The Borghese Bride Page 2

  “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.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  IT WAS a perfect summer morning in New York. Not too hot, not too humid. Just perfect.

>   Perfect, except for The Silk Butterfly.

  Arianna del Vecchio Cabot, seated in an eighteenth-century chair that was her legacy through her father’s family, the Mayflower Cabots, her elbows resting on a fifteenth-century desk that was her legacy through her mother’s family, the del Vecchios of Florence, sighed and looked out the window of her office.

  In a city of offices filled with computers, Arianna’s place of work appeared to be an anachronism.

  It was an expensive, deliberate illusion.

  The Silk Butterfly was housed in a modern building on a busy street, but once you stepped past the front door, you found yourself in a replica of a Florentine palazzo. High ceilings, frescoed walls, travertine marble floors and soft lighting all combined to suggest an earlier, more gracious time.

  The New York Times had done a piece on the Butterfly’s new look and location four years earlier and dubbed it “elegant.” A LA MODE magazine had shown less restraint by pronouncing the place sexy and exciting. It was, said a TV entertainment program, the ultimate in romantic settings.

  Yes! Arianna had thought when she’d heard those descriptions. Moving had been a big, incredibly expensive gamble but hearing such accolades had convinced her she’d done the right thing. Until then, the Butterfly’s primary customers had been old-line society matrons who’d bought their trousseaus at the shop half a century before. Arianna wanted to hold on to them but she also wanted to appeal to young women with the taste and money to indulge in the sexy lingerie her new design team created.

  The Silk Butterfly had been a diamond mounted in a Victorian setting instead of a Tiffany solitaire, its beauty recognized by only a select few.

  The action, as the fashion magazines called it, had all moved out of the old neighborhood. Arianna had known they had to move with it, but first she’d had to convince her grandmother. Then she’d had to wait for the necessary capital, find the right location, the right architect and builder.

  The result was breathtaking. Young women with high-powered jobs flocked to the Butterfly. So did the men who were their lovers.

  There was only one catch. By the time Arianna opened the new shop, it was too late. Dot-coms failed. Technology stocks crumpled. Men who’d thought nothing of buying a few thousand dollars worth of silk for the women they wanted to impress were jobless. Women who’d splurged on sexy lace to wear under their serious wool suits went back to wearing garments bought off the rack.

  The Silk Butterfly was still beautiful, still a place that made people ooh and aah. Unfortunately, they oohed and aahed without spending money. The old clients, ladies with white hair and financial managers far too conservative to have succumbed to the allure of the internet, could still afford the Butterfly’s luxuries, but they didn’t buy the outrageously expensive new designs. And when the tenor of the times made people turn away from frivolity, the eventual default of the loan her grandmother had taken became a certainty. The Butterfly was doomed. A family-owned business that had flourished for centuries was about to die. Arianna lived each day knowing it was she who’d delivered the fatal wound.

  How much longer until her small kingdom was gone? The loan was due tomorrow, but the dissolution of a complex business took time. Bankers, accountants, attorneys would gather to pick over the corpse. Like the captain of a ship, she’d be expected to remain on board until it went under.

  Arianna gave another deep sigh. It was one hell of a badly mixed metaphor, but it summed things up. The Butterfly was dying and she would have to watch it happen.

  The worst part had been telling her grandmother. She’d written her a long letter and detailed all the steps she’d taken to try and save the business. The marchesa had responded with a note that said Arianna was not to blame herself.

  “You have done all you possibly could,” the old woman had assured her.

  Arianna rose and walked slowly to the ornate indoor balcony just outside her office and looked down on the sales floor. Such a big, beautiful space. So handsomely designed, with lace and silk nightgowns and teddies and thongs artfully displayed.

  And so empty.

  Nobody was in the Butterfly except the one salesclerk she’d kept on until the closing.

  Maybe the marchesa was right. Maybe she’d done all she could, but that didn’t keep her from feeling guilty.

  Almost five years ago, her grandmother had put three million dollars into the Butterfly. Without the money, they’d probably have gone under back then. Now, the business wouldn’t just go under, it would be transformed from a place of tasteful intimacy to an unidentifiable cog in a giant money machine.

  The Silk Butterfly was about to fall into the hands of a man named Dominic Borghese.

  Arianna had never met him, but she knew all about him. Borghese was ruthless. Heartless. He flaunted his wealth and power. He’d come up from the mean streets of Rome and he never let anyone forget it.

  The only bright spot in what was happening—if you could call it that—was that the loss of the business would not touch her grandmother’s personal accounts. The marchesa would lose the Butterfly but not any of her own fortune.

  She’d assured Arianna of that.

  “They tell me it would not be prudent to invest my personal funds, Arianna,” the old woman had explained. “That is why I’ve taken a loan.”

  And a good thing, too. Had her grandmother lost such a huge sum of money, the guilt would have been unbearable.

  Arianna went back to her desk and took a small tin of aspirin from the top drawer.

  Who could have dreamed things would end like this, when she’d first gone to work for the marchesa straight out of college?

  “You are the future of La Farfalla,” her grandmother had told her. “I want you to look ahead and recommend changes in how we do business.”

  Arianna had made recommendations but the marchesa vetoed them all. After six frustrating months, she’d left and gone to work for a fashion house. Sales at the Butterfly continued to fall while Arianna made a name for herself with her new employer.

  A year passed. Then one morning the marchesa phoned. Arianna was to fly to Florence to meet with her at the palazzo. The matter was of some urgency. That was all she would say.

  The meeting had been brief and to the point.

  “I wish you to return to La Farfalla di Seta,” the marchesa had said. “I am getting old, child. No, don’t waste my time or yours in denial. I was wrong not taking your advice before. We need a young woman’s energy and vision to lead us.”

  “I’m flattered, Nonna,” Arianna had said with caution, “but the last time I was in charge of planning, you—”

  “I’m not asking you to take charge of planning. I’m telling you that I am stepping aside. Don’t look so surprised. Centuries of del Vecchio blood run in your veins.”

  “Cabot blood, too,” Arianna had added. Despite having sent her to an American boarding school, her grandmother generally preferred to ignore that part of Arianna’s lineage.

  “That is another reason for you to take over. You understand the American market, and it generates the most profit. Clearly, you are the woman to lead us now.”

  And just look where she’d led it.

  Arianna filled a Venetian glass tumbler with water from a carafe and gulped down three aspirin.

  Maybe she shouldn’t have made the move downtown. Maybe she should have made it sooner. Maybe she should have anticipated the economy’s free fall.

  Maybe she should give up second-guessing. What was done was done.

  Hadn’t she learned that lesson in a stranger’s arms five years ago?

  You couldn’t travel the road ahead by looking back. She had to concentrate on what to do next, on how to support herself…

  Herself, and her son.

  Arianna drew a deep breath.

  Her son.

  She reached for the framed photo that was her desk’s only ornamentation. A little boy looked out at the world from the silver frame, his eyes big and dark, his hair a tumble of
black curls.

  Jonathan del Vecchio Cabot. Her heart, her joy, her secret. Her child, fathered by a stranger.

  It still seemed impossible.

  One indiscretion. One night’s passion in the arms of a man who didn’t know her name any more than she knew his, and her life had changed forever.

  She’d met him at a charity party at a hotel on Fifth Avenue. Met him? That wasn’t what had happened. She hadn’t “met” the man, she’d gone to bed with him.

  How? How could she have done such a thing? Five long years had passed and she still had no answer.

  She’d only gone to the party because she’d begun planning the Butterfly’s expansion and high-powered parties were good places to make connections. Half an hour after stepping into the ballroom, she’d regretted the decision. The place was a sea of noise and glitter. Arianna was as adept at making small talk as anyone, but not that particular night.

  She’d watched the expensively dressed women air-kissing the cheeks of other expensively dressed women, the men with them exchanging equally phony smiles and handshakes, and she’d longed for the simplicity and quiet of her apartment on Gramercy Park.

  She’d been edging toward one of the terraces for a breath of fresh air when she saw the man. He was tall and dark-haired and almost dangerously beautiful. And he was watching her, his face taut with the hunger of a mountain lion as it watches its unwary prey.

  Arianna felt her skin turn hot. She’d wanted to tear her eyes from his but she couldn’t. Like a stricken doe, she’d stood absolutely still, half the length of the ballroom between them, while her heart pounded.

  He knew what she was feeling, what he was doing to her. His eyes had narrowed and told her so. She’d felt her bones start to melt.

  Go home, she’d told herself, Arianna, for God’s sake, get out of here while you can.

  Instead, she’d moved slowly toward him. When he held out his hand, she took it, felt the strength of him as his fingers claimed hers. She let him lead her out on the terrace and then she was in his arms, his mouth crushing hers, her arms winding around his neck, her body pressed shamelessly against his.