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 have wanted me there, in any case. He hated me.’
Emma frowned at his embittered tone. ‘I’m sure that’s not true. Very few parents truly hate their children.’
His eyes came back to hers, his inherent cynicism glittering like black diamonds. ‘I can only assume he thought by forcing me to marry his little nursemaid it might have some sort of reforming effect on me,’ he said. ‘What do you think, Miss March? Do your skills extend to taming decadent playboys?’
Emma could feel her colour rise all over again and quickly changed the subject. ‘How long has it been since you were here last?’ she asked.
He drew in a breath and sent his gaze back over the stately mansion. ‘It has been fifteen years,’ he said.
‘You have lived abroad all that time?’ she asked.
He turned back to look down at her. ‘Yes. I’ve been primarily based in London but I have a couple of properties in France and Spain. But now my father is dead I intend to move back here.’
Hearing him speaking in that deep mellifluous voice of his did strange things to Emma’s insides. He spoke English like a native and even had a trace of a London accent, which gave him a sophisticated air that was lethally attractive. She could imagine him travelling the globe, with a mistress in every city clamouring for his attention. He was everything a playboy should be: suave, sophisticated and utterly sexy. Even his aftershave smelt erotic—it had a citrus base and some other exotic spice that made her think of hot sultry musk-scented nights.
‘Um…I have a spare set of keys for you,’ she said as she led the way to the front door. ‘And there’s a remote control for the alarm system. I’ll write down the code and password—they might have changed since you were here last.’
‘I noticed you trimming the roses,’ Rafaele said. ‘What happened to the gardeners? Do not tell me my frugal father refused to pay them?’
Emma gave him another haughty look. ‘Your father was very generous towards the staff,’ she said. ‘They were all provided for in his will, as I am sure you know. They are just having a couple of weeks’ break. I was keeping an eye on things until you arrived.’
‘What a multi-talented little nurse you are,’ he said. ‘I wonder what else you can turn a hand to.’
Emma fumbled through the collection of keys, conscious of his dark satirical gaze resting on her. Her heart nearly jumped out of her chest when his hand came over hers and removed the keys.
‘Allow me,’ he said with a glinting smile.
She stepped to one side, trying to get her breathing to even out while her fingers continued to buzz with sensation from the brief contact with his.
He opened the heavy door and waved her through with a mock bow. ‘After you, Miss March.’
Emma brushed past him, her nostrils flaring again as she caught