that amount to him. He knew he should tell her that but for a man who was reputed to have no heart, he couldn’t bring himself to do it quite so directly.
“I have heard that you are a man willing to gamble,” she’d said, while he searched for words. “Is that not the way you began your fortune, Signore Borghese? By risking everything, including your very life, on a project that was dangerous and even foolhardy?” She smiled and he glimpsed the girl she must once have been. “You stand to lose nothing, Dominic. It is I who must take the risk this time, not you.”
At that, Dominic had risen from his chair and gently drawn the old woman to her feet.
“Done,” he’d said. “Three million American dollars, five years to repay at two percent.”
“Eight and a half.”
He’d laughed. “Does a bargain offend you, Marchesa?”
“Charity offends me when it is not needed. Eight and a half percent, signore. That is, as they say, the going rate.”
“Four.”
“Six and a half, and that is my final offer.”
Dominic thought about reminding her that it wasn’t the borrower who made offers, it was the lender. Instead, he’d lifted her hand to his lips.
“You drive a hard bargain, Marchesa. Very well. Six and a half percent, repayable in five years.”
“And five percent of The Silk Butterfly will be yours as soon as the papers are drawn up.”
“Marchesa, that really isn’t…” The look on her face had stopped him. “Fine. Let your attorney send me the papers to sign and I… What’s the matter?”
“I prefer not to have my attorney do this, signore. If you could deal with the legal aspects…?”
He knew what that meant. Her attorney would tell her she was making a bad deal. Dominic sighed. His would tell him the same thing.
“Marchesa,” he’d said gently, “perhaps we could simply pledge our honor on our deal, yes?”
The old woman had smiled and placed her hand in his, and he had not seen or heard from her until yesterday when she’d called his office and invited him to lunch at her palazzo. He’d almost declined, but then he’d recalled the report that had confirmed his suspicion that she couldn’t possibly pay off the loan that was now due in less than three days, and he’d said he’d be delighted.
Ahead, tall iron gates stretched across the narrow road. He’d reached the palazzo and he still hadn’t come up with a way to leave the marchesa her pride while telling her he was writing off the loan.
Dominic slowed the Ferrari, looked up at a camera mounted in a tall cypress and waited as the gate slid open.
Perhaps he could tell her a complex tale of taxes, of the benefits to her and to him if she would permit him to declare the money he’d lent her a bad debt.
It just might work.
An hour later, over espresso served in sixteenth-century cristallo cups, he knew that his scheme was doomed. The marchesa had politely avoided talk of business until they’d finished eating. Now, at the first reference to taxes, profits and losses, she waved her hand in dismissal.
“Let us spare each other polite chitchat and get to the truth, signore. As you probably already suspect, I cannot repay the money I owe you.”
Dominic nodded. “I did suspect that, yes. But it’s not a problem.”
“No, it is not. We have an agreement. The Silk Butterfly is yours.”
Her head was high but the quaver in her voice gave her away. Dominic sighed in exasperation.
“Marchesa. Please listen to me. I cannot—”
“You can. You must. That was our agreement.”
Dominic ran a hand through his hair. “Agreements can be changed.”
“Not for people of honor,” she said coldly, “which we both are.”
“We are, yes, but…I wish to forgive you the money, Marchesa. Truly, I don’t need it. I give more to charity each—” A mistake. He knew it as soon as he said it. “I didn’t mean—”
“The del Vecchios do not accept charity.”
“No. Certainly not. I simply wanted to—”
“You wanted to renege on the terms of our arrangement.”
“No. Yes. Dammit, Marchesa…”
“It is not necessary to resort to profanity, Signore Borghese.”
Dominic shot to his feet. “I am not resorting to anything but logic. Surely you can see that.”
The marchesa lifted her head. Her eyes, still a vibrant blue, pinned him mercilessly to the spot. Such a vibrant blue, Dominic thought, frowning. Where had he seen that color before?
“What I see,” she said, “is that I misjudged you. I thought you were a person of honor.”
Dominic stiffened. “If you were a man,” he said softly, “you would never get away with saying something like that to me.”
“Then do not try to avoid complying with our agreement.”
Dominic stared at the haughty old face, mumbled a word learned on the streets in his childhood under his breath, and paced across the dining room. He covered the distance from one wall to the other three times before turning toward the marchesa again.
“I would not be a man of honor if I took The Silk Butterfly from you. You may not see it that way, but that’s how it is.”
The marchesa sighed. “I suppose I can see your point.”
Later, Dominic would realize she’d agreed far too quickly but at that moment, all he felt was relief.
“I will agree to a change in terms.”
“Excellent.” Dominic reached for the old woman’s hand. “And now, if you will forgive me, it’s a long drive back to—”
“You must admit,” the marchesa said softly, “The Silk Butterfly would make an excellent addition to your French fashion group.”
Something in her tone gave him pause, but he knew her pride made it necessary for her to hear him say she was right.
“Yes. Yes, I agree, it probably would have. But—”
The old woman rapped her cane against the floor, as she had in Dominic’s office five years before. A maid appeared, so quickly it was apparent she’d been waiting in the hall, hurried toward them and handed the marchesa a silver picture frame.
“During this entire time,” the marchesa said, as she waved the maid out, “did you never think to meet my granddaughter?”
“Why would I? You told me she was more than capable of running The Silk Butterfly.”
“She is.” The marchesa looked at the photo she held in her hands and smiled. “Still, I’d hoped you and Arianna would have become acquainted.” Her eyes lifted to his. “She is a woman you would find appealing, I am sure.”
Dio, was that where this was leading? Was this the price of the old woman’s pride? Dominic had spent more than any man’s fair share of evenings listening politely to what could only be described as sales pitches on the fine qualities of young women whose families found his money sufficient reason to overcome any qualms they might have about his lineage. Was he going to have to endure an hour’s worth of paeans about the marchesa’s spinster granddaughter? Her unattractive, overaged, undersexed…
The marchesa turned the picture toward him. Dominic felt the blood drain from his head. He was looking at a face he’d seen before, a face that still haunted his dreams after five years. Hair the color of sunlight. Elegant cheekbones. A soft pink mouth and eyes a shade of blue he suddenly recognized, for he’d seen them in the face of the marchesa.
Somehow, he managed to draw air into his lungs.
“Who is this?”
“My granddaughter, of course. Arianna.”
Arianna. The name suited the woman. Dominic’s head was spinning. He needed air.
“Marchesa. I think—I really think…” He cleared his throat. “I must leave. It’s getting late and the drive back to Rome is—”
“Long. Of course. But surely you want to hear the way in which I propose to settle our debt.”
“Not now. Another time. Tomorrow, or the next day, but—”
“But what? My Arianna is beautiful. Surely you can see that.”
“She is, yes. But—”
“She is bright and healthy and of child-bearing age.”
“What?” Dominic barked out a laugh. “Marchesa. For heaven’s sake—”
“You are not getting any younger. Neither is she. Don’t you want to breed sons? Don’t you want to found a dynasty?” The marchesa raised her chin. “Or continue one as old as mine and Arianna’s?”
Dominic dragged in another breath. “Surely you aren’t suggesting—”
“Surely I am. Marry my granddaughter, Signore Borghese. Merge our two houses. You will gain The Silk Butterfly and I will not lose it. Then we will both know that the del Vecchio debt is fully paid.”
