Her First-Date Honeymoon

Earlier, when she had phoned him while he was en route to Venice, she had told him she was leaving tomorrow for her home city of New York, but she had promised him a night to remember. They had dated intermittently in the past, when their paths had crossed. It had been fun. But recently he had realised that beneath her cool sass lay fantasies of a future together, so he had good-humouredly turned down her offer. Again. But she obviously hadn’t listened and now she lay in his bed.

He stifled a curse.

It was past midnight. His bones ached for a shower and the oblivion of sleep.

‘Cara, it’s time for you to leave.’

Beneath the silk of her nightgown her ribcage jerked.

His hand stilled.

Something was wrong. Her scent was wrong. The dip of her waist was wrong. The endless curls in her hair, brushing his hand, making him itch with the desire to thread it through his fingers and pull her towards him, were wrong.

His breathing, his heart, his thoughts went on hold. The red traffic lights of confusion waited to switch to the green of clarity.

Her head inched upwards until wide eyes met his: perplexed, scared, startled.

His own disbelief left him speechless.

Caspita! Who was this stranger lying in his bed?

And then he wanted to laugh. Could this week get any worse?

His starved lungs sucked in air. He could barely make out her features, but still a lick of attraction barrelled through him. Her scent—the clean low notes of rose—the enticing warmth of her body, the mass of hair tumbling on the bed sheets made him want to draw her into him. To take solace in her softness, her femininity, from the craziness of his life.

Her mouth opened. And closed. She swallowed a cartoon gulp. Her mouth opened again. Her lips were full, the hint of a deep cupid’s bow on the upper lip. A dangerous beauty.

Her body stiffened beside him. Seconds passed. Two strangers. In the most intimate of settings.

A tiny sound of disbelief hiccupped from her throat.

Then, in a shower of rising and falling sheets and blankets, she flung off the bedclothes and darted towards the door.

In one smooth movement he followed her and yanked her back.

Long narrow bones crashed into him, along with a tumble of hair, a scent that left him wanting more.

‘Who are you? What do you want?’

Her voice was a husky rasp, heavily accented, sexy, English. A voice he had definitely never heard before.

Attraction kicked again. Strong enough to knock him out of his stupor. His earlier frustration lit up inside him. Bright and fierce.

He pulled her towards the wall and flicked on the bedroom chandelier. She winced, but then hazel eyes settled on his, anger mixing with shock.

She attempted to jerk away but he gripped her slim arm tighter.

A flare of defiance grew in her eyes. ‘If you don’t let me go I’m going to scream until the entire neighbourhood, all of Venice, is awake.’

A growl of fury leapt from his throat. ‘Scream away. My neighbours are used to hearing me entertain.’

A blush erupted on her cheeks. She dipped her head.

Satisfaction twitched on his lips. He lowered his mouth towards her ear. ‘Now, tell me, do you make a habit of breaking into homes? Sleeping in strangers’ beds?’

* * *

Emma Fox knew she should be scared. But instead an anger, a rebellion, surged in her. She was not going to be pushed around again. Her heart might be doing a full drama queen routine in her chest, but the pit of her stomach was shouting, Enough! Enough of false accusations. Enough of people telling her what to do. Enough of the mess that was her life.

She grabbed the hand clinging to her upper arm and tried to prise his fingers away. ‘What on earth are you talking about? I haven’t broken in. I was invited to stay here by the palazzo’s owner.’

Her captor took a step back to stare down at her, but his grip grew tighter. For the first time she saw his face. Her heart went silent. Why couldn’t he be on the wrong side of handsome? A few blemishes here and there, a little cross-eyed, perhaps. Instead she faced a gulp-inducing, knee-knocking magnificence that stole all her composure.

His golden-brown eyes flared with the incredulous impatience of a man used to getting his way. ‘Signorina, that is impossible. I own Ca’ Divina. This is my property.’

He let go of her arm and moved to the door. He slammed it shut and stood guard in front of the large ancient door, arms crossed.

‘Now, tell me the truth before I call the carabinieri.’

The carabinieri. He couldn’t. Her stomach tumbled. She had spent a nightmare morning in police custody only yesterday. She couldn’t go through that again. The disbelieving looks. Then the impatient pity when they’d realised she was nothing but a patsy in the whole debacle.

Fear tap-danced down her spine and she began to shiver. She was wearing only a barely there nightdress and longed to cover up. To walk away from this fully clothed man, armoured in an impeccable dark navy suit and maroon tie, and from the way his eyes were travelling down her body critically. Something about him triggered a memory of seeing him before—but where? Why did he seem familiar?

She backed towards the bed, away from him, and spoke in a rush of words. ‘I’m telling the truth. But how do I know who you are—perhaps you’re the one who has broken into the palazzo.’

He threw her an are you being serious? look. ‘And I’ve woken you up to have an argument? Not the usual behaviour of a thief, I would expect.’

‘No, but—’

He rocked on his heels and inhaled an exasperated breath. ‘In my bedside table you’ll find a tray of cufflinks with my monogram—MV.’

She opened the top drawer of the lacquered and gilt carved bedside table with trembling fingers. Beside a number of priceless-looking Rolex watches sat a platoon of silver, gold and platinum cufflinks, all bearing the letters MV.

A sinking feeling moved through her body, draining her of all energy. ‘I don’t understand...I was in a café earlier today and a lady... Signora...’

Her mind became a black hole of forgetfulness. Across from her, her prison guard scowled in disbelief. Flustered, she tried to zone him out. She had to concentrate. What had her saviour’s name been?

‘Her name was Signora... Signora Ve... Vieri... Yes, that was it—Signora Vieri.’

He unfurled his arms and walked towards her across the antique Oriental rug covering the terrazzo floor. A treasure perhaps imported when the Venetian Republic had been the exploration and commercial powerhouse of Europe centuries ago.

His mouth was a thin line of frustration, his already narrow lips tight and unyielding. ‘What did this Signora Vieri look like?’

His words were spoken in a low, dangerous rumble and she became unaccountably hot, with flames of heat burning up her insides at the menace in his words and the way he was now standing over her, staring down, as if ready to murder the nearest person.

Her vow to toughen up, to refuse to kowtow to anyone ever again was going to be tested sooner than she had anticipated. She squared her shoulders and looked him right in the eye. Which was a bad idea, because immediately she lost herself in those almond-shaped golden-brown eyes and forgot what she was going to say.

The anger in his eyes turned for the briefest moment into a flare of appreciation. Her heart swooped up her throat like a songbird.