The Italians Bundle (EBOOK)

The anger surprised her.

This rush of pure rage. Of bitterness she thought she’d erased long ago.

She’d practiced this meeting for years. Rehearsed how she’d act, what she’d say. But it all fell out of her head and heart. Slipped away from her mouth and tongue.

His hand held hers in a light, formal grip. Yet, his heat overwhelmed her senses, pulsing down her arm into the core of her—the old, cold pain. Everything around her faded: the warm night air behind her, the noise of the party behind him. A haze of unreality blurred everything around her.

Except for his heat.

“Ah,” he finally said. “Little Lara Derrick. All grown up.”

She looked at him, looked into hooded eyes set in a face of stark angles and planes. For a moment, she saw only a stranger. This was a man’s face—a ruthless man, tough and implacable. Exactly as she remembered from the last time they stood together.  

Nothing like the boy she once thought of as her best friend.

His eyes narrowed. Something sparked between them. The old bond, the feeling she’d carried through her childhood…of belonging…of being loved…

No. Wait.

Her wits stirred to life and with them the hard-won truths she’d learned over the past years. There had never really been anything. All her fantasy, all silly girlhood imaginings. Not reality. He’d made that brutally clear with his actions against her. 

In a rush, the fury surged once more. Surprised again at its power, she sucked in a deep breath and stiffened her spine. A nod at the man in front of her was the only thing she could manage. If she started to talk, she might yell. If she moved another muscle, she might hit. If she looked at him again, he might see what was in her eyes.

And then, he would know what he’d done to her.  

“Nothing to say?” His hand still held hers and it surprised her that his touch was soft. “If I remember correctly that is unusual for you.”

The slight teasing in his tone made her itch to strike out. She jerked her hand from his, and a wave of relief welled inside when her father stepped up from behind, providing needed distraction, stopping her from doing anything stupid. But for a long moment, she still felt the coolness of the man’s dark gaze, felt the heat of his body.

The haze threatened to blur her surroundings once more.

In a flash, it was gone with her father’s booming hello, the lighter tones of her brother’s laughing joke. The man’s deep, smooth voice, greeting them and welcoming them into his home without a trace of warmth, cleared the haze inside her like a good gale of icy English wind.

Thank God.

Lara walked past him into the cool marble foyer. Laughter and chatter drifted out of the large drawing room on the right and she moved quickly, losing herself in the crowd of neighbors and friends celebrating the upcoming nuptials of his youngest sister. Exchanging a wave of greeting with a cluster of friends across the room, she ignored his sister’s invitation to join them. Instead, she swiped a glass of champagne from a waiter, leaned on the wall and sipped.

Her fingers shook as they clutched the crystal.

A fresh spurt of anger, at herself this time, swelled. He meant nothing to her.  He’d meant nothing to her for a long time. She’d made sure of that. 

So why? 

Why was her stomach churning, why were her hands damp, her eyes blurry with tears? This reaction gave him too much credit. Too much power. Something she would not tolerate. 

She needed some air.

With a stiff gait she walked through the crowd, past the laughter and talking, and eventually out onto the terrace. Closing the door behind her, she let the Italian night surround and soothe. The gentle lap of the Mediterranean Sea, meters away, slid through and around her. Calming, comforting.

It was over. She’d met him again and survived the experience.

“He doesn’t matter to you,” she whispered to herself.

So he’d changed the course of her life and certainly not for the better. Yet, she’d managed to come through her experiences stronger and smarter.

The beat of her heart throbbed in her chest.

She was a foolish kid then, bent on destroying any link to him. Systematically, she cut herself off from her childhood, isolated herself in a new life. Done exactly what he’d wanted her to do…disappear.

How stupid she’d been.

Because this place, these people, were part of her and always would be. Not him. Never him. Everything else, though, she wanted back. Her life in Italy, her family, the friendships she held with his sisters.  

She also had a goal now, something not tied to a man or his wishes and desires. Her school would be the declaration of her power as a survivor. For the foreseeable future, it would be her life. 

Precisely as she wanted it to be.

Lara turned and looked through the pane glass of the terrace doors. The colors of the women’s dresses blended into a kaleidoscope of silk and satin and status. The men’s dark suits, white dress shirts, black tuxedoes, offered contrast. The flash of diamonds, the sparkling light of the chandeliers, the glint of class and glamour, all combined into a picture of pure luxury.

Her bittersweet memories blurred her gaze for a moment.

She’d played dolls in this elegant room, with the rain splashing on the terrace doors. She and his sisters had used the chic settees as castles, the antique tapestries lining the walls as backdrops, the marble statues as pawns in their play. The room was merely their playground, nothing to be impressed with. 

Not aristocratic or haughty or intimidating.

Like he’d shown himself to be. 

Then, and now.  

He moved through the room as if he owned it all, which he did, and owned everyone who scattered before him. He never smiled; instead he nodded with cool arrogance. Lara watched as grown men almost genuflected before him. He accepted it as if it were his due. 

What pride. 

What an ego. 

Nothing like years ago when he was a lanky teenager who grinned and laughed. A boy who hadn’t hidden everything he was thinking behind a cold mask.  

Who hadn’t been capable of betraying those who loved him.

Except that had been a lie too—her memory of him as someone other than an imperious aristocrat. Another of his lies. Or maybe she’d been lying to herself.

Not anymore. Never again. 

She was no longer a dreamer. She was a realist.

Lara took a deep sip of champagne and swiveled away to stare at the rolling lawn darkened with night shadows. She would get through this week, suffer his presence at his sister’s wedding, and then odds were, she’d rarely see him. After all, since she arrived back in Italy, she hadn’t seen him once until tonight. He’d been wheeling and dealing in Dubai or someplace exotic. Inevitably, he’d leave for another important business deal somewhere else in the world. Leaving her free to make a new life where she belonged.

The click of the door opening made only a slight sound, but it shot through her. The air immediately hummed with life, catching her off guard. It was him. She knew it. The realization shook her—she still felt this old instinctive bond.

It shouldn’t be. It shouldn’t happen.

“So,” he said from behind her. “You are back.”

A flutter of panic slid across her skin at the thought of being alone with him. She considered running down the steps, into his park, away from this. But she’d learned to confront now, learned to stand instead of run. 

She turned around to face him.  

The golden light spilling from the terrace doors slid across his shoulders, highlighting their broad length. Gilding his black hair, the glow brushed along the tough edge of his jaw. The rest of his face was hidden in shadows.

“Yes.” She looked at the shadowed garden once more. She would ignore him. Ignoring wasn’t running. And honestly, she had nothing to say to him, not anymore. He’d made clear he felt nothing except contempt for her. 

Why was he here, though? Why had he followed her out here when he could so easily be surrounded by the adoring crowd inside? What could he possibly say to her that hadn’t already been said?

She breathed in the warm air, redolent with honeysuckle and the tang of salt. Pulling her wayward emotions together, she reminded herself of what she’d practiced over and over. The words she’d say, the actions she’d take when she at last saw him. 

Distance. Disdain. Dismissal. 

He moved to stand beside her. A faint whiff of his cologne drifted to her, the clean bite of citrus mixed with a deeper cut of spice. Beneath it lurked the smell of him, musk and man. Unique to him. His impact on her defied her determination to pay no attention to him. She hadn’t planned for this awareness of him, this draw, hadn’t realized how hard this would be.

“Back for good?” he murmured.

“I’ve been here for more than three months. This isn’t a holiday.” 

She needed some space. She wasn’t running away, she only needed to find her composure. Setting the empty champagne glass on the terrace ledge, she moved past him, stepping down the marble steps onto the gravel of the garden path. 

Cravenly, she hoped and prayed he would stay behind. 

He didn’t. 

The crunch of his shoes on the gravel told her he was following.

Walking with a measured pace, she tried to impose a tight ball of discipline on herself. Except her brain buzzed with scattered thoughts and her emotions bubbled in her heart with a frantic beat. Stopping at the fountain, she dipped her hand in, hoping it would cool her down. 

“Your father is happy you are back.”

He wanted to make small talk. Chat. Overlook all the harsh words lying between them. Bitter antagonism flashed through her, pulsing. 

“I know,” she managed through gritted teeth.

“He missed you during these years.”

Her head came up. “Do I detect criticism in your tone?”

“I merely made an observation.”

“Keep your observations to yourself.” The snap of her words spat into the night. 

“Ah.” The burn of his dark stare singed her face. Watching her. Analyzing. Stupidly, she’d let him see into her, note her resentment.

Yet, only for a moment, and she could easily correct the impression.

“I didn’t mean to be so sharp.” She forced herself to give him a smile.

The moonlight slanted over his face, emphasizing the strong jut of his nose and the stark line of his jaw. He was not a pretty man. He hadn’t been a pretty child either. At the time, she hadn’t cared. What were mere looks to a child’s pure heart? Still, that fateful night many years ago, she’d seen something cruel and brutal, and the impact never left her. His manner tonight reinforced what she’d realized in that last confrontation between them. 

He was cold to the core.

What did it really matter? He was not a part of her new life and never would be. He’d made that decision for both of them and she heartily agreed with it. Now. “I’m a bit tired. It meant nothing.”

“Nothing? I would say it’s at least interesting.” He put his hands in his pockets and her gaze tracked the movement, noting how the linen of his pants stretched across narrow hips and strong thighs.

“Not interesting at all.” She moved around the fountain.

He followed. “I detected a bit of irritation in your voice.”

“Not true—”

“Maybe even a touch of dislike.”

Lara managed a laugh. “I don’t know you. How could I dislike you?”

“We grew up together.”

“That was a long time ago.” Memories flooded her heart in a poignant wash. “I’ve been gone for twelve years.”

“True.” He stopped, inches from her side. “This is why I find it interesting you are irritated. I would say even angry. At me.”

His distinctive smell reached her for a second time, spice mixed with man. 

He was too near, too close. 

Legs trembling, she sat on the fountain ledge. This couldn’t be.  She couldn’t let this man, of all men, cause a physical reaction in her. As the years passed, she became accustomed to being immune to men. Immune from desire or need or want. 

Her dead husband made sure of that, hadn’t he?

Brushing the thought aside, she stared at her clenched hands. Why was this old attraction for this stranger from her past still alive? This was awful, horrible. Not only did it worry her, yes, it made her angry. “I’m not angry. With you or anyone.”

The night shadows played around them. The trees whispered above, the fountain sparkled and spat, a roosting pigeon warbled. Why didn’t he go away? The man appeared completely content to let the silence continue. He stood, a tall silhouette upon the night sky, his arms now crossed on his chest.

“Carlotta appears happy.” Maybe mindless chatter was her best defense against everything he stirred inside.

“My sister will be happy with Sandro. She listened to my advice about marrying him.”

“What?” she bristled. “You chose your sister’s husband? And she agreed?”

A dark brow arched. “That’s not quite what I said.”

“But close.”

“I knew Sandro through business. I liked what I saw and checked him out—”

“You had him investigated?” Disbelief filled her voice.

“Sì.”  He gave her a calm look. “We are talking about my sister’s happiness.”

“And once he checked out, you put them together.”

“I introduced them. That is all.”

“Let me guess.” Lara heard the hostility in her words, yet couldn’t help it as they splattered from her mouth. “You chose every one of your sisters’ husbands.”

“I met them through business, true, but—”

“Let me guess one more time.” Antagonism burned in her throat. “They are all very successful in business or have family wealth.”

“Naturalmente.” He slid his hands into his pockets once more.

“Is that one of your rules?” she shot back. “You would only allow your sisters to marry successful and rich men? Only allow them to marry the right sort of man?”

“Right sort of man?” His words came out slowly as if he couldn’t understand them. “Rules?”

“Or perhaps I should say commandments.”

“I do not follow—”

“God forbid if one of them fell in love with a simple teacher.” The harshness of her accusation cut through the soft night air. “With no aristocratic heritage of a thousand years.”

“As you did?” His tone iced with sudden derision.

“It wasn’t your business then, and it isn’t now.” 

The old familiar rage filled her; yet she managed to push away the memory of his scathing words before she reached up and hit him. The message he’d left for her to find when she got back from the honeymoon had never been forgotten, and it still made her blood roar. 

She’d been so close to admitting her mistake.

But that one message changed her mind. 

Which led to—

Not anything she needed to think about at the moment. 

“We aren’t talking about my decisions, though, are we?” She managed a calm tone. “We’re talking about your sisters.”

“My duty is to make sure my sisters are well taken care of.” His hands fisted in his pockets. “It is important they marry men of honor and integrity who can provide for them.”

“Honor and integrity only reside in men with money?” 

“That is not what—”

“Your sisters aren’t capable of providing for themselves?”

“They will be busy with the children.” He looked at her as if he were talking to an imbecile.

The sudden ache in her heart at the word children competed with the fury his words caused. She’d yearned for years, knowing there was no hope for babies. She clamped down on the old pain and instead focused on the clear condescension in his voice. 

No one, certainly not this man, would ever again be allowed to talk to her like she was stupid. 

Her emotions spilled over into her mouth and she lost control of her tongue completely. “In your world everyone is placed in the box you’ve created for them and you expect them to do as you say.”

He stilled. “You appear to have made many conclusions about me. In such a short time, and especially since, as you say, we no longer know each other.”

“Conclusions are easy when they stare you right in the face.”

“And your conclusion about me…is?”

“You’ve turned into an arrogant ass.”

The cool air seemed to heat between them. She felt him, felt his coolness turn to fire. The words had spat from her before she could stop them. A nearly uncontrollable compulsion ran through her to take a stick and poke him until he turned into a human. Into the boy she remembered. Which was crazy. That boy had been a figment of her imagination. 

She could poke for a lifetime and find only ice.

“A fascinating conclusion.” His voice held no emotion, only a dry edge. “How quickly you have sized me up.”

She was stupid to bait this man. If she kept going at him, it might appear she still cared. Better to offer another olive branch and make a wise retreat before she let any more of her inner turmoil spill out for his inspection. “That was uncalled for.” 

“Yet, it is good to know where I stand.”

A grim silence settled between them.

She made a move to rise, to escape, but he had moved too close. For some reason, she couldn’t take the chance of actually touching him. Not even a whisper of a touch.

She wiggled back onto the hard stone. 

The silence continued. The man made no attempt to cut into it with light chatter or pleasant commentary. 

In desperation, she struggled to find a neutral subject. “I can’t believe all five of your sisters are married, or almost. It seems like only a few years ago we were just kids.”

“You married too.” His voice matched his body language—cool and composed. “Even after my advice against it.”

“Was that advice?” Every thought of keeping things neutral fled. “I took it as a threat.”

“Either way, you ignored it.”  

His reaction astounded her. Although he was putting on a good front, his words were filled with fury. His tone was crisp, but she heard it, the burn beneath the words. All these years and he was still angry she hadn’t immediately fallen in line with his instructions. He had the gall to be mad after a decade of silence between them because she hadn’t run home to Italy when he demanded it. “Unlike the rest of your world, I don’t have to follow your commands.”

“You’ve developed a sharp tongue.”

“Which isn’t to your liking, is it?”

“Sarcasm. Delightful.”

His rejoinder ripped at the last remnant of her determination to stay distant. “Clearly, we don’t like each other.”

“Another conclusion. You make them so quickly, I am impressed.”

“You do sarcasm well yourself,” she countered. 

His black stare pinned her to the stone seat. “Tell me about your husband.” 

His change of subject shook her. Gerry was the last thing she wanted to talk about. Especially with him. “What is this? Why should you care?”

“I care.” The two words slipped from his mouth, dark and almost desperate.

A shiver of something, something astonishing or horrifying slid down her spine.

He stepped back. Cleared his throat. “I am merely trying to have a conversation.”

His voice had returned to calm, cool. Not an iota of anything that spelled out emotion or feeling or caring. Her shiver stopped, turning into a block of ice at the bottom of her gut. Obviously, she’d read his tone all wrong. This man’s idea of caring for people was ordering them around. She, better than anyone, knew that.

However, he had given her one thing she wanted. He’d given her enough space to leave without touching him in any way.

“I’m not interested in conversation with you.” With an abrupt jerk, she came to her feet.

“There it is. Once more.” His stare was sharp and assessing. “The anger. At me.”

She couldn’t take any more. She would admit this only to herself. He was too much for her. Bloody hell, she didn’t have to take anything from this man. Ever again. “I’m going to return to the party.”

“Un momento.” His hand encircled her elbow and brought her to a halt right beside him. 

Staring down at the broad male hand, a shot of pure heat zipped through her bloodstream, making her mouth turn dry. “Let me go.”

“Not until I experience something I have been contemplating for quite some time.”

Resentment surged at his high-handedness. The emotion gave her enough courage to meet his calculating gaze. “I’m not interested in experiencing anything with you.”

“I am afraid we will have to disagree then.” With a twist, she found herself in his embrace.  

His overwhelming presence hit her with stark clarity. The warmth of his body enwrapped her. The strength of his arms stilled her involuntary struggle. “Are you crazy?”

“I might well be,” he said.

And his mouth came down on hers.

This kiss was nothing like before. Nothing like her fevered memories. Before, she'd searched despairingly for a reaction from him, for some slight response that would tell her he felt what she felt. But there’d been nothing.

Now? Now was completely different.   

His kiss didn’t match what she knew him to be. Instead of controlled and cool and in command, it was passionate and hot and—desperate. 

The kiss splintered every one of her perceptions of him. 

His arms tightened around her. A thick wall of heated muscle and searing passion burned along her body. One hand grasped her hip, dispensing with any finesse or kindness. No, this was a total taking, her hips pressed so closely to him the imprint of his belt buckle pinched the softness of her belly. And below—

She wrenched herself from him to take a gasping breath. “I want you to—”

His lips moved back over hers, taking advantage of her words to slip his tongue deep into her mouth. He tasted of the intoxicating champagne served at the party and something unique to him—some spice of wildness mixed with pent-up frustration. Beyond this, a calling, not to her brain, but to her blood. 

The kiss, the call, her response was too overwhelming to take in. 

She let him sip and taste until her mind went misty and she sagged in his arms. She’d lived with this dream for so long, aching in her memory. This kiss, his kiss, pulled all the old strings of her heart she’d been sure she cut long ago. So she did something very stupid.

She took one willing sip, one tiny nip of his mouth.

His big body stiffened in reaction. He raised his head to stare at her. The black of his eyes blazed with a blinding light of...victory.

Victory.

She gulped. Gulped in a deep, deep breath of complete horror. With it came some sense, some realization of how foolish she was being. “Wait.”

He ignored her, dipping his head to reach for her mouth once more.

Which was exactly what she needed. Animosity immediately vibrated inside. Never being listened to, never being respected. Merely a chattel, an object to be won and used. 

She pushed hard against his chest with both hands, trying to disregard the lure of the heat spilling from him. “Stop.”

The inflection of her one word must have alerted him. He lifted his head, a grimace on his face. Clearly, victory had turned into his defeat. “Lara.”

“No more.” Pushing out of his arms, she took a step away. 

His hands fisted by his sides as if he were ready to grab her.  

She took another step away.  

The edge of his mouth quirked. “Do not worry, bella. I have control over myself. I will not pounce. For now.”

The old nickname twisted inside her. “Don’t call me bella. And don’t pounce.”

“Something you must remember about me—”

“I don’t want to remember anything—”

“I do not follow directions well if I don’t agree with them.” The quirk appeared once more on his mouth. “Actually, I don’t follow them at all.”

“Listen to me, Dante Casartelli.” She glared at him from several safe feet back. “I want nothing to do with you. I’m not interested in you. Leave me alone.”

Meeting her glare with a bland look, he stood silent.

“Did you hear me?”

“Sì,” he murmured. “I heard you.”

“Good.”  She turned and walked away without looking back.

Drunk. Quite, quite drunk.

Not ever having had the experience before, Lise Helton couldn't be absolutely sure, but she'd sat down on this barstool with the intention of getting drunk and she always achieved her goals. 

She looked down at the remnants of her third…or was it her fourth?…drink. A screaming something. A screaming…she tried to focus on the last part of the drink’s name except the fuzzy, floating edge of her brain now seemed to have fuzzily floated everywhere, clouding everything. A screaming…

“Well, well, well.” The deep, accented voice slid straight through her fuzzy, floating brain. “What do we have here?”

A shot of iced horror straightened her spine and cut through the fog in her brain. Her blurry gaze swept over the dark oak paneling of the fashionable London pub, over the small crowd of laughing, talking customers, over the bartender who eyed her with annoyance. Looking anywhere other than at him.

No, it couldn't be. Not him. Not here. Her luck could not possibly be this awful.

“I am all astonishment.” A wicked lick of tease lined his tone. As usual. “Who would have thought the cool, collected Ms. Helton had a secret life?”

Her brain refused to clear. Closing her eyes, she tried to pull back out of the haze.

“As a—drunk?” The question whispered in the words, barely there. A tool to poke her, push her. Prick at her pride.

“No,” she muttered under her breath. 

“Sì.” His voice lowered, the accent rich. “As you know, I call them as I see them.”

If she kept her eyes closed, perhaps he’d disappear. He was a figment of her drunken imagination. Every morning she awoke and banished him from her dreams. She’d do it again now.

“Trying to ignore me?” he said. “Ignoring your boss is never a good idea, Princesse.”

“Don't call me that.” 

He’d only called her princesse once before, in a meeting. He’d muttered the word under his breath, still she caught it. 

And caught his meaning. 

The word had been a slur, a put-down. The lilt of his accent hadn’t hid the bite of contempt underneath.

He chuckled and sat down. She sensed his bulk, the solidness, smelled the whiff of his disturbing cologne right beside her. ”I suppose you wish me to call you the usual Ms. Helton.”

“I wish…” Her thoughts and emotions tangled around her words. What did she wish for anymore? A sharp grief, effectively doused by alcohol mere moments ago, rose once more to clutch at her throat. 

“Sì? What would a woman like you wish for, I wonder?” 

“Nothing.” Every one of her dreams of happily-ever-after was gone. “Absolutely nothing.”

He stilled. 

Why had she said those words? Why had she given him an insight into her pain? The last thing she wanted to do was give anything away to this man, of all men. 

Too late. 

Lise squeezed her eyes shut until they hurt. She’d done something very stupid. She’d opened her mouth and given him another weapon to use in their ongoing war. Until he left, she needed to open her mouth and put something in it, and not let anything else out. She opened her eyes, took her drink in a shaky hand, and drank every last drop.

“Interesting,” he murmured.

She needed another drink. 

“I cannot reconcile the woman I see before me with the cool creature who is my oh-so-professional CFO.”

“Bugger off.” She managed to form the words and push them from her numb mouth.

“I believe this is a public pub.” He waved at the bartender. Ordering a bottled beer, he glanced over. “I hesitate to order you another. I think you've had enough.”

“No.” She pushed her empty glass forward. “Another.”

The bartender grimaced. “Are you sure—”

“Another.”

Her nemesis cleared his throat. “Perhaps it is time to stop. After all, you wouldn’t want to ruin your ladylike reputation.”

The ever-present mockery laced his words. Again, misery slammed around inside her. A lady. A Princesse. A woman without a heart. Could it be true? Could this man be right about her? Even more importantly, could Robert be right about her? 

What had he called her mere hours ago? 

The memory came back like a kick in the gut. 

Ice Queen. 

Not a woman. Not someone who needed love. No, someone to put on a pedestal like a stone statue. Or in Robert’s case, dismiss as someone as cold as marble. 

A nauseous wave of hurt swept through her. 

Now, to top it off, as if she hadn’t suffered enough today, the Italian jerk beside her insinuated the same thing. A lady with a reputation, not a heart. A Princesse who couldn’t be hurt by nasty nicknames or spiteful scorn. An Ice Queen, completely frozen inside. 

All of this must be true because the man she’d loved for months and who knew her better than anyone had told it to her straight. 

She could easily dismiss her boss’s insult. 

She couldn’t do the same to Robert’s. 

However, it still didn’t mean she had to take anything from this man next to her. The bitter taste in her mouth bubbled into her throat. “Bite me.” 

A choked laugh escaped him. “This is an amazing transformation.”

“Get me a drink.” She managed to glare at the bartender, if not him.

With a sigh, the man beside her nodded his agreement. “I will take care of her.”

If she did stand on a pedestal, then she’d take the experience and make it work in her favor. She’d build the pedestal so high, it would be impossible for any man to touch her. Touch her in any way. Take care of her in any way. “I don't need to be taken care of.”

“Aha! The formidable woman I know makes an appearance.”

Lise stared at her left hand, clutched on the wooden roll of the bar. Her focus zoomed in and out, in and out, making her hand appear large and then small. Large and small. Large and small. 

And ringless. 

She sucked in a breath. A dizzy spray of grief mixed with pure rage shifted her center of gravity. Dimly, she noticed she wasn’t centered on her stool—she…she…

“Hold on.” The Italian jerk’s warm hand grasped her elbow and righted her. The heat of him cut through the linen of her suit, making her even dizzier. 

“Uh.” She closed her eyes again, trying to bring her concentration back into focus.

“You are finished, Princesse.” 

She really needed another drink.

“No, you do not,” he said. 

Had she said something? A male body suddenly pressed hot along her side and her feet came out from under her. Her eyes flew open to meet his. 

Tawny tiger eyes. Twinkling with wicked, delighted triumph.

“What are you doing?” She tried to struggle, tried to make the words crisp and clear.

“I am rescuing you.” His arms tightened around her, quelling her feeble rebellion. “An astonishing development.”

Her head flopped back on his arm. “Wait—”

He lifted her, swung her—

“No.” A surge of nausea ran up her throat and she barely swallowed it back. Her head spun, her eyes closed, and she gave up the fight. A dark fog filtered into the dizzy alcoholic fizz in her brain and everything went completely black.

* * *

She was as beautiful in disarray as she was in her usual cool perfection.

Vicenzo Mattare stared down at her. Blond hair mussed around her head, strands catching at her mouth, curls shadowing her eyes. Her arms were outstretched on his bed, opening her jacket to show an un-tucked white shirt, giving him a glimpse of creamy skin along the waistline. The grey color of her wool suit contrasted with his black sheets, highlighting every line of her body and the abandonment of her pose. 

It was a shock to see her this way. He'd imagined, obsessed. Yet, it was invariably the calm, composed woman who walked through his brain. Not this abandoned creature. Except it didn't seem to matter either way. His body reacted as it always reacted to her. 

With lust.

He swung around to his full-length closet and bit out a short, sharp curse. Sliding off his tie, he concentrated on what he needed to do next. And what he needed to do next had nothing to do with standing over her, panting with lust. He had to put her in her place once and for all. Like a ripe plum, she’d dropped into his hands this evening and he aimed to take advantage of the situation. Going out for an after-work beer had turned into a lucky coincidence. 

He’d been mildly astonished to find her seated in his favorite pub. 

Completely amazed when he quickly understood she was drunk. 

Totally astounded when she passed out in his arms. 

And when the perfect Lise Helton spilled most of the alcohol she’d consumed onto the curb before he stuffed her into his limo and made her drink some water, he laughed. Never in his wildest imagination had he dreamed of the Princesse being brought so low. 

Brought so low as to be almost human. 

Laughter disappeared, though, when she cuddled into him and promptly fallen back into her sleepy stupor. The dark, wicked part of his body leapt to life, as always, against his will. 

The impact she had on him, even in a drunken state, was unforgivable.

With that realization stinging his pride, his dark, wild scheme for tonight had slithered into his thoughts. 

The scheme would not work if he let his lust master his brain. Wicked and wild he might be; nevertheless the importance lay in remembering this whole inspired setup was designed to show her who was really in control. Out-of-control was out of the question for him. He needed to stuff her back into the compartment of his mind where he'd placed her at the moment he met her. 

Out-of-bounds. Off-limits.

The day he’d met Lise Helton still echoed in his mind and in his body.

“Mr. Mattare.” The receptionist had jumped from her chair like a jumping jack as soon as she spotted him and his entourage walking through the plate-glass doors. “Welcome to HSF Financial.”

He hadn’t been surprised that she recognized him. The news of the takeover of one of the biggest English financial firms by an upstart Italian billionaire had spilled over all the front pages of Europe’s tabloids and newspapers. “If you could direct me to the conference room, I believe management is waiting for me.”

“Certainly, sir.” 

His solicitor murmured various suggestions in his ear as the elevator rose to the top floor. His suggestions were not necessary. Vico knew exactly what he needed to do as a first step.

Clean house.

The firm was top-heavy and filled with a variety of people he’d call con artists using nepotism or cronyism to game their way into the money. Well, now HSF was his and the money was his. His duty was to fire them all.

Lise Helton was at the top of the list. 

No twenty-nine-year-old woman held the CFO position in this kind of company on the strength of her resume or talent alone. Considering the fact her father had been the “H” in the firm’s name, Vico was sure her position derived entirely from this connection. 

The conference room’s double oak doors opened in front of him and the whispers coming from the crowd inside went silent. 

“Mr. Mattare.” James Forrester, the last of the founders of HSF who was still alive, stepped forward. “Welcome. This is my…the management of HSF.”

His bland brown eyes and sloping shoulders told a tale Vico had heard throughout the past four months of negotiations with this man. A tale of tired refrains and dusty excuses. Forrester was glad to let go of the reins and Vico was glad that this was the last he’d see of the man. 

“Grazie.” He stepped forward, right to the front of the room, right to the head of the long oak table where a dozen of his new employees sat slouched in lazy abandonment. 

He gave them all a pointed look.

They rose at once in a halting, jerky pattern, their pasty faces going white, their blank eyes suddenly wide and filled with fear.

Buona. Molto bene.

His gaze moved over each one, taking stock and making judgments. Not until he got to the end of the table did he spot her. Lise Helton. This had to be her because no one else appeared to be younger than forty years old. 

She hadn’t risen. Of all of them, she should be the most obsequious and deferential since she carried not much more experience than a college graduate. Yet, she hadn’t risen.

She’d arched a brow when he frowned at her and kept her seat.

Then, all at once, he’d really taken her in. 

Her stark beauty stunned him. The clean line of her jaw, the blond glow of her hair, the ice blue of her eyes. One look at her and he’d wanted to yank her into his arms. Ruffle her composure. Put fire into those ice eyes. 

Make her wild for him.

The memory of those instinctive reactions made him burn with disgust even now, even two months later.

“Dio.” He stared blankly into his dark closet, remembering. Remembering the stillness of the moment. The realization of his vulnerability to the woman. 

His reaction had been unacceptable and contemptible. No woman would be allowed to have such a hold on him. He'd thrust his lust and shock away, replacing it with cold determination. She wouldn’t last a day, much less the month he’d been willing to give her. However, his decision ran into a formidable wall of opposition surrounding her with protection. 

Today was the day he’d finally breached that wall.

Ironic. Ms. Helton would have many surprises waiting for her tomorrow.

An evil chuckle rumbled from his throat.

Shrugging out of his suit coat, he hung it carefully in the closet. His silk shirt came next, and then, his linen pants. Not even now, after many years of wealth, did he take anything for granted. His possessions reminded him of how much he'd achieved. All of them told him daily how far he’d come from his childhood, roaming the dirty slums of Naples.

Vico padded into the sumptuous bathroom he’d designed himself and turned on the shower. The warm sandstone tile contrasted nicely with the black-and-gold fixtures. Steam instantly billowed, filling the large room, enveloping the sunken tub and long length of mirrors in a fine mist. 

This had been a long day of tough negotiations with the other main stockholders of HSF. Still, he’d convinced the majority of them to fall in with his ideas. Lise Helton might hold her father’s stock, but she didn’t have enough to stop his plans. The company would go in a new direction, focusing on the core competencies of derivatives and futures contracts, moving away from the old standbys of stocks and bonds.

Ms. Helton would not be happy. 

Perhaps she would quit.

He stepped under the warm spray of water and let the heat soak into his skin, relaxing the tense muscles of his shoulders and neck. Sighing, he leaned his head back letting his long hair stream down his spine in a wet slide.

She wouldn’t quit.

Luck had consistently been his lady in business. In this case, though, with this particular haughty lady, luck had vanished. Lise Helton would not make his life easy by quitting in a huff and walking out of his life. No, he’d come to know her well. There’d be a battle royal with the Princesse as soon as she woke up from her drunken state.

Drunk. On an out-and-out bender.

He shook his head in disbelief, drops of water flying from his hair. Could she possibly have hidden a penchant for alcohol behind the prim and precise persona she presented to him every day at work? His gut told him no. But the mystery behind her behavior still intrigued him. Which provided him with one more reason to bring her here instead of let his security team drag her to her own flat. He wanted to see what she’d say when she awoke. 

Hell, admit it, Vico.

More than anything else, he wanted to look into those ice-blue, bloodshot eyes tomorrow morning and see them widen in horror at the realization he saw her at her worst and she’d slept the night by his side.

Snickering, he turned and slathered his chest and sides using the almond-scented soap he specially imported from Italy. It had been the first luxury he bought when he made his first real deal. Dirt and filth were a part of his childhood. His momma had tried, but the boy she loved was intent on living on the streets, intent on having his own way. 

Intent on falling into the ugly world of crime. 

And the inevitable shame which followed. 

Nevertheless, for fifteen years now, he’d paid any price in order to rise above his past, his sins. Forgiveness, relief of his guilt, could not be bought. But at least he had the satisfaction of knowing he’d obtained the money to pay penance.

He wrenched the shower off and stepped out, wrapping a warmed towel around his waist. Staring into the mirror, he debated only a moment. No, he would not shave his five-o’clock shadow. Not for the woman in his bed. Ms. Helton had made her opinion of him clear from the moment they met.    

Predator. Peasant. Playboy.

Being who he was, he played to her expectations. He whispered sinful putdowns. He grinned in the face of her contempt. He hid his tough demeanor and sharp mind behind the playboy she pegged him as. He'd been exactly what she expected these past two months. 

A coarse barbarian playing with his new toy. 

He knew what she anticipated. She waited for him to grow bored. However, she waited in vain. The woman had miscalculated. 

She’d underestimated him.

Vico leaned over the sink and brushed his teeth. Turning off the water, he wiped his face with a towel, grimacing at the tightness of his jaw. He’d been angry for months, though he successfully kept his resentment banked until he evaluated his enemy and decided how to handle her.

Within a week of his arrival, he understood Lise Helton held far more cards than he’d expected. 

She’d entrenched herself too well. The other stockholders, the employees, and every client spoke of her in a mixture of awe and affection. There’d been no way he could fire her without disrupting the entire flow of the company. He took control of HSF thinking he’d be in charge. Not until he looked into two frosty blue eyes had he realized where the real challenge lay in conquering this company. 

Conquering the Princesse was the real challenge.

The woman who currently lay on his bed, dead to the world, and in distracting disarray.

Vico chuckled again. The irony delivered a sweet addition to his earlier victory over her today.    

Ms. Helton was going to be one astonished lady tomorrow.   

Walking back into his bedroom, he stared down at her. She hadn't moved. His gaze devoured her: the angelic beauty of her face, the thrust of her breasts, the long, long length of elegant leg. If he were a gentleman, he would sleep on the sofa. 

He was not a gentleman.

Leaning down, he pulled her dainty feet out of somber grey pumps. Without conscious thought, he slid his hand across the arch of her foot. 

She murmured before falling silent once more.

Her suit jacket came next. Her body lay lax, compliant as he slipped off her shirt. 

He was a man. He looked.

The bra didn’t match her starchy, prim outerwear. Glossy pink, lacy. And sexy. The bra plumped her surprisingly lush breasts up and out. One tiny mole lay on one delectable mound, right by the fringe of the bra.

His mouth watered. 

His semi-naked body went hard in a split second.

Tamping down his urges, he forced himself to focus on her skirt, sliding it over her rounded hips. Past her smooth thighs. Off her body.

Her panties were pink. Hot pink and lacy, exactly like the bra. Another line of lace edged her clingy silk stockings. 

His body roared. 

Vico stepped back from the temptation, his hands shaking in need.

Yet, when she awoke, the woman would turn as cold as the North Sea. From the first moment, he'd been bemused by his lust for this chilly creature. He berated himself more than once as he stood in his shower, hot and hard and breathless. 

Thinking of her. 

Why did this sexless woman heat his blood to boiling? 

He stared at her, wondering if he was wrong. Wondering if her fiancé had gotten the golden ticket instead of the losing hand Vico assumed.

He took in a breath. A very deep breath. 

Gritting his teeth, he slung back the covers and pushed her under them, covering her and covering temptation. He wasn't a gentleman; still, he hadn't taken her clothes off to ogle. He'd taken them off to compound her dilemma when she awakened tomorrow morning. 

In his bed. Semi-naked. With him naked beside her. 

No, no. He was not a gentleman.

Clicking off the lights, he slid the towel off and slipped into bed. He put his hands behind his head and scowled at the ceiling.

What a fool. The wicked devil inside him hadn't taken into account his wicked body and the lust he'd unwillingly felt the last two months. For an icy Princesse. For the woman who put herself far above him with every look. For a sexless snob of a lady.

His cock twitched and suffered. 

But his stubborn pride dug in its heels. 

He'd endure this. The morning would finally come. 

Then it would be Lise Helton who would suffer.

Julia Kent, Lauren Blakely, and Meghan March, these are the stories for you! Includes: enemies to lovers, secret baby, forced marriage, fish out of water, fake relationship, marriage of convenience

Behind Dante Casartelli's cool and contained exterior lies a passionate man who's determined to claim the woman he's loved for years, even if it means forcing her to marry him and hiding his heart until she's ready to accept it and him.

When Italian playboy Vico Mattare discovers the ice princess he seduced now carries his child, he'll use every weapon in his arsenal to claim both mother and baby—but his greatest battle lies in proving to himself he's worthy of the love he demands.

Scarred by her past and determined to stand on her own, Lara Derrick never expected to be forced into marriage with the commanding billionaire who once rejected her, only to discover that beneath his icy control lies a passion that might heal them both—if she dares to let herself love him.

When cool, controlled CFO Lise Helton finds herself pregnant after one passionate night with her Italian playboy boss, she'll fight to protect her heart as fiercely as her child—never expecting that surrendering control might be the key to discovering her true self.

Romance novels have been my escape and joy since I first discovered them as a teenager. When I began writing my own stories, I was devouring Harlequin Presents romances by the armful, and looking back, I can see how those dramatic, passionate stories with their commanding heroes and spirited heroines shaped all my characters' journeys.

None of these books were my first attempts at writing romance—there's a collection of manuscripts tucked away in my computer that will forever remain private experiments in finding my voice. Each story emerged from different places in my life, whether I was exploring new cities or feeling adrift in unfamiliar surroundings. That sense of transition, of not quite belonging, worked its way into my characters as they discover themselves through passionate encounters and unexpected love.

While I've had the pleasure of exploring the bustling streets of London, the excitement of New York, and the charm of Italy's cities like Rome, I've yet to experience the sun-drenched hills of Tuscany where two of my characters find their happy endings. The scenic vineyards, medieval villages, and ancient stone villas remain at the top of my travel wishlist—to walk among the orange trees and perhaps discover another story waiting to be told.

Writing has always been my release, my way of exploring what happens when we let go of rigid control and embrace the messiness of life and love. My stories emerge from that place—where passion breaks through carefully constructed walls and love heals old wounds. From blackmail to forced marriage to accidental pregnancy, these tropes allow us to explore how love can transform even the most challenging beginnings into forever connections.

I hope these passionate journeys bring you as much joy and escape as writing them brought me.

1. Mistress by Blackmail*

2. Wife by Force*

3. Baby by Accident*

*all stories are standalone and can be read in any order

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