Defying Her Billionaire Protector

by Angela Bissell

  He paused. Marietta was silent, but he sensed her listening intently.

  ‘Things were rocky with her parents at the start, but eventually they accepted me.’

  Nico had been determined to prove to Jack Lewisham that he was worthy of the man’s daughter. He’d worked multiple day jobs and studied for a business degree at night, with the intention of starting his own company. In the end Jack had been impressed. He’d even loaned Nico a substantial chunk of capital to get the business started.

  He closed his eyes and swallowed, his mouth going dry.

  ‘Julia was kidnapped.’

  Marietta gasped. ‘Mio Dio...’ she breathed. ‘By whom?’

  ‘Opportunists. Criminals.’ His jaw hardened. ‘Her parents were extremely wealthy and high-profile.’

  ‘Oh, Nico...’

  He could hear the horror in her voice, blocked it out.

  ‘Her father and I argued over whether or not to involve the authorities. The kidnappers had warned against it and Jack was terrified. He believed that his willingness to hand over the ransom combined with my military experience and resources would be sufficient to get Julia home safely.’ He clenched his jaw. ‘The man practically got on his knees and begged me to agree.’

  ‘And you did?’

  ‘Reluctantly.’

  The absolute worst decision of his life. His biggest, most horrific failure.

  She touched his arm. ‘What happened?’

  ‘Julia was shot.’

  Marietta’s hand tightened on his arm, communicating her shock, and somehow her touch grounded him. Kept him from sliding back to that dark place in his head where there was only that filthy ditch and Julia’s cold, lifeless body.

  ‘Were the kidnappers caught?’ she asked gently.

  ‘Eventually.’

  He hadn’t rested—not until every member of the gang responsible had been caught, prosecuted and imprisoned.

  ‘They claimed her death had been an accident. Said she’d made a grab for one of their guns and it went off in a struggle.’

  ‘Nico... I’m so sorry...’

  Finally he looked at her. Tears streaked her face and he muttered a curse, gathered her into his arms.

  ‘Please tell me you don’t blame yourself,’ she whispered, pressing her face to his chest.

  In the silence that followed she lifted her head and stared at him.

  ‘Nico! You can’t possibly—’

  ‘I can,’ he said grimly. ‘And so did Jack.’

  ‘But that’s crazy—how could he?’

  ‘He was a man half-demented with grief.’ It was something Nico had understood, for he, too, had almost lost his mind. ‘He needed to lash out. To blame someone other than himself.’

  Marietta put her head back on his chest. ‘It wasn’t your fault,’ she said fiercely.

  Nico tightened his arms around her. She was, he thought with an odd feeling of gratitude, the only person ever to try to absolve him of guilt.

  * * *

  For the first time in days Nico retired to his study after dinner, and when it got late and he still hadn’t emerged Marietta went to bed alone.

  She lay in his gigantic bed, thinking of everything he’d told her on the beach that day, and her heart ached for him.

  How could he blame himself for his wife’s death? And how could his father-in-law blame him for a decision the older man had essentially made himself?

  It didn’t make sense—but when did these kinds of things ever make sense? It was the nature of tragedies. Of how people tried to cope. And she understood something about that. Her friends had died in the accident and she hadn’t—how could she not have questioned that outcome? Not felt some degree of survivor’s guilt? But in the end she’d had to let it go or it would have destroyed her. She had decided to be strong. To make something of her life—of the second chance her young friends had been so cruelly denied.

  And are you? a voice in her head challenged. Are you making the most of that chance?

  She frowned at the ceiling. She had tried hard for the last three days not to think about her conversation with Nico at the restaurant. He’d pushed some buttons she’d thought were no longer sensitive. Rekindled a longing for things she had convinced herself were out of reach.

  But she knew that yearning for things that might never be was dangerous. A guarantee of heartache and disappointment. She had already travelled that road—with the experimental surgeries, with Davide... She couldn’t set herself on a path of false hope again.

  Which made the little daydreams she’d caught herself indulging in these past few days—silly fantasised scenarios of wheeling down a church aisle in a white gown, or holding a tiny sweet-smelling baby in her arms—all the more ridiculous.

  The sound of footsteps coming down the hallway halted her thoughts. Quickly she closed her eyes, feigned sleep. If Nico had wanted to make love to her tonight he’d have joined her sooner; she had too much pride to let him think she’d been lying here waiting for him.

  She heard the rustle of clothes being shed, felt the bed compress and then, to her surprise, the press of a hot palm against her breast. She looked up and saw the glitter of blue eyes in the semi-darkness before his mouth claimed hers in a hard, invasive kiss that drove a hot spike of need through her core.

  He pushed her thighs apart, slid his hand between her legs and growled low in his throat when he found her wet and ready for him. He rolled away for a moment and then he was back, braced above her this time, his features stark, the glitter in his eyes ferocious as he entered her with a single powerful thrust.

  She gasped his name, clinging to his shoulders as he drove deep, again and again. He had never taken her hard and fast like this before—as though he barely had control of himself—and she thrilled to the wild, primitive feeling of being claimed.

  Possessed.

  She dug her fingers into rippling muscle, feeling the tension and the heat building, spiralling, until a moan rushed up her throat and she crested that blinding peak at the same instant as Nico’s big body tensed above her. He slammed deep into her one last time and pleasure pulsated from her core, obliterating every conscious thought from her head except for one.

  One thought that stopped her heart as his weight bore down on her and she wrapped her arms tightly around him.

  She loved him.

  * * *

  Marietta put down her brush and studied the canvas. The painting was finally finished and she was pleased with it. Her choice of colours and the way she’d illustrated the fortress’s proud, crumbling ruins, with pale shafts of sunlight slanting through the old ramparts, had created the impression of something ethereal, almost otherworldly.

  But she couldn’t help but wish now that she’d painted something different. Something a little brighter, more uplifting. She had planned on leaving the painting behind—as a gift for Nico—but it seemed too haunting now for a man who was already haunted.

  A shiver rippled through her. Their lovemaking last night had been so intense. So silent. Nico hadn’t uttered a word—not before or during or afterwards—and yet he’d watched her the entire time he had been inside her, with that fierce intensity blazing in his blue eyes.

  Her heart twisted painfully in her chest. The emotion she’d been wrestling with ever since her shattering revelation last night refused to be subdued.

  She could not have fallen in love with him. Not so quickly. So hopelessly. So irrevocably.

  Except she had.

  And now her heart would break, because she wanted something she couldn’t have. A man. A man too closed off from his emotions to ever be available to her or anyone else.

  And already he was withdrawing.

  He hadn’t reached for her this morning...hadn’t lavished her with kisses and caresses while the sun rose and then joined her for a lazy breakfast on the terrace. Instead he’d got dressed and gone straight to his study, emerging only for a quick lunch before disappearing again.

  She put her paint
s away and folded her brushes into a rag for cleaning. The ache in her chest was her penance, she told herself harshly. She’d been a fool and now she’d have to live with the consequences—a concept she was all too familiar with.

  She wheeled down the hall towards the utility room where she usually cleaned her brushes.

  Nico stepped out of his study.

  ‘Do you have a minute?’

  She stopped and looked at him. He sounded so polite. The ache in her chest intensified. For the last three days she’d deliberately avoided asking about her stalker, assuring herself that Nico would tell her anything important.

  He had something important to tell her now. Which meant this was the beginning of the end.

  Her mouth drying, she nodded, and he stood back so she could wheel herself into the study. She stopped by his desk and he handed her a piece of paper—a printed digital photograph of a man.

  ‘Do you know him?’

  She studied the image. The man was clean-shaven, and he wore trendy thin-rimmed eyeglasses and a baseball cap. The photograph was grainy, as if it had been enlarged a few times, but the man’s face was clear enough and...familiar.

  She nodded slowly. ‘It’s Sergio Berardi. He’s an artist.’ She studied the photo again, an icy finger sliding across her nape. ‘I exhibited some of his work at the gallery about a year ago.’

  ‘Nine months,’ said Nico.

  The hairs on her arms lifted. ‘I’ve met him a few times socially, through art circles,’ she said, and suddenly it all made a horrible kind of sense. She put the photo down on the desk, not wanting to look at it any longer. ‘He asked me out a couple of times but I declined.’

  He hadn’t been unpleasant, or unattractive, but she’d already decided not to waste her time on relationships. She rubbed her forehead. Thinking back, he had been intense. A little unsettling.

  ‘Santo cielo...’ Bile climbed her throat. ‘I can’t believe I didn’t think of him before.’

  Nico shrugged, as if it were of no consequence. ‘Don’t beat yourself up,’ he said.

  Did he sound distant, or was she imagining it? Being oversensitive?

  Her heart lurched. She wanted to rewind. Go back to the beginning and relive her time with him. Relive the fantasy. Because she knew with utter certainty that her life wouldn’t be the same when she got back to Rome. Not after Nico.

  She swallowed past the lump in her throat. ‘What happens now?’

  ‘I’m leaving immediately for Toulon.’

  She frowned up at him. ‘Don’t you mean we are leaving?’

  ‘Non,’ he said. ‘I need to get to Rome as quickly as possible, to liaise with the authorities. I can travel faster if I leave at once and go on my own. I’ll do a quick round trip and be back late tomorrow. We can stay here tomorrow night and then get you back to Rome on Wednesday.’

  One last night with him.

  Her heart somersaulted. ‘Okay,’ she agreed—too readily.

  He glanced at his watch. ‘Bien. I’ll call Josephine. See if she or Luc are available to come and collect you.’ He started gathering together papers on his desk. ‘You should go and pack an overnight bag straight away.’

  Marietta blinked at him. ‘Why would I do that?’

  He paused. ‘Because you’ll be staying at Josephine’s tonight.’

  She blinked again. ‘And why would I do that when I can stay here?’

  He frowned. ‘Because I don’t want you staying here on your own.’

  She stared at him. ‘Why not? I live alone in Rome. You know that, Nico. I’m more than capable of spending a night here on my own.’

  ‘Rome is different. You live in an urban apartment, with neighbours and people nearby. It’s too isolated up here. I want to know you’re safe while I’m gone.’

  ‘You mean you want someone to babysit me?’ Her face heated with indignation. ‘I’m paralysed, Nico—not useless.’

  His expression darkened. ‘I did not say you were useless.’

  ‘But you might as well have. Heaven forbid the poor cripple is left to fend for herself!’

  Now his face turned thunderous. ‘Don’t call yourself a cripple!’

  ‘Then don’t treat me like one!’

  ‘Marietta...’ His voice was a low, warning growl.

  She pushed her chin up. ‘I’m staying here.’

  He cursed loudly. ‘I don’t have time for this.’

  ‘No, you don’t,’ she agreed. ‘So I suggest you get a move on and go and pack your bag.’

  A nerve flickered in his temple. He opened his mouth and closed it again, then scowled and stalked out of the room.

  * * *

  Nico sat in a leather recliner in his private jet and stared out at the thickening wall of cloud as the aircraft’s powerful engines ate up the miles to Toulon.

  It was twenty-six hours since he’d left for Rome and he was eager to get back to Île de Lavande. Leaving Marietta alone at the house had not sat well with him, but she was proud—stubborn as hell—and she’d argued him into a corner.

  He stretched out his legs, rubbed eyes that felt gritty and strained. Dealing with endless police bureaucracy in Rome and the vagaries of the Italian legal system had been an exercise in frustration. But he’d called on some old contacts, pulled a few strings and in the end got what he’d wanted: a little one-on-one time in a non-surveillance holding cell with Sergio Berardi.

  Nico hadn’t laid a finger on the man and he hadn’t needed to. Berardi had nearly wet himself the second Nico had locked the door, shrugged off his jacket and rolled up his sleeves. He intended to do everything within his power to ensure that the charges against Berardi stuck and he was locked up, but Nico had wanted to make certain that in the event the man was released he understood exactly what kind of retribution to expect if he went anywhere near Marietta.

  He swallowed a mouthful of whisky.

  He had missed Marietta last night. Missed her sweet, intoxicating smell, her soft warmth, the taste of her lingering on his tongue after making love. Even thinking about her now sent a powerful throb of desire pulsing through him.

  Mon Dieu.

  He’d crossed a line with her but he couldn’t bring himself to regret it. Marietta had been a balm to his tortured soul. A ray of light in the sea of darkness that had closed over his head a long time ago.

  He took another gulp of whisky.

  Perhaps he was being hasty, confining their affair to these few days on the island? He couldn’t imagine his hunger for her dying any time soon—nor could he imagine another woman satisfying him while his need for Marietta still burned in his blood. He could see her occasionally, could he not? A casual arrangement might be the perfect solution. Might suit them both until—

  A massive jolt wrenched Nico sideways in his seat. His head hit the wall and the glass flew from his hand, whisky spilling everywhere and soaking the crotch of his trousers. He swore, looked up, and saw his flight attendant, Evelyn, clutching a seat-back. He barked at her to sit down and strap herself in, then picked up the built-in handset that gave him direct access to the cockpit.

  ‘Severe unexpected turbulence, sir,’ his pilot informed him. ‘It’s the edge of a category three storm—coming through a couple of hours earlier than expected.’

  Expected? Nico swore again. He always checked the weather forecasts when he was headed to the island. Always. But this time... This time he’d forgotten. He’d been preoccupied. Distracted.

  ‘We have clearance from Toulon, provided we land in the next fifteen minutes,’ the pilot advised. ‘After that everything’s grounded or diverted.’

  Which meant he had zero chance of flying the chopper to the island. He stared grimly out of the window. The cloud was menacing and black, darkening the interior of the plane.

  ‘What direction is the storm coming from?’

  The pilot rattled off the latest update—and Nico felt the blood drain from his face.

  The storm was headed straight for Île de Lavande.

>   CHAPTER ELEVEN

  THE PHONE LINE was dead.

  With clammy hands Marietta put the receiver back in its cradle on Nico’s desk.

  This is just some bad weather, she told herself for the umpteenth time—then jumped as the entire house shifted and groaned under the onslaught of the powerful wind. She looked out of the window at the angry sky. Dark. It was so dark. Yet it was only late afternoon. She tried the light switch in the study, then a couple out in the hall—nothing. The house had no power.

  Dio. Please let Nico be safe, she prayed. He wouldn’t do anything crazy, would he? Like try to fly in this weather?

  She wheeled herself to a window in the living room, looked out at the sea, which had been whipped into a seething grey-green frenzy, then back at the clouds—which looked wilder, even blacker now if that were possible.

  No. Of course Nico wouldn’t try to fly in this. He was too safety-conscious. Too sensible.

  If only she had been sensible. If only she hadn’t argued with him. If only she hadn’t been so stubborn and proud and oversensitive about her independence. She could have been warm and comfortable with the Bouchards right now. Instead she was here. Alone and, yes—she’d swallow her pride and admit it—just a tiny bit terrified.

  Rain came down—thick, horizontal sheets of it lashing the glass—and the wind roared like some kind of vicious animal howling for blood. It raised the hairs on Marietta’s nape. Made her want to curl up in Nico’s bed, pull the covers over her head and breathe in his scent. Pretend that he was there and she was wrapped in his strong arms, protected and safe.

  She pulled in a deep breath.

  Nico wouldn’t travel in this storm. She was alone—at least for tonight. Which meant she’d need to be calm, practical. Prepared. She’d start by looking for a torch, she decided. Then she’d recheck the windows and doors to make sure the house was secure, and hunt out some candles and matches.

  She found a lantern torch in the utility room and started her check of the house in the study. She wheeled to the window and glanced out—just as the large terrace table at which she and Nico had shared so many meals by the pool started to slide across the limestone pavers. Her eyes rounded with disbelief. The table was heavy—a solid piece of outdoor furniture—yet it might as well have been plastic for all its resistance to the wind.