Taming the Notorious Sicilian

She swallowed but held his gaze, a look that was cold yet made her feel all warm inside. Seriously, how could a man with chocolate-fudge-cake eyes be all bad?

‘When I was knocked off my bike I thought I’d died,’ she said, clasping her hands together. God, but this was so much harder than she had imagined it would be and she had known it would be hard. ‘I honestly thought that was it for me. Since then, everything has changed—I’ve changed. My accident made me realise I’ve been letting life pass me by.’

‘How does this relate to me?’

Her heart hammered so hard her chest hurt. ‘Because I can’t stop thinking about you.’

His eyes narrowed with suspicion and he folded his arms across his chest.

Hannah’s nerves almost failed her. Her tongue rooted to the roof of her mouth.

‘What is it you want from me?’

Out of the corner of her eye she spotted the thank-you card she’d given him. Seeing it there, displayed on his desk, settled the nerves in her stomach.

Francesco had kept her card.

He’d sought her out and rescued her again.

She wasn’t imagining the connection between them.

She sucked her lips in and bit them before blurting out, ‘I want you to take my virginity.’

CHAPTER THREE (#ulink_3bdbc1db-dc98-5052-9f59-58089926eb94)

FRANCESCO SHOOK HIS HEAD. For the first time in his thirty-six years he was at a loss for words.

‘God, that came out all wrong.’ Hannah covered her face, clearly cringing. When she dropped her hands her face had paled but, to give her credit, she met his gaze with barely a flinch. ‘I didn’t mean it to come out quite so crudely. Please, say something.’

He shook his head again, trying to clear it. ‘Is this some kind of joke?’

‘No.’

‘You’re a virgin?’

‘Yes.’

For a moment he seriously considered that he was in some kind of dream.

Had he fallen asleep at his desk?

Since the discovery of his mother’s diaries ten months ago, he’d been consumed with rage. This rage fuelled him. Indeed, for the past ten months, his drive had been working at full throttle. Only a month ago his doctor had told him to slow down, that he was at risk of burnout. Naturally, he’d ignored that advice. Francesco would not slow down until he had eradicated every last trace of Salvatore Calvetti’s empire.

And to think he’d almost missed those diaries. Had he not given the family home one last sweep before emptying it for sale, he would never have found them, hidden away in boxes in the cubbyhole of his mother’s dressing room. He hadn’t even intended to go into his mother’s rooms but the compulsion to feel close to her one last time had made him enter them for the first time in two decades.

Reading the diaries had been as close to torture as a man could experience. The respect he’d felt for his father, the respect that had made him a dutiful son while his father was alive, had died a brutal death.

His only regret was that he hadn’t learned the truth while his father was alive, would never have the pleasure of punishing him for every hour of misery he’d put his mother through. Duty would have gone to hell. He might just have helped his father into an early grave.

He hoped with every fibre of his being that his father was in hell. He deserved nothing less.

Because now he knew the truth. And he would not be satisfied until he’d destroyed everything Salvatore Calvetti had built, crushed his empire and his reputation. Left it for dust.

The truth consumed him. His hate fuelled him.

It was perfectly feasible he had fallen asleep.

Except he’d never had a dream that made his heart beat as if it would hammer through his ribcage.

He rubbed the back of his neck and stared at the woman who had made such a confounding offer.

She looked ridiculous in her hen outfit, with the pink tutu, black leotard and leggings, and black ballet slippers. At least the other hens had made an effort, adorning their outfits with the sky-high heels women usually wore in his clubs. It didn’t even look as if Hannah had brushed her hair, never mind put any make-up on. What woman went clubbing without wearing make-up?

Indeed, he could not remember the last time he’d met a woman who didn’t wear make-up, full stop.

And she still had those ridiculous bunny ears on her head.

Yet there was something incredibly alluring about Hannah’s fresh-faced looks. Something different.

He’d thought she was different. He’d resisted her offer of a date a few short days ago because of it; because he’d thought she was too different, that she didn’t belong in his world.

Could he really have judged her so wrong?

What kind of woman offered her so-called virginity to a stranger?

And what the hell had compelled him to warn her groper off and not send one of his men in to resolve the situation? If he’d followed his usual procedures he wouldn’t be standing here now on the receiving end of one of the most bizarre offers he’d ever heard.

It had been watching that man paw her—and her dignity when rebuffing his advances—that had made something inside him snap.

The rules were the same in all his establishments, his staff trained to spot customers overstepping the mark in the familiarity stakes. The usual procedure was for one of his doormen to have a polite ‘word’ with the perpetrator. That polite word was usually enough to get them behaving.

Francesco might have little respect for the type of women who usually littered his clubs but that did not mean he would tolerate them being abused in any form.

In the shadows of his memory rested his mother, a woman who had tolerated far too much abuse. And he, her son, had been oblivious to it.

A rush of blood to his head had seen him off his seat, out of his office and onto the dance floor before his brain had time to compute what his feet were doing.

‘I have no idea what you’re playing at,’ he said slowly, ‘but I will not be a party to such a ridiculous game. I have given you your five minutes. It’s time for you to leave.’

This had to be a game. Hannah Chapman had discovered his wealth and, like so many others of her gender, decided she would like to access it.

It unnerved him how disappointed he felt.

‘This isn’t a game.’ She took a visibly deep breath. ‘Please. Francesco, I am a twenty-seven-year-old woman who has never had sex. I haven’t even kissed a man. It’s become a noose around my neck. I don’t want to stay a virgin all my life. All I want is one night to know what it feels like to be a real woman and you’re the only man I can ask.’

‘But why me?’ he asked, incredulous.

Her beautiful hazel eyes held his. ‘Because I trust that you won’t hurt me.’