Taming the Notorious Sicilian

A shiver ran up her spine at his deep, accented voice. ‘You have done so much for me,’ she enthused. ‘Even if I had all the money in the world I could never repay you for your kindness, so yes, I am in your debt.’

His eyes narrowed as he studied her a little longer before inclining his head at the door. ‘Come in for a minute.’

‘That would be great,’ she said, not caring in the least that his directive was an order rather than a request.

The two-man mountain that had flanked Francesco up to this point, guarding him as well as they would if she were carrying an Uzi nine-millimetre, parted. She darted between them, following Francesco inside.

After walking through a large reception area, they stepped into the club proper.

Hannah’s eyes widened. ‘Amazing,’ she whispered, turning her head in all directions.

Calvetti’s oozed glamour. All deep reds and silver, it was like stepping into old Hollywood. The only club she’d been to was at the age of eighteen when her entire class had descended on The Dell, their sleepy seaside town’s only nightclub, to celebrate finishing their A levels. It had been one of the most boring evenings of her life.

Compared to this place, The Dell had been grey and dingy beyond imagination.

And, in fact, compared to Francesco, with his olive skin, short black curly hair and strong jawline, all the men she had ever met in her life were grey and dingy beyond imagination, too.

‘You like it?’

Her skin heating under the weight of his scrutiny, she nodded. ‘It’s beautiful.’

‘You should come here one evening.’

‘Me? Oh, no, I’m not into clubbing.’ Then, fearing she had inadvertently insulted him, quickly added, ‘But my sister Melanie would love it here—it’s her hen night on Friday so I’ll suggest she drops in.’

‘You do that.’

It didn’t surprise Francesco to learn Hannah Chapman wasn’t into clubbing. The women who frequented his clubs were a definite type—partygoers and women looking to hook up with a rich or famous man, preferably both.

Hannah Chapman was a doctor, not a wannabe WAG. He allowed himself to take in her appearance more fully, and noticed that she was dressed professionally, in another variation of the trouser suit she’d been wearing on the day she was knocked off her bike. The lighting in the club had the effect of making her white blouse see-through, illuminating her bra, which, to his trained eye, looked practical rather than sexy. Her thick blonde hair looked as if it hadn’t seen a hairbrush in weeks, and he could not detect the slightest trace of make-up on her face.

He’d assumed when he’d seen her at the door that she had come with an agenda. In his experience, everyone had an agenda.

He slipped behind the bar, watching as she set the flowers and card to one side. He had never been presented with flowers before. The gesture intrigued him. ‘What can I get you to drink?’

‘I could murder a coffee.’

‘Nothing stronger?’

‘I don’t drink alcohol, thank you. In any case, I’ve been working since seven and if I don’t get an enormous shot of caffeine I might just pass out.’ He liked the droll way she spoke, the air of amusement that laced her voice. It made a change from the usual petulant tones he was used to hearing from her sex.

‘You’re back at work already?’

‘I was back within a fortnight, as soon as I’d recovered from the concussion.’

‘Any other injuries?’

‘A broken clavicle—collarbone—which is fusing back together nicely. Oh, and a broken middle finger, but that seems to be healed now.’

‘You don’t know if your own finger’s healed?’

She shrugged and hopped onto a stool, facing him. ‘It doesn’t hurt anymore so I assume it’s healed.’

‘Is that a professional diagnosis?’

She grinned. ‘Absolutely.’

‘Remind me not to come and see you if I need medical attention,’ he commented drily, stepping over to the coffee machine.

‘You’re about twenty years too old for me.’

He raised a brow.

Her grin widened. ‘Sorry, I mean you’re twenty years too old for me to treat in a medical capacity, unless you want to be treated on a ward full of babies, toddlers, and kids. I’m specialising in paediatrics.’

It was on the tip of his tongue to ask why she had chosen to specialise in children but he kept his question to himself. He wanted to know why she had sought him out.

He placed a cup in the machine and pressed a button. ‘Do you take milk and sugar?’

‘No milk but two sugars, please. I might as well overdose on that as well as caffeine.’

His thoughts exactly. He added two heaped spoons to both cups and passed one to her.

His initial assessment of her had been correct. She really was very pretty. Of average height and slender, her practical trousers showcased the most fabulous curvy bottom. It was a shame she was now sitting on it. The more he looked at her, the more he liked what he saw.

And he could tell that she liked what she saw, too.

Yes, this unexpected visit from Dr Chapman could take a nice twist.

A very nice twist.

He took a sip of his strong, sweet coffee before placing his cup next to hers, folding his arms across his chest and leaning on the bar before her.

‘Why are you here?’

Her eyes never left his face. ‘Because I needed to let you know how grateful I am. You kept me warm until the ambulance arrived, then travelled in the ambulance with me, stayed at the hospital for hours until I’d regained consciousness, and you tracked down the driver who hit me and forced him to hand himself in to the police. No one has ever done anything like that for me before, and you’ve done it for a complete stranger.’

Her face was so animated, her cheeks so heightened with colour, that for a moment his fingers itched to reach out and touch her.

How did she know all this? He’d left the hospital as soon as he’d been given word that she’d regained consciousness. He hadn’t seen her since.

‘How about you let me buy you dinner one night, so I can thank you properly?’ Colour tinged her cheeks.

‘You want to buy me dinner?’ He didn’t even attempt to keep the surprise from his voice. Women didn’t ask him out on dates. It just didn’t happen. For certain, they thought nothing of cajoling him into taking them out to expensive restaurants and lavishing them with expensive clothes and jewellery—something he was happy to oblige them in, enjoying having beautiful women on his arm. But taking the initiative and offering him a night out...?

In Francesco’s world, man was king. Women were very much pretty trinkets adorning the arm and keeping the bed warm. Men did the running, initially at least, following the traps set by the women so the outcome was assured.

She nodded, cradling her coffee. ‘It’s the least I can do.’