‘So we’d be married, but not a couple in any way.’
He dipped his head once.
‘And that would be okay with you?’
He arched a brow, silently encouraging her to continue.
‘I mean, we just met, but…you don’t seem like someone who’s not, um…’
‘Sexually active?’
She closed her eyes on a wave of embarrassment.
‘If I were to see other women, it would be discreet. You would never know.’
She blanched at that.
‘And I would expect the same of you.’
Mortification curled around her. What would he say if she told him that she was hardly likely to be running around breaking vows? She hadn’t dated in years; not since her father got sick. Before that, she’d shared a few fumbling kisses, nothing more intimate.
‘Fine,’ she said, dipping her head in acknowledgement.
‘It is a simple business proposition, Amelia. Marriage is such a loaded word, because people layer it with emotions and expectations, but if we are clear from the outset as to what we both want, then it is no different from any other contract we might enter into.’
‘And would there be a contract?’
He stared at her as though she’d sprouted two heads. ‘Of course.’
‘I need to think about it,’ she said, after a beat. ‘How quickly do you need to know?’
‘I’m flying to Italy at lunchtime tomorrow. You can either come with me, as my fiancée, or we’ll forget I was ever here. It’s your decision.’ He reached into his pocket and removed a matte grey business card, which he slid across the table. It had his initials, and a phone number.
She ran her finger over the corner of it, looking first at the card and then the man opposite.
‘Lunchtime?’
He nodded once. ‘Call me any time, if you have other questions.’ He turned then, stalking towards the door. ‘This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, Amelia. Think of the money, and the ability to connect with your last surviving blood relations.’
He opened the door and turned back to her once more.
‘Unless, of course, this—’ he gestured to the diner ‘—is truly enough for you.’
In the diner, he’d worn a suit. Dark charcoal, with a crisp white shirt. So why, when she dreamed of Massimiliano that night, was he wearing nothing whatsoever? Why did her mind so willingly supply an image of him stark naked, approaching her and asking her to marry him? Why did those arms of his—that had done little more than rest at his sides—suddenly wrap around her and drag her against his body? Why did she wake up beaded in sweat, her mind in knots as her body surfed a wave of unfamiliar feelings—of heat and pleasure, of need and wants?
She glanced across the room to see the other bed unoccupied, relieved her room-mate had a penchant for staying out all night. What if Amelia had called out his name in her sleep? Or moaned in response to the dreams that were tormenting her.
She showered early, making herself a pot of tea and sitting at the tiny kitchen counter, staring out at the brick wall opposite, with its colourful graffiti an ever-changing mural for them to admire.
This was hardly the place of her dreams, but it had been all she could afford, after her father’s death. It had been hard to hold on, towards the end, but he’d managed to save just enough to help cover rent. And then, he’d slipped from this world, leaving Amelia bereft, alone, and utterly broke. She’d had to move out immediately, and a bed had opened up in this flat-share situation. It was close to work, and the other girls were nice enough. She kept mostly to herself, though. She’d needed to just lick her wounds. She looked around, her heart pounding, to realise that if she were to leave, there would be nothing to take with her. No furniture, no kettle, not even so much as a teacup. She’d sold it all after his death.
This was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, as Massimo had said. But she couldn’t squander it. He’d made it clear what he wanted, and why. Now it was up to Amelia to consider her wish list, too. Money wasn’t enough. Not on its own. He could make all her dreams come true: she just had to be sure to demand it of him.
She was reaching for his card, even before the plan was fully formed, dialling his number and holding her breath as she waited for it to connect.
He couldn’t have said with certainty if he’d expected to hear from her or not. While he knew the offer he was making was persuasive—and surely for a woman in her situation, very tempting—there had been such a cool reserve to Amelia. Right up until she’d asked about what their marriage would be like, and her beautiful face had turned bright pink, almost making him laugh at how surprisingly innocent the gesture was.
So when his phone began to ring, early the next morning, and a strange number appeared on his screen, he still didn’t think, with any real probability, that it would be her.
