Reckless Nights in Rome (2 page)

A movement on
the ground floor caught his eye. The window to the ladies’ restroom
swung open. He flicked a switch, the passenger window slid down a
couple of inches as he narrowed his eyes.

A girl with an
ash-blonde ponytail tossed what looked like a jacket out of a
window followed by a red handbag the size of a small town. Her
toned body, dressed in black, squeezed out of the narrow opening
after it. A foot stretched down searching for toe hold. It found a
drain pipe and she eased cautiously over the ledge. Her heel caught
in the window ledge, leaving her at a dangerous angle.

Nico shook his
head in disbelief. Was she a thief? He looked around at the
expensive parked cars and pursed his lips.

Back in the
days when he’d been a street rat, he’d slipped out of plenty of
windows of less reputable establishments.

The girl had a
lean, boyish figure. Nico permitted his gaze to linger on the taut
little bottom, those endless legs. And he put the tightness in his
thighs down to the fact it had been a while since he’d been with a
woman. She was slick; he’d give her that, and probably a pro. He
checked his watch. It was just after nine thirty. Yes, she’d timed
it well. Most guests were in the bars or restaurants.

Exhaustion
warred with irritation as he opened the door, got out, closed the
car door with a soft click and stepped forward.

Bronte shrieked.

Large hands
gripped her, lifting her as if she weighed nothing and dumped her
unceremoniously on her feet. Panic hitched her breath. Her hands
fisted, ready to fight. Then the scent of an evocative cologne spun
around her heightened senses and she realised it wasn’t her
disastrous blind date who had a firm grip on her waist.

She turned,
staggered and found herself pulled against a brick wall in a
shirt.

“Thank you,”
she gasped her voice breathy with relief. A fall from that height
wouldn’t have been pretty.

Trembling with
cold and reaction, she blinked up to a tall man with tremendous
shoulders. Since the lights of the car park were behind him, she
couldn’t get a good look at his face.

She gave a tug
on her arm. “You can let me go now.”

“I do not think
so.” The deep voice was silky, tinged with a hard edge of
suspicion. His hand felt too hot through her sweater.

For reasons
Bronte didn’t immediately understand, the knots in her belly wound
tighter. He thought she was a thief? The idea made her peer up into
his shadowed features and give another tug of her arm.
Comprehension dawned that he had absolutely no intention of
releasing her.

Nerves
fluttered madly in her stomach making her frown up at him.

“This is not
what you think it is.”

She caught a
flash of white teeth and it wasn’t a smile.

He picked up
her jacket and the bag. “No? What is this?”

“A Mulberry
Piccadilly,” she said, peering into the shadowed face. No sign of
the teeth or of a sense of humour either.

“Expensive and
on the large side. You could fit a small car in it. Plenty of space
for purloined items.” His tone was ice over steel.

Bronte
spluttered on a laugh. “Nobody uses the word purloined these days.
Why don’t you just say what you mean? You think I’m a thief.” The
idea was so ridiculous she laughed and once she started she
couldn’t stop. The result, she knew, of too much stress and the
deep mortification of being caught running away from a drunken
bully.

Bent from the
waist, she tried to catch her breath, her eyes streaming.

“I fail to see
the humour in the situation.” He sounded seriously annoyed now,
which set her off again. “Why use the window when there is a
perfectly good door?” He gave her arm a little shake. And she
realised his deep voice held the hint of a foreign accent.

Incredibly, an
illicit little thrill slid up her spine. Bronte wiped her cheeks
and took a couple of deep breaths. With big eyes she stared up into
his face and deliberately pumped up the volume of her smile. She
heard his breath catch. Yep, it worked every time.

Feeling more
confident even though her breath was unsteady, she poured charm
into her voice. “It’s a long story. And terribly embarrassing to be
honest.”

His grip on her
arm tightened. “Let us go in where it is warm. You can tell me all
about it.”

He turned and her heart
took a stumble as she got her first good look at his face.

Wow. Bronte had
seen plenty of good looking men in her life. But she’d never seen
anyone who looked like this. Black hair with an expensive sheen was
swept back from a strong, glorious face. Eyes, dark and broody,
considered her with a mix of annoyance and curiosity. And that
amazing face wore a do-not-mess-with-me expression. She couldn’t
tear her eyes from his hard mouth with that terribly sensual lower
lip. Hormones, long dormant, flared triumphantly into life.

Mouth dry, her
smile slipped as Mr Hunk helped her on with her jacket.

“Thank you,
there’s no need for ... Hey!” He tucked her bag under his arm. And
she flinched as he held her bruised wrist in a grip that was too
tight.

Earlier in the
evening another’s touch had repulsed her. But this man’s fingers on
her skin appeared to have the opposite effect. She had no idea what
cologne he wore, but he smelt fabulous; all peppery, citrusy, fresh
and healthy male.

“I insist.” His
voice was cool now, the tone hard.

Bronte’s feet
picked up the beat of her speeding heart as she struggled to keep
up with his long stride. Oh God, her brother was going to go
absolutely mental.

“You’re making
a big mistake.” Her voice, too high now, mortified her.

He merely threw
her a look that assured her he was a man who never made
mistakes.

They entered a
side entrance to the hotel to the scent of hot food, the hum of
voices and soft music. The place was full she realised; grateful no
one appeared to notice this little scene.

Bronte managed
to take a good long look at him. His black cashmere coat, charcoal
suit and white shirt were expensive as was the silk tie which she
happened to know was Armani. He had the slashing bone structure and
the skin tone of a Latin. That fact along with his accent made her
heart thunder in her ears.

Surely not?

It couldn’t be,
could it?

He knocked on a
door with the sign ‘Alexander Ludlow, General Manager.’

To Bronte’s
eternal shame, she whimpered.

He gave her a
hard look, opened the door and thrust her in before him.

Bronte’s brother
glanced up from his desk and stood.

He beamed a
smile, and his sharp green eyes widened as he noted the grip on her
wrist.

“Nico, how are
you? Good trip?” He stepped forward and shook Nico’s hand.

Her luck,
Bronte decided as her throat went bone dry, was running bad
tonight.

Nico, she
thought, good God.

Since her
brother had brought his business partner into their lives, she
hadn’t had a decent night’s sleep. She’d managed to avoid the man
when he’d done one of his flashy helicopter visits. Nico Ferranti
had torn the heart out of her home. By some miracle the local
planning authority were eating out of his hand. He’d brought in
specialists in listed buildings. Legions of construction workers,
architects and interior designers had descended on her home like
locusts. These days, it looked like a plush decadent hideaway for
the uber rich.

She’d refused
point blank to have anything to do with the renovations. Her
brother seemed to view the man as some kind of hero. She saw Nico
Ferranti as a smooth operator with his eye on the main chance. She
simply couldn’t bear watching the destruction, and moved to The
Dower House.

Now he was
determined to have The Dower house too. He’d phoned her once. And
as soon as he’d given her his name, she’d let him have an
earful.

Alexander
turned to her and folded his arms. “And what are you up to,
madam?”

The tone, as if
she was five years old, cranked her temper. Bronte huffed out a
breath and gave another useless tug on her wrist. The last thing
she needed was another argument with her brother. This evening was
turning into a complete and utter nightmare.

“It’s been one
of those days. Please ask your friend to let ...”

Nico rudely
interrupted her, “I found her climbing out of the ladies’ restroom
window after tossing this expensive item,” he said, holding up her
handbag.

Before Bronte
could open her mouth he released her and emptied the contents onto
Alexander’s desk.

Her jaw hit the
floor as feminine hygiene products along with an assortment of
lipsticks, coins, her purse, her Blackberry, pens, a hairbrush, and
a large pack of Percy Pigs sweets tumbled over the desk.

“How dare you?”
Bronte’s voice rose even as her eyes grew wide. Oh. My. God.
Closing her eyes, she swore an oath to kill Rosie.

Nestled in the
middle of the detritus was a box of fruit flavoured condoms – with
twenty-five per cent extra.

Alexander’s
shocked laugh brought scorching heat to her cheeks as she glared at
him.

“Well, well. My
baby sister.” His tone told her that if he had his way she’d be
locked in a room until she was forty. “For the ultimate sensual
experience,” he read on the box. Bronte closed her eyes. She would
never hear the end of this, never. “At least you’re practising safe
sex.”

“I am not! Ah,
I mean ...”

Her eyes slid
to Nico, who studied her through narrowed grey eyes, his mouth
tight. He had a half bored, half reflective expression on his face,
tinged with a contempt that brought even more heated mortification
soaring into her cheeks.

Shame battled
with annoyance that she should feel hurt by his attitude. What did
she care what the man thought of her?

His physical
presence overwhelmed the room as he took off his coat and made
himself comfortable on a wide couch of tan leather. He loosened his
silk tie and undid the top button of his shirt.

One foot shod
in a Dolce & Gabbana loafer rested on his knee.

Like a King
surveying his domain, he leaned back and took his time studying
her.

Bronte couldn’t
help it; her gaze cruised over narrow hips and a washboard flat
stomach. Sleek hair, brushed back from his high forehead, almost
reached his collar, throwing his cheekbones into sharp relief.

That hard jaw
saved him from looking too beautiful, thank goodness, but nothing
in her experience had ever caught at her lungs the way this man
did.

He simply
stared at her, those amazing eyes all seeing, all knowing. His
brows rose with an insolent query and Bronte realised with a surge
of mortification that she was staring.

“I might have
known Rosie was at the bottom of this,” Alexander said, his long
suffering tone diverting her attention from the fallen angel on the
couch. Her brother read the sticky label sellotaped to the box of
condoms. “It says, ‘just in case you get lucky, Rosie.’” He took a
shuddering breath, leaned back against his desk and folded his
arms. “What happened? Why were you climbing out of a window?”

Hadn’t she told
Rosie a blind date with a friend of a friend’s brother was a bad
idea? So what if she hadn’t had a date in over eighteen months, who
was counting? But something about the man she’d met this evening
had been a little bit ‘off’ and Bronte wished now she’d listened to
her instincts and cut the night short. He’d badly frightened her by
following her to the door of the ladies’ toilets. She’d locked
herself in, trapped and had simply panicked. Alexander would, she
knew, staring at the hard look in her brother’s eyes, go
ballistic.

Her brother
looked too tired these days, and Bronte ordered herself to play it
cool.

“To avoid a
scene precisely like this one,” she replied. Turning to Nico, she
jerked her chin in his direction. “Unfortunately, he stuck his big
nose in or I would be long gone.”

Nico rubbed his
nose, his eyes narrowing into slits as he stared at her.

Alexander
nodded. “Strangely enough, that makes perfect sense. I put money on
it that Rosie Gordon is at the bottom of whatever trouble you’re
in.”

Irritation with
him that he was right along with the silent witness merely added
fuel to her fire.

“I had a date.
Not that it’s any of your business.”

Alexander ran a
tongue along the top of his teeth at her tone. A bad sign, she
knew.

“Who was
he?”

“Anthony.”

Her brother's
green eyes drilled into hers and she fought not to squirm,
especially since Nico appeared to be riveted by the scene.
Bastard.

“Does Anthony
have a surname?”

The jumpy
nerves in her stomach nudged her temper. “I have no idea. Tonight
was the first time I met him.”

Alexander’s
eyes stayed on hers. “Tell me you didn’t meet him on the
internet.”

It was so
typical of him to jump to conclusions these days. And why was he
interrogating her in front of Nico bloody Ferranti? “I didn’t, but
there’s nothing wrong with internet dating, as long as it’s done
safely. Rosie knows his sister.”

“I knew it.”
Her brother stalked behind his desk.

He sat and
swung his leather business chair around to face Nico.

“When they were
three, Rosie stuck a crayon up Bronte’s nose which meant a trip to
A&E. When they were ten they fell from a barn roof, Rosie ended
up with a broken leg and Bronte a broken arm. They were lucky not
to be killed. At boarding school, the pair of them attempted to
drink a bottle of neat vodka. You should have seen my sister. Think
of Bambi, pissed. I could go on, but we don’t have all night.”