Reckless Nights in Rome (4 page)

Bronte opened
her eyes and stared straight ahead into the night. The one thing
she simply could not tolerate was pity.

Nico gently
squeezed her hand and she nodded, closing her eyes again to steady
herself. There was no way she could permit this man to get under
her skin. Again he was playing with her hair and she resisted the
crazy urge to crawl into his lap, bury her face into his neck and
stay there. As ever, she was allowing her emotions to rule instead
of using her head. The only thing Nico Ferranti wanted was her home
and she’d better not forget it.

She turned and
gave him a level look, not in the mood for games.

“Flirting, Mr
Ferranti? Let’s stop tap dancing around the subject shall we?” And
she caught the surprise in his eyes before he hooded his lids. He
had amazing lashes she mused, long and thick.

Cool now, his
eyes met hers.

He drew back to
study her face.

“Nico, it is my
name, please use it.” The tone made it a command rather than a
request. Ah yes, the gloves were off Bronte realised, ignoring the
increasing flutter of nerves in her stomach.

Here was the
real man.

Bronte
recognised raw male power when she saw it and the force of a strong
will when she felt it. Nico would be a formidable adversary. Well,
she was no pushover either. Exasperation with him made her tone
hard.

“The Dower
House is not for sale, Mr Ferranti.”

She caught the
quick flash in those eyes before his finger tipped up her chin. Her
gasp of alarm narrowed his eyes, the finger traced the hectic pulse
in her neck, and his smile reminded her forcibly of a great white
shark.

For the first
time, Bronte realised she may have overstepped the mark. Her throat
tightened, saliva dried in her mouth as she pushed his hand
away.

“Everything and
everyone has a price,” he told her.

Struck
speechless by his arrogance, she stared at him. Was it not enough
for him to turn her home into a hotel? Now he wanted the only link
she had left to her family? Nico Ferranti, she decided, needed a
major boot in the ass.

Bronte rarely
lost her temper, although you wouldn’t know it by her lack of
control this evening. A hot stinging sensation in her eyes along
with the tight feeling in her chest warned her she was ready to
blow.

She made a fist
and he gripped her wrist.

“Let go of me.”
She spat the words and stared at him with wide eyes.

Too late, Nico realised
he held a hissing cat by the tail.

Bronte’s
emerald eyes flashed and her full bottom lip trembled with
outrage.

He must be more
tired than he thought. Crossing three time zones had obviously
influenced his ability to control himself. True, she’d got to him
by calling him Mr Ferranti in such a precise tone. Although why it
annoyed him so much, he couldn’t say.

When he’d
plucked her from certain injury and held her close, the unique
scent of neroli mingled with warm female, along with the impact of
those big eyes and her smile, had thrown him. He must be tired he
decided, because no woman had ever affected him in this way.

The condoms she
carried and her embarrassment intrigued him too. She had an air of
refinement and exuded pure class. He couldn’t imagine someone with
her style would need a blind date or consider a fling with one.
This just went to show that looks could be deceptive.

But when that
chin and those eyes had issued a direct challenge, it would take a
stronger man than him to resist.

Bronte’s soft
wide mouth was sheer temptation and the urge to take swept over
him. Only the cloud of vulnerability in her eyes held him back. And
she was not a coward. No woman of his acquaintance would dare speak
to him the way Bronte did. She had been through enough this evening
at the hands of another.

He fought to
keep his tone level, his voice soothing without taking his eyes off
hers.

“What happened
this evening, Bronte?”

Her brows drew
together at his change of subject.

His thumb
rubbed the hectic pulse under the soft skin of her wrist and she
winced in pain.

With a frown,
he pulled up the sleeve of her jacket, sweater and switched on the
interior lights. The livid marks had him catch his breath. Had he
put those fingerprints on her skin? Never.

Furious, his
eyes captured hers. “He did this?”

She blinked up
at him like an owl. The angry expression on her face vanished to be
replaced by one of genuine distress. It made him want to hold her
tight, to offer comfort, to protect. Alarm pealed in his mind,
Bronte Ludlow was not his concern. It must be jet lag; she had a
brother to watch over her. Nico released her as if she’d burned him
and leaned back.

Rubbing her
wrist, Bronte’s eyes glittered into his.

“He put his
hands where they weren’t wanted and paid the price. You would do
well to remember that, Mr Ferranti.”

The girl, he
realised with admiration, didn’t know when to give in.

“I understand
you’re supplying the wedding cake tomorrow.”

“Yes,” she told
him, those green eyes too watchful now and too wary. “A little
hobby of mine. I fit it in between peeling the grapes I eat with my
silver spoon.” Nico almost smiled when she frowned in a way he was
beginning to find adorable. She continued, “What has that got to do
with anything?”

He wasn’t above
using subtle intimidation in business or in his personal life.

“If you want to
keep the contract, I suggest you mind your manners, Ms Ludlow.”

Stunning
emerald eyes glittered into his. Nico found himself taken aback by
her reaction. Was that a smirk on her beautiful face?

“Are you
threatening me, Mr Ferranti?” Shoulders back, she looked down her
nose as if he was a bad smell. It was a unique experience and Nico
found he did not care for it.

Seriously
annoyed now, he leaned forward and was small enough to feel
satisfaction when she retreated against the door. He almost touched
a finger to the frantic pulse in her neck, and then changed his
mind. After a decent night’s sleep, he would deal with Bronte
Ludlow tomorrow.

“Alexander will
be in Europe for four weeks and you will deal with me. I don’t care
if you are his sister. I expect only the best from my
contractors.”

Giving him a
look that would melt solid steel, Bronte opened the door and got
out.

Then she leaned
into the car with a smile that did not reach her eyes.

“I look forward
to working with you, Mr Ferranti,” she said in a silky voice before
closing the car door.

As he drove
back to Ludlow Hall, Nico knew he had not come out the winner this
evening. And put it down to a lack of sleep.

However, he
wasn’t too tired to make sure that Alexander dealt with Anthony in
a proper and fitting manner. Nico was looking forward to meeting
the man who’d put his mark on Bronte and didn’t stop to ask himself
why it was any business of his, or why he should care.

The car swept
into the car park of Ludlow Hall.

Life, Nico
realised with a wry smile, had just become a lot more
interesting.

“I was mortified.”

Bronte glared
at Rosie who cried laughing, wiping her eyes with the back of her
fingers.

“I wish I’d
seen it. I can’t believe you jumped out a window and left him
there.” She leaned on the edge of the kitchen table, tore off a
piece of kitchen roll and dabbed her cheeks. “Is my mascara
running?”

Bronte gave her
best friend a dark look, not in the mood for humour. “No. What
possessed you to set me up with that awful man?”

“Sorry, sorry,
I thought he was a nice guy. His sister’s lovely. She told me
Anthony’s had a thing for you for years,” Rosie told her.

“What I don’t
understand is why he thought I had the hots for him,” Bronte
responded completely bewildered. It was something that continued to
bug her. The man had been totally convinced she’d been prepared to
go to bed with him. She simply could not understand it. But then
remembering his hair trigger temper, perhaps he was delusional?

Shaking her
head, Bronte checked the temperature on the ovens, and glanced
through their schedule for the day.

Three trainee
pastry chefs laughed and joked in the adjacent kitchen. The sound
mingled with an iPod rocking Coldplay and the clang of pots and
pans.

“I wouldn’t
worry about it. Put it down to experience.”

Bronte glanced
at Rosie, still dabbing her face and frowned.

“It’s not
funny. Nico Ferranti looked at me as if I was a slut.”

Rosie tied a
white chef’s bandana over her dark curls, topped up their mugs with
coffee and sent Bronte a sly look.

“I bet
Alexander found it funny. You didn’t tell him I put them in your
bag did you?”

With a little
smile, Bronte folded her arms. “He may not be Sherlock Holmes, but
he deduced who was responsible by the note sellotaped to the
box.”

“Ouch, okay.”
Rosie pursed her lips and widened her brown eyes. “So how was big
brother, still miserable?”

Bronte winced
remembering how tired he appeared.

“Worse, he had
that long suffering kicked dog look.”

“Hmm, it’s not
often he’s vulnerable, make the most of it.”

Sinking into a
chair, Bronte pressed fingertips to her temple, puffing out her
cheeks.

Her eyes met
Rosie’s.

“I need to do
the right thing and I can’t leave it any longer. The trouble is I
don’t know how to approach him. How do I tell a perfect stranger
that I’m the daughter he never knew existed?” She closed her eyes.
“God, my life is such a mess.”

The ache in her
gut, a constant companion these days, burned like acid. No matter
how many times she went over and over the reality of her situation
she was hurting Alexander. He wanted her to forget about a man
who’d had nothing to do with her upbringing and to let the dead lie
in peace.

Rosie gave her
a quick hug. “It’s your decision. You know I’ll back you all the
way whatever you decide.” She caught her eye and gave her a cheeky
smile. “What’s Nico Ferranti like?”

While Bronte
considered her response, Rosie checked the cool-room temperature
and wheeled out a stainless steel trolley which held four separate
tiers of snowy white wedding cakes ready for assembly and finishing
touches.

“He’s big.”

How do you
describe power and sheer physical presence? Bronte wondered as she
stood. How could she describe the hum in her blood when his hands
gripped her waist? How could she explain the overwhelming desire to
give him a black eye?

She slid four
trays of mini muffins into each oven and set the timer.

“I need more
information.” Rosie sent her a quizzical look.

“He’s well over
six foot, wide shouldered, long legs. You know, big.” Her cheeks
grew warm when Rosie folded her arms. “Okay, he smells fabulous.
He’s got hot Latin looks. And he says Brrrronte in an Italian
accent.”

“Wait a minute.
I know that face.”

“What
face?”

“That face
you’re wearing.” Rosie smacked her hands on the table and leaned
over. Eyes the colour of warm chocolate peered into hers. “Do I
detect a spark of life in the empty expanse of your libido?” Her
eyes went big with a silent question. Then she turned, sliding a
tray of fondant snowdrops and winter roses into a narrow container.
“And don’t huff and puff like that. This is good news.”

Bronte, not
admitting to anything that might incriminate her, checked her
watch.

“I feel a break
coming on. We’re ahead of schedule.” Hot air from the ovens filled
her huge kitchen with the sublime scent of warm toffee. “You can
test a muffin. They’re looking good.”

“How many more
to go?” Rosie sniffed.

“Four batches
of four trays.”

“What kind of
icing?”

“White
chocolate fudge.”

“You should set
up a business.”

“Har har,
you’re a riot this morning.”

“So spill.”
Rosie blew on a muffin from the first batch, her eyes sparkling.
“He drove you home, then what?”

Bronte sipped
her coffee and inhaled the scent, listening to another pop tune.
Adele rocked the adjacent kitchen.

She stared
through wide French doors into her garden, grass silver with frost.
Ice glistened on a bird bath. The mortgage she’d taken out for the
re-modelling of the kitchen and new equipment, along with expenses
and salaries didn’t leave much left over, but financially they were
doing well. More than just money was invested into the business.
She’d invested her heart, her soul.

No matter how
hard things got, she could never, ever give this up.

“He wants to
buy my home and the land.”

The previous
night’s conversation returned to her. The Dower House was not for
sale at any price, end of debate. So why did she feel a curl of
anxiety in her stomach? It was how his jaw clenched, she realised,
and how those heavily lashed eyes had narrowed as his fingers
tapped the steering wheel. Yes she mused; Mr Ferranti was not
accustomed to the word no. The memory of his touch made her mouth
dry.

And she decided
not to worry Rosie with his threat to tear up their contract. If he
did that, he would alienate Alexander. She’d realised last night
that the friendship between the men was a deep one. Nico Ferranti
was full of hot air. They didn’t need Ludlow Hall for business;
they’d been a huge success before it opened. Since money was the
language Nico understood, she would show the arrogant baboon just
how valuable her company was to his bottom line.

“What did you
tell him?” Rosie wanted to know.

“To bugger
off.”