Natalie Anderson - The Italians - Luca, Marco and Alessandro - Between the Italian's Sheets / The Moretti Heir / Alessandro and the Cheery Nanny

The

Italians Luca, Marco & Alessandro

Between the

Italian’s Sheets

Natalie Anderson

The Moretti Heir

Katherine Garbera

Alessandro and

the Cheery Nanny

Amy Andrews

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page The Italians Luca, Marco & Alessandro Between the Italian’s Sheets Natalie Anderson The Moretti Heir Katherine Garbera Alessandro and the Cheery Nanny Amy Andrews www.millsandboon.co.uk

Between the Italian’s Sheets Between the Italian’s Sheets Natalie Anderson

About the Author NATALIE ANDERSON adores a happy ending, which is why she always reads the back of a book first. Just to be sure. So you can be sure you’ve got a happy ending in your hands right now—because she promises nothing less. Along with happy endings, she loves peppermint-filled dark chocolate, pineapple juice and extremely long showers. Not to mention spending hours teasing her imaginary friends with dating dilemmas. She tends to torment them before eventually relenting and offering—you guessed it—a happy ending. She lives in Christchurch, New Zealand, with her gorgeous husband and four fabulous children. If, like her, you love a happy ending, be sure to come and say hi on Facebook, www.facebook.com/authornataliea , and on Twitter, @authornataliea , or her website/blog, www.natalie-anderson.com .

Dedication For Rosie and Simon. You two have the most incredible generosity, kindness and sheer zest for life. Our holiday in London at Casa King-Currie was amazing—every moment fun and relaxing and memorable. Luca and Emily’s story would never have come out into the light if it hadn’t been for the break you enabled us to have, and for that I really, really thank you.

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

The Moretti Heir

About the Author

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Alessandro and the Cheery Nanny

About the Author

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Endpage

Copyright

Between the Italian’s Sheets

Natalie Anderson

NATALIE ANDERSONadores a happy ending, which is why she always reads the back of a book first. Just to be sure. So you can be sure you’ve got a happy ending in your hands right now—because she promises nothing less. Along with happy endings, she loves peppermint-filled dark chocolate, pineapple juice and extremely long showers. Not to mention spending hours teasing her imaginary friends with dating dilemmas. She tends to torment them before eventually relenting and offering—you guessed it—a happy ending. She lives in Christchurch, New Zealand, with her gorgeous husband and four fabulous children.

If, like her, you love a happy ending, be sure to come and say hi on Facebook, www.facebook.com/authornataliea, and on Twitter, @authornataliea, or her website/blog, www.natalie-anderson.com.

For Rosie and Simon.

You two have the most incredible generosity, kindness and sheer zest for life. Our holiday in London at Casa King-Currie was amazing—every moment fun and relaxing and memorable. Luca and Emily’s story would never have come out into the light if it hadn’t been for the break you enabled us to have, and for that I really, really thank you.

CHAPTER ONE

ARROGANCE personified. Emily stared at him, her temper going from sizzling to spitting hot. He stood right in front of her, with the height of a basketball star, and shoulders the breadth of a rugby prop. A man mountain, a mighty example of the male in physical prime. Totally obscuring her view. Totally commanding attention.

Typical .

Worse than that, he had one of those fancy phone gadgets that did everything—not merely phone calls, but music, web connection, camera—the works. And every time he pushed the buttons they beeped. Loudly. The overture was about to begin, Emily found the rapid succession of beeps incredibly annoying.

Pointedly, she cleared her throat.

She had not spent the last year working crazy hours, scrimping and saving every last cent to get her sister and herself all the way to Italy and to this fabulous opera only for the moment to be ruined by some selfish jerk who thought his social life was more important than the live performance about to unfold. More important than showing some respect to the other people there who wanted to appreciate the evening.

She cleared her throat again.

Fractionally he turned, threw a quick glance her way, but the beeping didn’t stop. Rather it was the cacophony of trills and fragments of well-known phrases that ceased as under the direction of the lead violinist the orchestra stilled. Then came the lone note from the oboe to which the other instruments would tune. But did that stop him? No. The purity of the sound was shattered by the relentless beeping.

Any minute now the conductor would walk out and applause would greet him. Beeps didn’t constitute applause. Beeps were annoying. And she couldn’t see through him.

She glared at his back now as well as clearing her throat once more. A tailored jacket hung from those doorframe-wide shoulders, one hand on his hip pulling the jacket back, emphasising the narrowing of his torso to a slim waist and hips. She knew there were serious muscles under the white shirt and dark trousers. She’d watched as he’d walked up from the super-expensive seats. He was hard not to notice, taller than almost all the people there. From the front she’d seen the way his shirt neatly tucked into his trousers with not an ounce of anything unnecessary—like fat—rippling the smooth, straight stretch of white cotton. Well dressed, good-looking, so sophisticated and cool in this hot and crowded space. She figured he’d come up so as not to disturb those in his own elite strata—no, he’d conduct his business and bother the plebs up in the cheap seats.

One of the waiters came past, singing his way through the crowd for one final time before he’d quieten for the spectacle, tormenting her with his cry.

‘ Bebite! Acqua! Cola! Vino bianca! Vino rosso! Bebite… ’

She’d go for all those drinks right now. She was hot. She was thirsty. She was irritated.

This time she coughed.

Where on earth was Kate? What was taking her so long? Only her little sister could need the bathroom right as the opera was about to start. And as far as Emily could tell, the toilets in the ancient arena were few and far between and had queues centuries long. Meanwhile her mouth was dry and she wanted the six-foot-plus pillar blocking her view of centre stage to move. And then he did, turning right round as he held the gadget up in front of him. The flash of his grin was more blinding than the sudden flash of bright light.

‘What—’ she asked tartly ‘—you’re taking photos now?’

‘ Sì .’ He nodded, smiling like the Cheshire cat. ‘I need a new wallpaper photo for my phone. And this is such a spectacular view, don’t you think?’

‘I think the “view” is behind you. You know, the stage, the set, the orchestra.’