by Heidi Rice
After calling his PA to arrange a doctor to meet them at the port, and coaxing a surprisingly detailed description of Pinky and Perky out of Katie, Caine contacted the local police force on speaker phone to report the crime. She let her mind drift as she listened to him talk to the dispatcher in Italian, the lyrical language making his deep voice sound even more compelling. She’d only been in Italy a month, and her Italian was still patchy, but his accent sounded perfect. Why was she not surprised? Was there nothing the man didn’t excel at?
The dying sunlight cast the angles of Caine’s face into sharp relief. No wonder she’d had such a crush on him as a nineteen-year-old—the man was scarily gorgeous with a confidence most women would find irresistible. But not her, she told herself, determined to believe it.
He finished the call as they entered the city’s narrow streets, and she forced herself to make one last-ditch attempt to salvage her pride and self-respect, not to mention her sanity. Because four days on Capri with him was liable to threaten all three.
“Are you sure you don’t want to just lend me some money and let me stay here?” she asked. “I really don’t need a keeper. Whatever Dario thinks.”
He took his sunglasses off as the twilight descended and sent her a level look. “Not gonna happen, so give it up,” he said with a determination that dashed her last hope. “And, just for the record, Dario’s not the only one who thinks you need a keeper.”
She huffed out a breath. She should have been upset by the high-handed comment. But she was now officially too tired and too miserable to care. Her head was throbbing, her feet hurt and her nose was beginning to sting from what felt like third-degree sunburn. And then there was the blasted hum to consider, which was making her giddy.
“Has anyone ever told you you’re a bully?” she muttered.
“Frequently,” he said, then a strange thing happened. The sensual line of his lips lifted on one side drawing her attention to the scar on his top lip. She might have missed the movement, because it was there one second and gone the next. But even that tiny flicker—the infinitesimal crack in the controlled facade—had a devastating effect on her equilibrium as the hum plunged.
Her face heated, the atmosphere suddenly too close, too intimate, despite the salty breeze as they took the road down to Marina Grande.
Lights glittered on the cliff top as Sorrento woke up for the night, the Palladian splendor of the Hotel Excelsior Vittoria beaming down on the harbor like a reigning queen. But the view wasn’t anywhere near as breathtaking as the barest hint of a smile on Jared Caine’s lips.
Had she ever seen him smile before? She couldn’t have. Because that crooked half-smile—rare and rusty—was a secret weapon in the man’s arsenal she had been unaware of. As if he didn’t already have enough weapons at his disposable.
“Just so you know, I make a terrible house guest,” she added, not happy that he’d managed to get the upper hand so easily. “I always leave the top off the toothpaste and I never put anything away. You’re going to hate having me there.”
“Our villa has two bathrooms,” he replied as he took a left past the main port at the bottom of the cliff road. “And staff to clean up after you. I’ll manage.”
Our villa? So they were going to be sharing a villa.
The hum became a deep primal buzz.
They drove past the concrete dock where passengers were boarding the evening ferry to Ischia. He slowed the car to a crawl to inch past a couple of waterfront restaurants already filled with tourists watching the last of the sunset. The pungent scent of raw fish and garlic wafted past as they approached rows of fishing boats, leisure dinghies and small yachts bobbing on the water. The car edged to a stop at the very end of the waterfront where a private dock protruded out into the bay. A huge motor launch stood at the end of the floating wooden platform, the stainless-steel stanchions gleaming red in the fading sunlight.
He braked and got out of the car. Reaching into the back, he lifted out her art box and hefted it under his arm. The sunset shone on his onyx hair as he came round to open her door. “How are the feet?” he asked. “Do you need me to carry you on board?”
“No. My feet are fine.” Give or take a million and one blisters.
She stepped out of the car, struggling not to flinch as her tortured soles connected with the worn wood of the dock. But she’d rather walk across hot coals than give him another excuse to scoop her up again. Being in such close proximity to that broad, heavily muscled chest and his disconcertingly delicious scent would increase the disturbing buzz.
She took her time making her way toward the boat, far too aware of his powerful presence beside her, waiting to step in again if she stumbled. She couldn’t help the sigh of relief, though, when she was able to lean on the guardrail of the gangplank.
A young man, wearing a peaked cap greeted them on deck and took her art box from Jared, after introducing himself as Matteo, the launch’s pilot. He had a brief conversation with Jared. From her smattering of Italian, she gathered Dr. Chialini would be arriving shortly, but was based in Sorrento so couldn’t travel with them to Capri.
Jared seemed to want to argue the point.
“It’s okay. I really don’t need a doctor anyway,” she interrupted in English. But as both men swung toward her she made the mistake of letting go of the guardrail.
The boat swayed slightly and her knees gave way as blood rushed to her aching head with startling speed.
Hard hands grasped her upper arms, catching her before she could hit the deck.
A rough, urgent curse beckoned her back from toppling into the abyss.
She locked her knees as Caine’s fingers pressed into her biceps.
“Why didn’t you say you were feeling faint?”
“I’m just tired,” she said, but the earthquake which had started in her legs was still sending aftershocks through her body.
“You’re shaking,” he said, his tone raw. The rough calluses on his palm sent ripples of sensation sizzling across her skin. Then suddenly she was weightless.
Her breath got trapped in her lungs as she ingested a lungful of his scent, the subtle hint of salt, soap and man. She was too close to him.
Close enough to detect the scar again which had once fascinated her through the shadow of stubble. Close enough to see the silver shards in the cool blue of his irises.
Her heartbeat slammed into her throat.
“What are you doing?” she asked, her voice sounding far away. “I told you, I can walk.”
He glanced at her, the muscle in his cheek flexing. “Shut up, Katherine.”
She wanted to insist he put her down, but she couldn’t find the strength to do anything, her limbs so numb she felt as if they weren’t her own. He crossed the deck in a few strides, then took the steps down into a cabin with her held securely in his arms. The flex of his biceps felt hard against her back, the wall of his chest solid against her cheek. Her pulse jumped and jived.
The luxury interior was furnished with deep leather couches built into the hull. Large portholes afforded a view of the edge of the dock and the sea beyond, the full moon lifting over the horizon as the last of the sun fled.
Caine deposited her on the couch. “Do you feel nauseous?”
“No, I’m okay, really.”
Before they could argue the point, the good Dr. Chialini appeared. Caine hovered throughout the examination, firing off questions to the doctor in Italian as the poor woman tried to do her job. Katie held her tongue and did as she was told. If he got his caveman act out of his system, maybe he’d back off.
After declaring Katie concussion-free, and giving her a dose of painkillers for her headache, the doctor cleaned Katie’s feet. She found only a few small cuts and abrasions, which she dabbed with antiseptic cream and covered with plasters.
“Keep the cuts clean, and wear soft shoes or go barefoot if they are too sore,” she said in her perfect English as she packed her black case.
Not a problem, Katie
thought wryly, seeing as I don’t actually have any shoes.
Caine continued to quiz the doctor as he left the cabin with her. Katie could hear them talking as they went up on deck together but was way too tired to decipher what was being said.
She stretched out on the couch, watching the lights on the headland as the voices drifted into silence, followed by the rumble of the boat’s engine.
Next stop, Capri. The site of one of my worst memories. And four days spent in Jared Caine’s overwhelming company.
She listened to the waves slapping against the hull, felt the kick of movement as the boat peeled away from the dock, and breathed in the scene of new leather and sea air.
Caine would probably be back in a minute to micromanage her. She closed her eyes. Well, he couldn’t bully her if she was comatose.
The salty breeze coming from the deck ruffled the short hairs on her arms as her limbs became weightless. She floated, buoyed by the bone-deep fatigue which had been lurking at the edges of her consciousness for hours. But as the gentle sway of the boat lulled her into a deep, drugging sleep, the buzz refused to fade.
* * *
“I’ll need some clothes,” Jared spoke into his cell phone as he stood in the entrance to the cabin and watched Katherine sleep.
She’d curled up on the couch like a child, her hands under one cheek, her bare feet tucked under her butt.
“Do you know what size your guest is, Mr. Caine?”
Jared frowned, his gaze absorbing the long, coltish line of her body, the gentle rise and fall of her breasts beneath the grubby tank top. “No. Bring a selection.”
“We could hire a stylist—arrange for them to come to your villa tomorrow morning and fit her for a new wardrobe,” the resort concierge suggested helpfully.
“Great. Whatever,” he said, not wanting to think about her slim frame and how it had felt so fragile in his arms.
“Will she be attending events with you?” the concierge asked.
He considered the question for a moment. “What events, exactly?”
He hated PR junkets. The original plan had been to fly in from Naples at the end of the weekend for one night and then head back to New York. But because of the woman curled up in front of him—who didn’t look like she had a care in the world—he was going to be stuck on Capri for four days at least. Possibly more, if it took longer to get her a replacement passport.
“We have the investors’ ball tomorrow,” the concierge began. “Then the press picnic on Saturday afternoon and the gala on Sunday. There are a number of other events that the resort would love you to attend too, if you’re not too busy with the security teams.”
The truth was the security teams didn’t need his oversight, but he planned to give it to them anyway, so he could spend as little time as possible going stir-crazy in a luxury villa he was being forced to share with his house guest.
The trickle of unease worked its way down his spine at the thought of having to share a villa with anyone. After living on the street—his crib being anything from a hotly contested doorway on the Upper West Side to a patch of turf in Harlem over a subway grate—his creature comforts were important to him, and he insisted on complete privacy.
He didn’t share bed space or any other space. Especially not overnight.
He swallowed past the ripple of anxiety. And the pulse of heat.
He wasn’t going to be sharing a bed with Katherine, just a villa. Luckily he’d booked a two-bed, because there’d been no other availability. But she would be in another room. And would no doubt want to avail herself of the resort’s spa and leisure activities. Plus, the soundproofing in his room would be sufficient if... His jaw tensed. He wasn’t going to have any episodes. He hadn’t had any in months.
Even so, frustration twisted in his gut to tangle with the unwelcome swell of heat.
He should have said no to Dario’s request. He didn’t like the volatility of his attraction to this woman, especially as it made no sense. But he could never say no to Dario, because he owed the guy everything.
Katie mumbled in her sleep as the boat hit a swell.
“Signore Caine, do you want me to list the other events we have scheduled?” the concierge prompted on the other end of the line.
“Put me down for the ball,” he said. If he was going to be here, he might as well make a couple of appearances. “Otherwise, make my excuses.”
“Will Ms. Whittaker be attending with you?” the concierge asked.
He frowned, suppressing his kneejerk desire to say no.
The less time he spent with Katherine, the easier it would be for them both. But, as he watched her sleeping, it occurred to him that sometimes the easy option wasn’t the smart option.
Perhaps he should rope her into the circus too. Given her aptitude for PR stunts, she’d enjoy the press attention—and it might stop her from getting up to mischief. He didn’t trust her not to run off if left too much to her own devices.
Whatever happened, he was delivering her to Dario in New York as promised. And entertaining her in public was a lot less dangerous than entertaining her in private.
“Yeah, Ms. Whittaker will attend the ball with me.”
“Wonderful, Signore Caine, I’ll add you both to the guest lists.”
Ending his call with the concierge, he headed back on deck.
But, as he let the sea spray mist his face, it didn’t do a lot to cool the heat flowing through his veins.
He would have been quite happy never to see Katherine Whittaker again in this lifetime. And now he was going to be stuck with her for several days. He didn’t like it one bit.
But what choice did he have? As soon as Dario had asked, he’d been bound to say yes. Hell, he’d pretty much do anything for that guy. But right this second, with his groin throbbing like a sore tooth, he couldn’t help thinking that committing murder would be easier than spending four days sharing a two-bedroom villa with Katherine Whittaker.
He gripped the guard rail, absorbing the punch and roll of the boat’s wake as Matteo heeled to starboard to steer past the point and head toward the Venus Resort’s private dock on the far side of the island.
He took a moment to get his volatile reaction to her under control and the awareness which had arched between them the minute he’d laid eyes on her again—as if it had been five minutes since they’d last seen each other, not five years.
* * *
Katie braced her feet on the motor launch as it approached Capri, so tired now she felt as if she were drifting through a heavy fog. Caine had woken her up ten minutes ago, given her a pair of oversize socks to cover her feet which he’d borrowed from Matteo then spoken to her in low tones about the plans for the next few days. Not that she’d heard a word he was saying—his deep, hum-inducing voice was disturbing enough.
She searched the coastline, the rocky cliffs gilded by the full moon.
Her mother was buried somewhere on this island. But she felt strangely ambivalent about it, because all she could focus on at the moment was the overpowering presence of the man beside her.
Moonlight cast a pale, shimmering light onto the water as the pilot edged the launch into the resort’s private dock. Katie dropped her head back to take in the luxury villas adding pale speckles to the greenery above them.
A bird of prey hovered above the bay as the launch slotted expertly into its berth, and then the hunting bird’s dark silhouette swooped down and disappeared into the water as it captured some unsuspecting fish. Katie’s stomach swooped with it as Caine stepped closer, his dark hair given an unearthly glow in the bright moonlight.
“You okay to walk?” he said, his deep voice radiating skepticism.
“Yes,” she said, her soles now as numb as the rest of her in the soft woolen socks.
“You sure about that?” he asked.
“Positive,” she said, and braced herself for an argument. But to her surprise it didn’t come.
She stepped down the gangplank gingerly and
onto the dock, ignoring her juddering pulse and rubbery legs.
Matteo was already tying off the boat’s line.
He tipped his cap at her. Jared had a brief conversation with him in Italian before the young man disappeared up the gangplank.
“Oh, I forgot my stuff,” she said. “I should go...”
Jared halted her attempts to return to the boat by putting a large hand firmly on her arm. “What’s in it? Do you need it tonight?”
“No, I...I—” She stuttered to a halt. Mentioning the contents seemed strangely intimate, as if she would be telling him a secret about herself. “It’s my art equipment. Paints, charcoal, that sort of thing.”
“I’ll make sure the staff bring it up to our villa tomorrow.”
Our villa? Her mind snagged on the single syllable again and she forgot about the art box. The trapped feeling made her breath lurch in her lungs.
“Let’s go,” he said. “As soon as we get there, you can wash up and then crash out.”
The thought of a shower was welcome, until his large palm settled on her spine to direct her down the dock. Warm pressure sizzled through the thin cotton and she stiffened, the trapped feeling intensifying the rush of heat.
A monstrous black motorcycle stood on the dock, the silver logo catching the light from the moon. Once they reached it, Caine lifted the only helmet off the handlebars, fitted it over her head then fastened the strap.
He swung his leg over the huge machine, kicked it off its stand then glanced over his shoulder. “Climb aboard.”
She contemplated the bike.
Just get on. He’s not bothered—why should you be?
But she was bothered as she placed trembling fingers on his shoulders and felt the muscles tense. Finding a foothold above the gleaming silver exhaust pipe, she breathed through her mouth and clambered onto the machine.
The two-tiered seat forced her legs wide, positioning her bottom so that her knees gripped his waist. The seam of her shorts rubbed the aching spot between her legs as she tried to push her sock-covered feet down and ease away from him. The salty air tinged with the musk of pine soap filled her lungs. Standing on the ignition pedal, he kicked down and the engine roared to life, the powerful purr sending sensation shimmering up through her buttocks.
