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“Now I’m even more embarrassed that I knew nothing about Italian wine.”
“I don’t pretend to be a vintner. I’m an engineer. I build things.”
She took the flute from him, and then looked up into his eyes. “I’d like to see the papers. You have me worried now.”
He walked her to the long table behind the couch. He’d cleared the table of everything but the newspapers and pages he’d printed from various digital media sites.
Every story ran with one or more photos, and every story had a shot of Rachel with Michael, but there were far more photographs of Rachel in Giovanni’s arms than of Michael himself. The baby was a secondary story to Giovanni Marcello passionately kissing the mother of his child.
He watched Rachel lean over the table to get a better look at the different pages, her lashes lowering as she scanned the headlines, and then glanced over the photos. As she studied the papers, color suffused her cheeks, turning her pale ivory skin to a hot pink.
“I can’t read the headlines since they seem to be in every language but English,” she said quietly. “Can you please translate for me?”
“‘Marcello’s Love-Child! Gio Marcello’s Secret Affair! Mystery Mistress and Mother to His Child! Is This the Marcello Heir?’”
As he read the translated headlines to her, the pink color receded, leaving her face pale. “Is there no mention of Antonio? Do they all think that the baby is yours?”
“They all seem to think that Michael is ours.”
“But I told them the baby was the Marcello heir—” She broke off, lips tightening. She gave her dark head a shake, the coiled knot at her nape glossy in the soft lighting. “The kiss. That changed everything, didn’t it?” She looked up at him, frustration etched on her face. “You said it would, and you were right.”
“I had to control the story.”
“But we’re not a couple, and he’s not our child, which makes every bit of this a lie!”
“The tabloids don’t care. They just want to sell copies and increase their advertising.”
She began to quickly stack the pages. “Thankfully these are not stories on the front page of the papers,” she said, irritably. “And these are not serious newspapers—”
“Well, two of the papers are national newspapers. The story and photos are not on the front page, but placed inside the lifestyle and society pages.”
Papers stacked, she folded them in half, and then folded them again, hiding all the headlines and incriminating photos. Once she’d finished hiding the headlines, she reached for her flute and gulped the fizzy white wine as if she, too, could disappear into the crisp bubbles. “No one will take me seriously at work if this story gets traction.” She shot him a desperate look. “You must smash this story, before I no longer have a job.”
“You were the one that contacted the media. You started this.”
“I didn’t start this, I shared the truth. Facts—”
“Facts that could wreck the Marcello name and reputation. I couldn’t have that.”
“But my name and reputation doesn’t matter?”
“One’s reputation always matters, but you’ve far less invested in your name and brand than I do.”
“No, I’m not a billionaire. No, I don’t head up a huge corporation. But my name is also very important. Maybe not to you, but it is to me.” She exhaled hard. “I’m going to correct them.”
“We’re not going to correct them. This is what I wanted.”
“Even though the stories are false?”
“We know that, but the public doesn’t, and in this instance, fiction is preferable, because these are headlines we can shape and control.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
RACHEL SET HER half-empty flute down and walked away. She’d only had a couple of sips but the wine was going to her head, making her emotional, which of course didn’t make it easier to think.
It was also easier to be logical when she wasn’t standing close to Giovanni. He was too beautiful, too much like a model she might have admired in the pages of a glossy magazine with his high cheekbones and strong chin and firm mouth that kissed far too well. He had a face that made her melt, but unlike Antonio who was laid-back and friendly, Giovanni was hard and reserved. Shuttered. He exuded intensity, confidence and power, things she could handle when sitting at a conference table or on the phone in a long-distance call, but not close to her, not when Giovanni made the power feel physical, masculine, sensual.
Even now, standing across the room, she could still feel him, his energy hot and simmering, electrifying the room. Electrifying her.
