A woman to unlock his heart?

The last time brooding Italian surgeon Luca Montovano saw bubbly heiress Francesca Martinelli was at his best friend’s failed wedding. Sparks flew then, and now she’s made a surprise appearance at his mountaintop clinic, bringing a much-needed whirlwind of laughter!

Aristocratic Luca just wants to be left alone to care for his orphaned niece. The scars on his face reach right to his heart, and he’s learned to push people away. Until Fran forces him to see the world through her eyes!

Italian Royals

Two royal medics—can they find their perfect match?

Take a trip through the cobbled streets of Venice and discover the secrets that lie within them in Annie O’Neil’s decadent duet! When a royal wedding is turned upside down it sets in motion a truly unforgettable and unexpected journey for Princess Beatrice and her best friend and bridesmaid Fran.

Find out more in…

Tempted by the Bridesmaid

Bridesmaid Fran Martinelli’s ideal Italian summer goes south when she turns up for work after the disaster of her friend’s wedding and finds out the best man is her new boss!

Claiming His Pregnant Princess

When Princess Beatrice di Jesolo is jilted by her royal fiancé, she must hide her secret pregnancy… A great idea until she discovers her new boss is The One Who Got Away…

Available now!

Dear Reader,

Welcome to the first story of what I’m hoping you will think is a magical trip to Italy.

When I was dreaming up the perfect location for Luca, my tall, dark and dangerously handsome hero, I came across a website filled to the brim with photos of beautiful ‘ghost towns’ in Italy and simply had no choice but to get him to move into one.

This was an interesting book for me to write as it’s the first time I’ve had a heroine who prefers working with dogs to people. After all, they’re not only man’s best friend, right? (My dogs are totally up there in the besties category.) And it took one very special human to bring Fran around to her HEA.

Enjoy—and don’t be shy about getting in touch. You can reach me at annieoneilbooks.com, on Twitter, @annieoneilbooks, or find me on Facebook…

Annie O’ xx

Tempted by the Bridesmaid

Annie O’Neil

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ANNIE O’NEIL spent most of her childhood with her leg draped over the family rocking chair and a book in her hand. Novels, baking, and writing too much teenage angst poetry ate up most of her youth. Now Annie splits her time between corralling her husband into helping her with their cows, baking, reading, barrel racing (not really!) and spending some very happy hours at her computer, writing.

MILLS & BOON

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This book could go to no other than Jorja and Grissom—my own fluffy hounds who are always there when I need them… and sometimes when I don’t!

Furry friends…simply the best!

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Italian Royals

Dear Reader

Title Page

About the Author

Dedication

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Extract

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

IT FELT AS if she were watching the world through a fishbowl. Everything was distorted. Sight. Sound. Fran would have paid a million dollars to be anywhere else right now.

Church silence was crushing. Especially under the circumstances.

Fran looked across to the groomsmen. Surely there was an ally within that pack of immaculately suited Italian gentry who...?

Hmm... Not you, not you, not you... Oh!

Fran caught eyes with one of them. Gorgeous, like the rest, but his brow was definitely more furrowed, the espresso-rich eyes a bit more demanding than the others... Oh! Was that a scar? She hadn’t noticed last night at the candlelit cocktail party. Interesting. She wondered what it would feel like to—

“Ahem!” The priest—or was he a bishop?—cleared his throat pointedly.

Why had she raised her hand? This wasn’t school—it was a church!

This wasn’t even Fran’s wedding, and yet the hundreds of pairs of eyes belonging to each and every esteemed guest sitting in Venice’s ridiculously beautiful basilica were trained on her. Little ol’ Francesca “Fran” Martinelli, formerly of Queens, New York, now of...well...nowhere, really. It was just her, the dogs, a duffel bag stuffed to the hilt with more dog toys than clothes and the very, very pretty bridesmaid’s dress she was wearing.

Putting it on, she’d actually felt girlie! Feminine. It would be back to her usual jeans and T-shirt tomorrow, though, when she showed up for her new mystery job. In the meantime, she was failing at how to be a perfect bridesmaid on an epic scale.

Fran’s fingers plucked at the diaphanous fabric of her azure dress and she finally braved looking straight into the dark brown eyes of her dearest childhood friend, Princess Beatrice Vittoria di Jesolo.

The crowning glory of their shared teenage years had been flunking out of finishing school together in Switzerland. That sun-soaked afternoon playing hooky had been an absolute blast. Sure, they’d been caught, but did anyone really care if you could walk with a book on your head?

Their friendship had survived the headmistress dressing them down in front of their more civilized classmates, grass stains on their jeans, scrapes on their hands and knees from scrabbling around in the mountains making daisy chains and laughing until tears shot straight out of their eyes... But this moment—the one where Fran was ruining her best friend’s wedding in front of the whole universe—this might very well spell the end of their friendship. The one thing she could rely on in her life.

Fran squeezed her eyes tight against Bea’s inquiring gaze. The entire veil-covered, bouquet-holding, finger-waiting-for-a-ring-on-it image was branded onto her memory bank. Never mind the fact that there were official photographers lurking behind every marble pillar, and hundreds of guests—including dozens of members of Europe’s royal families—filling the pews to overflowing, not to mention the countless media representatives waiting outside to film the happy power couple once they had been pronounced husband and wife.

Which they would be doing in about ten minutes or so unless she got her act together and did something!

“What exactly is your objection?” asked the man with the mystery scar through gritted teeth. In English. Which was nice.

Not because Fran’s Italian was rusty—it was all she and her father ever spoke at home...when she was at home—but because it meant not every single person in the church would know that she’d just caught Bea’s fiancé playing tonsil tennis with someone who wasn’t Bea.

She stared into the man’s dark eyes. Did he know? Did he care that the man he was standing up for in front of Italy’s prime guest list was a lying cheat?

“If you could just speak up, dear,” the priest tacked on, a bit more gently.

Maybe the priest didn’t want to know specifically what her objection was—was choosing instead just to get the general gist that everything wasn’t on the up-and-up. That or he would clap his hands, smile and say “Surprise! I saw them, too. The wedding’s off because the groom’s a cheat. He’s just been having it off with the maid of dishonor in the passage to the doge’s palace. So...who’s ready for lunch?”

After another quick eye-scrunch, Fran eased one eye open and scanned the scene.

Nope. Beatrice was still standing next to her future husband, just about to be married. All doe-eyed and...well...maybe not totally doe-eyed. Beatrice had always been the pragmatic one. But—oh, Dio! C’è una volpe sciolto nel pollaio, as her father said whenever things were completely off-kilter. Which they were. Right now. Right here. A fox was loose in the hen house of Venice’s most holy building, where a certain groom should have been hit by a lightning bolt or something by now.

On the plus side, Fran had the perfect position to give the groom the evil eye. Marco Rodolfo. Heir apparent to some royal title or other, here in the Most Serene Republic of Venice, and recent ascendant to the throne of a ridiculously huge fortune.

Money wasn’t everything. She knew that from bitter experience. Truth was a far more valuable commodity. At least she hoped that was what Bea would think when she finally managed to open her mouth and speak.

Maybe she could laser beam a confession out of him...

The groom looked across at Fran...caught her gaze...and smiled. In its smarmy wake she could have sworn that a glint, a zap of light striking a sharp blade, shot across at her.

Go on, the smile said. I dare you.

Marco “The Wolf” Rodolfo.

The wolf indeed. He hadn’t even bothered with the sheep’s clothing. If she looked closely, would she see extra-long incisors? All the better to eat you—

“Per favore, signorina?”

A swirl of perfectly coiffured heads whipped her way as the priest gave her an imploring look. Or was he a cardinal? She really should have polished up her knowledge of the finer details of her Catholic childhood. Church, family dinners, tradition... They’d all slipped away when her mother had left for husband number two and her father had disappeared with a swan dive into his work.

“Francesca!” Bea growled through a fixed smile. “Any clues?”

Santo cielo! This was exactly the reason her father had held her at arm’s length all these years. She couldn’t keep her mouth shut, could she? Always had to speak the truth, no matter what the consequences.

“Francesca?”

“He’s—” Fran’s index finger took on a life of its own and she watched as it started lifting from her side to point at the reason why Bea’s wedding shouldn’t go ahead. She couldn’t even look at the maid of honor he’d been having his wicked way with. What was her name? Marina? Something like that. The exact sort of woman who always made her feel more tomboy than Tinker Bell. Ebony tresses to her derriere. Willowy figure. Cheekbones and full lips that gave her an aloof look. Or maybe she looked that way because she actually was aloof.

She was insincere and a fiancé thief—that much was certain. Since when did Bea hang out with such supermodelesque women anyhow?

Society weddings.

Total. Nightmare.

Last night, in their two seconds alone, Bea had muttered something about out-of-control guest lists, her mother and bloodline obligations. All this while staring longingly at Fran’s glass of champagne and then abruptly calling it a night. Not exactly the picture of a bride on the brink of a lifetime of bliss. A bride on the brink of disaster, more like.

“Francesca, say something!”

All Fran could do was stare wide-eyed at her friend. Her beautiful, kind, honest, wouldn’t-hurt-a-fly, take-no-prisoners friend. This was life being mean. Cruel, actually. When she’d seen Mommy kissing someone who definitely hadn’t been Santa Claus and told her father about it, how had she been meant to know that her mother would leave her father and break his heart?

Would Bea stay friends with the messenger now, or hate her forever? A bit like Fran’s father had hated her since his marriage blew apart no matter how hard she’d tried to gain his approval. A tiny hit of warmth tickled around her heart. They were going to try again. Soon. He’d promised.

The tickle turned ice-cold at another throat-clearing prompt from Mr. Sexy.

Why, why, why was she the one who caught all the cheaters in the world?

All the eyes on her felt like laser beams.

Including the eyes of the mystery groomsman who she really would have liked to get to know a bit better if things had been different. Typical. Timing was definitely not her forte. What was his name? Something sensual. Definitely not Ugolino, as her aunt had mysteriously called her son. No...it was something more...toothsome. A name that tantalized your tongue, like amaretto or a perfectly textured gelato. Cool and warming all at once. Something like the ancient city of...

Luca! That was his name.

Luca. He was filling out his made-to-measure suit with the lean, assured presence of a man who knew his mind. His crisp white shirt collar highlighted the warm olive tone of his skin and the five-o’clock shadow that was already hinting at making an appearance, despite the fact it was still morning. He looked like a man who would call a spade a spade.

Which might explain why he was staring daggers at her. Strangely, the glaring didn’t detract from his left-of-center good looks. He wasn’t one of those calendar-ready men whose perfection was more off-putting than alluring. Sure, he had the cheekbones, the inky dark hair and brown eyes that held the mysteries of the universe in them, but he also had that scar. A jagged one that looked as if it could tell a story or two. It dissected his left eyebrow, skipped the eye, then shot along his cheek. If she wasn’t wrong, there were a few tiny ones along his chin, too. Little faint scars she might almost have reached out and touched—if his lips hadn’t been moving.

“Per amor del cielo! Put these poor people out of their misery!”

Fran blinked. Enigmatic-scar man was right.

She looked to his left. The priest-bishop-cardinal was speaking to her again. Asking her to clarify why she believed this happy couple should not lawfully be joined in marriage. Murmurs of dismay were audibly rippling through the church behind her. Part of her was certain she could hear howls from the paparazzi as they waited outside to pounce.

Clammy prickles of panic threatened to consume her brain.

Friends didn’t let friends marry philandering liars. Right? Then again, what did she know? She was Italian by birth, but raised in America. Maybe a little last-minute nookie right before you married your long-term intended was the done thing in these social circles filled with family names that went back a dozen generations or more. It wasn’t illegal, but... Oh, this was ranking up there in worst-moments-ever territory!

Fran sucked in a deep breath. It was the do-or-die moment. Her heart was careening around her chest so haphazardly she wouldn’t have been surprised if it had flown straight out of her throat, but instead out came words. And before she could stop herself, she heard herself saying to Beatrice, “He’s... You can’t marry him!”

CHAPTER TWO

“BASTA!” QUICK AS a flash, Luca shuttled the key players in this farce to the back of the altar, then down a narrow marble passageway until they reached an open but mercifully private corridor.

“Her dress was up and Marco—”

“Per favore. I implore you to just...stop.” Luca whirled around, only to receive a full-body blow from the blonde bridesmaid. As quickly as the raft of sensations from holding her in his arms hit him she pressed away from him—hard.

“I’m just trying—” Bea’s friend clamped her full, pink lips tight when her eyes met his.

The rest of the party was moving down the corridor as Luca wrestled with her revelation. “Do you have any idea what you’ve done? The damage you’ve caused?”

Stillness enveloped her as his words seemed to take hold.

Such was the power of the moment, Luca was hurtled back to a time and place when he, too, had been incapable of motion. Only there had been a doctor and a priest then.

Stillness had been the only way to let the news sink in.

Mother. Father. His sister, her husband—all of them save his beautiful niece. Gone. And he’d been the one behind the wheel.

He closed his eyes and willed the memory away, forcing himself to focus on the bridesmaid in front of him. Still utterly stationary—a deer in the headlights.

Another time, another place he would have said she was pretty. Beautiful, even. Honey-gold hair. Full, almost-pouty lips he didn’t think had more than a slick of gloss on them. Eyes so blue he would have sworn they were a perfect match to the Adriatic Sea not a handful of meters from the basilica.

“Don’t you dare—” She took in a jagged breath, tears filming her eyes. “Don’t you dare tell me I don’t understand what speaking up means.”

Luca’s gut tightened as she spoke. Behind those tears there was nothing but honesty. The type of honesty that would change everything.

His mind reeled through the facts. Beatrice was one of his most respected friends. They’d known each other all their lives and had been even closer during med school. Their career trajectories had shot them off in opposite directions, much to their parents’ chagrin. He’d not missed their hints, their hopes that their friendship would blossom into something more.

Beautiful as Beatrice was, theirs would always be a platonic relationship. When she’d taken up with Marco he’d almost been relieved. Si, he had a playboy’s reputation, but he was a grown man now. A prince with an aristocratic duty to fulfill—a legacy to uphold. When Marco had asked him to be best man he’d been honored. Proud, even, to play a role in Beatrice’s wedding.

Cheating just minutes before he was due to marry? What kind of man would do that?

He shot a glance at Marco, who was raising his hands in protest before launching into an impassioned appeal to both Bea and the cardinal.

Marco and a bridesmaid in a premarital clinch? As much as he hated to admit it, he couldn’t imagine it was the type of thing a true friend would conjure up just to add some drama to Italy’s most talked-about wedding.

He glanced down at her hands, each clutching a fistful of the fairy-tale fabric billowing out from her dress in the light wind. No rings.

A Cinderella story, perhaps? The not-so-ugly stepsister throwing a spanner into the works, hoping to catch the eye of the Prince?

Each time she pulled at her dress she revealed the fact that she was actually wearing flip-flops in lieu of any Italian woman’s obligatory heels. No glass slippers, then. Just rainbow-painted toes that would have brought the twitch of a smile to his lips if his mind hadn’t been racing for ways to fend off disaster.

She’d be far less high maintenance than his only-the-best-will-do girlfriend.

He shook off this reminder that he and Marina needed “a talk” and forced himself to meet the blonde’s gaze again. Tearstained but defiant. A surge of compassion shot through him. If what she was saying was true she was a messenger who wouldn’t escape unscathed.

“I saw them!” she insisted, tendrils of blond hair coming loose from the intricate hairdo the half-dozen or so bridesmaids were all wearing. All of the bridesmaids including his girlfriend. “It’s not like you’re the one who’s been cheated on,” she whisper-hissed, her blue eyes flicking toward Beatrice, who, unlike her, was remaining stoically tear-free.

Luca took hold of her elbow and steered her farther away from the small group, doing his best to ignore how soft her skin felt under the work-hardened pads of his fingertips. Quite a change from the soft-as-a-surgeon’s hands he’d been so proud of. Funny what a bit of unexpected tragedy could do to a man.

“Perhaps we should leave the bride and groom to chat with the cardinal.” A shard of discord lodged in his spine as he heard himself speak. It had been in the icy tone he’d only ever heard come out of his mouth once before. The day his father had confessed he’d gambled away the last of the family’s savings.

“I’m Francesca, by the way,” she said, as if adding a personal touch would blunt the edges of this unbelievable scenario. Or perhaps she was grasping at straws, just as he was. “I think I saw you at the cocktail party last night.”

“I would say it’s a pleasure to meet you, but...”

She waved away his platitudes. They both knew they were beyond social niceties.

“Francesca...” He drew her name out on the premise of buying time. He caught himself tasting it upon his tongue as one might bite into a lemon on a dare, surprised to find it sweet when he had been expecting the bitterness of pith, the sourness of an unripe fruit.

Focus, man.

Luca clenched his jaw so tightly he saw Francesca’s eyes flick to the telltale twitch in his cheek. The one with the scar.

Let her stare.

He swallowed down the hit of bile that came with the thought. He knew better than most that nothing good came from a life built on illusion.

“I don’t think I need to remind you what our roles are here. I promised to be best man at this wedding. To vouch for the man about to marry our mutual friend.”

He moved closer toward her and caught a gentle waft of something. Honeysuckle with a hint of grass? His eyes met hers and for a moment...one solitary moment...they were connected. Magnetically. Sensually.

Luca stepped back and gave his jaw a rough scrub, far too aware that Francesca had felt it, too.

“There is no one in the world I would defend more than Bea.” Francesca’s words shattered the moment, forcing him to confront reality. “And, believe me, of all the people standing here I know how awful this is.”

Something in her eyes told him she wasn’t lying. Something in his heart told him he already knew the truth.

“I’d want to know,” she insisted. “Wouldn’t you?”

Luca looked away from the clear blue appeal in her eyes, redirecting the daggers he was shooting toward her to the elaborately painted ceiling of the marble-and-flagstone passageway. The hundreds of years it had taken to build the basilica evaporated to nothing in comparison to the milliseconds it had taken to grind this wedding to a halt.

A wedding. A marriage. It was meant to last a lifetime.

“Of course I’d want to know,” he bit out. “But your claims are too far-fetched. The place where you’re saying you saw them is not even private.”

“I know! It doesn’t mean it didn’t happen.”

Francesca’s eyes widened and the tears resting on her eyelids cascaded onto her cheeks before zipping down to her chin and plopping unceremoniously into the hollow of her throat. Luca only just stopped himself from lifting both his hands to her collarbone and swiping them away with his thumbs. First one, then the other... Perhaps tracing the path of one of those tears slipping straight between the soft swell and lift of—

Focus!

“Which one was it? Which woman?”

Francesca’s blue eyes, darkened with emotion, flicked up and to the right. “She had dark hair. Black.”

The information began to register in slow motion. Not Suzette...a flame-bright redhead. And the others were barely into their teens.

Elimination left him with only one option.

A fleeting conversation with his girlfriend came back to him. One in which he’d said he was going to be too busy with the clinic to come to the wedding. Marina had been fine with it. Had agreed, in fact. So much work at the clinic, she’d said. And then it all fell into place. The little white lies. The deceptions. The ever-increasing radio silences he hadn’t really noticed in advance of the clinic’s opening day.

A coldness took hold of his entire chest. An internal ice storm wrought its damage as the news fully penetrated.

“My girlfriend was not having sex with Marco.”

* * *

Francesca’s eyes pinged wide, a hit of shock shuddering down her spine before she managed to respond.

“Your girlfriend? That’s... Wow.” She shook her head in disbelief. “For the record, she is an idiot. If you were my boyfriend, lock and key might be more—”

Luca held up a hand. He didn’t want to hear it.

It was difficult to know whether to be self-righteous or furious. In Rome, his relationships had hardly warranted the title. Since moving back to Mont di Mare...

The home truths hit hard and fast. Sure, Marina had been complaining that she wasn’t the center of his universe lately, but any fool—anyone with a heart beating in their chest—could have seen that his priorities were not wooing and winning right now.

He owed every spare ounce of his energy to his niece. The one person who’d suffered the most in that horrific car accident. His beautiful, headstrong niece, confined to a wheelchair evermore.

He looked across at Marco. The sting of betrayal hit hard and fast.

He and Marina had never been written in the stars—but Beatrice? A true princess if ever there was one. She was shaking her head. Holding up a hand so that Marco would stop his heated entreaty. From where Luca was standing it didn’t look as if the wedding would go ahead.

He swore under his breath. He had trusted Marco to treat Bea well—cautioned him about his rakish past and then congratulated him with every fiber of his being when at long last he’d announced his engagement to Princess Beatrice Vittoria di Jesolo.

The three of them had shared the same upbringing. Privileged. Exclusive. Full of expectation—no, more than that, full of obligation that they would follow in their ancestors’ footsteps. Marry well. Breed more titled babies.

Luca might have considered the same future for himself before the accident. But that had all changed now. Little wonder Marina had strayed. He’d kept her at arm’s length. Farther away. It was surprising she had stayed any time at all.

“Why don’t you go and get her? Ask her yourself?” Francesca wasn’t even bothering to swipe at the tears streaking her mascara across her cheeks.

“You’re absolutely positive?”

Even as the hollow-sounding words left his mouth he knew they were true. There weren’t that many women wandering around the basilica in swirls of weightless ocean-blue fabric. And there was only one bridesmaid with raven hair. The same immaculate silky hair he’d been forbidden from touching that morning when Marina had popped into the hotel suite to grab the diamante clutch bag she’d left while she was at the hairdresser’s. Not so immaculate when she’d appeared at the altar, looking rosy cheeked and more alive than he’d seen her in months, if he was being honest.

“I—I can go get her for you, if you like,” Francesca offered after hiccuping a few more tears away.

He had to hand it to her. The poor woman was crying her eyes out, but she knew how to stand her ground.

“Why don’t I go find her?” Her fingers started doing a little nervous dance in the direction of the church, where everyone was still waiting.

“No offense, but you are the last person I would ever ask to help me.”

“Isn’t it better to know the truth than to live a lie?”

Luca swore softly and turned away. She was hitting just about every button he didn’t care to admit he had. Truth. Deceit. Honesty. Lies. Weakness.

He had no time in his life for weakness. No capacity for lies.

He forced himself to look Francesca in the eye, knowing there wasn’t an iota of kindness in his gaze. But he still couldn’t give in to the innate need to feel empathy for the position she’d been put in. Or compassion for the tears rising again and again, glossing her eyes and then falling in a steady trickle along her tear-soaked face. How easy it would be to lift a finger and just...

Magari!

Shooting the messenger was a fool’s errand, but he didn’t know how else to react... A knife of rage swept through him. If he never thought about Marina or Marco again it would be too soon.

“It didn’t seem like it was the first time,” Francesca continued, her husky voice starting to break in a vain attempt to salve the ever-deepening wound. “I’m happy to go and get her if you want.”

“Basta! Per favore!”

No need to paint a picture. He almost envied Francesca. Seeing in an instant what he should have known for weeks. He should have ended it before she’d even thought to stray.

“If you want, I’ll do it. Go and get her. I would do it for any friend.”

Francesca shifted from one foot to the other, eyes glued to his, waiting for his response. He’d be grateful for this one day, but right now Francesca was the devil’s messenger and he’d heard enough.

The words came to him—jagged icicles shooting straight from his arctic heart. “I know you mean well, Francesca, but you and I will never be friends.”

* * *

Shell-shocked. That was how Bea had looked for the rest of the day. Not that Fran could blame her. Talk about living a nightmare. She knew better than most that coming to terms with deception on that kind of scale could take years. A lifetime, even, if her father’s damaged heart was anything to go by.

From the look on Luca’s face when they’d finally parted at the basilica he was going to need two lifetimes to get over his girlfriend’s betrayal. Good thing they wouldn’t be crossing paths anytime soon.

“Want me to see if I can find a case of prosecco lying around? A karaoke machine? We could sing it out and down some fizz.”

Fran scanned the hotel suite. The caterers had long been sent away, the decorations had been removed and the staff instructed to keep any and all lurking paparazzi as far away as possible...

“No, thanks, cara. Maybe some water?” Bea asked.

“On it.”

As she poured a glass of her friend’s favorite—sparkling water from the alpine region of Italy—Fran was even more in awe of her friend’s strength. All tucked up in bed, makeup removed, dress unceremoniously wilting like a deflated meringue in the bathroom, Bea looked exhausted, but not defeated.

“Want to tell me anything about this mystery job I’m due to start tomorrow?”

“No.” Bea took a big gulp of water and grinned, obviously grateful for the change of topic. “Although it will make use of both your physio skills and the assistance dogs.”

Fran frowned. “I thought you said she had a doctor looking after her?”

Bea blinked, but said nothing.

“The girl’s in a wheelchair, right? Lower extremities paralyzed?”

“Yeah, but...” Bea tipped her head to the side and gave her friend a hard look. “You’re not going to waste all those years of practicing physio are you?”

“What? Because the person I was stupid enough to go into business with saw me as a limitless supply of cash?”

“You’re clear of that, though, aren’t you?”

Fran grunted.

People? Disappointing. Dogs? They never asked for a thing. Except maybe a good scratch around the ears.

“Are you sure you’re all right?” Fran flipped the topic back to Bea. “Don’t you want to stay in the palazzo with your family?”

“And listen to my mother screech on about the disaster of the century? How I’ve ruined the family’s name. The family’s genetic line. Any chance of happiness for the di Jesolos forever and ever. Not a chance. Besides—” she scanned the sumptuous surroundings of the room “—your suite is great and I’d much rather be with you, even if the place does smell all doggy.”

“Does not.” Fran swiped at the air between them with a grin. She’d washed the dogs to within an inch of their lives before they’d checked into Venice’s fanciest hotel. A little trust-fund treat to herself before heading out to this mystery village where Bea had organized her summer job.

“You don’t need to watch over me, you know,” Bea chided gently. “I’m not going to do anything drastic. And you are allowed to take the dress off. Don’t know if you’ve heard, but the wedding’s off!”

“Just wanted to get my money’s worth!” Fran said, knowing the quip was as lame as it sounded.

The truth was, she hadn’t felt so pretty in...years, really. When your workaholic dad bought your clothes from the local menswear shop, there was only so much ironic style a girl could pull off. When she’d graduated to buying her own clothes it had felt like a betrayal even to glance at something pink and frilly. It wasn’t practical.

“Not exactly what a proper engineer would wear, Frannie!”

So much for that pipe dream! It had died along with a thousand others before she’d found her niche in the world of physiotherapy and then, even more perfectly, in assistance-dog training. Dogs. They were who she liked to spend her time with. They were unconditionally loyal and always ridiculously happy to see her. When she had to hand over these two dogs to her mystery charge at the end of the summer...

Fran swallowed down another rush of tears. Bea shouldn’t have to be the one being stoic here. “I’m so sorry, Bea. About doing things the way I did. There just wasn’t time to catch you after I’d seen them, and before I knew it, we were all up there at the altar and—”

“I’m not sorry at all.” Bea said. “I’m glad you said something. Grateful you had the courage when no one else did.”

“That’s pretty magnanimous for someone who just found out they were being cheated on!”

“Others knew. All along. Even my mother.” Bea chased up the comment with a little typical eye roll.

Fran’s hands flew to cover her mouth. Wow. That was just... Wow.

“They were all so desperate for me to be one half of the most enviable couple in Europe. Even if it came at a cost.” She shuddered away the thought. “You were the only one today who was a true friend.”

Fran’s tear ducts couldn’t hold back any longer.

“How can you be so nice about everything when I’ve ruined the best day of your life?”

“Amore! Stop. You were not the one who ruined the day. Besides, I’m pretty sure there will be another best day of my life,” Bea added, with a hint of something left unsaid in her voice.

“Since I barely see you once a year, it would’ve been nice to be honest about something else. Like how ridiculously beautiful you looked today.”

Fran’s heart rose into her throat as at long last Bea’s eyes finally clouded with tears.

“Everyone has their secrets,” Bea whispered.

“Including you?”

Bea looked away. Fair enough. There had to be a full-blown tropical storm going on in that head of hers right now, and if she wanted to keep her thoughts to herself, she was most deserving. Thank heavens her family had the financial comfort to sort out the mess The Wolf’s infidelity would leave in its wake.

“You all ready for your new job?” Bea turned back toward her with a soft smile.

“Yes!” She gave an excited clap of her hands. The two dogs she had trained up for this job were amazing. “Not that you’ve told me much about the new boss, apart from the pro bono bit. I can’t believe you offered to pay me.”

Beatrice scrunched her features together. “Best not to mention that.”

“I have no problem doing it for free. You know that. If I could’ve lived in one place for more than five minutes over the past few years, I would’ve set up a charitable trust through Martinelli Motors years ago, but...”

“He was too busy making his mark?”

“As ever. We don’t have ancient family lineage to rely on like you do.”

“Ugh. Don’t remind me.”

“Sorry...” Fran cringed, then held her arms open wide to the heavens. “Please help me stop sticking my foot in my mouth today!” She dropped her arms and pulled her friend into a hug. “Ever wished you’d just stayed in England?”

Bea’s eyes clouded and again she looked away. This time Fran had definitely said the wrong thing, brought up memories best left undisturbed.

“That was...” Bea began, stopping to take a faltering breath. “That was a very special time and place. Those kinds of moments only come once in a lifetime.”

Fran pulled back from the hug and looked at her friend, lips pressed tight together. She wouldn’t mention Jamie’s name if Beatrice didn’t. The poor girl had been through enough today without rehashing romances of years gone by.

“Right!” Fran put on a jaunty grin. “Time to totally change the topic! Now, as my best friend, won’t you please give me just a teensy, tiny hint about my new boss so I don’t ruin things in the first five minutes?”

“You’re the one who wanted a mystery assignment!”

“I didn’t want them to know who I was—not the other way around!” Fran shot Bea a playful glower.

She’d already been burned by a business partner who had known she was heiress to her father’s electric-car empire. And when it came to her social life, people invariably got the wrong idea. Expected something...someone...more glamorous, witty, attention seeking, party mad.

It was why she’d given up physio altogether. Dogs didn’t give a damn about who she was so long as she was kind and gave them dinner. If only her new boss was a pooch! She giggled at the thought of a dog in a three-piece suit and a monocle.

“What’s so funny?” Bea asked.

“C’mon...just give me a little new-boss hint,” Fran cajoled, pinching her fingers together so barely a sheet of paper could pass between them.

Bea shook her head no. “I’ve told you all you need to know. The girl’s a teenager. She’s been in a wheelchair for a couple of years now. Paraplegic after a bad car accident. Very bad. Her uncle—”

“Ooh! There’s an enigmatic uncle?”

“Something like that,” Bea intoned, wagging her finger. “No hints. They need the dog so she can be more independent.”

“She needs the dog.”

“Right. That’s what I said.”

“You said they need the dog,” Fran wheedled, hoping to get a bit more information, but Bea just made an invisible zip across her lips. No more.

“That’s not tons to go on, you know. I’ve been forced to bring two dogs to make sure I’ve got the right one!”

“Forced?” Bea cackled. “Since when have you had to be forced to travel with more than one dog?”

“C’mon...” Fran put her hands into a prayer position. “Just tell me what her parents are like—”

Beatrice held up her hand. “No parents. They both died in the same accident.”

“Ouch.” Fran winced. She’d lost her mother to divorce and her father to work. Losing them for real must be devastating.

“So does that mean this devilishly handsome uncle plays a big role in her life?”

“No one said he was handsome!” Bea admonished. “And remember—good things come to those who wait!”

Bea took on a mysterious air and, if Fran wasn’t mistaken, there was also an elusive something else she couldn’t quite put her finger on. How could a person glow when their whole life had just been ripped out from beneath them? Bea was in a league of her own. There weren’t too many people who would set up a dream job for a friend who was known to dip in and out of her life like a yo-yo.

“Well, even if her uncle is a big, hairy-eared ogre, I can’t wait. Nothing beats matching the right pooch to the right patient.” Fran couldn’t stop herself from clapping a bit more, drawing the attention of her two stalwart companions. “C’mere, pups! Help me tuck in Her Majesty.”

Bea batted at the air between them. “No more royal speak! I don’t want to be reminded.”

“What?” Fran fell into their lifelong patter. “The fact that you’re so royal you’d probably bleed fleurs-de-lys?”

“That’s the French, idiot!”

“What do Italian royals bleed, then? Truffles?”

“Ha!” Bea giggled, reaching out a hand to give Fran’s a big squeeze. “It’s not truffle season. It’s tabloid season. And they’re definitely going to have a field day with this. I can’t even bear to think about it.” She threw her arm across her eyes and sank back into the downy pillow. “What do you think they’ll say? Princess left at the altar, now weeping truffle tears?”

Fran pulled her friend up by her hands and gave her a hug. It was awful seeing her beautiful dark eyes cloud over with sadness. “How about some honey?” she suggested, signaling to the two big dogs to come over to the bedside. “That mountain honey you gave me from the Dolomites was amazing.”

“From the resort?” Bea’s eyes lit up at the thought. “It’s one of the most beautiful places in the world. Maybe...”

“Maybe what?” Fran knew the tendrils of a new idea when she saw one.

“Maybe I’ll pull a Frannie!”

“What does that mean?” She put on an expression of mock horror, fully aware that it wasn’t masking her defensive reaction.

She knew exactly what it meant. A lifetime of trying to get her father’s attention and failing had turned her into a wanderer. Staying too long in any one place meant getting attached. And that meant getting hurt.

“Don’t get upset. I envy you. Your ability to just pick up and go. Disappear. Reinvent yourself. Maybe it’s time I went and did something new.”

Fran goldfished for a minute.

“That phase of my life might be over,” she hedged. “Once this summer’s done and dusted I’m going home.”

“Home, home?” Bea sat up straight, eyes wide with shock. “I thought you said you’d never settle down there.”

“Dad’s offered to help me set up a full-time assistance-dogs training center—”

“You’ve never accepted his money before! What’s the catch?”

“You mean what’s going to be different this time?” Fran said, surprised at the note of shyness in her voice.

Bea nodded. She was the one who had always been there on the end of a phone when Fran had called in tears. Again.

“We spent a week together before I came over.”

“A week?” Bea’s eyes widened in surprise. “That’s huge for you two. He wasn’t in the office the whole time?”

“Nope! We actually went to a car show together.”

Bea pursed her lips together. Not impressed.

“I know. I know,” Fran protested, before admitting, “He had a little run-in with the pearly gates.”

“Fran! Why didn’t you tell me?”

“It turned out to be one of those cases of indigestion disguising itself as a heart attack, but it seems to have been a lightbulb moment for him. Made him reassess how he does things.”

“You mean how he’s neglected his only daughter most of his life?”

“It wasn’t that bad.”

“Francesca Martinelli, don’t you dare tell me your heart wasn’t broken time and time again by your father choosing work over spending time with you.”

Fran met her friend’s gaze—saw the unflinching truth in it, the same solid friendship and loyalty she’d shown her from the day they’d met at boarding school.

“I know. But this time it really is different.”

“Frannie...” Bea’s brow furrowed. “He took you to a car show. You hate cars!”

“It was an antique car show. Not a single electric car in sight.”

Bea gave a low whistle. “Will wonders never cease?”

“Martinelli Motors is doing so well it could probably run itself.”

“No surprise there. But I’m still amazed he took time off. It must’ve been one heck of a health scare.”

Fran nodded. She knew Bea’s wariness was legitimate. The number of times Fran had thought this would be the time her father finally made good on his promise to spend some quality father-daughter time...

“It was actually quite sweet. I got to learn a lot more about him as we journeyed through time via the cars.” She smiled at the memory of a Model T that had elicited a story about one of his cousins driving up a mountainside backward because the engine had only been strong enough in reverse. “Even though we all know cars aren’t my passion, I learned more about him in that one weekend than I have...ever, really.”

He’d thought he was going to die—late at night, alone in his office. And it had made him change direction, hadn’t it? Forced him to realize a factory couldn’t give hugs or bake your favorite cookies or help you out when you were elderly and in need of some genuine TLC or a trip down memory lane.

“We’ve even been having phone calls and video-link chats since I left. Every day.”

Bea nodded. Impressed now. “Well, if those two hounds of yours are anything to go by, it’ll be a successful business in no time. Who knows? I might need one of those itty-bitty handbag assistance dogs to keep me chirpy!”

“Ooh! That’s their specialty. Want a display?” Without waiting for an answer, she signaled directions at her specially trained pooches, “Come on, pups! Bedtime for Bea!”

Fran was rewarded with a full peal of Beatrice’s giggles when the dogs went up on their hind legs on either side of the bed and pulled at the soft duvet until it was right up to her chin.

Snuggled up under her covers, Bea turned her kind eyes toward Fran. “Grazie, Francesca. You’re the best. Mamma has promised caffe latte and your favorite brioche con cioccolata if we head over to the palazzo tomorrow morning.”

“I’ll be up early, so don’t worry about me. I’ll just grab something from this enormous fruit bowl before I shoot off.” She feigned trying to lift the huge bowl and failing. “Better save my back. I’ve got to be there at nine. Fit and well!”

“At Clinica Mont di Mare?”

“Aha! I knew I’d get something from you beyond the sat-nav coordinates!”

Bea gave her a sidelong glance, then shook her head. “All I’m going to say is keep an open mind.”

“Sounds a bit scary.”

Bea gave her hand a squeeze. “Of all the people in the world, I know you’re the best one for this particular job.”

“Thanks, friend.”

Fran fought the tickle of tears in her throat. Bea was her absolute best friend and she trusted her implicitly. The fact Bea was still speaking to her after today’s debacle made her heart squeeze tight.

“Un bacione.” She dropped a kiss on her friend’s forehead and gave her hand a final squeeze before heading to her own bedroom and climbing into the antique wrought iron–framed bed.

“Freda, come! Covers!” Might as well get as much practice in as possible.

The fluffy Bernese mountain dog padded over, did as she had been bid, then received a big ol’ cuddle. Fran adored Freda, with her big brown eyes. The three-year-old dog was ever patient, ever kind. In contrast to the other full-of-beans dog she’d brought along.

“Edison! Come, boy!”

The chocolate Lab lolloped up to the side of the bed to receive his own cuddle, before flopping down in a contented pile of brown fur alongside Freda.

The best of friends. Just like her and Bea. It would be so hard to say goodbye.

Never mind. Tomorrow was a new beginning.

Exactly what she needed after a certain someone’s face had been burned into her memory forever.

“You and I will never be friends.”

Luca’s hardened features pinged into her mind’s eye. No matter the set of his jaw, she’d seen kindness in his eyes. Disbelief at what was happening. And resignation. A trinity of emotions that had pulled at her heartstrings and then yanked hard, cinching them in a tight noose. No matter how foul he’d been, she knew she would always feel compassion for him. Always wonder if he’d found someone worthy of his love.

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