Katrina Cudmore - Her First-Date Honeymoon

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Emma Fox knew she should be scared. But instead an anger, a rebellion, surged in her. She was not going to be pushed around again. Her heart might be doing a full drama queen routine in her chest, but the pit of her stomach was shouting, Enough! Enough of false accusations. Enough of people telling her what to do. Enough of the mess that was her life.

She grabbed the hand clinging to her upper arm and tried to prise his fingers away. ‘What on earth are you talking about? I haven’t broken in. I was invited to stay here by the palazzo’s owner.’

Her captor took a step back to stare down at her, but his grip grew tighter. For the first time she saw his face. Her heart went silent. Why couldn’t he be on the wrong side of handsome? A few blemishes here and there, a little cross-eyed, perhaps. Instead she faced a gulp-inducing, knee-knocking magnificence that stole all her composure.

His golden-brown eyes flared with the incredulous impatience of a man used to getting his way. ‘Signorina, that is impossible. I own Ca’ Divina. This is my property.’

He let go of her arm and moved to the door. He slammed it shut and stood guard in front of the large ancient door, arms crossed.

‘Now, tell me the truth before I call the carabinieri.’

The carabinieri. He couldn’t. Her stomach tumbled. She had spent a nightmare morning in police custody only yesterday. She couldn’t go through that again. The disbelieving looks. Then the impatient pity when they’d realised she was nothing but a patsy in the whole debacle.

Fear tap-danced down her spine and she began to shiver. She was wearing only a barely there nightdress and longed to cover up. To walk away from this fully clothed man, armoured in an impeccable dark navy suit and maroon tie, and from the way his eyes were travelling down her body critically. Something about him triggered a memory of seeing him before—but where? Why did he seem familiar?

She backed towards the bed, away from him, and spoke in a rush of words. ‘I’m telling the truth. But how do I know who you are—perhaps you’re the one who has broken into the palazzo.’

He threw her an are you being serious? look. ‘And I’ve woken you up to have an argument? Not the usual behaviour of a thief, I would expect.’

‘No, but—’

He rocked on his heels and inhaled an exasperated breath. ‘In my bedside table you’ll find a tray of cufflinks with my monogram—MV.’

She opened the top drawer of the lacquered and gilt carved bedside table with trembling fingers. Beside a number of priceless-looking Rolex watches sat a platoon of silver, gold and platinum cufflinks, all bearing the letters MV.

A sinking feeling moved through her body, draining her of all energy. ‘I don’t understand...I was in a café earlier today and a lady... Signora...’

Her mind became a black hole of forgetfulness. Across from her, her prison guard scowled in disbelief. Flustered, she tried to zone him out. She had to concentrate. What had her saviour’s name been?

‘Her name was Signora... Signora Ve... Vieri... Yes, that was it—Signora Vieri.’

He unfurled his arms and walked towards her across the antique Oriental rug covering the terrazzo floor. A treasure perhaps imported when the Venetian Republic had been the exploration and commercial powerhouse of Europe centuries ago.

His mouth was a thin line of frustration, his already narrow lips tight and unyielding. ‘What did this Signora Vieri look like?’

His words were spoken in a low, dangerous rumble and she became unaccountably hot, with flames of heat burning up her insides at the menace in his words and the way he was now standing over her, staring down, as if ready to murder the nearest person.

Her vow to toughen up, to refuse to kowtow to anyone ever again was going to be tested sooner than she had anticipated. She squared her shoulders and looked him right in the eye. Which was a bad idea, because immediately she lost herself in those almond-shaped golden-brown eyes and forgot what she was going to say.

The anger in his eyes turned for the briefest moment into a flare of appreciation. Her heart swooped up her throat like a songbird.

But then the appreciation flicked to exasperation. ‘I don’t have all night.’

Toughen up. That was her mission in life now. She had to remember that. She clenched her fists and tossed her head back, ready for battle. ‘I have no idea what’s going on here but, despite what you obviously think, I have not been involved in anything untoward. Signora Vieri offered me a place to stay. I accepted her offer in good faith.’

He loomed over her, tension bouncing off his huge, formidable body. ‘Tell me what she looked like...or is this just a convenient story? Perhaps you’ll be more co-operative for the carabinieri.’

Alarm shot down through her and exited at her toes, leaving a numb, tingling sensation behind. She began to babble. ‘She’s in her early fifties...animated, kind, concerned...full of energy. Brown bobbed hair. She has the cutest little dog called Elmo.’

He exhaled another loud breath and walked away.

She spun around to find him standing before the bedroom’s marble fireplace. The huge gilt mirror on the mantel reflected his powerful tense shoulders, the glossy thickness of his brown hair.

‘My grandmother.’

‘Your grandmother! She mentioned that her grandson sometimes stays here...I was picturing a toddler. Not a grown man.’

For a few long seconds he stopped and glared at her, leaving her in no doubt that she had said something wrong. What, she had no idea, but the temperature in the room had dropped at least ten degrees.

‘Nonnina is sixty-seven. And she has a soft spot for waifs and strays. Although this is the first time she has actually brought home a human one.’

‘I’m not a waif or a stray!’

‘Then what are you doing in my bed?’

Memories of his hand burning through the material of her nightdress, of the shaming stream of pleasure that had flowed through her dreams until she had woken fully taunted her, causing her confusion to intensify.

‘Who did you think was in your bed when you climbed in beside me?’

Her question earned her a tight-lipped scowl. ‘A friend.’

Unease swept over her at the prospect of that huge, frankly scary-looking lion’s head brass knocker on the front door sounding at any moment, and having to explain her presence to another person tonight.

‘Are you still expecting her?’

His eyes swept over her lazily. ‘No.’

Every inch of her skin tingled. For a moment she gazed longingly towards her suitcase, propped open beside an ornately carved walnut dressing table. She hadn’t had the energy to unpack earlier, but had fallen into bed after a much needed shower instead.

She moved towards the suitcase, aware he was following her every move. She grabbed the first jumper from the messy jumble spilling from it and pulled on the thick-knit polo neck. A shiver of comfort and relief ran down her spine; she no longer felt so susceptible to his dangerous gaze.

He moved back across the room towards the door. ‘I need to speak to my grandmother.’

‘She isn’t here.’

He pulled up short. ‘What do you mean, she isn’t here?’

‘She said she had to return home to Puglia. That there was an emergency.’

He shook his head in disgust and twisted away. He rolled his shoulders and then his spine in a quick, impatient movement, the fine wool of his suit jacket rippling in a fluid motion. He moved with the ease of the super-rich. Even his hair—a perfect one-inch length, tapering down in a perfect straight line to hug the tanned strength of his neck—looked as though it had been cut with diamond-encrusted scissors by a barber to the nobility of Europe.