Mistletoe Wishes: The Billionaire's Christmas GiftOne Christmas Night in VeniceSnowbound With the Millionaire Read online

  A knock sounded at his door and he opened it to find Diane outside in her pajamas. Her hair had been scraped back into a ponytail, highlighting her strong jaw, wide mouth and square chin. A determined chin.

  His mother had once said Diane had a weak face, but his mother had been wrong. There was nothing weak about Diane. She’d been through so much in her life—the death of her mother and brother—and yet she’d never given up. Had never been anything but loving.

  “Did you not get the medicine I had sent to you?” he asked, forcing his attention from her mouth to her eyes.

  “I did. Thank you.” She seemed to be leaning more heavily on her cane now than she had earlier, and faint lines bracketed her mouth, yet her eyes were bright, blazing with emotion and intelligence. “Do you have a photo of him?” she asked. “I have to see him. I can’t wait.”

  Of course she’d want to know more about Adriano. It was only natural she’d be curious…have questions… “I don’t. Not here. I wish I did. Unfortunately they’re all back at the villa in Rome.”

  “You don’t live here?”

  He shook his head. “I haven’t been here in years. Not since our honeymoon.”

  “That long?”

  “The palazzo has been uninhabitable. The restoration took a full five years. As you’re aware, it’s only just been reopened.”

  “And you really can’t send for him? Bring him home now?”

  “He’s happy with his cousins. Adriano loves his cousins—”

  “Is that what you named him? Adriano?”

  His dark gleaming head inclined. “Yes. After your brother Adrian. It’s what we agreed to do.”

  Diane looked away, bit hard into her lower lip to keep it from quivering. Domenico had honored her wishes. He’d kept his promise even though he hadn’t needed to. “Thank you,” she said huskily.

  “I know how much Adrian meant to you.”

  She closed her eyes, holding back the emotion. Adrian, her only sibling and the last surviving member of her family, had died at sixteen in a tragic bicycle accident. A car had run a red light, slammed into Adrian as he rode his bike to high school, and that had been the end of him. He’d already been gone by the time officials had notified her of the accident. A school dean had pulled her out of class at the University of Illinois to break the news. Diane had been twenty, and the guardian of her brother for only a year, after their mother had died the year before, due to complications from what was to have been routine outpatient surgery.

  It had only ever been the three of them—Diane, Adrian and their mother—and Diane had promised her mother she’d always take care of Adrian.

  But she’d failed.

  She hadn’t taken care of him, hadn’t been there when he was hurt, hadn’t been there when he died. She’d failed in every way possible.

  For a year she’d barely functioned. She’d attended class, studied when she could focus, and completed her undergraduate degree in Renaissance Art. It hadn’t been until she’d spent the summer following her graduation in Italy that she’d begun to find herself again.

  Italy had slowly healed her, and she in turn had fallen in love with Italy. Deeply. Passionately. She’d loved it all—the language, the history, the architecture, the art, the people themselves. After a year of working in Italy and polishing her Italian she’d applied to graduate school in Florence and had been accepted into the rigorous two-year studies. It had been in the final semester of her final year that she’d met Domenico. And he, of course, had turned her world inside out all over again.

  If Adrian hadn’t died Diane would have never gone to Italy or met Domenico.

  If she hadn’t come to the masquerade at Ca’ Coducci tonight she would have never known Domenico or her baby existed.

  Strange. Fate.

  Diane drew a deep breath and forced a tremulous smile. “You don’t know how happy you’ve just made me. Or how grateful I am—”

  “Grateful?” Domenico interrupted harshly, forehead furrowing. “Adriano’s always been your son—our son. I was never meant to raise him without you. I was never meant to raise him alone. We made him because we wanted to be a family. We wanted to create a family. I hate that he’s grown up without you.”

  He meant it, too, she realized. “And Adriano? He’s healthy?” she persisted.

  “Beautiful.”

  Beautiful. Their son was healthy and beautiful.

  Thank God.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  BACK in her room, Diane opened one of her windows overlooking the Grand Canal. The masquerade ball had finally ended and the last of the guests had gone home. It was late, very late now, and the white moon, three-quarters full, gleamed brightly off the water and cast silvery ghost-like reflections of the grand palazzos lining the canal on the lagoon’s still surface.

  Leaning on the thick stone windowsill, Diane watched a lone gondola glide past down below. The night was silent and still except for the soft splash of water and the creak of the gondolier’s pole.

  How different Venice was in winter. Much of the city was closed. The majority of the palazzos were shuttered until Carnival. And yet she preferred this moody, mysterious city to the city that groaned with tourists in summer.

  ‘La Serenissima Repubblica di Venezia. The Most Serene Republic of Venice,’ she whispered to herself, shivering at the sudden gust of cold air but reluctant to leave her spot. She’d always heard that Venice was known for two things—for being beautiful and for being impossible. And it hadn’t been until she’d come with Domenico on her honeymoon that she’d understood what everyone meant. Venice was impossibly beautiful.

  And tonight, in Venice, she’d entered a fairytale. Like Cinderella, tonight she’d gone to a ball and found her Prince Charming, and everything should end happily ever after at this point.

  Only Prince Charming was also fierce and brooding and very intimidating.

  Very, she thought, shivering again and finally conceding it was time to close the window and go to bed.

  Diane slid beneath the covers, pulled the soft down duvet up to her chin and prayed she’d sleep.

  And surprisingly she did. But her sleep was troubled, broken by dark, disturbing dreams.

  She dreamed of blinding lights and shattering glass. Dreamed of more lights—red and blue—and of sirens shrieking in the night. She dreamed of antiseptic and sterile rooms. Dreamed of pain. Endless pain. And endless nights alone.

  Diane lurched up into a sitting position, heart hammering sickeningly fast.

  It was the old dream—the dream where she lost Dom and the baby.

  But they weren’t gone. Weren’t dead. They’d just been stolen. Hidden away…

  And, turning on the bedside lamp, she stared across the room to the fire which had nearly burned out, leaving just a few hot coals.

  The Contessa had stolen five years of her life. She’d taken Domenico—Diane’s only family—from her. She’d exiled Diane, sent her far from Italy and all that Diane had loved.

  Why?

  Tears stung her eyes and she pressed a knuckle to her mouth, pushing hard against her soft lip until it bruised against her teeth.

  How could the late Contessa have knowingly, willingly inflicted so much pain on all of them? Diane knew the Contessa had never felt she was good enough for her son. But the Contessa’s actions hadn’t just hurt Diane. She’d devastated her own son too—and her grandson.

  Why would a mother do it? How could a mother do it? To what end? Diane couldn’t imagine ever hurting anyone that way, much less her own son. Not when every maternal instinct longed to cherish. Protect. Because wasn’t that what mothers did? Protect?

  And then it came to her in a whisper.

  The Contessa had been protecting Domenico.

  Surely that was what she must have thought she’d been doing? After all, Diane had been very damaged. Diane’s doctors hadn’t expected her to make a full recovery. They’d predicted she’d never be able to be independent again, would need round-the-cl
ock care, always need assistance.

  Perhaps the Contessa had decided she needed to protect Domenico from such a bleak future. From a wife who would be an invalid.

  Or perhaps the Contessa had been overwhelmed at the idea of caring for them all. After all, Diane had been in a coma for weeks, and Domenico had been in a burns unit, and the baby… The baby would have been fighting for his life…

  So the Contessa had made choices, and she’d chosen her son and his child.

  And strangely, though her actions were misguided and hard to forgive, Diane could almost—almost—understand. Because if faced with a difficult decision she, too, would want to protect her child. It was instinct.

  Beneath the covers Diane lightly touched the Cesarean scar on her belly. She’d always been told that they’d cut her open in the emergency room to save the baby but it had been too late.

  Only that was false. The surgeons had saved her son. He’d lived. And, yes, she’d missed his entire life, but he had life, and that was the important thing. Having lost her mother and brother it was such a joy—and relief—to know her son was safe. Her son lived. And she was going to be part of his life.

  One way or another, she vowed, turning the light out, she would be part of his life.

  And she would protect him. She owed it to him.

  DIANE WAS ALREADY AWAKE and dressed the next morning when Domenico sent word to her that he’d like her to join him in the morning room for breakfast. Diane wasn’t sure she was ready to face Domenico already, but it wasn’t as if she had a choice. She was in his house. His guest.

  His wife.

  No, not his wife. She’d been declared dead. So what did that make her? She didn’t know.

  Shaking the uncomfortable thought away, Diane headed for the morning room dressed in navy wool pants and a incredibly soft V-neck cashmere sweater. The sweater was warm and it made her feel safe—something she definitely needed as she faced Domenico in the bright light of day.

  The morning room had always been one of her favorite rooms. Its high frescoed ceiling was incurably romantic, and the view of the Grand Canal from the four tall windows was simply stunning.

  As she entered the room Domenico rose from his chair at the round marble-topped table and pulled out a matching chair for her. A pot of hot coffee steamed on the table next to a plate of warm, fragrant Italian breakfast breads and pastries.

  “You look lovely,” he said as she took the seat he held for her.

  Diane blushed at the compliment, hating how she suddenly felt shy. There was no reason for her to feel shy. She’d been married to Domenico for two years before the accident, and in those two years he’d made love to every inch of her body. There was no reason to be nervous or self-conscious, but her heart was racing and she smoothed her pants to hide her unease.

  “I do love navy. I think most of my clothes are navy. Navy is so much more interesting than black.”

  A hint of amusement shone in his dark eyes. “Really?”

  She forced herself to smile, hoping her light, bright chatter would convince him that all was well. “Think about it. Navy can be the color of a midnight sky, or the deepest part of the ocean. It’s also found in a pair of sapphire earrings or a pair of well-loved jeans.”

  He sat down across from her. “I think you’re babbling to avoid having a real conversation with me.”

  Ah, so he knew. Her blush deepened, making her cheeks feel fiery hot. “I’m not babbling.”

  “No?”

  “And I’m not afraid of talking with you.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Yes,” she snapped, before glancing away, undone by his dark eyes—eyes that seemed to see too much. Eyes that felt as though they could see all the way through her, reading her thoughts, reading her heart.

  “Then why do you avoid looking at me?”

  Heavens. He’d noticed that, too. What didn’t he see? Curling her nails into her palms, she forced herself to meet his gaze. “It’s been five years since we’ve been together. I’m still getting used to the idea that you’re alive. For five years all I wanted was to see you again, and now we’re having a meal together. Definitely surreal.”

  He smiled faintly as he lifted the coffee pot and filled her cup. “Were you able to get any sleep?”

  “Some. But I had a lot on my mind.” She spooned sugar into her coffee and then stirred it a moment before adding, “I couldn’t stop thinking about your mother.”

  One of his black eyebrows lifted. “Sounds like a nightmare.”

  She picked up the china cup, blew on it before taking a sip. “There’s no excusing her actions, but I think I understand why she did what she did…hiding the truth from us.”

  “You mean lying to us? Tearing our family apart?”

  Diane gulped her coffee before answering. “I think it was to protect you.”

  The hint of a smile at Domenic’s lips was gone. “I didn’t need protection from you!”

  “The doctors thought I’d be brain-damaged—”

  “I can’t believe you’re making excuses for her. Unbelievable.” His laugh was low, bitter, and he studied her broodingly, his long black lashes creating shadows beneath his eyes. “Or maybe I can. That’s so you. So quick to forgive. So determined to turn the other cheek.”

  She hated the bitterness in his voice, hated how harsh he’d become. “I feel better when I turn the other cheek,” she answered quietly, seeing yet again the harshness in his features and the resolute set to his shoulders.

  He’d always been handsome, athletic and fit, but he exuded power now. Power and strength. Everything about him was tough, intense, primal, as though he could survive anything.

  And, from the thick scar on his right cheekbone, he had.

  She exhaled slowly, feeling the blood drum through her veins and pound in her head. Her pulse had begun to beat erratically the moment she’d entered the room, and it felt absolutely out of control now.

  Domenico leaned forward to stare into her eyes. “You must hate her. I think I do.”

  Diane sucked her lower lip in, bit down hard. Hate the late Contessa? Maybe. Maybe not. She didn’t know. She hadn’t processed all her feelings. There was still too much to absorb to have taken it all in. “Maybe she really did think she was helping.”

  He let out an impatient sound. “Helping?” His forehead furrowed and his dark eyes looked almost black. “She took you from me. Sent you to New York and left you there. Alone.” He ground his jaw together. “It’s a good thing she’s gone, because if she were here I’d kill her myself.”

  “Domenico!”

  “It’s unforgivable. Inexcusable.”

  It was inexcusable, yes, and Diane remembered all too well her grief and loneliness as she’d battled through rehab, struggling to regain a modicum of independence. But sons shouldn’t hate their mothers. She’d never want Adriano to hate her.

  “Mothers protect their children, Dom.”

  “Then that is the worst sin of all. Because it’s the man’s job to provide for and protect his family. You take that away from a man and he has no purpose, no self-respect. He is nothing.”

  Was that how Domenico had felt when he’d thought he’d lost her?

  Had he lost his self-respect? Had he felt as if he was nothing?

  Unsettled, Diane took a pastry from the silver platter, but couldn’t make herself eat it. Instead she pushed it around on her plate with the prongs of her fork. “Can I ask you something?” She looked up at him, nervous.

  “Of course.”

  “Did your mother ever give my engagement ring back to you?”

  He shook his head. “No. Why? What happened to it?”

  “It was cut off the night of the accident. My fingers were broken and swollen. I guess I put out my hand—” She broke off, shrugged. “I’ve missed it.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  She nodded, bit her lip, fighting emotion. Because of course there was emotion. She’d lost Dom, the baby, even her ring. It had b
een such a terrible loss, and so complete. And it had all been pointless. Dom wasn’t dead. She could have been with him. Could have been with her son.

  For a moment she couldn’t speak, couldn’t think, couldn’t handle the rage and grief and heartbreak—and then she realized she didn’t want to lose one more second of her life to pain. Didn’t want one more minute or hour or day given over to sorrow or anger. She’d suffered so much. Not just with losing Dom and the past five years. But before that. With the loss of her mother. The loss of Adrian. Her life had been full of losses, stacked one on top of the other, and they’d bury her, smother her, if she let them.

  She wouldn’t let them. And she wouldn’t be angry. Or bitter. She’d focus on the positives. On the future.

  “So what happens now?” she asked, drawing a slow, deliberate breath. “How do we move forward from here?”

  Dom regarded her steadily. “You’ll live with us. Be my wife. Be Adriano’s mother. It’ll be an adjustment, but it shouldn’t be too difficult. We were once happy. We’ll be happy again.”

  But he didn’t look or sound happy. He looked severe and he sounded stern, as if their relationship was all about duty rather than love.

  She searched his face for an iota of the tenderness he’d once possessed but found nothing. In place of warmth was steely determination. Instead of humor there was simply resolve. He was a driven man, and it scared her.

  He scared her. He was so different. So full of scars and shadows and hollow spaces.

  Despite her churning insides, she forced herself to speak calmly. “Can we really pick up where we left off?”

  “Why can’t we?”

  “We’re different people now,” she said, thinking that he was different.

  “Then we adjust. We’re adults.”

  Yes, they were adults. But Adriano was a child, and she worried about his emotional stability. He was in for a series of shocks, and shocks were just that. Jolts to the system. “Adriano isn’t an adult. And we can’t just force this new life on him—”