Fiancée For The Cameras (Mills & Boon Modern)

CHAPTER ONE

H ER brIDEGROOM WASN ’ T COMING .

Monica D’Souza realized the awful dawning truth even as she dialed Francesco’s number one more time. It continued to ring, as it had done over the past hour, and with each unanswered call, she was beginning to feel like something a careless tourist had chewed up and spat over the steps of the piazza.

Or worse, something forgotten or abandoned. Or both. Which she’d already experienced far too many times in her life.

Had Francesco been in an accident? He drove that moped pretty recklessly, and Monica could just imagine him bleeding out on some tiled floor a few streets away. Why else would he not only be late but also not even call her? He had to be indisposed in some way. He had to.

Standing outside the marvelous Sala Degli Specchi hall in Palazzo Reale for the past two hours—because of course she had to arrive at least an hour early—in the elaborate puffy white dress that she had bought online, she was beginning to draw attention of the worst kind.

The dress was nothing like the website posting had said, with a cheap, plasticky feel to the fabric and worse, a weirdly pungent chemical smell that was beginning to make her feel faint.

Breaking all her rules, she’d stolen a sachet of lavender from her boss’s private bathroom at work and pressed it between the folds. But the smell of the dress was as tenacious as she was and now it clung to her skin, creating her very own scent of desperation.

Granted, she hadn’t paid a lot for the dress—not after putting the little nest of her savings from the past three and a half years into the tiny studio flat she and Francesco wanted to move into later this week.

A new home, though it was tiny, a new life, with someone who wanted to be with her... It was all she’d ever dreamed of.

With a frustrated exhale, Monica pushed away the ridiculous veil that had come with the dress out of her eyes, blinking back prickly tears. The June sun beat down mercilessly, probably melting her sunscreen and makeup. All she needed now was mascara tracks running down her cheeks to complete the picture of the ghastly, pathetic bride.

No, she refused to believe that Francesco would do this to her. She’d seen him only last night and while there had been a desperation to his kisses and more than usual urgency to his demands about making love to her, he’d said he couldn’t wait to begin their life together.

She had only known him two months but discovered they had so much in common. They were both orphans and had grown up in care homes all over the country—she in the US and he in Italy—and they both wanted desperately to build a family, both eager for belonging. Like her, Francesco loved art and history and languages, and on their first meeting they had chatted for hours and at the end of it, she’d been absolutely head over heels in love. And he had expressed with that European flair that he felt the same toward her.

Over the next few weeks, she’d seen him at least three times a week, the only impediment to their relationship being her very demanding boss and the rigorous work schedule he imposed on her as his assistant.

Monica had been floating on cloud nine, so much that even he —of the brooding glower, grumpy manners and workaholic energy—had noticed and questioned her.

Then, a week ago, Francesco had proposed to her right in this very spot, his grin that charming, naughty one that had tempted her more than once into almost breaking her rule that she’d only have sex when she was fully ready.

She’d always been a little dull, averse to risk. Dependable, definitely. She would have liked to spend, and would have spent, her entire life under the radar if not for the fact that whoever had abandoned her to an orphanage when she’d been a baby had passed on genes that made her “stunning” and “beautiful.”

While she could appreciate the symmetry of her angular features, her golden-brown complexion and the uniqueness of her yellow, catlike eyes, her face and body had always drawn attention of the worst kind, first from boys in all the foster homes she’d bounced through and then men—even the ones who were supposed to protect a homeless teen.

But her face had drawn Francesco to her. Francesco, who was fun and charming and sexy. She took everything too seriously and he took it very easy, breezing through life, making bets upon bets. No wonder he was late now. She wouldn’t be surprised if he’d gotten caught up in arranging a fun surprise for her or some other daring activity for their honeymoon.

He’s only late , she kept telling herself.

Not dumping her here. Not leaving her like everyone eventually did. Not deciding that something else was more important than her.

More than one woman had given her a piteous look and more than one man had whistled, laughed and asked if she wanted to celebrate a wedding night without getting married. After studying Italian for two years at a community college in New York and living in Milan for four years now, she had a good grasp of the language.

She wiped at the beads of sweat over her upper lip and licked her parched lips. Opening her small backpack, she was pulling out her water bottle when her cell phone chirped.

“Francesco? You’re late,” she said, unable to keep a sliver of frustrated anger out of her tone. “Our appointment was for an hour ago but I’ve sorted it out with them. If you can—”

“I’m sorry, mia cara . A golden opportunity came up for my business and you know how hard I’ve been working to get cash infusion, si ?”

“I do,” Monica said, blinking a mixture of tears and makeup out of her eyes. “And I fully support you,” she added softly, as compensation for her miserable tone. “But I’m waiting for you. At the Palazzo Reale. To get married.”

“Ahh... bella . Unfortunately, this opportunity means I have to postpone the wedding. At least for a year.”

Unfortunately...

Misery and pain swamped Monica, bringing her back to that time the public school she’d attended had gone on a trip to swamplands in sixth grade. The whole trip to Florida, she’d been reminded by most of her classmates that she was the charity case their parents had chipped in extra for. She hadn’t cared—it was the first time she was seeing something other than the orphanage and foster homes and her school—but then Olivia Kent had pushed her head down into the water because Timothy Evans had smiled at Monica and not her.

This felt exactly like that. Like she couldn’t breathe.

“I don’t understand. What does your business opportunity have to do with our getting married? You know how much I support all your dreams. If you want, I’ll even ask my boss for a loan if you really—”

“No need. You didn’t want to ask before, si ? Now I don’t need that big shot Valentini’s help. This whole marriage thing was your idea.”

“What? That’s not true. You proposed to me. You wanted us to get that flat to live together. You made me shell out—”

“ Basta! I will return your puny money. I’m not a man who depends on a woman. Especially one so clingy and needy. All the time, you are cooking and doing my laundry and offering your services up. A man can get confused when a woman throws herself at him like that. I only thought you were a good goose after—”

Monica felt like she was getting whiplash, and it wasn’t her dress or the sun beating down on her. Francesco thought she was... clingy and needy . He thought she had thrown herself at him. He thought...

Of course, Francesco didn’t love her. Or at least not more than himself and his business ventures. Not when loving her meant giving up bigger, better opportunities. Not when it was inconvenient. Maybe what he felt for her wasn’t love at all.

“You are a beautiful woman with a sexy body. You always smile and maintain good cheer. I thought hey, she is a hot American woman with good connections in Milan. But it was convenience, Monica. Especially since you don’t even give out sex. If you still want to celebrate our wedding night without—”

Hands shaking, Monica hung up and fought the maddening urge to throw her cell phone across the steps into the cheerful fountain.

No. She couldn’t. It was her work phone and there was no point in taking her misery out on it when she’d have to fish it out of the fountain, then get a replacement, then explain to the IT department how it had fallen into the water in the first place. And God forbid if the phone got clogged up with water and she missed a call from her very demanding, very important, boss.

Especially today of all days, when Mr. Valentini might well announce his engagement to his ex, Mrs. Chiara Rossi. She’d been expecting it for more than six weeks now, given the impending merger between Valentini Luxury Goods and Chiara’s father’s company, Brunetti Leathers. Especially ever since she’d run into Mrs. Rossi at a dinner party and had been warned off setting her sights on her boss.

Hurriedly, she made sure the ringer was turned up all the way.

This was her, she thought, tears falling down her cheeks, with an edge of hysteric laughter setting into the sound. This woman, who minutes after being dumped at the altar—though technically it was city hall—balked at the idea of even throwing her phone because it might give rise to unnecessary questions and inconvenience for someone else. Especially the man to whom she owed so much.

But even the usual nerve-racking urgency she felt around Mr. Valentini wasn’t enough to cut through the weight of her misery, which sank through her belly as if she’d swallowed one of Francesco’s enormous dumbbells.

This was her—Monica D’Souza—once again alone in the world, with no place to go, once again abandoned and unwanted.

Andrea Valentini, CEO of Valentini Luxury Goods, did not usually involve himself in the personal lives of his employees. He could barely remember their full names and personal situations. All he did remember was their abilities and efficiencies and how loyal they were to his company. He didn’t need to know more than that. And he didn’t have the bandwidth to know more than that. Which was why he, nearly two years ago, when another assistant had quit on him, had jumped on the opportunity to promote his mother’s rescuer, the walking, talking human resource machine that was Monica D’Souza.

He prided himself on seeing people for who they were and once again, he’d been right. During her convalescence at the hospital after she’d saved his mother from a dangerous mugger, Andrea had seen the magic Ms. D’Souza could weave with numbers and interpersonal affairs.

Offering her a job as one of his junior assistants in exchange for saving his mother’s life had been a small price to pay. As he’d expected, her sharp mind and her extraordinary talent in dealing with people who always needed something from him, which meant he could actually focus on the business, had had her climbing the corporate ladder super-fast. Until he’d had no choice but to steal her for himself exclusively.

Now Ms. D’Souza pretty much ran his professional life, and his personal life, too, though he didn’t really have one. She made him an approachable package for the media, for his shareholders and even for his own family.

He’d never really had any complaints about her, until a few weeks ago when she’d met Francesco Ricci—a charming conman Andrea could scent a kilometer away. How Ms. D’Souza didn’t see his true character was a mystery to him.

While it had irritated the hell out of him to see her throw her breathtaking smiles and her generous compliments at such a rascal, Andrea had set her little flirtation out of his mind. She was not only naive but also young at just twenty-three. She deserved to have fun, even if it was with a rogue who didn’t deserve to kiss her little toe.

Except his mother had called his attention to the fact that Francesco had not only proposed to Ms. D’Souza but he had also talked her into giving up her savings to finance some ridiculous hovel he wanted to rent, a week ago.

On impulse, Andrea had had his chauffeur drive him to that dingy, unsafe neighborhood, only to realize that Francesco had fleeced Ms. D’Souza. If it was just that, Andrea could have called in his connections and had him hauled to prison.

But no, Francesco had found his golden goose in Ms. D’Souza and meant to fleece her for the rest of his life. Especially with her close connection to his own family. That, Andrea could not allow.

So here he was, after having one of his associates pay off the thug to dump Ms. D’Souza. And while it was cruel, Andrea hoped this would cure Ms. D’Souza of her naive faith in every scoundrel she came across. The woman needed a crash course in the reality of people.

But of course, it wasn’t enough that Andrea had taken care of the mess she’d gotten herself into. Mama wanted him to make sure Ms. D’Souza was okay in the aftermath, when the last thing he needed was a distraught woman on his hands.

As if his ex’s machinations to force him into accepting her as his wife as a bonus prize along with the merger with her father’s company wasn’t bad enough.

Once, Andrea would have done anything— had done anything—to win Chiara’s hand and heart. But she had chosen a different man, a man more suited to give her the lifestyle she was used to and the kind of commitment she’d wanted. Her gamble hadn’t paid off quite the way she’d foreseen, for her husband had failed at a few business ventures before dying in an accident.

And now his mother, and Chiara’s father and Chiara herself apparently expected him to pick up where they had left off ten years ago and enter wedded bliss with her. Or the merger wouldn’t go through, her father had the gall to say, when Andrea hadn’t immediately jumped on the condition.

The very thought made his temper boil over. The fact that Brunetti now tied the fate of this merger—a merger Andrea had sunk everything into—to his marrying Chiara...

As of now, Andrea had no solution to a problem that was suddenly a big headache. He wanted to say no without saying no, without upsetting the delicate balance that was his business negotiations with Chiara’s father.

He leaned back in the car, gritting his teeth, and found his mind drifting to Ms. D’Souza. Suddenly, it didn’t feel like such a chore to rescue her from the clutches of the rogue. At least with her, Andrea knew there was no honeyed trap, no sweet nudges toward the altar. Nothing but painfully naive honesty packaged in a goddess’s body.

Monica flipped through the few contacts on her phone, holding up the train of her dress high off the ground, even as she felt a slow, relentless burning across the skin of her upper back.

After calling Francesco a few more times and finding it going straight to voice mail, she’d just been standing there feeling lost. Unraveled. Facing the very real truth of her situation—she had nowhere to go.

After plucking her water bottle out of her bag, she took the last sip and pressed the cool metal to her cheek. She wanted to rip the dress off her skin and jump into the fountain herself. Drench herself from head to foot in the cool water. Wash off this nasty day. Would anyone stop her? Was the last event on this crazy day to be arrested for public indecency in Milan of all places?

Letting the hem fall to the ground, she peeked over her shoulder to see why the skin on her back felt like someone had lit up a matchstick and pressed it unrelentingly against it.

She couldn’t see much. Blinking, feeling a strange nausea well up at the back of her throat, she frowned. It was summer in Milan, so yes, it was hot. But she’d never felt this...scorching sensation on her skin before, nor this lightheadedness. Something was wrong.

There was only one person she could call, only one person who had been unflinchingly kind to her for close to four years now. Mrs. Valentini would welcome her with open arms, and yet, Monica felt the strangest reluctance. Everything Flora knew, her older son would be made aware of. The thought of Andrea Valentini finding out what a pathetic mess she was made the scorching burn on her back feel like a cool glaze.

Suddenly, a very familiar Bugatti with tinted windows came into view at the end of the street and Monica stiffened. Any doubt she might have had turned into dust when the chauffeur parked the car right in front of the huge steps leading to the Palazzo Reale, uncaring of whom he was blocking.

As if his boss belonged there.

Because he did.

And Monica knew that her nightmare had one last cringeworthy humiliation to deliver. Her day wasn’t over yet.