Christina Hollis - The Ruthless Italian's Inexperienced Wife

He followed her, but in his own sweet time.

Cheryl felt as though she was in the presence of some large predator who watched her every move. She closed the door to little Vettor’s room, tense with expectation. By now Marco was standing so close behind her she could almost feel his soft, warm breath on her neck. She hesitated, alight with nerves. They were both waiting for something to happen. Compelled to turn and look at him, Cheryl had to lower her head the instant their eyes met. His expression was too intense. The only way she could cope with those burning blue eyes was to look up at him from beneath her lashes.

‘I’m only trying to be helpful, Marco.’

He smiled.

‘Oh, I’m sure you’re going to be invaluable…’

Christina Holliswas born in Somerset, and now lives in the idyllic Wye Valley. She was born reading, and her childhood dream was to become a writer. This was realised when she became a successful journalist and lecturer in organic horticulture. Then she gave it all up to become a full-time mother of two, and to run half an acre of productive country garden. Writing Mills & Boon® romances is another ambition realised. It fills most of her time between complicated rural school runs. The rest of her life is divided between garden and kitchen, either growing fruit and vegetables or cooking with them. Her daughter’s cat always closely supervises everything she does around the home, from typing to picking strawberries!

Recent titles by the same author:

HER RUTHLESS ITALIAN BOSS

ONE NIGHT IN HIS BED

COUNT GIOVANNI’S VIRGIN

THE ITALIAN BILLIONAIRE’S VIRGIN

BY

CHRISTINA HOLLIS

www.millsandboon.co.uk

CHAPTER ONE

WAS that something burning? Cheryl jumped from her chair and started searching the bedroom. Within seconds she discovered where the smell was coming from. The light glowing on Vettor’s bedside table was covered in a thin layer of dust. She wiped it clean with a dry paper towel, fooling herself that everything was all right again.

Here she was, alone in a foreign country—no, it was worse than that. She was marooned in a creepy old villa with only a sick toddler for company. Leaning over the bed, she sponged his hot face with cool water. The poor little boy had to be kept calm. She didn’t want to frighten him with her own worries.

Her fingers dug into the flannel as she remembered how helpless she had felt when RTN had broadcast warnings of a ferocious storm heading for Florence. The day staff had already left for their homes. The only worker living permanently at the Villa Monteolio was the caretaker. Cheryl had felt safe with him and his wife so close at hand. But then the storm had attacked, and when his wife had been struck by a tile, blown from the roof, the caretaker had rushed her to hospital.

Cheryl was now totally alone. She made another quick check of the sickroom. Expecting the power to go off at any second, she wanted to make sure she could find her way around in darkness if the worst happened. This summer storm had been screaming violently all evening. The electricity had been dipping in and out for hours. Any ancient country house was bound to suffer from power cuts , Cheryl told herself. If only this old place wasn’t quite so Gothic …

She looked up at the nearest carving. A stone angel perched on a ledge, holding a shield. It gazed across to the opposite wall, where a once identical partner crouched. The other angel’s head had been knocked straight off its shoulders—recently, she guessed. The exposed stone was pale, and still crumbling. Now and then a scatter of loosened grit rattled down against the flagstones.

Cheryl thought of the nervous warnings the villa’s staff had given her that morning. ‘ Don’t upset Signor Rossi whatever you do ,’ they muttered. ‘ He’s a demon in disguise .’ Cheryl, thinking they were teasing, had laughed at the time.

She wasn’t laughing now.

Another icy blast slammed against the northeastern corner of the house. All the shutters and doors creaked in a diabolical chorus. Wind streamed through them, finding every crack and crevice in the Villa Monteolio. The power dipped again. Shadows engulfed the stone angels.

Cheryl gripped the nearest solid thing. It was the arm of the chair she intended sleeping in, though the idea of getting any rest on her first night in a place like the Villa Monteolio during this hellish storm was beyond a joke. As she held on tight, the chair seemed to tremble. She gasped. Did they have earthquakes in Italy? She didn’t know. They were on the ground floor of the house, and, glancing around quickly, she reassured herself everything looked built to last. Perhaps she ought to check the room above, and make sure nothing was likely to come crashing through the ceiling onto Vettor’s bed.

Life had taught Cheryl to prepare for the worst and deal with it, but her little charge might wake while she was gone. What would happen if there was a power cut at the same time? She couldn’t bear to think of Vettor opening his eyes in darkness. That was why she’d hunted out the old emergency lamp and set it up beside his bed without thinking to clean it first. It was why she kept this vigil. She was sure the power would go down as soon as she left the room. She dithered. If Vettor woke, surely the battery light would be enough to keep him company until she got back? If she went at all…

Cheryl fretted over what to do. Breathless seconds passed as she waited to see if an earthquake really would join all her other problems. Luckily, after that first shiver, the chair didn’t move again. That might mean she only had Vettor and the storm to worry about.

After an eternity, she risked sinking onto the chair’s seat. It felt stable enough, but she couldn’t help wondering what the next panic would be. Outside, tiles had been falling like autumn leaves all evening. When interviewing her for this new job, Signor Rossi’s human resources manager had told Cheryl to expect chaos. The old place was a wreck. So she’d known the Villa Monteolio was a work in progress, but the holes in its roof had still come as a shock.

Rain must be gushing in everywhere by now. Cheryl glanced around nervously. How long before the upstairs ceilings started to bulge? She really ought to go and check on everything. Finding out what was going on would be better than sitting here worrying. On the other hand, if she went to investigate, what could she do? Water and mess might be ruining the top floors, but no workman would struggle all the way out here in this weather. Cheryl decided to stay put and keep the little boy company. Any damage to the villa would have to wait. It wasn’t her problem anyway—she already had enough of her own.

Work was Cheryl’s refuge from pain. Taking this job in Italy was supposed to help her forget what a mess her life had become. Her parents couldn’t resist forcing her most recent disaster down her throat at every opportunity, so she’d left England to make a fresh start. The past could really hurt her, but now reality was attacking her on every side as well. It was horrible.

A tremendous squealing crash echoed in from outside, catapulting Cheryl out of her seat. The electric lightbulb dimmed and went out. It hardly mattered. Flickering flashes of blue-white light flooded the room, bursting through the window shutters. Cheryl dashed over to them and peered between their slats, squinting against the glare. The gale had torn up one of the great trees lining the Villa Monteolio’s rutted drive. Its branches were bouncing on a power line, and sparks arced into the darkness, lighting up the driving rain.