The Amalfitano's Bold Abduction (The Italian Billionaires Collection)

by Jennifer Blake

  He lifted a shoulder, his gaze on the blue land mass coming up on the horizon just where it should be. “Not at the police station.”

  “No. Of course not. I should have known.”

  “They will not assume you are missing, and that is the main thing.”

  “For now, but what about later?”

  “Later we shall see.”

  She gave him a hard stare. The faintest of tremors sounded in her voice when she spoke, but it still held deadly promise in its quiet cadence. “I don’t know what you think you’re doing, but I can tell you this much. I will press charges against you for kidnapping if I ever do see a police station.”

  Andrea adjusted the controls, felt the helicopter begin its gradual descent toward the speck of green and brown in the blue water ahead. “Children are kidnapped. You, cara, have been abducted.”

  “Don’t call me that,” she snapped. “I am not your dear.”

  “Perhaps not.” Though he did not speak the words, his tone said, and perhaps so, in time.

  Her eyes narrowed. “Whether it’s kidnapped or abducted, I suspect the police will have the correct word when they arrest you.”

  She had courage. He would grant her that. “First, of course, they will have to be convinced there was a crime that requires an arrest.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “As far as they know, the damage to your car was purest accident. Now you are enjoying an unexpected holiday and will reclaim your belongings when you tire of being my companion. My man of business has been instructed to arrange the retrieval of the rental vehicle at my expense, and to see everything in it is kept safe.”

  “Your companion!”

  He gave her a wry glance. “It’s not unknown for a woman to be seen with me.”

  “I’m sure. And you think you can get away with this because you’re some hotshot, mega-rich Italian playboy.”

  “I am no playboy at all, but si, cara, I do think so. I think it because I have done so already.”

  He thought she was going to hit him, as he saw her hands clench into fists, and tensed for the blow. Not that he blamed her. She had a right to be doubtful of his intentions, as well as furious at how he had tricked her.

  Self-preservation seemed to trump rage, however. She glanced at the helipad fast coming toward them and turned to stare out the window again.

  Such control was admirable in its way, yet a challenge to any red-blooded Italian male. What might it take to destroy it, he wondered? How would she look with her face flushed, her lips soft and moist instead of clamped together, and her eyes heated with something other than righteous rage?

  He needed to get his mind back on what he was doing before he overshot the helipad. This was a protective, humanitarian abduction, not a prelude to seduction. He had no business fastening his gaze on Dana Marsden lips or thinking about how she might look with that glorious hair spread over his pillow. Or Dio guardi, over his chest.

  The nicely rounded shapes of her breasts under the shirt he had loaned her were off limits, as were the slender lengths of her legs in her figure-molding jeans. To try picturing how she might look in something more feminine and stylish was of no use whatever.

  Or was it? Her belongings, including the clothing she must have brought with her to Italy, were at the bottom of the cliff. It was possible he could work with that. What woman did not enjoy attractive, well-made designer fashions?

  It would be best if he soothed Dana’s ire and persuaded her to accept her isolation with him over the next few hours or even days. Matters would be far too uncomfortable otherwise. And if the prospect was something he was beginning to anticipate, that was his reward for getting mixed up in this crazy business in the first place.

  The landing on the island was not the smoothest he’d ever made. No matter, it was done.

  Relief sang along Andrea’s veins, mingling with the inescapable rush of testosterone brought by his inconvenient fantasies. It would be best if he curbed both. The island was as close to a refuge as he could come on short notice, but it was not completely safe. He would do well to strengthen his self-control to match that of his guest.

  He had never considered the villa and surrounding land, with its gray-green olive groves, palm and scrub forest and meadowland covered with herbs and wildflowers, in the light of a fortress. He did so now as he stepped out of the helicopter. The villa appeared rather like a small village, being a series of connected cubes that meandered along the slope of this highest point on the island. Its walls were nearly two feet thick, built to withstand the storms that swirled up from the depths of the surrounding sea or the wild and dusty sirocco winds that blew in from Africa. That these same thick walls had made life inside them bearable in the days before such amenities as electricity or air conditioning was also a part of its history.

  It had been renovated in the 1960s by his grandfather for the sake of jet-set guests and the occasional actress of international fame. The old man had installed larger windows, added a few more balconies and a stepped terrace leading to an Olympic-sized pool.

  Andrea’s father had done little more than provide upkeep, as he had no use for either society or progress. Or perhaps there had not been time as he had died only a scant few years after Andrea’s grandfather.

  The helipad was Andrea’s contribution. That was in addition to having the place redecorated to suit his personal inclinations and its more rugged past.

  The front door was massive and would be easily guarded. The only back entrance was from the kitchen area, and the heavy door there was still fitted with an ancient iron latch closed by a stout steel bar. The weakest point of the villa seemed the terrace with its series of glass-paned doors that opened into the living room, study and master bedroom. Well, and perhaps the balconies attached to some of the guest rooms.

  An ear-numbing yowl routed all thought. Guaio was apparently tired of being confined and ignored. Wincing a little, Andrea reached inside for the cat’s carrier and then jolted down the last of the chopper’s steps. He joined Dana who had exited first and now stood well beyond the rotors that were winding to a stop.

  She had made no attempt to run. He was glad to see she recognized the futility of it.

  “So you own all this,” she said with a flip of one hand toward the land that sloped down to the sea. Her lips curled at one corner. “Must be nice.”

  “Pleasant, yes,” he answered, his voice mild. He tipped his head toward the villa. “Shall we?”

  “I suppose you bought the island as some kind of bachelor retreat.”

  “Not at all. My family settled here more than six hundred years ago. They claimed it without cost, but have paid for every inch many times over as they fought to hold it.”

  “They sound like pirates.”

  “Fishermen, rather, when they weren’t defending the place. Though I imagine they scavenged what they could when a ship foundered at their doorstep.” His smile was sardonic as he noted the way she walked along beside him, so intent on insulting him she required no coercion. It could also be she was intelligent enough to see there was little alternative.

  She made a sound that could have been a laugh or a soft snort. “You aren’t going to tell me fishing made you what you are today.”

  “By no means. One of my ancestors started building ships, and discovered a few secrets in the process that he turned into money. Since then we’ve all just added to it.”

  “So whatever you have comes from simple industry.”

  Her scathing glance took in the villa, the island, the helicopter and even the rather ridiculous carrier his sister had bought for Guaio. Andrea resented her tone, but that did not prevent him from noticing the way sunlight turned her hair to flame and highlighted the clarity of her skin. No, nor how his shirt hugged her breasts and skimmed the outline of her hips. He took a discreet breath before he answered.

  “With the addition of a few investments, some wise, some lucky, nearly all profitable.”

  “Bu
t not criminal. That part, you seem to have inaugurated all on your own.”

  The back of his neck prickled with the sudden heat of anger. He stopped, turned to face her. “I am not a criminal. Since we are here now, I will tell you why it was necessary to remove you from the place where we met and the incident that brought us together. When I am done, you may call me what you like, but I believe you will realize I could not have acted in any other way, not and live with the consequences.”

  “Fine. Spit it out,” she answered, facing him with her fists on her hips. “What is this great mystery? I’m dying to hear why you are so sure the only way to keep me safe, as you call it, is to make me your prisoner.”

  Guaio squalled again, an unearthly shriek followed by growls and grumbles. Andrea could almost have sworn the cat was in sympathy with Dana as he was also a prisoner.

  “Soon,” he said above the cat’s noise. “For now, I must see to Guaio and make certain the staff received the message about your arrival.”

  There was irony in the last for it was clear Maria, his housekeeper from the mainland, had alerted her cousin Luisa who held the same position at the villa. It would be an unusual development in their eyes, as he did not, as a rule, bring women to the island. No, no matter what he might have led Dana to believe.

  Luisa, along with her great-nephew Tommaso and two older cousins who worked as gardeners, would be concerned for their positions. This, though their families had worked for his for generations, coming in daily and returning home at night. He must remember to let them know the arrival of his guest did not mean they were about to have a new mistress.

  One of Dana’s red-gold brows went up as she saw the cluster of people waiting at the front entrance. He thought she also relaxed a bit, perhaps at the realization she would not be completely alone with him. In any case, she was pleasant enough if a little stiff, shaking hands in the American fashion as he introduced each staff member.

  Andrea spoke briefly to his housekeeper before turning to his guest to translate. “Luisa will show you to your room. Lunch will be served on the terrace when you have had a chance to settle in, perhaps relax a bit. We will talk there.”

  The look Dana gave him should have shriveled him to the size of a garden gnome. Andrea was made of sterner stuff. He smiled into the hot brown depths of her eyes as he bowed her into his island home.

  ~ ~ ~

  The nerve of the man was beyond belief. That he would simply fly off with her to this out-of-the-way place did not seem real. It was even more incredible that he thought he could do whatever he pleased and get away with it. Anger sizzled through her veins like acid at the very idea.

  He was mistaken. It would be a pleasure to convince him of it.

  Yes, but how? What was she going to do?

  It might help her decide if she knew what was behind this ridiculous abduction. It apparently had something to do with the black car that had almost hit her back on the coast road.

  Did Andrea know who was in it? Was there some connection between them?

  Was he some kind of Mafioso kingpin with his Lamborghini, private helicopter and multiple houses?

  The need to know the answers to these questions was nearly as white-hot as the fury inside her. Curiosity had always been one of her be-setting faults. She’d joined the police, in part, because she always wanted to figure out who the bad guy was and why he committed his crimes. Not that she’d had much chance of it yet; as a mere traffic cop, she was a long way from making detective.

  She would learn more at lunch, or at least hear whatever explanation her Italian host trotted out for her. It might or might not be the truth. She would have to decide whether it was or wasn’t when she heard it. Then she would see.

  Meanwhile, it appeared she was to be treated as a guest rather than a prisoner. It was as well. She did not take well to confinement.

  As abductions went, this one was courteous enough, she had to concede. She hadn’t been threatened, coerced or manhandled in any way. Well, except for being shoved into a car when she balked. She should be thankful for that much at least.

  Being duped ticked her off, nonetheless. It wasn’t something she was going to forgive and forget, no matter what Andrea Tonello had to say about it.

  Dana liked the island villa better than Andrea’s modern house they’d left behind earlier. Though there seemed scant rhyme or reason in its arrangement on different levels, nearly every room commanded a stupendous sea view, as well as overlooking the front lawn with its helipad off to one side.

  The other house had seemed sterile, almost hermetically sealed away from life, love and the possibility of human interaction. The interior of this island villa, with its high ceilings, odd wall angles and short runs of marble steps between floors, was the exact opposite. It held the feeling of having grown organically with much living enjoyed within its ancient walls.

  Its windows and doors stood open so curtains of fine white linen lifted and billowed in the sea breeze that brought the scents of brine, flowers and sun-warmed herbs. There was a comfortable lack of pretense in its worn rugs that were yet priceless, the soft, well-plumped pillows on the overstuff sofas that invited naps, mosaics on the walls that would be impervious to damage from children or animals, and frescos with all-too-human gods and goddesses staring down, some with lascivious glints in their eyes. It was a lived-in house and the better for it.

  Dana breathed deep, trying to identify the herbs that scented the air. Thyme? Rosemary? Oregano? She wasn’t sure, but thought it might be all three. She could get used to it, whatever the combination. It would be a shame, she thought, if there was nothing like it near the house Caryn and Suzanne had rented.

  Turning away from the window where she’d been gazing out to sea, she glanced at the bed that was centered in the room. It was fairly high off the floor, no doubt for air circulation, and covered in a combination of white and pale green bed linens that were piled with pillows of all shapes and sizes. It appeared amazingly sleep-worthy, and she stifled a yawn brought on by just looking at it.

  She was tired, and no wonder; it must have been at least thirty hours since she’d slept, as she’d left home the day before, flown all night, laid over in Rome before changing planes for Naples and then picked up her rental at the airport and headed at once for Positano. With just a little encouragement, she could crawl into the middle of that bed and sleep for hours.

  It wouldn’t do. The last thing she needed was to get too comfortable here.

  An island in the Mediterranean. How on earth was she to get away from it?

  Dana looked for a phone but there was none. It didn’t greatly surprise her as most of her friends relied on their cell phones these days. She must remember to borrow Andrea’s phone again to contact Caryn and Suzanne.

  Yes, but would he hand it over as he had before? She would have to try it and see.

  She left the room a few minutes later, going quickly down the stairs and making her way toward the terrace that lay at one end of the house. Emerging upon that open, flagstone paved area, she glanced around. A table under a vine covered pergola was set for lunch, but neither Andrea nor anyone else was in sight.

  The angle of the terrace, as with so much of the house, gave a view of the front lawn. Her attention was drawn to its sunny emptiness, also to the helipad that lay just beyond its gray-green expanse.

  The helicopter sat there a mere couple of hundred feet away, looking like a giant silver and black dragonfly. It seemed to draw her like a magnet.

  She made no decision, hatched no particular plan. She simply walked down the terrace steps, and kept right on walking until she was close enough to touch the chopper that had brought her to Andrea’s island and might, with a little luck, take her away again. Try as she might, she couldn’t remember it being locked after they landed. She reached for the door handle.

  The distinct metallic click of a lock engaging stopped her. She lowered her hand, stood still for an instant before turning slowly to face the vill
a.

  Andrea stood in the terrace doorway with one shoulder propped on its frame. He lifted a hand to give her a small salute. In it was what appeared to be the remote key control for the helicopter.

  To actually try the door of the helicopter would be futile. Dana swung into movement, marching toward where Andrea stepped out onto the terrace to wait for her. And with each and every stride, she damned him using every swearword she’d ever heard in her three years on the police force.

  “I poured a limoncello for you,” he said as she came close enough to hear. “It seemed you might not have tried our famous liqueur as you just arrived in Italy.”

  Andrea had slipped the remote into his pants pocket by the time she reached him, so removing the reminder of how easily she had been foiled. His voice was casual, without a trace of gloating. As difficult as it might be, matching his civility as if nothing had happened seemed a better option than pitching an undignified fit. Her answer was blunt and ungracious, then, but not as sulky as she felt.

  “No, I haven’t.”

  “You should enjoy it if you like the taste of lemons.”

  He turned to walk with her along the edge of the flagstone area which stepped down in wide levels that diminished in width until they became steps that continued down to the sea. She glanced at him, then away again. She could be as blasé as he was if she put her mind to it. And she would if it killed her.

  “So it’s Italian lemonade?”

  “You might call it that. It is a favorite here in Italy’s Amalfitano region, and made all along the coast. The zest of Femminello St. Teresa lemons is the main ingredient, of course, though it is steeped in alcohol and mixed with sugar syrup.”

  “Alcohol?”

  The glance he sent her was amused. “Of course, though not too strong. I will admit it is usually served after dinner, but it seemed beneficial to have it now. Lunch will be delayed some few minutes as Louisa had only short notice of our arrival.”

  The liqueur was set out on the glass topped table she’d noticed earlier under its pergola. Served in chilled cups made of brightly painted ceramic, it was a treat for the eyes as well as being delicious. To go with it were small football-shaped black olives, a loaf of warm bread on a wooden cutting board and individual saucers of olive oil sprinkled with herbs for dipping the bread.