The Italian's Forbidden Virgin (Mills & Boon Modern) (Those Notorious Romanos, Book 2) Carol Marinelli (ebook reader with built in dictionary .TXT) 📖

even though his family had left the Tuscan hillsides generations ago and he had been born and raised in Rome. Or, rather, Gian had raised himself, for his hedonistic parents had had no time or inclination for their son.

Gian was, in fact, Italy’s most ineligible bachelor for he had no interest in marriage or settling down and always stated up front with women that, apart from a handful of lavish dates, they would go no further than bed.

Gian had long ago decided that the De Luca lineage would end with him.

His sex life—Gian had never so much as contemplated the word ‘love’—was rather like the stunning brass revolving doors at the entrance to La Fiordelise—wealth and beauty came in, was spoiled and pampered for the duration, but all too soon was ejected back out into the real world. Svetlana’s behaviour was nothing unexpected: she had shown her true colours to his PA, and that was that.

They all did in the end.

Gian was jaded rather than bitter, and more than ready to get through this meeting with Ariana and then deal swiftly with Svetlana. So much so that he didn’t bother to step into the luxury suite behind his office to freshen up for a night at Teatro dell’Opera; the gorgeous box with its pink-lined walls would remain empty tonight.

As would the luxurious suite behind his office.

His lovers never got so much as a toe in the door of his private apartment at La Fiordelise, for Gian was intensely private.

He sat drumming his fingers silently on his large black walnut desk, waiting for Ariana to arrive. But then, on a wintry and gloomy January evening, it was as if a vertical sunrise stepped into his office. Ariana’s long black hair was slicked back into a low bun and she wore a suit and high heels. Except it was no ordinary suit. It was orange. The skirt sat just above the knee and the no doubt bespoke stockings were in exactly the same shade, as were the velvet stilettoes and large bag she carried over her shoulder. On most people the outfit would look ridiculous, but on pencil-thin Ariana it looked tasteful and bright...like a streak of burnt gold on the horizon heralding a new day.

Gian refused to be dazzled and reminded himself of the absolute diva she was. Ariana was the one who should be performing at Teatro dell’Opera tonight!

‘Gian,’ she purred, and gave him her signature red-lipped smile. It was the same smile that set the cameras flashing on the red carpets in Rome, but Gian remained steadfastly unimpressed—not that he showed it, for he was more than used to dealing with the most pampered guests.

‘Ariana.’ He pushed back his chair to stand and greet her. ‘You look amazing as always.’ He said all the right things, though could not help but add, ‘Very orange.’

‘Cinnamon, Gian,’ she wryly corrected as her heart did the oddest thing.

It stopped.

Gian should be familiar. After all, she had known him all her life, yet she was suddenly reminded of his height and the deep tone of his voice. He wore a subtly checked suit in grey with a waistcoat, though his height meant that he wore the check rather than the check wearing him.

Of course her heart had started again—had it not she would have dropped to the floor—but it was jumping around in some ungainly trot as he walked towards her.

Pure nerves, Ariana decided. After all, she did have a huge favour to ask!

‘I apologise for not coming out to greet you,’ Gian said as he came around the desk and kissed her on both cheeks. ‘I was just finishing up some work.’

‘That’s fine. Luna took good care of me.’

Except she felt far from fine. Ariana rather wished that the nerves in her chest would abate, yet they fluttered like butterflies—or perhaps fireflies would be a more apt description because there was a flash of heat creeping up her neck and searing her cheeks, but then Gian was, to say the least, rather commanding.

Cold, people called him.

Especially back home in Luctano, where gossip and rumour abounded. The history of the De Lucas was often whispered about and discussed in her home town—at times even by her family. Though a child at the time, Ariana could well remember the shock and horror in the village as news of the fire aboard their luxury yacht had hit in the early hours of a Sunday morning. And, of course, she still remembered the funeral held in Luctano for the Duke, the Duchess and the heir apparent...

People whispered about the fact that Luca hadn’t attended the renewal of his parents’ vows, and his lack of visible emotion at the funeral.

Yet, as Ariana sometimes pointed out, the fact that he hadn’t attended had saved his life.

And, the villagers would add, happy to twist the truth, his brother’s death made him a duke. As if Gian had swum out into the ocean and torched the boat himself!

‘Basta!’ Ariana would tell them.

Enough!

Ariana actually liked his steely reserve.

Her own self was so volatile that when life spun too fast, it was to Gian she turned for his distant, measured ways.

While rumour had it he melted women in the bedroom and endeared both staff and guests with his calm assertiveness, it was the general consensus that behind his polished façade there was no heart or emotion, just a wall of solid black ice. Ariana needed that wall of black ice on side so she kept her smile bright. ‘Thank you for agreeing to see me.’

‘Of course.’ Gian gestured for her to take a seat as he did the same. ‘Can I offer you some refreshments?’

‘No, thank you.’ Gosh, small talk was difficult when you had a huge favour to ask! ‘How was your Christmas?’

‘Busy,’ Gian responded, then politely enquired, ‘Yours?’

Ariana lifted her hand and made a wavering gesture, to show it had not been the best, though she did not bore Gian with the details, like how, in the manner