Page 126 of Modern Romance September 2026 Books 5-8

He gave a thin smile. Maybe it was his peasant ancestry showing. Peasants could see arable land in marshland which could be drained, pasture in stony hillsides which could be cleared of stones and the stones used for building, timber in fallen tree trunks which needed logging and the smothered saplings nurtured. It just took work.

Of course, and now his smile soured, back in the day, it wasn’t the peasants who’d profited most from their work. The landowners had. Helping themselves to the first fruits of the land. Enriching themselves at their peasants’ expense.

Like the illustrious da Verano family had—

The name echoed again. ‘Signorina da Verano?’ his secretary prompted.

‘Tell her to wait,’ Sanzio said brusquely.

He went back to the numbers he needed to run.

* * *

Eleanora’s nerves were mounting. It was one thing to sit on the train and tell herself she could beard Sanzio Bastoni in his den—another to be sitting right outside that den.

She did her best not to let her nerves show. The Bastoni offices were in a nineteenth century building in Rome’s centro storico, and were very elegant, as was Sanzio Bastoni’s smartly dressed secretary, who had informed her that Signor Bastoni was running late. Eleanora sat down on a cream leather sofa, in front of which was a low table with the day’s business newspapers on it. She picked up one to take her mind off the task ahead.

‘Signorina da Verano?’

A deep, terse voice spoke her name. She looked up with a start. The double doors to the side of the room had been thrown open and a man stood there, looking her way.

Eleanora gulped audibly.

It was Sanzio Bastoni and he was every, every bit as formidable in the flesh as any press photo. Every bit—and a whole, whole lot more.

* * *

Sanzio frowned. This was Tonia’s sister? In a million years he’d never have thought it. She looked nothing like her.

For a start, she was sitting primly—Tonia wouldn’t have known the meaning of the word—wearing a badly cut grey suit and white blouse—an outfit Tonia wouldn’t have been seen dead in. Her brown hair was pulled tightly off her face into a French pleat—totally unlike Tonia’s flowing raven tresses—and her face was completely bare of make-up—a total no-no for Tonia. She couldn’t have made less effort over her appearance if she’d tried.

But maybe she doesn’t try? The thought occurred to him—Maybe if you have a sister like man-magnet Tonia you don’t bother to compete? Does that account for the way she looks?

His frown deepened. She was getting to her feet—her shoes were flat and clumpy, he noticed, doing nothing for her legs. Which were actually pretty good—or could be, if shown off properly.

‘Signor Bastoni, it’s good of you to agree to see me.’

She had spoken with a diffidence that was completely unlike her sister’s self-regard, but with the same impeccable, upper-class accent.

He made no answer, only gestured towards the open double doors to his office. He watched her precede him. She was taller than Tonia, more slender, quite graceful, considering her flat shoes. Tonia always wore heels, to make her hips sway seductively.

‘Coffee, please, Gina,’ he instructed, and followed his visitor, indicating she should sit down on one of the pair of facing cream leather sofas opposite his desk, and she did so, once again adopting that same prim pose. He threw himself down on the sofa opposite, crossing one leg over his knee, his arms stretching out in apparent relaxation either side along the back of the sofa.

‘So,’ he opened, ‘the Palazzo Verano.’

* * *

Eleanora’s gaze went to the man her sister had jilted. In the flesh, Sanzio Bastoni was way, way more impactful even than he was in photos. She could feel it emanating off him, that sheer sense of power and presence. His height, his build, those keen, dark-browed, slate-grey eyes, the strong features, the curved, disturbingly sensual mouth…

Did Tonia really prefer her nice-but-totally ordinary marquis?

It seemed extraordinary to her. At one glance she’d realised just why Tonia had described Sanzio Bastoni as ‘earthy’.

Yet it was also utterly the wrong word too. Whatever his origins, he wore his five—ten?—thousand-euro suit, his navy tie with its gold pin, his pristine white tailored shirt and clearly hand-made polished shoes with an air of careless nonchalance, as if born to it.

Forcibly, she dragged her attention from the magnetic physical presence of Sanzio Bastoni and back to what he’d just said.

‘Um, yes,’ she acknowledged. She paused, swallowing. Sanzio Bastoni was not helping her out in the slightest. His expression was unreadable. She made herself go on.