The Barefoot Bride

The Barefoot Bride

by

Rebecca Paisley

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

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Copyright © 1990, 2012 by Rebecca Boado Rosas. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions.

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Thank You.

Dedication

The wish for a beautiful gold pocketbook. A lady in London, England. A man in Ascoli Piceno, Italy.

How did the pocketbook, the lady, and the man mingle to become the premise of a novel?

Serendipity.

One must always be ready for the touch of Serendipity. If you aren't paying attention, it will pass over you, and then you will never know what extraordinary gift it might have bestowed upon you.

Almost four years ago I was looking for a well-made gold pocketbook to replace some factory-made bag I'd had that had fallen apart. I love gold pocketbooks. Shiny metallic gold pocketbooks! During the search for my golden treasure I had no notion that Serendipity had begun its work of wonder for me.

I came to know a very creative woman in London, England. A short while later, I became acquainted with a highly skilled man whose home and atelier (artist's workshop) are in Ascoli Piceno, Italy. I became quite close to these two wonderful and talented people.

The lady designed the golden pocketbook of my dreams. Her enthusiasm, imagination, kindness, and extremely entertaining personality began to form a fictitious character in my writer's mind.

The man created my golden pocketbook. In his workshop in Italy, you will not find huge, fancy, complicated machines such as those near an assembly line. To produce his leather masterpieces, he relies on methods that have been passed down to him from generations of his family. His hands are magic, and his tools have been kissed by the ages. I felt certain that Tuscan Fairies dwelled in his atelier, sprinkling the shop with bewitching pixie glitter. Aha… Yet another book idea twinkled into my mind.

The lady is Jackie Cawthra, owner of the luxury handbag company, Belen Echandia based in England. The man is Marco Massaccesi of Pelletteria Massaccesi in Italy. Not only have their combined efforts given me my truly-adored gold pocketbook, but their friendship, respective talents, and willingness to share their knowledge have helped me to conceive and research the premise for the brand new novel I am working on now.

Much love to you both, Jackie and Marco.

And to you, Sweet Serendipity, thank you forever and always and way beyond the end of time.

XXOO - Beckie

Chapter 1

Saxon's life was like a fairy tale, complete with wicked witch. But, unlike a fairy tale, he saw no happy ending in sight.

He yearned to throw his snifter of brandy at the portrait of the witch, his grandmother, that hung on the opposite wall of the sumptuous drawing room. But such an outburst would only please the woman. Instead, he twirled the stem of his glass and smiled the lazy, mocking grin he knew infuriated her.

Araminta bristled at both his smile and the expression in his sapphire eyes. Her twig fingers whitened around the knob of her ebony cane. "Well? What do you think about my decision, Saxon?"

Again, Saxon tamped down the wish to pitch his glass at the huge portrait of her. If her news didn't involve his sister, Desdemona, he'd relish telling her exactly what he thought of it. After all, his favorite diversion in life, second only to enjoying a beautiful woman in his bed, was unseating Araminta from her golden throne. But the future of his delicate sister was at stake in Araminta's newest scheme, and so he let her question go unanswered. He did, however, obtain a small measure of satisfaction in knowing his silence would irritate her.

And she
was
annoyed, both by his silence and by the telltale red mark she suddenly noticed near his throat. "If you think your shirt collar covers that lip rouge on your neck, you are wretchedly mistaken. Which, woman—"

"Woman?" He fingered the remnants of passion on his neck. "I got tired of women, Grandmother. Now I'm running around with vampires. It's much more exciting."

She sighed and stalked to the liquor cabinet, her black gown trailing behind her like a scary shadow. When she'd poured herself a generous amount of sherry, she held her glass up. "Here's to the end of your incessant womanizing. Here's to the end of your tarnishing the Blackwell name. Here's to the future Mrs. Saxon Blackwell."

Saxon ran his fingers through his raven hair and concentrated on holding back his fury. The muscles in his tall, lean frame swelled with the effort.

Araminta cackled with delight at the evidence of his anger. "Well, which lady will it be?"