LITMIR.BIZ

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an expensive-looking silver watch around his left wrist and a pair of designer sunglasses, which shielded the expression in his eyes.

      He slammed the car door and strode down the steps leading to the second tier, his long, purposeful strides bringing him within a matter of seconds to where she was unconsciously crumbling rose petals in her hand. ‘Miss March, I presume?’ he said in a clipped, distinctly unfriendly tone.

      Emma hated talking to people wearing sunglasses, particularly the one-way lens type he was wearing. She always felt at a disadvantage not being able to read what was going on behind that impenetrable screen. She lifted her chin and let the petals float to the ground at her feet. ‘Yes, that is correct,’ she said. ‘I take it you are Rafaele Fiorenza.’

      He removed the sunglasses, his black-brown gaze sweeping over her contemptuously. ‘And I take it you were my father’s latest floozy.’

      Emma automatically stiffened. ‘I take it you have been misinformed, Signore Fiorenza,’ she returned with arctic chill. ‘I was employed as your father’s carer.’

      He gave her a cynical smile but it didn’t involve his dark bottomless brown eyes. ‘So you took care of all of his physical needs, did you, Miss March?’ he said. ‘I must confess my mind is having a bit of a field day with that information.’

      ‘Then I would say your mind needs to drag itself out of the gutter, Signore Fiorenza,’ she returned with a deliberately haughty look.

      His smile went from cynical to devilish. ‘So how do you feel about becoming my bride, Miss March?’

      Emma tightened her mouth. ‘I have no intention of doing any such thing.’

      He stood looking down at her for a pulsing silence, his eyes unwavering as they held hers. Emma tried her best not to squirm under his piercing scrutiny but in the end she was the first to drop her gaze.

      ‘I suppose you put him up to it, did you?’ he asked. ‘In a weak moment of his you talked him into signing away a fortune.’

      ‘That’s a despicable thing to say,’ she said, looking back at him in affront. ‘I had no idea what he had planned. The first I heard of it was when his legal firm contacted me about the terms of the will.’

      ‘Do not take me for a fool,’ he said. ‘You were living with my father for a year and a half. That is the longest relationship he has had since my mother died. Everyone knows you were sleeping with him. It has been in the papers numerous times.’

      Emma felt her cheeks burning but forced herself to hold his gaze. ‘I did not have that sort of relationship with your father. The press made it up just to sell extra copies. They do that with anyone rich or famous.’

      His dark eyes glittered with disdain. ‘Come on, now, Miss March,’ he said. ‘You surely do not expect me to believe my father wrote you into his will at the last moment just because you smiled sweetly at him on his deathbed, do you?’

      Emma sent him a flinty glare. ‘I have never slept with your father. It’s totally preposterous of you to even suggest it.’

      His expression communicated his disbelief. ‘My father was a well-known womaniser,’ he said. ‘You lived with him for well over a year before he publicly announced he was ill. It would be all too easy to assume you wormed your way into his bed to secure yourself a fortune.’

      ‘I did no such thing!’ she protested hotly. ‘I only agreed to live with your father so long before his health deteriorated because he didn’t want a profusion of carers coming in and out of his life. He was also concerned if people knew he was terminally ill when he was first diagnosed, his investment clients would leave him in droves. His illness progressed slowly at first, but a couple of months ago he realised the end was near. I did my best to support him through the final stages.’

      ‘I just bet you did,’ he said with a little curl of his lip. ‘Although I must say you are not his usual type. He usually went for busty, brassy blondes. Pint-sized brunettes must have been a taste he had recently acquired.’

      Emma felt the scorch of his dark gaze run over her again and inwardly seethed. ‘I resent your reprehensible insinuations,’ she said. ‘I can see now why your father refused to even have your name mentioned in his presence. You have absolutely appalling manners.’

      He had the audacity to laugh at her. ‘What a prim little schoolmarm you are,’ he taunted. ‘Miss March suits you perfectly. I bet my father loved you putting him to bed.’

      Emma was almost beyond speech and to her immense irritation she could feel her face flaming. ‘You…you have no right to speak to me like—’

      ‘I have every right, Miss March.’ He cut her off rudely. ‘My father would not marry you, would he? He swore he would never marry again after my mother died. But you obviously thought of a way to get your hands on the Fiorenza fortune by suggesting you marry me instead.’

      Emma clenched her teeth as she battled to contain her temper. ‘You are the very last man I would consent to marry,’ she threw at him heatedly.

      His eyes were like twin lasers as they held hers. ‘You want more money, is that it, Miss March? I am sure I can afford you. Just tell me how much you want and I will write you a cheque here and now.’

      Emma bristled at his effrontery. ‘You think you can wave your wallet around and pay me?’

      He gave her a scornful smile. ‘That is the language of women such as you. You saw a big fat cherry just ripe for the picking in my father, did you not? You must have buttered him up rather well to get him to rewrite his will. I wonder what tricks you had up your sleeve, or should I say skirt?’

      Emma had never felt closer to slapping a person. She curled her hands into fists, fighting for control, anger bubbling up inside her at his despicable taunts. ‘How dare you?’ she bit out.

      He rocked back on his heels in an imperious manner. ‘You are quite the little firebrand behind that demure façade, eh, Miss March? No wonder my father took such a shine to you. Who knows? We might make quite a match of it after all. I like my women hot and flustered. I think you might do very well as my bride.’

      Emma gave him a look that could strip paint. ‘You are the most obnoxious man I have ever met,’ she bit out. ‘Do you really think I would agree to become involved with someone like you?’

      He gave her another cynical smile. ‘I am not sure I should tell you what I think right now, Miss March,’ he drawled. ‘You might follow through on your current desire to slap my face.’

      Emma hated that she had been so transparent. It made her feel he had an advantage over her being able to read her body language so well. What else could he see? she wondered. Could he tell she was deeply disturbed by his arrant masculinity? That his sensually shaped mouth made her lips tingle at the thought of what it would feel like to have him kiss her?

      Her reaction to him was somewhat of a bewildering shock to her. She was normally such a sensible, level-headed person. She had never considered herself a sensualist, but then she had so little experience when it came to men.

      Rafaele Fiorenza, on the other hand, looked as if he had loads of experience when it came to women. His tall frame, classically handsome features and magnetic dark brown eyes with their impossibly long dark lashes were a potent combination any woman would find hard to resist. Emma could imagine he would be a demanding and exciting lover. She could almost feel the sexual energy emanating from him; it created a crackling tension in the air, making her feel even more on edge and hopelessly out of her depth. The thought of being legally married to him for any length of time was disturbing in the extreme. The lawyer had spoken of a marriage of convenience, but what if Rafaele wanted it to be a real marriage?

      In order to pull her thoughts back into line she said the first thing that came to her head. ‘You didn’t go to your father’s funeral.’

      ‘I am not one for hypocrisy,’ he said, shifting his gaze from hers to sweep it over the property. ‘My father would not

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