Sweet Seduction (4 page)

‘Money doesn’t solve every problem, you know.’ She knew she sounded petulant. She didn’t have the energy for anger any more. Antonio clearly regretted his choice of convenient bride and he obviously didn’t trust her. How on earth were they going to convince anyone the marriage was authentic?

They drove onto a bridge. ‘Where are we?’ she asked.

‘This is Ponte della Liberta, the only bridge from the mainland to Venice.’

She looked ahead. Venice. She drew in a sharp breath. All the pictures she’d devoured in books and on the internet hadn’t prepared her for the sheer beauty of the fabled city.

Antonio peered at her. ‘You like it?’ he asked.

‘All my life I’ve dreamt of living in Europe, immersing myself in the history and culture.’

‘Why didn’t you?’ he asked.

She couldn’t tell him. She couldn’t talk about her mother’s death and her father’s spiral into all-consuming grief. That she’d shelved her plans in order to save the family hotel.

‘The Plaza’s a family business,’ she said matter-of-factly. ‘I’m part of that family.’

‘And family’s important to you,’ he said.

She frowned.
What a strange thing to say
. ‘Of course.’

The driver announced their arrival as they pulled into a warehouse and parked.

‘Now – by boat,’ Antonio announced as he opened the car door.

Sienna inhaled the salt air, the damp and the history. A sense of freedom and opportunity swept over her.

Antonio led her past row after row of luxury cars. The building must be a valet-parking facility for the rich. When they broke into the sunshine, the city lay before her. Across the wind-swept Grand Canal was a row of the famous pastel mansions: pink, baby blue, pale jade; the faded magnificence of a bygone era of opulence and power. She climbed aboard a luxury cruiser featuring the Moretti emblem and felt the intensity of Antonio’s eyes upon her.

‘Your first trip to Venice?’ he asked.

‘My first trip out of Australia.’

‘Really?’ He sounded shocked.

‘The hotel. It makes it hard to get away. When we did go on holiday, we only went a couple of hours away so we could come back if there were any problems.’

‘Sounds like a sheltered existence.’

At first she felt annoyed, then thought about his comment. She shrugged. ‘I suppose it was.’

And is. She’d been trapped by those beige walls and the endless stream of guests. But she knew that life often blocked the path of dreams. The hotel was as essential to her family as air was for life. That’s how she’d been brought up and that’s how she must continue.

‘Ponte della Costituzione, the Calatrava Bridge,’ she said as they cruised beneath its controversial steel spans. ‘Were you for or against it?’

‘For, of course,’ he said, as if there could be no other view. ‘Venice has been at the forefront of technological development for centuries. I don’t see why that should stop. And I don’t subscribe to the belief that Venice is a living museum.’

‘Not everything has to be bigger, newer, shinier, to be good.’

‘Everything does not need to be old, decayed and antiquated to be valuable.’

As Sienna turned back to the brilliance before her, she wondered if she and Antonio had anything in common. She drank in the wonder of the city. Ponte degli Scalzi loomed into view. The icons kept coming.

‘Ca’ Rezzonico.’ She sighed. ‘This is probably one of my favourites.’

Antonio’s brow furrowed. ‘If you’ve never been here, how can it be your favourite?’

‘I studied Venetian architecture during my undergrad degree.’

‘You have a degree?’

‘Yes, architecture. Look.’ She pointed. ‘See how the architects broke with tradition? The facades feature a less cluttered style but still capture a baroque richness.’

He shrugged. ‘I’ve passed this building hundreds of times and never noticed,’ he said, peering at the building, then back at her. ‘I had no idea you’d studied architecture.’

She looked at him squarely. ‘I think it’s safe to say there’s lots about me you don’t know.’

He looked at her for such a long time she felt relieved when the Rialto Bridge came into view and she could
ooh
and
aah
at its magnificence.

‘Here we are,’ Antonio announced.

Sienna gazed up at an ochre-coloured building. A few centimetres of water covered the ground floor, pontoons providing a walkway into the building.

‘You live here?’

‘No,’ he said, as he led the way into the gloomy building.

He stepped from the pontoon onto an ornate staircase. The splendour of the building increased as they ascended. The interior looked simply surreal.

‘What is this place?’ she asked.

‘You’ll see,’ he said, as he pushed the button on an elaborate intercom on the wall near a huge wooden door.

The door flew open.

‘Signor Moretti. Welcome. Welcome.’ An immaculately dressed young man held open the door. ‘Mario is putting the final touches to —’

‘Thank you,’ Antonio said, stepping past the man into the most luxurious studio Sienna had ever seen. Lush gowns of every fabric and colour were crammed onto racks lining the sides of the room.

An older man glided towards them. Sienna felt her eyes widen. Mario Sabatini, the hottest thing in women’s couture, shook Antonio’s hand.

‘
Benvenuto
,’ he said.

Sienna wished she could disappear. She smoothed down her cheap tracksuit. How could Antonio have brought her here dressed like this?

‘As you can see, we need assistance,’ Antonio said in Italian as if she weren’t present.

Mario’s gaze travelled slowly over her from head to toe. Stupidly she took a small step behind Antonio. Mario took her hand and drew her towards him, his piercing blue eyes taking her in.

‘
Signorina
 . . . wonderful . . . to meet you,’ he said in hesitant English.

He let her hand slip from his and walked around her. ‘Beautiful hair.’ He spoke in Italian. His hands pinned her on either side of her waist. ‘Hourglass with height.’ Then he stood before her and leant in close. ‘Wide-set eyes and full lips.’

He stepped back, his eyes travelling the length of her body several times. ‘Get those clothes off her and burn them,’ Mario declared dramatically to his assistant. ‘Antonio, how could you let her wander about in those rags?’

‘Excuse me,’ Sienna interrupted in Italian. ‘A simple wash and these clothes are fine, thank you.’

A delicious silence followed as the three men stared at her.

‘You speak Italian?’ Antonio finally said.

‘Of course.’

‘I didn’t know.’

‘You didn’t ask.’

Mario had the decency to look abashed. Antonio laughed. ‘Aren’t you full of surprises?’ he said.

Full of differences, more like. Their worlds couldn’t be more disparate. His world revolved around insane wealth, beautiful women and international business. Her world featured hard work, the Plaza and her family. Her heart sank. The contract clearly stated that if their deception failed, the deal was null and void. Her arrival at the airport had been a disaster. He’d arrived looking incredible with the world’s media lapping at his feet. She’d turned up in a ten-year-old tracksuit like some naive tourist. It had brought into sharp focus the gulf that existed between them.

Even with new clothes, who would ever believe Antonio had fallen for such a nobody?

Antonio snapped his phone closed. How much longer would Mario take? He knew Sienna needed a whole new wardrobe, but two hours! He pushed himself up from the plush sofa.

Damn it, surely they were done by now. Of course he could leave and let the driver escort Sienna back to the hotel, but he didn’t want any more mistakes. The plan needed to work. Must work. The Villa Paradiso must be his. Once it fell into the hands of Fondo Ambiente he’d be powerless.

He paced the room. Could Sienna carry it off? He pictured her arrival at the airport and winced. He should have been more specific. He should have ensured she’d had a suitable wardrobe before she left Melbourne.

The chug of a water taxi drew him to the window. He gazed down the Grand Canal to the Rialto Bridge. Tourists poured over its ornate stone ramps. He’d been across and under that bridge so many times, he didn’t even notice it. He frowned. He’d been born in Venice but he realised he really knew very little of its incredible history. Sienna’s awe opened his eyes to the beauty all around him. It made him feel . . .

He turned quickly from the window. He checked his watch. That’s it. Knocking once, he pushed open the door through which Mario and Sienna had disappeared earlier.

‘How long is this going to take?’ he demanded, scanning the enormous change room. Mario attended to an exquisite model standing on a small plinth in the middle of the room. Her gorgeous body was sheathed in a gold dress with matching killer heels. A hot bolt of lust struck Antonio hard.

‘Damn it, Mario,’ he said, louder than he intended. ‘Where’s Sienna? We need to get moving.’

Mario stared at him, confusion etched on his face. The model looked at him as though he’d lost his mind. ‘Antonio, it’s me,’ the woman said.

As the model morphed into Sienna, Antonio’s eyes dilated. His breath shortened as he strode towards her. His lust turned from hot to molten.

‘Inferno,’ he said taking her hand. ‘Sienna. You look – perfect, exquisite,
bella
.’

When she smiled it was as though a cloud drifted from her face. He’d been attracted to her from the first, but how could he know such a hot body lay beneath that horrible black suit and shapeless tracksuit pants?

He drew her down from the pedestal and held out both her arms to admire her more closely. Mario had obviously had someone do her hair and make-up. She could walk into any salon in the city and put every Venetian woman to shame.

‘You look incredible.’ He pulled her close but she resisted. He couldn’t blame her. Since her arrival he’d been – what? Callous. But only because so much rode on the success of his plan. His plan that had just taken a huge step in the right direction.

He let her go, but he couldn’t tear his eyes from her. He noticed a pink tinge touch her cheeks. His groin tightened as he watched how his attention affected her. An image of stripping the golden fabric from her body raced through his mind. He tore his eyes away. She’d been very specific about the contractual clauses covering intimacy. He cursed inwardly. Women usually came to his bed willingly. Not Sienna. She’d made sure there were clauses ensuring
amore
remained off the agenda. But there was a way around every clause. He smiled.

‘Mario, let’s wrap this up,’ he said, walking to the door.

‘I’ve only finished the day wardrobe,’ the designer whined.

‘Day!’ Sienna exclaimed. ‘You have to be kidding. This is more than enough,’ she said, pointing to a row of clothes hanging on a nearby rack.

Antonio stared at the goddess before him. She didn’t want him and she didn’t want to spend his cash. Who was this woman?

The designer heels pinched her toes as Sienna walked to the sofa and collapsed into its lush cushions.

‘Please, no more,’ she said, holding up her hands. ‘I’ve more clothes now than I’ve had in my whole life. I want to sleep.’

Mario looked anxious. ‘We still have the evening wear, the lingerie, the sleepwear and the sporting clothes . . .’

‘Send over whatever else you think she needs,’ Antonio instructed. ‘We can always come back in a few days.’

‘Wait!’ Mario shrieked. ‘Sienna must try on her wedding dress.’

Sienna jolted upright. ‘Wedding dress?’

Antonio joined her on the couch. ‘With the wedding so soon, I commissioned one immediately,’ he said.

‘I brought . . .’ Her head swam. ‘I thought I’d wear my mother’s dress. It’s what I’ve always . . .’ Sienna realised that wouldn’t be an option.

‘Oh, darling, that is so . . . sweet!’ Mario exclaimed. ‘But when you marry Antonio Moretti only an original Sabatini will do. Come on.’ He held out his hand. ‘I believe it is my best design ever.’

Sienna didn’t know if it could be possible to feel more exhausted and emotional. She allowed Mario to pull her to her feet.

‘Sorry, Antonio,’ Mario said. ‘You will have to leave. It’s bad luck to see the dress before the wedding.’

Antonio seemed to hesitate then turned and strode from the room.

It took Mario and his assistant ten minutes to secure Sienna into a mass of lace, tulle and silk.

When Mario swept back the curtain hiding an enormous floor-to-ceiling mirror, Sienna couldn’t stifle a gasp. The woman staring back at her looked like a stranger.

Each year, on her mother’s birthday, she carefully unwrapped her mother’s wedding dress. She’d slip it on and have a little cry. Afterwards, she’d take it to a specialist drycleaner. The cleaner knew her family and understood the ritual. It always came back in a new box, beautifully wrapped. Sienna had always known she’d wear her mother’s dress when she married, and her mother would feel close.

But this. She slid her hands down the rich cream fabric. This magnificent gown, which fitted her more perfectly than her own skin, felt soulless. She wiped quickly at her eyes, but a tear escaped and slipped down her cheek.

Mario wiped it away. ‘I know,’ he said. ‘I wept as I sewed on the last pearl.’

‘It’s so beautiful,’ she said, managing a wan smile. She didn’t belong in this world of first-class travel, couture clothes and limitless credit cards.

‘Antonio will be delighted,’ Mario gushed, as he fussed with the train.

That’s it.
With sudden clarity, Sienna realised making Antonio happy was all that mattered. Make him happy and the Plaza would be hers.
Give the man what he wants.

She straightened her shoulders and swept back her hair. Whatever happened, she needed to fit into Antonio’s world.

But would his world grant her admission? Even if it didn’t, did she care? She just needed enough time to save the Plaza.

‘We’re walking?’ Sienna asked, glancing down at her new ten-centimetre heels. At Mario’s insistence, she’d worn one of her new outfits out of the salon. She’d made no objection; she didn’t relish the thought of being caught out again by the paparazzi. ‘Slowly, I hope,’ she continued, taking a tentative step onto the cobbledstone street.