 Isabella sat back with a sense of achievement and took
a moment to admire the room she was in. The hexagonal
shape of the sitting room was unusual, but it was the light
streaming in from the high windows which made it so stunning.
It bounced off the glass bowls filled with fresh flowers and
shone off the reflective surfaces of the furniture.
“Domenic will be another five minutes,” Silvana
Moretti said, sitting in the armchair opposite. “I’m
so sorry.”
It didn’t matter. She was going to meet
him. That was the important thing. If, after today, everything
came crashing down around her at least she’d know there
was nothing else she could have done. “I came prepared
to wait.” She smiled, intending to charm. “And
it’s so wonderfully cool in here I might decide to stay
for ever.”
There was an almost imperceptible hesitation. “My
brother insists on an ambient temperature in all our
hotels.”
For one second Isabella wondered what Silvana Moretti
had decided not to say, but when she looked again she
thought she must have been mistaken.
“The summer months are sweltering,” the
tiny brunette continued smoothly, “particularly in the
city.”
Isabella smiled her agreement, but every sinew in her
body was straining to hear Signore Vincini’s approach.
“All of the bedrooms at the Villa Berlusconi are
air conditioned for that reason, but none of the public
areas. Perhaps that’s something I ought to address.”
“I’ve read about the Villa Berlusconi. I
know my brother was impressed by the sensitive conservation
of -”
“Nico Fierezza is a talented architect,” a masculine
voice cut in. Deep, smooth and incredibly sexy. Impossible
not to register that. Her stomach clenched in recognition.
Isabella pulled air into her lungs. Please God, she had to
do this well. Too much was resting on it for her to feel totally
confident in her ability to pull it off.
“I’ve seen some of his more recent work
in Milan, and it’s equally impressive.”
“Nico has a …” Isabella turned to
face the man she needed to impress, stopping as her breath
caught at the back of her throat.
Dear God.
Her eyes took in the scar that ran from his forehead
to a point perilously close to his left eye. “… real
affinity for old …” buildings. She’d
meant to say ‘buildings’, but her voice didn’t
hold out that long.
“Domenic, this is Her Royal Highness, Princess
Isabella,” Silvana said, moving towards him. She rested
a hand on his arm. “My brother, Domenic Vincini.”
Her voice sounded muffled as Isabella struggled to meld
her expectations of Domenic Vincini with the reality.
A second scar, raised and vivid, ran the length of his cheek
and touched the puckered scarring of a severe burn.
Domenic Vincini was a burns survivor. Why had no-one
told her that? Did they know?
Skin that had wrinkled like paper disappeared beneath
the soft fabric of his long sleeved t-shirt. Severe burns. The
truth of that imploded in her mind. Whatever had happened
to him? When? And why?
Her role as an ambassador for numerous charities meant
she’d seen and spoken with many burns survivors. Their
stories were, without exception, harrowing. People who’d
emerged from a living nightmare to face months of skin
grafts and painful rehabilitation.
Her voice caught as sympathy flowed through her. “Signore
Vincini.” Then she forced her legs to move. “Thank
you so much for finding the time to see me.”
But, she’d been too slow. She knew it by the flicker
in his brown eyes. There was a slight hesitation before
he reached out his hand to meet hers.
“Domenic.” His voice was crisp, his handshake
firm.
 Isabella kept her gaze firmly on his face, sheer willpower
stopping her from looking to see whether he also had
scars on his hands. “And I’m Isabella. I was particularly
anxious to talk to you personally.” His skin felt smooth
beneath her fingers. Strong. Warm.
“So I’ve been told.”
“You need to see these photographs, Domenic,” Silvana
said.
Domenic Vincini had a hard face, strong and uncompromising
and, right now, it looked particularly unyielding.
“Why?” he asked, releasing her hand.
Isabella lifted her chin a fraction more, refusing to
be intimidated by his monosyllabic question. “Because
the proposed citing of the resort is on the south coast
-”
“I’m aware of that.” His voice sliced
across hers.
“Which means it has spectacular views of Mont
Avellana,” she said, as though he hadn’t spoken.
His eyes flicked towards his sister and then back to
her. “And you think that might help swing my decision
in your favour?”
“In favour of the project. Yes, I think it might.”
“Then I’d better see them.” Domenic
turned away, angry at himself for having so little control
over his emotions, angry at Silvana for putting him in
this position.
If he’d thought his feelings about Niroli and
about Mont Avellana were complicated, his feelings about
Princess Isabella were even more so. He should have all the
natural antipathy of a self-made man towards a woman who’d
made a career out of her hereditary title, but nothing could
have prepared him for the feel of her hand in his.
The lightest touch from her fingers had sent long-forgotten
impulses coursing threw his body. Hot, raw need. Painful
in its intensity. In that second he’d known the agony
of wanting to pull her into his arms, feel her body warm against
his – and of knowing it was an impossibility.
She moved towards the sofa, seemingly oblivious to the
thunderbolt that had shot through him. Once he might
have been able to attract a woman like Isabella Fierezza, but
no longer. He’d seen the shock in her hazel eyes when
she’d
looked at him. The instinctive recoil.
“Shall we sit down? Make ourselves comfortable?” Silvana
asked, her eyes casting a reproachful look in his direction.
He deserved it, he knew, but he felt so helpless. Like
a dingy out of control he could only react to the power of
the storm raging inside him.
Isabella turned and smiled at him. Her eyes shone with
gentle kindness – and it shamed him. If he hadn’t
seen her instinctive reaction to him he might have been
able to convince himself she could see the man beneath the
scarring, but he’d long since accepted that would never
happen.
Women who claimed an attraction to him were, in reality,
attracted to his money. And for good reason. His money
was the most attractive thing about him since the fire. The
tragedy had robbed him of everything.
“May I see the photographs now?” he said,
without moving and his voice stripped of any warmth.
“Of course.” Isabella perched on the edge
of the sofa and gracefully crossed her ankles. “I realise
your time is limited.”
She looked up suddenly and he felt the blood pump round
his body. Her eyes were wide, a little questioning, as
though she’d noticed the way he was looking at her.
Domenic sucked in his breath and willed his body to
relax.
“Do you want an espresso, Domenic?” Silvana
asked, moving round him to sit in one of the armchairs. “I
was about to send for some?”
“Please.” He dragged a hand through his
hair. The very fact that Silvana had judged it necessary
to stay for this meeting was an indictment of his behaviour.
His half-sister walked over to a small telephone and spoke
quietly.
Isabella leant forward and unzipped the inner pocket
of her briefcase, pulling out a presentation file. Her
fingers were long, thin, with perfectly manicured nails.
High maintenance. That
was what Jolanda would have called a woman like Isabella
Fierezza.
“Why do you think I need to see photographs of
Mont Avellana?” He was aware of Silvana beside him, felt
her tension as though she doubted his ability to manage
this situation.
That should have been criticism enough, but the charm
and ease that shone from Princess Isabella exacerbated
it. In her company he felt ill-bred and boorish, but he was
hanging by a thread. This was the best he could do. “I
know what the island looks like.”
His brusqueness was rewarded with a smile that had his
blood pressure soaring. “You were born there. I know.”
“And you think that has something to do with my
reluctance to commit to your proposal?”
She reached up to finger the diamond drop that hung
in the hollow of her throat. A tiny movement and the
only thing that betrayed any sort of nervousness. Domenic wished
he could bite back the question. The words were acceptable
enough, but his tone had not been.
“Your reputation would suggest not,” Isabella
said quietly. “Certainly my team think it’s an
irrelevance.”
“But you disagree?”
“I think it might be a factor in it,” she
said, meeting his eyes and holding his gaze.
He liked her ability to do that. And, in his experience,
it was rare. The vast majority of people would have buckled
beneath his acerbic tongue by now, certainly wouldn’t
have issued so obvious a challenge.
“I know it would affect mine if our situations
were reversed.”
Silvana sat in the chair beside him. “There’s
no doubt many people on Mont Avellana will feel betrayed
if we build a luxury resort on Niroli.”
“And I can understand that.” Isabella let
her hand fall from the diamond. “Niroli is in my blood
in the same way as, I imagine, Mont Avellana is in yours
-”
“Whatever I might feel about my birthplace, Niroli
has an established tourist industry which Mont Avellana
lacks. Your team is right - anything else is irrelevant. Emotions
have no place in business.”
Yet, wasn’t that exactly what he was
doing here? Mixing his emotions in with what should be
a purely business decision? Even if they were not for the reasons
Princess Isabella was supposing.
The door opened and a waiter walked in carrying their
coffee on a small tray. Silvana looked up and smiled
her thanks. “Domenic’s
quite right when he says there’s very little in the way
of an established tourist industry on Mont Avellana.”
“I’d heard that.”
“There’ve been two decades of consistent
under-investment,” Silvana said as the door shut. “Several
years ago now, Domenic bought the Palazzo Tavolara with
the intention of turning it into a Vincini hotel but the timing
has never felt quite right.”
Palazzo Tavolara.
Isabella knew that Domenic Vincini now owned the Palazzo
Tavolara. She’d thought she was resigned to that, but
her reaction to hearing Silvana refer to it was completely
instinctual.
She’d been brought up to feel resentment. Taught
to believe the Palazzo Tavolara had been stolen from
the Fierezza family. Tension expanded in her head. It was almost
like a time bomb waiting to go off at any moment.
“Certainly we couldn’t consider building
a resort there,” Silvana continued, passing across an
espresso. “Funnily enough, Domenic and I were talking
about that earlier this afternoon.”
Isabella scarcely heard the final sentence. She reached
out for her coffee and sipped, grateful she had an action
to hide behind.
Domenic Vincini might be able to leave his emotions
out of his business decisions, but she couldn’t. Emotion
was at the heart of everything she’d ever done. She was
only here at all because she loved Niroli, she felt as
connected to it as if it were by umbilical cord.
And, deep down, she didn’t believe he could separate
his life into neat compartments either. He’d been born
on Mont Avellana. He couldn’t have escaped being shaped
by the war that had driven their two islands apart.
Domenic leant forward to pick up his own coffee. “Perhaps
that wasn’t the most sensitive comment, Silvana.”
His voice held a different tone, which cut through her
thoughts. Isabella looked up to find he was watching
her and she had the strangest sensation he’d known exactly
what she’d been thinking. Understood what she was feeling
and, more surprisingly, had empathy for it.
“I don’t think my sister is aware that the
Palazzo Tavolara was built by the Fierezza family,” he
said dryly.
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Imprint and Series: Harlequin Presents™
Publication Date: October 2007
ISBN: 0373126670
Copyright © 2007 by Harlequin Mills & Boon Modern™
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(Actually,
this excerpt is from Chapter Two)