The Ultimate Risk

‘Ginevra—an Italian name,’ Lanzo observed softly. He was intrigued by her obvious reluctance to shake his hand, and the slight tremble of her fingers when she placed them in his palm. Her skin was soft and pale, in stark contrast to his deep tan, and he had a sudden erotic image of her naked—of milky-white limbs entwined with his darker ones. He lifted her hand to his mouth and grazed his lips across her knuckles, feeling an unexpectedly sharp tug of desire in his gut when her eyes widened and darkened.

Gina snatched her hand from Lanzo’s grasp, feeling as though an electrical current had shot along her arm. She swallowed and struggled for composure. ‘My grandmother was Italian, and I was given her name,’ she murmured coolly, thankful that the years she had spent working for the very demanding chairman of a world-renowned department store chain meant that she was an expert at hiding her private thoughts. Hopefully no one would guess that

Lanzo’s close proximity was making her heart race so fast that she felt breathless and churned up inside.

His green eyes glittered and she quickly looked away from him, assuring herself that he could not possibly read her mind. He gave a small frown as he studied her intently. She sensed that he was intrigued by her, but she had no intention of reminding him that they had once, very briefly, been lovers. Ten years was a long time, and undoubtedly countless other women had shared his bed since her. It was far better, and less embarrassing, that he did not recognise her. And, to be fair, it was not his fault that, while she had not forgotten him, he had presumably never given her a second thought after he had casually announced at the end of that summer a decade ago that he was returning to his home in Italy.

Lanzo’s eyes narrowed as he studied Ginevra Bailey. Something about her tugged on his mind, but the faint memory was elusive. And as he skimmed his gaze over her hourglass figure, displayed to perfection by a navy blue silk-jersey dress that clung to her curves, he was certain that if they had met on a previous occasion he would not have forgotten her.

Her beauty was understated: a perfect oval-shaped face, skin as smooth as porcelain, and deep blue eyes that were almost the exact shade of her dress. Once again something stirred in his subconscious—a distant recollection of eyes as intensely blue as the deep ocean—but the memory remained frustratingly intangible, and perhaps it was nothing. He had known many women, he acknowledged wryly. It was possible that Ginevra Bailey simply reminded him of a past mistress whose identity eluded him.

Beside him, Alex made a slight movement, and Lanzo realised with a jolt that he was staring at the beautiful brunette. He resisted the temptation to reach out and run his fingers through the long chestnut-brown hair that rippled down her back and inhaled sharply, his body taut with sexual anticipation. He had not been so instantly turned on for a long time, and his reaction was all the more surprising because he was usually attracted to tall, willowy blondes. The woman in front of him was a delectable package of voluptuous curves who was having a profound affect on his libido, and Lanzo was in no doubt that he intended to bed her at the first opportunity.

‘I hope you are enjoying the party, Ginevra,’ he murmured. ‘Are you a fan of powerboat racing?’

‘No. I’ve never seen the attraction of dangerous sports,’ Gina replied shortly.

She was struggling to disguise her overwhelming awareness of Lanzo, and must have sounded more abrupt than she had intended because Alex interspersed quickly, ‘Gina was responsible for the floral displays tonight. The table centrepieces are beautiful, don’t you think?’

‘Indeed.’ Lanzo glanced at the arrangement of red and white roses and trailing variegated ivy on a nearby table. ‘You are a florist then … Gina?’ He frowned, wondering why the shortened version of her name seemed familiar.

‘Not professionally. It’s simply a hobby,’ she replied. During her marriage to Simon he had encouraged her to take an expensive flower-arranging course, as well as an even more expensive course of lessons in French cuisine, so that she could be the perfect hostess at his business dinner parties. The cookery lessons were not of much use now that she was only preparing meals for herself—often a ready-meal heated up in the microwave, Gina thought ruefully—but she had enjoyed making the floral displays for the party.

‘The floristry firm I’d originally booked were forced to pull out because of staff illness,’ Alex explained. ‘Luckily

Gina offered to step in and decorate the tables.’ He paused as he caught sight of one of the waiters frantically signalling to him from across the room. ‘There seems to be some sort of crisis in the kitchen,’ he muttered. ‘Would you excuse me?’

Gina watched Alex thread his way through the throng of guests, feeling a flutter of tension now that she was alone with Lanzo. Of course they were not really alone, she reminded herself impatiently. The restaurant was packed with party guests, but as she slowly turned back to him she felt the strangest sensation that they were in a bubble, distanced somehow from the hum of voices around them.

Surely every woman remembered her first lover? she told herself again. Her response to Lanzo was a natural reaction to seeing a face from the past. But deep down she knew it was more than that. She’d had a couple of relationships before she had married, but no other man—not even Simon in the happier times of their marriage—had evoked this helpless, out-of-control longing; this violent, almost primitive desire that shocked her with its intensity.

Lanzo had been incredibly special to her, she acknowledged. Although their affair had not lasted long, the discovery that a man like him—an international jet-set playboy who could have any woman he wanted—had desired her, had boosted her confidence. Because of him she had changed from a shy teenager into a self-assured woman who had built a successful career and later caught the eye of an equally successful City banker.

But if Lanzo had given her confidence Simon had stripped it from her, she thought ruefully. Thanks to her disastrous marriage she no longer had faith in her judgement of others. She felt stupid that she had not realised what Simon was really like beneath his charming exterior, and right now she was wary of Lanzo’s potent masculinity and felt painfully vulnerable.

To her relief a waiter approached and offered to refill her glass. Usually she only had one drink at social events—a throwback to all the times Simon had drunk too much at parties and become embarrassingly loud and unpleasant. But tonight she was grateful for any distraction from Lanzo’s overwhelming presence, and when the waiter had gone and she was alone with him once more she took a hurried sip of her champagne and felt the bubbles explode on her tongue.

‘So you don’t like powerboat racing?’ he drawled, in his gravelly, sexy accent. ‘Are there any forms of watersports you do like?’

‘I enjoyed learning to sail in the bay when I was a child. Sailing is rather more peaceful than tearing through the water at a ridiculous speed,’ she said pointedly.

‘But not as adrenalin-pumping,’ Lanzo murmured, his eyes glinting with amusement when she blushed.

Gina had a horrible feeling that he knew her adrenalin levels were sky-high as her instincts sensed the threat he posed to her peace of mind and she prepared to fight him or flee.

‘Do you live locally, Gina?’ The way he curled his tongue around her name caused needle-darts of pleasure to shiver across her skin.

‘Yes, I was born here. Actually, I’m the fourth generation of Baileys to be born in Poole—but the last, I’m afraid, because I don’t have any brothers to carry on the family name.’ She knew she was babbling but it was preferable to an awkward silence, when Lanzo might hear the loud thudding of her heart. She took a deep breath and prayed that her usual calm nature would reassert itself. ‘Are you staying in Poole for long, Signor di Cosimo?’

‘Lanzo,’ he corrected her. ‘Regrettably, this is only a short trip as I have other business commitments, but I hope to return soon.’ He studied her flushed face and smiled. ‘Perhaps sooner than I had planned,’ he drawled.

Gina felt trapped by a powerful force that would not allow her to tear her eyes from Lanzo’s face. They were alone in a room full of people, bound together by a powerful chemistry that held them both in its thrall.

Lanzo watched her pupils widen until her eyes were deep, dark pools, and his body tautened as heat surged through his veins. She had intrigued him from the moment he had glanced across the room and discovered her watching him. It happened to him all the time. Women had stared at him since he was a teenager. But never before had he felt such a strong urge to respond to the desire that darkened her eyes to the colour of midnight.

The loud smash of glass shattering on the tiled floor hurtled Gina back to reality, and she looked around to see that one of the waitresses had dropped a tray of glasses. She was shocked to realise how close she was standing to Lanzo and she jerked back from him, her face burning when she caught the hard gleam in his eyes. How long had she been staring at him like an over-awed teenager? she wondered, feeling hot with embarrassment. She had no recollection of either of them moving, but their bodies had been so close that her pelvis had almost brushed against his.

Tearing her gaze from him, she saw that the waitress was trying to gather up the shards of glass with her hands. ‘I’ll get a broom,’ she muttered, and hurried across the restaurant, grateful for the chance to escape Lanzo’s intent stare.

He watched her walk away from him, feeling himself harden as he studied the gentle sway of her bottom beneath its covering of tight navy silk.

Oh, Gina! What a transformation time had wrought, he mused, for he had suddenly solved the puzzle of why she seemed familiar. He remembered her now—although she looked very different from the shy waitress who had followed him around with puppy-dog devotion and been so sweetly anxious to please him that summer he had spent in England.

He had not known that her proper name was Ginevra. It suited the sophisticated woman she had become. And really it was not surprising that he had initially failed to recognise her, he assured himself, because this elegant woman, with her toned figure and her mane of glossy chestnut hair, bore scant resemblance to the slightly plump, awkward girl who had delighted him with her unexpectedly passionate nature when she had been his lover for a few weeks one summer, a long time ago.

Was the grown-up Gina still the sensual, uniquely generous lover who had appeared in his dreams for several months after he had returned to Italy? Lanzo brooded. Events in his life had taught him to live for the present and never revisit the past. But he was prepared to make an exception in this instance, he mused, watching her until she disappeared into the kitchens with a determined gleam in his eyes that would have worried her had she seen it.

CHAPTER TWO

IT STILL wasn’t completely dark, even though it was almost eleven o’clock, Gina noted when she emerged from the restaurant and glanced up at the indigo sky which was studded with a few faint stars. The water in the harbour was flat and calm, and the salt tang carried on the breeze was a welcome contrast to the stifling atmosphere of the restaurant.

She loved the long days and balmy evenings of June, and she paused for a moment, enjoying the fresh air which was cool but did not require her to slip on her jacket, before she turned and began to stroll along the quay.

‘I did not realise that you still lived in Poole.’ A tall figure stepped out of the shadows, and Gina’s heart skittered when Lanzo fell in step beside her. ‘I visit several times a year and I’m surprised I haven’t seen you around.’

Gina gave him a startled glance, her heart thudding with the realisation that he had finally recognised her. The expression in his eyes made her pulse quicken. It was the intense, predatory look of a panther stalking its prey, she thought, and then gave herself a mental shake. He was just a man, she reminded herself irritably. But the soft night air carried the spicy drift of his aftershave, and as her senses quivered she ruefully acknowledged that Lanzo would never be ‘just’ anything.

‘Perhaps you did see me on one of your previous visits, but you didn’t remember me,’ she said tartly, still feeling faintly chagrined that he had not realised her identity back at the restaurant.

‘Oh, I remember you, Gina,’ he said softly. ‘Although I admit I did not immediately recognise you tonight. You’ve changed a lot since I knew you.’

He wanted to run his fingers through her long silky hair, but he had noticed how she had tensed the moment she had seen him outside the restaurant. The flash of awareness in her deep blue eyes when she had first spotted him had told him that she was as conscious of the fierce sexual chemistry between them as he, but for some reason she seemed determined to ignore it.

‘Your hair especially is different from the style you wore ten years ago,’ he commented.

‘Don’t remind me,’ Gina groaned, utterly mortified by the memory of the curly perm she had believed would make her look older and more sophisticated than the ponytail she’d had since she was six. The perm had been a disaster, which had transformed her hair into an untameable bush with the texture of wire wool, and rather than looking sexy and sophisticated she had resembled a chubby poodle. As if the perm hadn’t been bad enough, she had been a few pounds overweight, she remembered grimly. ‘I can’t imagine why you ever noticed me,’ she muttered.

In all honesty he had not taken much notice of her when he had first arrived in Poole to oversee the launch of the Di Cosimo restaurant here all those years ago, Lanzo remembered. Gina had simply been one of the staff—a part-time waitress who helped out with the washing up on nights when the restaurant was especially busy.

She had been a shy, mousy girl, with an annoying habit of looking at the floor whenever he spoke to her—until on one occasion he had been so irritated by her studious inspection of the carpet that he had cupped her chin in his hand and tilted her face upwards and had found himself staring into the bluest eyes he had ever seen.

The unremarkable waitress was not so ordinary after all, he had been amazed to discover, as he had studied her flawless peaches-and-cream complexion and her wide, surprisingly kissable mouth. He could not remember their conversation—it had probably been something inconsequential, like asking her to fill the salt-cellars—but after that he had noticed her more often, and had invariably found her watching him. Although she had blushed scarlet and hastily looked away whenever he had met her gaze.

That summer ten years ago had been a dark period in his life, Lanzo reflected grimly. Alfredo had died in the spring, and he had been struggling to come to terms with the loss of the man he had regarded as a second father—the man who would have been his father-in-law had it not been for the devastating fire that had swept through the di Cosimo family home and taken the lives of Lanzo’s parents and his fiancée five years before that.

Cristina’s face was a distant memory now—like a slightly out of focus photograph—and the pain of her loss no longer felt like a knife being thrust through his heart. But he remembered her; he would always remember the gentle girl he had fallen in love with all those years ago.

Widower Alfredo and Lanzo’s parents had been delighted when he had announced that Cristina had agreed to be his wife. But a week before the wedding tragedy had struck.