‘DID I DRAG you out of bed, my friend?’
Leo Vincenti’s voice carried over the video feed with a distinct note of dryness.
Nico thrust his hand through his dishevelled hair and peered at his friend’s image on his computer screen. Leo sat in his office in Rome, looking immaculate in a crisp shirt and tie, making Nico even more aware of his unshaved jaw and the rumpled tee shirt he’d hurriedly pulled on after realising he was late for the video call he and Leo had scheduled for this morning.
‘Long night working,’ he said as he ruthlessly smothered the image of his friend’s sister naked and spread-eagled on his bed.
Dieu. He hadn’t considered how truly awkward it would be to look his friend in the eye after all the things he had done with Marietta last night.
Never had he known sex to be so... so combustible. So all-consuming. And still he wanted more. Still his groin twitched at the mere thought of sliding between her thighs and burying himself inside her wet, welcoming heat.
He moved his chair closer to the desk, concealing his lower body.
‘Sorry I couldn’t talk longer yesterday,’ said Leo. ‘I was in the middle of a client crisis meeting. You said you had more news?’
‘There’s been a development,’ Nico confirmed, forcing his mind away from the sleepy, satisfied woman he’d left in his bed. He’d placed her chair within arm’s reach, in case she wanted to get up, but he hoped she’d stay put. He wasn’t finished with her yet.
He sat forward and gave a brief summary of the information Bruno had imparted yesterday. Late on Wednesday one of the two men they’d shortlisted as suspects had confronted Lina at the gallery and demanded to know Marietta’s whereabouts. When Lina had claimed not to know he’d become aggressive and physical. Bruno was convinced they had their man. But now the guy had gone to ground.
Leo’s expression was grim. ‘Is the girl all right?’
‘She’s fine. I have a protective detail on her.’
‘How will you find him?’
‘We have the polizia fully on board now.’ And his own men continued to work around the clock.
‘Does Marietta know?’
‘Not yet.’ When the perpetrator was in custody—then he would tell her. In the meantime she didn’t need to know about Lina. She’d only worry. ‘I’ll give her the details when the time is right.’
Leo dragged a hand over his face, pulled in a deep breath. ‘Thank you, Nico,’ he said gravely. ‘I don’t know how I can ever repay you for this.’
Nico shrugged. ‘If our roles were reversed you would do the same, mon ami,’ he said, tamping down on a flare of guilt.
Marietta was a grown woman, he reminded himself. She wasn’t answerable to her brother—and neither was he.
He promised Leo to keep him updated and disconnected the call. When he returned to the bedroom Marietta was still in bed, early-morning sunlight streaming over her mahogany hair and golden breasts. He shed his clothes and climbed in beside her.
She stirred, blinked those beautiful dark eyes at him. ‘I thought I heard you talking to someone...’
‘Just a work call,’ he said, cupping a soft, lush breast in his hand and thumbing its nipple. She moaned, and the little nub of caramel flesh peaked into a hard point that begged for the attention of his mouth.
A few more days, he acknowledged, his heart punching hard at the thought. That was all he’d have with her. Right then it didn’t seem as if it could possibly be enough, but it would have to be. He had nothing to give her beyond these days on the island, nothing to offer, and she deserved more. She deserved a man capable of love. A man who would tear down the barriers she didn’t even know she’d erected around herself and convince her she’d make an amazing wife and mother.
Nico wasn’t that man. And for a moment, as he stared into her liquid brown eyes, the knowledge twisted his stomach into a knot of deep, gut-wrenching regret.
* * *
Marietta lay on her side on the soft beach rug and watched the steady rise and fall of Nico’s magnificent chest as he slept.
He wore only a pair of swimming trunks and she trailed her gaze over his bronzed body, her belly twisting with a physical need she’d thought might have lessened over the last three days but had, in fact, only intensified.
They’d settled into something of a routine. In the mornings they’d linger in bed and make love, before indulging in a leisurely breakfast on the terrace, then Nico would work for two to three hours in his study and Marietta would paint. When her tummy grumbled she’d wash out her brushes and make them some lunch, and afterwards they’d swim and laze by the pool or at the beach. Dinner was usually a light snack, shared at the kitchen table or out on the terrace—and bedtime always came early.
It was indulgent and idyllic and it couldn’t last. Marietta knew that, and that was why she planned to enjoy it. Reality would intrude soon enough. For now she was going to accept these extra days with Nico for what she’d decided they were—once her anger over missing Ricci’s birthday had worn off. A gift.
She traced her finger over the words tattooed around the emblem on his left arm. Honneur et Fidélité. It was the motto of the French Foreign Legion and somehow those words—honour and fidelity—fitted him perfectly. Because he was loyal and honourable. Her brother had said so many times, and Leo trusted him implicitly—as did she.
Her heart squeezed every time she thought about what he’d revealed of his childhood. She ached inside for the lonely boy he must have been, and she ached for the man he was now—a man who held himself aloof from the world. A man who seemed very much alone.
He was like a multi-layered gift-wrapped parcel, she decided. The kind that was passed around a circle of children at a party and when the music stopped another layer was unceremoniously ripped off. The excitement—and the frustration—was in not knowing how many layers there would be. Not knowing exactly when you were going to peel off the final layer and reach the heart of the parcel—the true gift beneath.
Nico had many layers—most of them deeply buried. His difficult childhood, the loss of his mother, his time as a soldier and the horrors he must have seen... But she sensed his greatest trauma—and thus the key to understanding him—had been the loss of his wife, and unfortunately that subject had been declared off-limits.
‘Ready for a swim, ma petite sirène?’
She jumped, her hand jerking away from his arm.
Of course he hadn’t been asleep.
She smiled at the endearment. My little mermaid. When she swam with him she felt like a mermaid, too. Graceful and elegant. Playful and sultry. For a while she’d forget all about her useless legs and simply revel in the freedom of the water. The exquisite pleasure of being skin to skin with him.
‘In a bit,’ she said, tracing her finger through the dark, crisp hair on his forearm.
Her mind toyed with the question.
Did she dare?
She looked at him, then took a deep breath and plunged in. ‘Will you tell me about your wife?’
He tensed, and she held her breath.
He sat up, the lines of his shoulders and back rigid.
‘I asked you never to speak about that.’
‘I know, but—’
‘Leave it, Marietta.’
She swallowed. ‘I only—’
‘I said leave it.’
And he lunged to his feet, stalked across the sand and dived into the water.
* * *
When Nico emerged from the sea he had no idea how long he’d been swimming. Fifteen minutes, if he hazarded a guess. Twenty at the most. Long enough for regret to outweigh his anger.
He had been too harsh with Marietta. These last few days they had been totally absorbed in one another, as physically intimate as two people could be. Her curiosity had felt intrusive, uncomfortable—more than uncomfortable—but it wasn’t entirely unreasonable.
He padded across the sand. She lay on her back now, the awning shading her from the afternoon sun, her enormous dark sunglasses keeping her eyes hidden. A bright blue sarong draped her legs and she wore the yellow bikini top he’d enjoyed removing on numerous occasions. She must have heard his approach and yet she didn’t move a muscle.
He dropped to his knees on the rug and shook his head, spraying droplets of seawater over her.
‘Hey!’ She whipped her sunglasses off and glared up at him.
He stared back, meeting that fiery little temper of hers head-on. ‘You’re upset,’ he observed.
‘You got up and walked away from me, Nico. How do you think that makes me feel? Knowing that I can’t stand up and follow you?’
Shame pierced him, and he didn’t like it. ‘You pushed me, Marietta,’ he said, taking a defensive tack.
‘I asked you a question. That’s all.’
Frustration needled under his skin. He grabbed a towel, dried himself off and sat down beside her. He stared moodily out at the sea. ‘I don’t talk about my wife with other people.’
A pause. ‘Is that what I am to you?’ she asked quietly. ‘“Other people”?’
He turned his head to look at her. ‘No,’ he conceded gruffly—because she wasn’t. She was different—the only person he’d let get this close to him in ten years.
Hell. He pushed his hands through his hair, closed his eyes for a moment. Then he stretched out on his back beside her and took a deep, slow breath.
‘Her name was Julia,’ he began, ‘and we met at a resort in Mexico when I was twenty-four.’
He could feel Marietta’s gaze on him but he kept his own pinned on the blue and white stripes of the awning above them.
‘She was vacationing with girlfriends and I was blowing off steam with some guys I had just completed a private security contract with.’
It had been a classic case of ‘opposites attract’.He’d been a big, rough-around-the-edges foreigner and she’d been a pretty polished blonde from a privileged background. But Julia had been so much more than that. She had been sweetness and light—everything Nico had missed from his life since his mother had died.
Within six months they’d been married, despite her parents’ protestations.
‘It should never have worked,’ he said. ‘Our backgrounds were too different. And her father was running for the state senate.’ He grimaced at the memory of Jack Lewisham’s reaction to the man his daughter had declared she was marrying. ‘I wasn’t exactly desirable son-in-law material.’
He paused. Marietta was silent, but he sensed her listening intently.
‘Things were rocky with her parents at the start, but eventually they accepted me.’
Nico had been determined to prove to Jack Lewisham that he was worthy of the man’s daughter. He’d worked multiple day jobs and studied for a business degree at night, with the intention of starting his own company. In the end Jack had been impressed. He’d even loaned Nico a substantial chunk of capital to get the business started.
He closed his eyes and swallowed, his mouth going dry.
‘Julia was kidnapped.’
Marietta gasped. ‘Mio Dio...’ she breathed. ‘By whom?’
‘Opportunists. Criminals.’ His jaw hardened. ‘Her parents were extremely wealthy and high-profile.’
‘Oh, Nico...’
He could hear the horror in her voice, blocked it out.
‘Her father and I argued over whether or not to involve the authorities. The kidnappers had warned against it and Jack was terrified. He believed that his willingness to hand over the ransom combined with my military experience and resources would be sufficient to get Julia home safely.’ He clenched his jaw. ‘The man practically got on his knees and begged me to agree.’
‘And you did?’
‘Reluctantly.’
The absolute worst decision of his life. His biggest, most horrific failure.
She touched his arm. ‘What happened?’
‘Julia was shot.’
Marietta’s hand tightened on his arm, communicating her shock, and somehow her touch grounded him. Kept him from sliding back to that dark place in his head where there was only that filthy ditch and Julia’s cold, lifeless body.
‘Were the kidnappers caught?’ she asked gently.
‘Eventually.’
He hadn’t rested—not until every member of the gang responsible had been caught, prosecuted and imprisoned.
‘They claimed her death had been an accident. Said she’d made a grab for one of their guns and it went off in a struggle.’
‘Nico... I’m so sorry...’
Finally he looked at her. Tears streaked her face and he muttered a curse, gathered her into his arms.
‘Please tell me you don’t blame yourself,’ she whispered, pressing her face to his chest.
In the silence that followed she lifted her head and stared at him.
‘Nico! You can’t possibly—’
‘I can,’ he said grimly. ‘And so did Jack.’
‘But that’s crazy—how could he?’
‘He was a man half-demented with grief.’ It was something Nico had understood, for he, too, had almost lost his mind. ‘He needed to lash out. To blame someone other than himself.’
Marietta put her head back on his chest. ‘It wasn’t your fault,’ she said fiercely.
Nico tightened his arms around her. She was, he thought with an odd feeling of gratitude, the only person ever to try to absolve him of guilt.
* * *
For the first time in days Nico retired to his study after dinner, and when it got late and he still hadn’t emerged Marietta went to bed alone.
She lay in his gigantic bed, thinking of everything he’d told her on the beach that day, and her heart ached for him.
How could he blame himself for his wife’s death? And how could his father-in-law blame him for a decision the older man had essentially made himself?
It didn’t make sense—but when did these kinds of things ever make sense? It was the nature of tragedies. Of how people tried to cope. And she understood something about that. Her friends had died in the accident and she hadn’t—how could she not have questioned that outcome? Not felt some degree of survivor’s guilt? But in the end she’d had to let it go or it would have destroyed her. She had decided to be strong. To make something of her life—of the second chance her young friends had been so cruelly denied.
And are you? a voice in her head challenged. Are you making the most of that chance?
She frowned at the ceiling. She had tried hard for the last three days not to think about her conversation with Nico at the restaurant. He’d pushed some buttons she’d thought were no longer sensitive. Rekindled a longing for things she had convinced herself were out of reach.
But she knew that yearning for things that might never be was dangerous. A guarantee of heartache and disappointment. She had already travelled that road—with the experimental surgeries, with Davide... She couldn’t set herself on a path of false hope again.
Which made the little daydreams she’d caught herself indulging in these past few days—silly fantasised scenarios of wheeling down a church aisle in a white gown, or holding a tiny sweet-smelling baby in her arms—all the more ridiculous.
The sound of footsteps coming down the hallway halted her thoughts. Quickly she closed her eyes, feigned sleep. If Nico had wanted to make love to her tonight he’d have joined her sooner; she had too much pride to let him think she’d been lying here waiting for him.
She heard the rustle of clothes being shed, felt the bed compress and then, to her surprise, the press of a hot palm against her breast. She looked up and saw the glitter of blue eyes in the semi-darkness before his mouth claimed hers in a hard, invasive kiss that drove a hot spike of need through her core.
He pushed her thighs apart, slid his hand between her legs and growled low in his throat when he found her wet and ready for him. He rolled away for a moment and then he was back, braced above her this time, his features stark, the glitter in his eyes ferocious as he entered her with a single powerful thrust.
She gasped his name, clinging to his shoulders as he drove deep, again and again. He had never taken her hard and fast like this before—as though he barely had control of himself—and she thrilled to the wild, primitive feeling of being claimed.
Possessed.
She dug her fingers into rippling muscle, feeling the tension and the heat building, spiralling, until a moan rushed up her throat and she crested that blinding peak at the same instant as Nico’s big body tensed above her. He slammed deep into her one last time and pleasure pulsated from her core, obliterating every conscious thought from her head except for one.
One thought that stopped her heart as his weight bore down on her and she wrapped her arms tightly around him.
She loved him.
* * *
Marietta put down her brush and studied the canvas. The painting was finally finished and she was pleased with it. Her choice of colours and the way she’d illustrated the fortress’s proud, crumbling ruins, with pale shafts of sunlight slanting through the old ramparts, had created the impression of something ethereal, almost otherworldly.
But she couldn’t help but wish now that she’d painted something different. Something a little brighter, more uplifting. She had planned on leaving the painting behind—as a gift for Nico—but it seemed too haunting now for a man who was already haunted.
A shiver rippled through her. Their lovemaking last night had been so intense. So silent. Nico hadn’t uttered a word—not before or during or afterwards—and yet he’d watched her the entire time he had been inside her, with that fierce intensity blazing in his blue eyes.
Her heart twisted painfully in her chest. The emotion she’d been wrestling with ever since her shattering revelation last night refused to be subdued.
She could not have fallen in love with him. Not so quickly. So hopelessly. So irrevocably.
Except she had.
And now her heart would break, because she wanted something she couldn’t have. A man. A man too closed off from his emotions to ever be available to her or anyone else.
And already he was withdrawing.
He hadn’t reached for her this morning...hadn’t lavished her with kisses and caresses while the sun rose and then joined her for a lazy breakfast on the terrace. Instead he’d got dressed and gone straight to his study, emerging only for a quick lunch before disappearing again.
She put her paints away and folded her brushes into a rag for cleaning. The ache in her chest was her penance, she told herself harshly. She’d been a fool and now she’d have to live with the consequences—a concept she was all too familiar with.
She wheeled down the hall towards the utility room where she usually cleaned her brushes.
Nico stepped out of his study.
‘Do you have a minute?’
She stopped and looked at him. He sounded so polite. The ache in her chest intensified. For the last three days she’d deliberately avoided asking about her stalker, assuring herself that Nico would tell her anything important.
He had something important to tell her now. Which meant this was the beginning of the end.
Her mouth drying, she nodded, and he stood back so she could wheel herself into the study. She stopped by his desk and he handed her a piece of paper—a printed digital photograph of a man.
‘Do you know him?’
She studied the image. The man was clean-shaven, and he wore trendy thin-rimmed eyeglasses and a baseball cap. The photograph was grainy, as if it had been enlarged a few times, but the man’s face was clear enough and...familiar.
She nodded slowly. ‘It’s Sergio Berardi. He’s an artist.’ She studied the photo again, an icy finger sliding across her nape. ‘I exhibited some of his work at the gallery about a year ago.’
‘Nine months,’ said Nico.
The hairs on her arms lifted. ‘I’ve met him a few times socially, through art circles,’ she said, and suddenly it all made a horrible kind of sense. She put the photo down on the desk, not wanting to look at it any longer. ‘He asked me out a couple of times but I declined.’
He hadn’t been unpleasant, or unattractive, but she’d already decided not to waste her time on relationships. She rubbed her forehead. Thinking back, he had been intense. A little unsettling.
‘Santo cielo...’ Bile climbed her throat. ‘I can’t believe I didn’t think of him before.’
Nico shrugged, as if it were of no consequence. ‘Don’t beat yourself up,’ he said.
Did he sound distant, or was she imagining it? Being oversensitive?
Her heart lurched. She wanted to rewind. Go back to the beginning and relive her time with him. Relive the fantasy. Because she knew with utter certainty that her life wouldn’t be the same when she got back to Rome. Not after Nico.
She swallowed past the lump in her throat. ‘What happens now?’
‘I’m leaving immediately for Toulon.’
She frowned up at him. ‘Don’t you mean we are leaving?’
‘Non,’ he said. ‘I need to get to Rome as quickly as possible, to liaise with the authorities. I can travel faster if I leave at once and go on my own. I’ll do a quick round trip and be back late tomorrow. We can stay here tomorrow night and then get you back to Rome on Wednesday.’
One last night with him.
Her heart somersaulted. ‘Okay,’ she agreed—too readily.
He glanced at his watch. ‘Bien. I’ll call Josephine. See if she or Luc are available to come and collect you.’ He started gathering together papers on his desk. ‘You should go and pack an overnight bag straight away.’
Marietta blinked at him. ‘Why would I do that?’
He paused. ‘Because you’ll be staying at Josephine’s tonight.’
She blinked again. ‘And why would I do that when I can stay here?’
He frowned. ‘Because I don’t want you staying here on your own.’
She stared at him. ‘Why not? I live alone in Rome. You know that, Nico. I’m more than capable of spending a night here on my own.’
‘Rome is different. You live in an urban apartment, with neighbours and people nearby. It’s too isolated up here. I want to know you’re safe while I’m gone.’
‘You mean you want someone to babysit me?’ Her face heated with indignation. ‘I’m paralysed, Nico—not useless.’
His expression darkened. ‘I did not say you were useless.’
‘But you might as well have. Heaven forbid the poor cripple is left to fend for herself!’
Now his face turned thunderous. ‘Don’t call yourself a cripple!’
‘Then don’t treat me like one!’
‘Marietta...’ His voice was a low, warning growl.
She pushed her chin up. ‘I’m staying here.’
He cursed loudly. ‘I don’t have time for this.’
‘No, you don’t,’ she agreed. ‘So I suggest you get a move on and go and pack your bag.’
A nerve flickered in his temple. He opened his mouth and closed it again, then scowled and stalked out of the room.
* * *
Nico sat in a leather recliner in his private jet and stared out at the thickening wall of cloud as the aircraft’s powerful engines ate up the miles to Toulon.
It was twenty-six hours since he’d left for Rome and he was eager to get back to Île de Lavande. Leaving Marietta alone at the house had not sat well with him, but she was proud—stubborn as hell—and she’d argued him into a corner.
He stretched out his legs, rubbed eyes that felt gritty and strained. Dealing with endless police bureaucracy in Rome and the vagaries of the Italian legal system had been an exercise in frustration. But he’d called on some old contacts, pulled a few strings and in the end got what he’d wanted: a little one-on-one time in a non-surveillance holding cell with Sergio Berardi.
Nico hadn’t laid a finger on the man and he hadn’t needed to. Berardi had nearly wet himself the second Nico had locked the door, shrugged off his jacket and rolled up his sleeves. He intended to do everything within his power to ensure that the charges against Berardi stuck and he was locked up, but Nico had wanted to make certain that in the event the man was released he understood exactly what kind of retribution to expect if he went anywhere near Marietta.
He swallowed a mouthful of whisky.
He had missed Marietta last night. Missed her sweet, intoxicating smell, her soft warmth, the taste of her lingering on his tongue after making love. Even thinking about her now sent a powerful throb of desire pulsing through him.
Mon Dieu.
He’d crossed a line with her but he couldn’t bring himself to regret it. Marietta had been a balm to his tortured soul. A ray of light in the sea of darkness that had closed over his head a long time ago.
He took another gulp of whisky.
Perhaps he was being hasty, confining their affair to these few days on the island? He couldn’t imagine his hunger for her dying any time soon—nor could he imagine another woman satisfying him while his need for Marietta still burned in his blood. He could see her occasionally, could he not? A casual arrangement might be the perfect solution. Might suit them both until—
A massive jolt wrenched Nico sideways in his seat. His head hit the wall and the glass flew from his hand, whisky spilling everywhere and soaking the crotch of his trousers. He swore, looked up, and saw his flight attendant, Evelyn, clutching a seat-back. He barked at her to sit down and strap herself in, then picked up the built-in handset that gave him direct access to the cockpit.
‘Severe unexpected turbulence, sir,’ his pilot informed him. ‘It’s the edge of a category three storm—coming through a couple of hours earlier than expected.’
Expected? Nico swore again. He always checked the weather forecasts when he was headed to the island. Always. But this time... This time he’d forgotten. He’d been preoccupied. Distracted.
‘We have clearance from Toulon, provided we land in the next fifteen minutes,’ the pilot advised. ‘After that everything’s grounded or diverted.’
Which meant he had zero chance of flying the chopper to the island. He stared grimly out of the window. The cloud was menacing and black, darkening the interior of the plane.
‘What direction is the storm coming from?’
The pilot rattled off the latest update—and Nico felt the blood drain from his face.
The storm was headed straight for Île de Lavande.