MARIETTA DROVE HER bright yellow sedan into the basement of her apartment building and swung into her reserved space near the elevator. She cut the engine, pushed the door open and used her arms to shift herself around until her legs dangled out of the car.
She loved her modified car. In addition to its customised hand controls, the rear passenger door on the driver’s side had been altered to open in the reverse direction, so she could reach around from the driver’s seat, open the door and pull her wheelchair out of the back. She did so now, and with a little shuffling, some careful hand placements and a couple of well-executed manoeuvres she transferred herself out of the car and into her chair.
It was a routine refined and perfected through years of practice, and one she could probably perform in her sleep.
She put her handbag in her lap and took the elevator to the lobby, confident Nico couldn’t have beaten her there despite the extra minutes she’d needed to get in and out of her car. He probably had a faster, flashier set of wheels, but she knew the roads between here and the gallery like the back of her hand—not to mention half a dozen shortcuts only a local would know to use.
And yet when she rolled out of the elevator onto the lobby’s shiny sand-coloured marble, there he stood. She frowned, confused as much as miffed. The building, she knew, was secure, the double doors from the street controlled by keypad access day and night. ‘How did you get inside?’
‘One of your neighbours was on his way out and let me in.’ His voice was dark. His expression, too. ‘Imbécile.’
His deep scowl deterred her from jumping to the defence of whichever neighbour had earned his disapproval. The man had no doubt thought nothing of it, but even Marietta had to admit that giving entry to a stranger off the street showed a dreadful disregard for security.
‘I’m on the ground floor,’ she said, deciding to leave that subject well enough alone, and wheeled her chair around.
Silent, his big body radiating tension like ripples of heat from a furnace, Nico followed her through the lobby, across the quiet interior courtyard with its great pots of manicured topiaries and into a small vestibule housing the front doors of her apartment and one other. As soon as they stopped his hand appeared, palm up, in front of her face.
‘Key.’
For a second—just a second—Marietta contemplated ignoring his curt command, but this, she acknowledged, was not the time for bravado. Her stalker might have been in her home.
Her stalker might still be in her home.
Her stomach gave a sharp, sickening twist and she promptly handed over the key and watched, heart thumping, as Nico unlocked the door.
‘Stay here,’ he ordered, and she nodded, her mouth suddenly far too dry to protest. He went in, leaving the door an inch ajar behind him.
Marietta clutched her handbag in her lap and waited. Endless minutes ticked by, followed by more endless minutes. When Nico still hadn’t reappeared and she could no longer stand the suspense, she nudged the door open, inched forward and hovered on the threshold.
‘Nico?’ she called out, her voice echoing off the parquet wood flooring in the entry hall.
Nothing.
‘Nico!’ she tried again, louder this time.
Still nothing.
This was ridiculous. She wheeled down the hallway, a hot mix of impatience and adrenaline spurring her on.
‘I told you to stay put.’
Nico’s deep voice slammed into her from behind. She turned her chair around and blinked, her brain instantly grappling to interpret what her eyes were seeing. The sight of Nico standing in her bedroom doorway—which, in her haste, she’d sailed straight by—was easy enough to compute. The rest—the blue latex gloves sheathing his large hands, something red and lacy dangling from his fingers—was enough to send her senses into a floor-tilting spin.
She stared at the bizarre image before her a moment longer, until her breathing resumed some kind of normal rhythm, then gripped the hand rims of her chair and started forward—only to have Nico plant his feet firmly in the doorway and block her path.
She hiked up her chin, wishing there was a way to plough through that imposing wall of muscle. ‘Let me in,’ she demanded, and reached for the scrap of red lace.
He jerked it out of reach. ‘Marietta—’
‘No. This is my home, Nico. Whatever he’s done, whatever he’s left for me, I want to see.’
It took every shred of determination she possessed not to back down under the full force of Nico’s reprimanding stare. Finally, just as she began to think he wouldn’t budge, his rigid stance loosened.
He pointed a latex-clad finger at her. ‘Do not touch anything. There could be DNA and prints to lift.’ Then he stepped aside, allowing her to enter.
Marietta’s gaze went straight to the bed. To the crimson box lying open on her cream cotton coverlet and the items of luxury lingerie spilling haphazardly from between layers of soft white tissue. Scattered around the box and all across her bed were dozens upon dozens of red and white rose petals.
She moved closer, made out a red satin and black lace chemise, a sheer negligee and a pair of skimpy scarlet knickers. She closed her eyes, turned away, fighting a sudden stab of nausea. When she opened them again, her gaze landed on the item in Nico’s hand. A bra, she registered now. A lacy, see-through concoction designed to be sexy and revealing as opposed to any kind of practical.
Her gaze jerked up, collided with Nico’s, and for a fleeting moment it seemed as though something arced in the air between them. Something hot and bright and electric.
Which just went to prove how easily stress could affect the mind—because surely she had imagined that strange ripple of energy in the room that had felt almost like... What? Sexual awareness?
Heat flooded her face. Si, she was definitely stressed—not to mention embarrassed and horrified.
She yanked her gaze away from Nico’s and took one last look at her bed. Did her stalker think he would one day share it with her? Thick bile coated her throat and the heat drained from her face, leaving her cold and clammy.
‘Was there a card?’ she managed to ask.
Nico turned away from her to lay the bra on the bed. ‘No,’ he said, snapping the gloves off his hands. He turned back to look at her, his blue eyes dark and unreadable. ‘You’re pale, Marietta. Do you have anything to drink?’
She nodded. Si, a drink...something to wash the bile out of her throat, shave the edge off her nerves. She wheeled out of the room. She wouldn’t be able to sleep here tonight. Perhaps she could stay at Leo’s penthouse for the weekend? He’d be travelling to Tuscany this evening, back to Helena and their adorable baby boy Riccardo. Leo’s apartment building—a stunning renovated historic structure in the heart of the old city—wasn’t as wheelchair-friendly as this one, but there was an elevator at least. Or perhaps she could telephone a girlfriend?
Her mind spun in jerky circles until she reached her lounge and paused. She looked around the cosy, light-filled room. Had her stalker been in here, too? Had he snooped through every inch of her beloved home? Had he touched her things?
Angry and sickened, she dumped her handbag on her plum-coloured sofa and headed for the solid oak sideboard. The cabinet housed a small selection of spirits—brandy, limoncello, and a bottle of whisky for her brother when he visited.
She grabbed two cut-glass tumblers and, hearing footsteps on the hardwood floor behind her, twisted her chin round to look at Nico. ‘What will you have?’
He shrugged, the movement accentuating the breadth of his shoulders under his black open-necked shirt. ‘Whatever you’re having.’
She chose the brandy, unscrewed the cap and started to pour. But her hands shook and the liquid sloshed out too fast, hit the rim of the glass and splashed onto the sideboard. She cursed, the mishap pushing her to the verge of ridiculous tears, and then Nico’s hand was closing over hers. Without a word, he removed the bottle from her grip and poured a generous measure into each tumbler.
Feeling foolish, she took the glass he handed her and tried to ignore the lingering effect of his touch. It was the same hot, static-like sensation she’d experienced at the gallery, when he’d crouched in front of her and taken her hand in his. Except his touch then had lasted longer, she recalled, and his thumb had rubbed gentle, delicious circles on the back of her hand, setting off a chain reaction of tiny sparks under her skin.
She took a gulp of brandy and welcomed its distracting burn. ‘I don’t understand,’ she blurted when the heat had abated. ‘Why me?’ It was a question with no logical answer, she knew. She threw up a hand in helpless frustration. ‘Your company provides protection services to public figures,’ she said. ‘You must know something about this sort of thing. Why would he go to such lengths to get my attention and yet keep his identity a secret?’
Nico stood with one hand wrapped around his glass, the other shoved in his trouser pocket. He paused, as if carefully weighing his response. ‘In his mind, he’s courting you, and he wants total control over this stage of his fantasy,’ he said finally. ‘The longer he remains anonymous, the more time he has to build the perfect relationship with you in his head and avoid the risk of real-life rejection.’
Marietta grimaced. ‘That is totally twisted.’
Nico knocked back his brandy in a single swallow that made the muscles in his strong throat visibly work. ‘I agree,’ he said, then put the glass down and pulled his mobile phone from his pocket.
‘Who are you calling?’
‘Bruno, the police—’ he tapped the screen and pressed the phone to his ear ‘—and your brother.’
Marietta sighed. Eccellente. An army of men was about to invade her beloved home. She chafed at the intrusion—at the very knowledge that she could no longer handle this situation by herself—but, loath as she was to admit it, she had no choice. She’d have to accept help.
Her brother arrived first, and he must have driven like a madman to complete the journey from his office in less than twenty minutes. He looked like a madman, too, with his tie skewed, his hair on end, his handsome face creased with worry—an expression that grew considerably darker the moment he looked in her bedroom.
‘I’m fine,’ she told him as he tipped up her chin and searched her face with dark, probing eyes. His jaw clenched, as if he didn’t trust himself to speak, then he simply dropped a kiss on her head and stalked across the room to Nico.
Shortly afterwards, Bruno turned up, with a thin middle-aged man he introduced as a private forensic specialist, and, surreal though it all seemed, her lovely peaceful home began to resemble an official crime scene.
Marietta reached again for the brandy bottle and refilled her glass. She’d suffered through countless indignities during the painstaking months of rehabilitation and therapy after her accident, but this was a violation beyond her experience—beyond anything she’d equipped herself to deal with.
And it was so unfair—even though she knew life was unfair. Life didn’t owe her anything. Which was why she had worked so hard for everything she had: her job at the gallery, which provided a steady income, the loft she’d bought and turned into a nice little earner by converting it into an art studio and hiring out the space to working artists, and her own art career—which, with a few exhibitions of her paintings and some lucrative commissions under her belt, was finally taking off.
Admittedly she’d accepted some help from Leo in the early days, but she’d repaid him every euro she’d borrowed—despite his vociferous protests. While her dear brother had never understood his little sister’s need to assert her independence, he had finally accepted it.
She looked around at her apartment, filled with strangers. For years she’d prided herself on her strength and resilience, but she didn’t feel at all strong and resilient today. She felt helpless and afraid and she hated it. Her gaze travelled across the room to where her brother and Nico stood by the window, deep in conversation, their dark heads bowed. Leo had already swooped in like a man possessed, bent on taking control. How long before he tried to smother her in a suffocating blanket of protectiveness?
And then there was Nico. A man so commanding, so authoritative, she imagined the world would stop on its axis if he so ordered it.
As though sensing her scrutiny, the men stopped talking and looked up, two sets of eyes—one midnight-dark, the other a startling blue—settling on her. At once unease bubbled up inside her. She didn’t like the looks on their faces. Didn’t like the determined set of Nico’s jaw or the hint of something too much like apology in Leo’s eyes.
Marietta lifted the brandy she’d poured without spilling a drop this time and took a large, fortifying gulp.
Those expressions told her the men had decided something—and she wasn’t going to like it.
* * *
Nico had lied. First to Marietta and then, by omission, to her brother. Her stalker had left a note, and it was now in the hands of the forensic technician who was under strict orders to keep it out of sight. Leo already looked white-lipped and murderous. If he saw the sexually explicit language in the card he would undoubtedly lose the tight rein he held on his temper.
And Marietta—well, she’d already seen more than Nico had intended her to, thanks to a stubborn streak as wide as the Atlantic. Why she couldn’t have simply obeyed him and stayed put, he couldn’t fathom. Most of the time women were eager to please him, not defy him, and yet Marietta seemed to have a unique talent for the latter.
He handed his friend a double shot of whisky and Leo tossed the liquid down his throat, then glared at the empty glass as if he’d like nothing more than to smash it against a wall.
‘How the hell did he get in?’
Guilt sliced through Nico’s gut like a jagged knife. He’d failed to anticipate this turn of events. Failed to predict accurately the threat to Marietta’s safety. Not least of all, he’d failed his friend.
And Nico didn’t do failure—not on any scale. He had tasted that bitter elixir ten years ago and his failure then had cost him his wife’s life.
He jammed his fists in his pockets. Focused his thoughts with the same ruthless discipline that had seen him survive that brutal plunge into darkness and come out the other side—eventually.
‘The windows don’t appear to have been tampered with.’ He gestured with his chin to the secured latch on the window by which they stood. ‘My guess is he took an old-fashioned approach and picked the lock on the front door.’
‘And the building?’ Leo’s scowl darkened. ‘It should be secure twenty-four-seven.’
‘He could have talked his way in.’ Tension bit deep into Nico’s shoulders. He had gained access the same way; it had been appallingly easy. ‘Or waited and slipped in behind someone.’
‘Dio.’ Anger billowed from Leo in palpable waves. ‘This is insane. What did the polizia say?’
Nico balled his hands more tightly in his pockets. The attitude of the two plain-clothes officers who had turned up at the apartment had reeked of apathy. ‘They’ll file a report, but don’t expect too much action from that quarter,’ he warned. ‘They’re viewing it as a romantic prank, at worst.’
Nico hadn’t missed their exchange of lascivious grins over the lingerie and he’d wanted to knock the officers’ heads together, plant his boot firmly in the seats of their pants. Just as he’d wanted to kick himself earlier, when he and Marietta had been in her bedroom and his thoughts had gone to a dark, carnal place they’d had no right to go. Not with Marietta. She was a victim, he’d had to remind himself, a woman who needed his help—and wondering how her ample breasts would look encased in that barely there bra had been wrong on too many levels to count.
Leo swore now—a vicious expletive that drew not so much as a blink from Nico. Five years in the French Foreign Legion as a young man, followed by several stints as a private military contractor, working alongside war-hardened ex-soldiers, had broadened his vocabulary to include every filthy word and crude expression known to man in half a dozen languages.
‘Find him, Nico,’ Leo grated, his expression fierce. ‘Do whatever you have to to keep her safe.’
Do whatever you have to.
Those five words seemed to strike Nico in the gut one by one, like the consecutive blows of a steel mallet, and they left him savagely winded. He’d heard those same words before, ten years ago, from his former father-in-law’s mouth.
Do whatever you have to.
And Nico had.
He’d utilised every resource within his power. Called in every favour owed him. Employed every conceivable tactic within the law—and beyond—to get Senator Jack Lewisham’s daughter back.
But it wasn’t enough. It all went belly up. And Nico committed one critical, unforgivable sin: he underestimated the men who had taken her.
He failed. Failed to bring the senator’s daughter home. Failed to save his wife’s life.
Her father, who’d only grudgingly accepted Nico as a son-in-law in the first place, was inconsolable—a man irreparably broken by the loss of his only daughter.
He had not spoken to Nico since.
Do whatever you have to.
He glanced over at Marietta, nursing her brandy in her hand, quietly studying them. She was pale, but beautiful, those dark, intelligent eyes sizing him up. No doubt she was a little annoyed that she was not privy to his and Leo’s conversation. She was a woman of undeniable strength, yet the pallor of her skin, the obvious tension around her eyes and mouth, belied her show of composure. He could see it in the rigid set of her shoulders, her too-tight grip on the glass, the unblinking wideness of her eyes.
Marietta wasn’t afraid.
She was petrified.
Nico turned back to Leo, an idea seeding, taking shape in his mind. An extreme idea, perhaps, for it would mean sacrificing the sanctity of his personal space for a time, but extreme circumstances called for extreme measures. He clamped a hand over his friend’s shoulder. ‘Do you trust me, mon ami?’
Leo looked him in the eye. ‘Of course,’ he said at once, his voice gruff. ‘You do not need to ask me that, Nicolas.’
Nico nodded. It was the answer he’d hoped for. ‘Très bien,’ he said. ‘I have a suggestion.’