**Chapter One:**

Olivia Marlowe had three rules when dealing with rich men: never let them know you're intimidated, never accept their drink unless you've seen it opened, and never, under any circumstances, fall in love with them.

This made her current situation a bit of a problem.

Because Raphael di Castellano, art collector, international businessman, and owner of cheekbones so beautifully defined and equal that they should be shrouded in a warning label, was now offering her a drink.

"It's limoncello," he said in that smooth, espresso-soaked accent that made her toes curl upwards with pleasure.

"I gathered," Olivia replied, eyeing the delicate glass, “you poured it from a bottle with your own name on it."

"It's a family recipe," he said, flashing a smile that could thaw an igloo in mid-winter. "Very exclusive."

She took the glass. When in Italy, drink the billionaire's lemon liquor and try not to think about his magnificent shoulders.

She sipped.

It was annoyingly delicious.

"See?" he said, leaning casually against the carved stone balustrade that framed the sea view like an oil painting. "I'm not entirely terrible." He smiled that smile, the one like smoke in amber glass. She couldn’t help thinking that his smile would probably melt stone

Olivia gave him a tight smile in return. "Jury's still out."

They were standing on the sun-drenched terrace of Villa Belladonna, which, despite sounding like either a perfume or a poison, was neither seductive nor deadly. It was a staggeringly beautiful cliffside monstrosity with twenty rooms, two pools, and a multitude of alabaster busts depicting various Roman emporers.

She didn't belong here.

She, she knew in her heart, belonged in a library. Preferably a dusty one with ticking radiators and an ancient, cantankerous cataloguing system that comprised sufficient eccentric departures from the standard dewey-decimal system that it required gentle coaxing and the occasional firm word.

But her aunt had died and left her an inherited collection of moderately valuable but highly confusing art, and Raphael di Castellano had offered to buy it all for more money than Olivia had previously imagined existed in actual cash.

Hence: Italy. Limoncello. Billionaire.

"So." Raphael swirled the golden liquor in his glass. "You've come all this way to tell me I can't have it."

She met his gaze. "If by _it_ you mean the collection, then yes."

"And if I meant something else?"

His voice dropped half an octave. Olivia refused to blush. Blushing was the gateway drug to _swooning_, and swooning was not on her agenda.

"Then I'd say your arrogance is showing."

Raphael laughed. It did something to her stomach that should be illegal in most time zones.

~~~****

****

To her horror, she was staying at the villa.

She hadn't meant to.

Her plan had been: arrive, deliver polite but firm rejection of art acquisition offer, maybe eat some pasta, then flee to her hotel and drown herself in prosecco and then enjoy a carefree holiday.

But her taxi had broken down.

Her hotel had cancelled her booking due to 'an unforeseen celestial occlusion’.

And Raphael, who had looked mildly amused, entirely unsurprised and utterly unfazed by the news said, "There's a guest room here. With plumbing."

Her imagination filled in gaps that probably should have remained un-filled.

So now she was eating breakfast on a marble terrace with a man who had a private yacht and a housekeeper who wore black and white linens, while trying to appear unimpressed by the presence of an original _Caravaggio_ staring at her over the marmalade.

"Are you _sure_ that's a real Caravaggio?" she asked suspiciously.

Raphael glanced at the painting without even turning his head. "If it were a forgery, which it most certainly is not, the forger would currently be in my wine cellar learning the value of good career choices."

Olivia wasn't sure if he was joking.

She was even less sure when she caught herself wondering what his wine cellar looked like.

Probably cool and intimidating and slightly, well… exciting. Like the man himself.

She cut her croissant with unnecessary vigour, causing an avalanche of crumbs and not much else.

"You're tense," Raphael said.

"I feel as though I’m being emotionally blackmailed by a man who collects Renaissance art like most people collect fridge magnets."

He raised one infuriating eyebrow. “Hardly. I offered you breakfast, with added polite conversation.”

"Oh please," she said. "You made your fortune buying failing companies and flipping them for profit. I'm surprised you haven't offered to turn my aunt's house into a boutique hotel already."

He looked thoughtful. “Well… actually…”

"No."

"Fine," he said, sipping his espresso with an ease that made her want to throw hers in the sea. “Probably for the best. The plumbing in English country houses gives me hives."

~~~

Two days in the villa and Olivia felt herself unravelling.

It wasn't just the food (too good), or the view (too stunning), or the art (too perfect). It was him.

Raphael moved through his own house like a tiger through the underbrush: graceful, silent, slightly predatory. Every time he looked at her, she felt like a butterfly being pinned for observation.

And worst of all?

She liked it.

Oh, she told herself she didn't. She told herself he was the worst kind of man, rich, charismatic, used to getting his own way. A man who could destroy her with a smile and then commission a sculpture to commemorate the event.

But then he'd smile at _her_.

And her knees would forget they were supposed to hold her upright.

The Answer was clear. She needed to leave.

Immediately.

Possibly via a discreet rope ladder.

She found him in the courtyard, shirt sleeves rolled up, elbow-deep in an attempt at pruning the lemon trees.

"You garden?"

“Yes,” he said, “In the absence of my gardeners, who have gone away on holiday to Rimini, I thought I’d destroy some plants. I seem to be doing rather well.”

Olivia hesitated.

"I need to talk to you."

He wiped his hands and looked at her, all calm intensity. "Yes?"

She opened her mouth. Closed it again. Took a breath.

"I'm going to accept your offer. For the collection."

He didn't react.

Just watched her. Like he already knew.

"I just..." she trailed off. "I don't want it locked away. I want it _seen_. I want her memory to be..”. She stopped.

His voice was quiet. "Preserved?”

She nodded.

He smiled. Not the arrogant billionaire smirk. Something softer. "Then we're in agreement."

It should have been a relief.

Instead, it felt like the end of something.

Or maybe the beginning.

And if so, that was _far_ more dangerous.

~~~

Olivia Marlowe had never wanted to throw a croissant before. But the way Raphael was looking at her this morning, so smug, silk-shirted, espresso-balanced-on-one-hand like a caffeinated Roman god, made her consider it.

“I’ glad you’ve accepted that my offer is irresistible," he said.

She narrowed her eyes. "I've accepted that arguing with you is like arguing with a particularly charming wall. I’ve accepted that I can’t come up with a better idea.”

Raphael smiled. "So flattering."

They were sitting in what he called "the small breakfast room." It had frescoed ceilings and a chandelier that, looking at it she thought it had probably cost more than her education.

"Here's the deal," she said, staring at the smashed, crumby remains of a croissant, “you get the collection, but I'm want to curate the installation of the exhibition space.”

His eyebrow arched. "Curate?”

"You heard me. No corporate gallery assistants with dead eyes. I want her work shown with _meaning_. I want motive. I want context. I want QR codes that actually work."

"You want to work with me."

"No," she said flatly. "I want to work _near_ you."

He laughed, the sound far too warm for nine in the morning.

~~~

Raphael di Castellano had built his empire on two things: strategy and charm. Neither, he was discovering, seemed to work particularly well on Olivia Marlowe.

Which was... inconvenient.

And also oddly delightful.

She was unlike anyone he'd ever met. She had opinions. Some of them worth listening to. She once, after they had had the breakfast conversation, shushed him while reading a nineteenth-century exhibition catalogue.

He should have been bored. Or irritated. Instead, he found himself searching her face when she wasn't looking. Listening for her laugh. Hoping she'd correct him again just so he could see her eyes sparkle with indignation.

He was, in short, developing a _problem_. And problems, Raphael preferred to handle quickly. Which was why, the next morning, as they walked through the private gallery he just happened to have available (it was a very big house), he turned to her and said:

"You should stay."

She looked up, startled. "Here?"

"No," he said gravely. "In the broom cupboard. Of course here."

She stared at him. "I _am_ staying."

"I mean longer. A month at least. Longer, probably. Work on the exhibition with me."

Her brow furrowed. "Why?"

He hesitated. "Because I think you're the only person who actually sees the art."

There was a long pause.

Then she said, "You have a leaf in your hair."

Which, he suspected, was her way of saying yes.

~~~