‘ENOUGH!’
The shrill note in Marietta’s voice brought Nico’s head up. He laid his pen on the legal pad he used for old-fashioned note-taking and leaned back in his chair. ‘Take a breath, Marietta.’
‘Don’t patronise me,’ she snapped, a flash of Italian temper darkening her eyes to the colour of hot, bitter espresso. She squeezed them shut and pinched the delicate bridge of her nose.
Nico stretched out his denim-clad legs, crossed his bare feet at the ankles and waited for her to calm down.
‘I’m sorry.’ She dropped her hand, opened her eyes. ‘I didn’t mean to snap. I just don’t see how where I choose to buy my fruit and vegetables on a Saturday morning can possibly be relevant.’
A warm, gentle Mediterranean breeze rippled the surface of the pool and swayed the enormous umbrella which shaded the outdoor table where they sat. Sighing, Marietta scraped her long hair back from her face and secured the lustrous swathe into a high ponytail which she fastened with an elastic band from her wrist.
Toying with his pen, Nico studied her. He couldn’t detect a scrap of make-up on her this morning and still she was beautiful. ‘More coffee?’
She nodded. ‘Please.’
He refilled her cup from the heavy silver coffee pot his part-time housekeeper Josephine had set out for them, along with a selection of fruits, thick yoghurt, freshly baked croissants and homemade jams.
It had been good of Josephine to drive up from the village on a Sunday morning. She and her son Luc had already been at the house in the hours prior to Nico and Marietta’s arrival, cleaning, stocking the kitchen and installing special handrails in the guest en-suite bathroom at Nico’s request. He appreciated their commitment; he’d given them only a day’s notice and yet they hadn’t complained at a time when their family-run bistro had to be busy with the final late-summer run of tourists.
Josephine had said she’d returned this morning to check that everything was satisfactory, but Nico figured it was curiosity as much as solicitude that had brought her back. In the four years since he’d built his home on Île de Lavande, he’d never invited a guest there—had never allowed anyone inside his sanctuary aside from the select few he employed for its upkeep. In that respect Marietta was something of a novelty, and she had—not surprisingly—charmed his housekeeper.
It was a charm she had not extended to him for the last hour and a half, he noted dryly. He sat forward, picked up his pen. ‘Tell me more about Davide,’ he said, and watched her expression instantly shutter.
‘There isn’t much to tell. We had a relationship and then we broke up. End of story.’
‘You were together for two years.’ The same length of time he and Julia had been married. ‘It must have been serious,’ he said, ignoring the sudden sharp clench in his chest.
Her shoulders, bare aside from the straps of her pale blue tank top, hitched up. ‘For a while, si.’
‘Who broke it off?’
‘I did.’
‘Why?’
‘That’s personal.’ She picked up her sunglasses from the table and pushed them onto her face. ‘And if you think Davide could be my stalker, you’re wrong. He’s moved on. Married. Started a family. What is it the English say? You are barking into the wrong bush.’
His mouth twitched despite himself. ‘Up the wrong tree.’
She flicked a hand in the air. ‘Whatever. Anyway, it can’t be Davide. The cards are always signed off with an S.’
He put down his pen again. Worked to keep the impatience out of his voice. ‘First, the S could stand for anything,’ he said. ‘Second, I know this is difficult, but any previous romantic partners must be considered as potential suspects until they’ve been definitively ruled out.’
Her graceful chin took on that stubborn tilt he was learning to recognise. ‘How do you know my stalker isn’t a complete stranger?’
‘I don’t. And I haven’t discounted the possibility. But the majority of stalking victims are stalked by someone they know—two-thirds of female victims by a former or current partner.’ He paused before driving home his point. ‘It is extremely likely that you have met or know your stalker in some capacity. He could be your neighbour. Someone you’ve met through work. Maybe the guy who sells you fruit at the market on a Saturday morning.’
She shuddered visibly. ‘Santo cielo. It could be anyone.’
‘Exactement. And the sooner we narrow the field of potential suspects, the closer we get to identifying the real perpetrator.’
She sat a little straighter in her wheelchair, pulled in a deep breath and slowly expelled it. ‘Okay.’ She folded her hands in her lap. ‘What do you want to know about Davide?’
‘How did he react when you ended the relationship?’
She hesitated. ‘He was upset.’
‘Angry?’
‘A little,’ she said, quietly. ‘Mostly hurt, I think.’
‘He didn’t want it to end?’
She reached for her coffee, took a careful sip, then replaced the cup before answering. ‘He’d asked me to marry him.’
Nico blinked.
‘I know,’ she said, before he’d fully processed that potentially critical piece of information. ‘A perfectly normal, eligible, good-looking guy asks a crippled girl to marry him and she says no.’ She laughed, but the sound wasn’t at all pretty. ‘You’re thinking a girl like me can hardly afford to be choosy, right?’
A flash of anger—and perhaps indignation—snapped his brows down. ‘That is not what I was thinking.’
‘But you were thinking something,’ she challenged.
He felt a pulse leap in his jaw. ‘I was thinking you should have told me this sooner.’
‘Is that all?’
‘Non,’ he said tersely. ‘I was also thinking the poor bastard must have been crushed when you turned him down.’
Marietta’s chin jerked back—with surprise or scepticism? He couldn’t tell.
‘Why did you reject his proposal?’
She picked up her coffee again, took another sip, as if buying time to compose herself. When she put the cup down her hand wasn’t quite steady. ‘Davide wanted to fix me.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘He was obsessed with the idea of curing me.’
‘Your paralysis?’
‘Si.’
He frowned. ‘And that was a bad thing?’
‘For me it was. It made our relationship untenable.’
‘Why?’
Her slim shoulders lifted, dropped. ‘Because I didn’t share his obsession.’
Nico rubbed his jaw, assimilating that. ‘So you don’t believe in the possibility of a cure?’
A small groove appeared on her forehead. ‘I believe there’s hope for a cure. Technology and medicine will always advance, and people who are passionate about finding a way to reverse spinal cord damage will always be looking for the next major breakthrough. But at some point you have to stop chasing the miracle and get on with the business of living. And that means learning to accept the hand you’ve been dealt. Davide couldn’t do that. He couldn’t accept that I wouldn’t one day get out of this chair and walk. Instead he spent every spare minute researching medical journals and the latest treatments he thought I should try.’
Marietta paused. She was glad suddenly that she’d put her sunglasses on, because if eyes truly were the windows to the soul she didn’t want Nico seeing into hers. Didn’t want him seeing the hidden part of her that still hurt whenever she thought about Davide and his obsession with ‘fixing’ her.
She might have shared his enthusiasm if she hadn’t already travelled that same road with her brother in the early years after the accident, when Leo convinced himself—and her—that there was a real chance she would walk again. His tenacity and determination were contagious and she let herself get swept up in the possibilities—agreed, once Leo convinced her he could afford it, to travel to Germany and undergo the experimental treatments he’d researched.
But in the end it all turned into nothing more than a wild rollercoaster of shattered hopes and dreams. An enormous, heartbreaking reality check that devastated her for a time—until she picked herself up and fiercely told herself that from then on she was going to be a realist, not a dreamer.
And then, scarcely a year later, she met Davide and became that naive, hopeful fool all over again. The one who was stupid enough to think she could have something as ordinary as a husband and a family. The doctors had told her years before that she was physically capable of bearing children but she’d firmly quashed that dream—because what man would want to have a family with her?
But then Davide had come along, and at some point during their relationship she’d forgotten that ordinary didn’t exist for her. That ordinary was a fantasy. That ordinary was something she had forfeited the night she’d climbed into the back seat of that car with her young, ill-fated friends.
‘He said he loved me, but the woman he loved was the version of me in his head,’ she said now, unable to stop a hint of bitterness creeping into her voice. ‘The one he wanted to turn me into. The one who could walk.’
Nico shifted in his chair. ‘Were you not tempted to consider any of the treatments?’
And now he was delving deeper than he needed to go. Deeper than he knew he should go. Finding Marietta’s stalker and keeping her safe until then were his only concerns. He needn’t care about anything else. Caring, he reminded himself, made people vulnerable, weak—and in his line of work, there was no room for weakness.
‘I’ve been down that road,’ she said. ‘I had several surgeries and experimental stem cell procedures at a specialised clinic in Berlin. The results were negligible. A tiny bit of muscle movement, some increased sensation—that’s all.’
‘And Davide knew this?’
‘Si. He said I gave up too easily.’
Nico’s mouth settled into a grim line. She’d made the right decision to ditch the imbécile. Any man fool enough to label this woman a quitter didn’t deserve her.
He closed the pad, pushed his chair back from the table. He would call Bruno, relay the information he deemed useful and tell him to take a closer look at the ex. Bruno had already compiled a superficial dossier on Davide, but now Nico would give the green light to dig deeper. Pay the guy a visit.
‘We’re done?’ She sounded surprised. Or relieved. Maybe both.
He stood. ‘For now,’ he said, aware of something like relief coursing through his own veins.
These last two hours had been intense—for both of them—and he suddenly wanted some distance from this woman. Wanted her out of his sight so that he could concentrate on work and stop noticing things about her he had no legitimate need to notice.
Like the way those full lips of hers pursed when she was thinking and one cheek hollowed slightly, as if she were biting the inside of it. Or the way she sometimes used her hands to emphasise a point and at other times clasped them in her lap to give the impression of composure. Or the way she occasionally rubbed her shoulders or the back of her neck, as if the muscles there were cramped and needed loosening. Or—and this was by far the most disturbing of all his observations—how pink and delectable her tongue looked when it darted out to rescue a flake of croissant from her bottom lip.
Nico picked up the pen and pad and stepped back. Oui. Distance. A lot of it—and for the rest of the day, preferably. ‘You did well, Marietta. Relax now. Enjoy the sunshine.’
She looked up and he saw his reflection in duplicate in her oversized sunglasses. ‘What are you going to do?’
‘Work.’
‘All day?’
‘Probably.’ He turned towards the house. Pretended not to see the sudden slight pout on those voluptuous lips.
‘What about sightseeing?’
He pulled up. ‘Pardon?’
‘Sightseeing,’ she repeated. ‘You said you would show me the island.’
He frowned. ‘If time permitted.’
Her chin rose in that tenacious way of hers that stirred irritation and something much hotter, more dangerous, inside him.
‘I’ve answered your questions,’ she said.
He curled his fingers around the pen. ‘My priority is to keep you safe until your stalker is caught, Marietta, not babysit you or play tour guide.’ Her head drew back as if he’d spat in her face, but he ruthlessly fought the urge to soften his tone. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have work to do.’
He turned and strode into the house. Into his study. Where he tossed the pen and pad onto his desk with such force the pen pinwheeled across the glass surface and onto the floor.
Grunting, he leaned down to pick it up and told himself the burn he could feel deep in his gut was irritation.
Not an attack of conscience.
And not desire.
* * *
Marietta dropped her sketchpad and pencil onto the solid wooden table where she’d sat earlier with Nico and pulled out her earbuds, trading the orchestral tones of her classical playlist for the natural summer chorus of cicadas and the distant cries of gulls circling over the ocean.
She closed her eyes, breathed in the briny scent of the sea and the distinctive floral notes of the wild lavender that stained the island’s clifftops a vibrant purple and gave Île de Lavande its name.
It was beautiful here, peaceful—a world away from the crazy pace and relentless noise of Rome—but the creative inspiration she’d hoped for had proved elusive and her efforts this afternoon had been disappointing, to say the least.
She was in the wrong headspace. Upset with Nico and more so with herself for letting him affect her like this. Allowing him to make her feel guilty and ungrateful simply because she wanted to see more of his beautiful island. She understood that he was busy. Understood that he must have had to rearrange his schedule to bring her here. But this outlandish idea had been his, not hers.
And she had tried to co-operate. Had tried to prevent her temper from flaring as she’d answered every personal, invasive question he’d fired at her.
He should not look so gorgeous. Should not have sat there in his worn jeans and his white T-shirt, with his feet bare and that film of dark stubble on his jaw that gave him a deliciously rough, disreputable edge. How could she concentrate with all that flagrant male energy swirling around her like a hot mist, drenching the very air she needed to breathe?
She opened her eyes and let her gaze drift beyond the terrace towards the clifftop and the blue expanse of sea that was so vast Marietta felt very insignificant all of a sudden, and for some reason very lonely.
Her brows tugged together.
Santo cielo.
What was wrong with her?
She didn’t wallow like this.
She was strong—a battler like her mamma had been—not a dreamer given to fits of melancholy like her father, a man who had become so lost in his grief, so consumed by addiction, that he’d neglected his children and forced his son to assume the role of provider before he’d even reached his teens.
Looking back on those years always reminded her how lucky she had been to have Leo. She’d been only seven when their mother died, so Marietta’s memories of her were limited, but she knew in her heart that Estelle Vincenti would have been proud of her son for stepping up.
And would she have been proud of you?
Marietta’s frown sharpened as the question popped into her head. She liked to think her mother would have forgiven the fractious, rebellious teenager she’d been—the girl who’d acted out in the absence of a mother’s love and influence—and regarded the woman she’d become with pride and affection.
Yet she would never know for certain the answer to that question, would she?
Her eyes prickled and she cursed.
Enough.
It was being stuck here on this remote estate with a man who clearly didn’t wish to spend more time with her than was necessary that was plunging her into this funk. A friendly voice and distraction—that was what she needed. She turned her wheelchair and headed for the house. She’d call her sister-in-law, Helena, and see how the plans for Ricci’s birthday party were coming along.
Except when Marietta reached the beautiful blue and white guest bedroom she’d been given and fished her mobile out of her bag, she discovered the phone was dead and realised she’d forgotten her charger.
She swore again, and wheeled out of the room. Had she seen a landline phone anywhere in this sprawling modern abode? She rolled along the wide hallway and paused outside the open door to the study where Nico had spent most of the afternoon. He’d emerged half an hour ago and declared that he was going for a short run. She’d pasted on a smile and waved him off as if she couldn’t care less what he did.
She looked into the room. It was neat and masculine, with lots of sharp edges and straight lines, glass surfaces and sleek, pale wood. A textured black rug, a tan leather sofa and a matching desk chair were the only soft furnishings.
And on the glass-topped desk sat a phone.
More eager by the second to hear a familiar voice, she glided over to the desk and dialled her sister-in-law’s mobile number.
‘Helena,’ she said a moment later. ‘It’s me.’
‘Marietta!’ Helena’s posh English voice rushed down the line. ‘I’ve been thinking about you all weekend. This whole business is just dreadful. Is everything all right over there? Is Nicolas treating you well?’ A fleeting pause. ‘He’d better be treating you well.’
Marietta smiled to herself. ‘Everything’s fine. A little quiet, that’s all.’
She stared out of the large window which faced the terrace, her gaze trailing over the pool and the table where she’d sat drawing for much of the afternoon. Her brows pinched. Had Nico watched her from his desk while he’d worked?
‘Tell me about Ricci’s party,’ she said, pushing aside that thought. ‘How’s the planning going?’
‘Great. Except Leo is such a proud papà he’s invited half of Tuscany—and Rome...’
Marietta was still smiling as she wound up the call, some ten minutes later. ‘Give Ricci and Leo my love. I’ll see you in six days.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Of course. I’ll be there,’ she said firmly. ‘I’m not missing Ricci’s first birthday for anything.’
She hung up feeling lighter, less maudlin and more like herself. This ugly business of her stalker would be over soon and she’d have her life back. She reversed away from the desk, turned towards the door—and saw something against the wall on the far side of the doorway she hadn’t noticed upon entering. It was a piece of antique furniture totally at odds with the rest of the decor and yet so lovely it commanded her attention for a long moment. She inched closer and recognised it was a vintage rolltop desk, crafted from a rich golden oak which gleamed as if someone had polished it only yesterday.
And, oh, it was magnifico. A stunning piece of craftsmanship her artist’s eye couldn’t fail to admire. Lured by its beauty, she brushed her hand over the intricate gold leaf designs on the drawer-fronts and fingered the little gold lock and key at the bottom of the tambour lid. She’d always adored the idea of these old-fashioned desks, with their hidden nooks and crannies, and before the left side of her brain could issue a caution she had turned the key and pushed up the slatted tambour to reveal the interior.
Immediately Marietta knew she had gone too far—gone somewhere she shouldn’t have—because everything inside the desk...every item sitting in its neat, allotted space...was too pretty and feminine to belong to a man.
Unease flared, even as curiosity kept her gaze fixated. One of the central nooks accommodated a pretty peach-coloured writing compendium, with an elegant silver pen lying on top and a bright orange reading glasses case alongside it. In the next cubbyhole sat a large trinket box, fashioned from dark wood with mother-of-pearl inlay, and a smaller silver box with an ornamental lid. A neat stack of hardcover books filled another space, and below them a solid silver photo frame lay face-down on the desk’s polished surface.
Don’t look.
But the strident command in her head couldn’t stay her hand. Her fingers stroked the velvet backing of the frame and then tilted it up. She stared at a photo of a much younger Nico, in profile, gazing adoringly at a striking golden-haired woman in a long white veil and wedding dress.
A door opening and closing, followed by the sound of footsteps and fast, rough breathing, catapulted Marietta’s heart into her throat. The footsteps travelled down the hall, then retreated, and seconds later, through the window, she saw Nico emerge onto the terrace.
His back was to her but she could see he was breathing hard, his impressive shoulders lifting with each deep, controlled breath. His T-shirt stuck to his broad back and his running shorts emphasised narrow hips, a taut backside and long, muscular legs. He was hard and honed, every sweaty, musclebound inch of him, and for a few seconds Marietta lost all sense of her surroundings as some visceral response to all that hardcore virility short-circuited her brain and triggered a burst of heat in her belly and breasts.
He turned and strode into the house. ‘Marietta?’
She jolted back to herself and looked at the photo, still in her hand. Gently, her fingers shaking a little, she replaced the frame. She’d wasted precious seconds and now it was too late to avoid discovery. She couldn’t close up the desk with the necessary care—she’d never risk damaging this beautiful antique—and get out of the study undetected.
She clasped her hands in her lap and swallowed hard. She had trespassed, but not with any malicious intent. This was a minor transgression, she assured herself. She would own it.
‘I’m in your office,’ she called out.
He was there within seconds, and she saw on his face the exact moment he registered the raised lid of the desk. Saw his nostrils pinch and flare, his mouth flatten into a hard line, and knew with a sharp mix of certainty and regret that he wouldn’t simply shrug off the intrusion.
His large body went still—so still it frightened her.
Her heart thundered in her ears. ‘Nico, I’m sorry.’ The apology spilled out in a breathless rush. ‘I came in to use the phone and saw the desk and it was so beautiful... I... I didn’t think.’
If possible his features grew tighter, his eyes harder. He said nothing, and the silence, broken only by his harsh breathing, was awful.
‘I’m so sorry,’ she said again, and her voice cracked. Because this time she wasn’t only apologising for opening the desk. This time she was telling him she was sorry about his wife. She knew nothing about his marriage, of course, but the photograph, the desk so lovingly preserved—almost like a shrine—told her two things.
Nico had loved his wife.
And his wife was no longer alive.
Marietta’s throat constricted. ‘Please say something,’ she whispered.
He moved to the desk, carefully lowered the lid and laid his palms on the tambour. He didn’t look at her, and somehow that was ten times worse than his hard, silent stare.
‘Go,’ he said at last, and the command was all the more terrible for its quietness.
‘Nico—’
‘Get out, Marietta.’
Still he didn’t look at her, and the rebuff needled deep, even though she knew she’d earned it. Smothering the impulse to apologise yet again, Marietta turned her chair and wheeled out of the room.