Читать книгу Defying Her Billionaire Protector - Angela Bissell, Angela Bissell - Страница 11

CHAPTER THREE

‘ABSOLUTELY NOT!’

Marietta looked from her brother to Nico and back to Leo. They had to be joking. Yet neither man wore an expression she could describe as anything other than deadly serious. They both looked stern, formidable, standing side by side with their feet planted apart, their arms folded over their broad chests. Looking at them was akin to seeing double, and she wanted to slap them both.

‘Pazzo!’ she cried, gesturing with one hand in the air to emphasise just how crazy she found their proposal.

They had the gall to stare at her then, as if she were crazy. As if the idea of disappearing to some island off the coast of France until her stalker had been caught was the perfect solution and they couldn’t understand why she didn’t agree.

And not just any island.

Oh, no.

Nico’s island.

Nico’s home.

With Nico.

Heat that had nothing to do with anger and everything to do with the idea of being holed up on a remote island with Nicolas César scalded her insides.

Torture. That was what it would be. Exquisite torture of a kind she didn’t dare contemplate.

She swigged down her brandy, set the glass on the sideboard and wheeled towards her kitchen. Enough alcohol. Coffee. That was what she needed. An injection of caffeine to hone her senses—and her tongue—for the showdown she was about to have with her brother.

He followed, his dark mood like a gathering thundercloud at her back.

‘Marietta, just stop for a minute and think about this.’

‘I don’t need to stop in order to think.’ She yanked the lid off a tin of coffee beans, unleashing a rich, nutty aroma that failed to please her the way it normally did. ‘I’m a woman, so I can multitask, and I am thinking about it. I’m thinking what a stupid, stupid idea it is.’

She ignored his heavy sigh.

‘You can’t do this,’ she ploughed on, pouring a handful of dark beans into her cherished caffè machine—her first port of call in the mornings, when strong coffee was a prerequisite for coherent speech. ‘You can’t just sweep in here and go all Big Brother on me. I’m not a rebellious, out-of-control teenager any more. I’m thirty years old. You’re not responsible for me.’

An abrupt silence fell.

Marietta spun her chair around, regret, hot and instant, welling in her throat. ‘Leo, I... I’m sorry.’

His jaw tightened. ‘I will always feel responsible for you.’

‘I know.’

Instantly she hated herself for hitting that sensitive nerve—the one that had been flayed raw by her accident thirteen years ago and had never completely healed. Leo blamed himself. Believed he should have tried harder to keep her at home that night.

The truth was no one could have saved Marietta except herself. She was the one who had sneaked out of the tiny flat she and Leo had shared. She was the one who’d gone to the party he’d expressly forbidden her to attend. She was the one who’d climbed into the back seat of a car with an inebriated driver.

Her decisions that night had borne consequences she had no choice but to live with, but the hell she had put her brother through was a heavy cross she would always bear.

The last of her temper dissolved. Leo loved her...wanted to keep her safe. How could she stay angry with him over that?

‘I can’t just drop everything and disappear.’ She tried for a softer, more reasonable tone. ‘I have a job. Responsibilities. And Ricci’s party is a week from tomorrow. Helena’s had it planned for months. What if this guy hasn’t been caught by then?’ She shook her head. ‘I can’t stay away indefinitely—and I won’t miss my nephew’s first birthday.’

Leo crossed his arms, perched his lean frame on the edge of her low granite bench. ‘Your life could be in danger, Marietta. Have you considered that?’

Now she wanted to roll her eyes, accuse him of being melodramatic—but was he? What had happened today felt serious, even if the polizia were inclined to view it as a prank. And after today’s performance who could predict what kind of sick encore her stalker had planned?

A dull throb started up behind her eyes and she pressed her thumb and forefinger against her lids.

‘When you cannot eliminate the source of danger your best defence is to remove yourself from its path.’

Nico’s deep voice rumbled into the room and she jerked her hand down from her face. He loomed in her kitchen doorway, his sheer presence so commanding, his physique so powerful, that for a moment she couldn’t help but feel a sense of reassurance—of safety—steal over her.

Still. That didn’t change anything.

She couldn’t put her life on hold indefinitely.

‘A week, Marietta,’ Leo urged. ‘Give Nico a week.’

She looked at Nico. ‘And how exactly are you going to catch my stalker if you’re on an island with me?’

‘I have faith in my people. He’s upped the ante and so will we.’

‘And if I insist on staying in Rome?’

‘Then I’ll appoint a bodyguard who’ll shadow you day and night, wherever you go.’

‘And I will stay,’ Leo said. ‘For as long as necessary.’

No. She gave an adamant shake of her head. ‘You can’t, Leo. It wouldn’t be fair to Helena—or Ricci. You should be in Tuscany with them this weekend, not babysitting me.’

He shrugged. ‘They’ll come to Rome.’

Marietta pressed her fingertips to her temples. She knew her sister-in-law well. Helena was a kind, capable woman who wouldn’t hesitate to uproot her domestic idyll for Marietta’s sake. But Marietta’s conscience wouldn’t allow it. This was her problem to handle. How could she justify disrupting their lives when she had an alternative?

A week. Could she forego her independence, abandon her life, for a week? She looked at her brother and saw the deep lines of worry etched into his face. Her safety would give him peace of mind and didn’t she owe him that much? He’d made so many sacrifices when they were younger, worked himself ragged to give them both a chance at a better life. Doing what he asked of her now seemed a small thing in return.

She pushed her hands through her hair. Released her breath on a long sigh. ‘Si. Okay,’ she said. ‘One week.’

* * *

Marietta sat in the front passenger seat of her brother’s car the next morning and chewed the inside of her cheek, fighting the powerful urge to blurt out that she’d changed her mind and all this was too sudden, too unexpected, and she couldn’t possibly travel at short notice like this. Travel—for her—required careful planning, special considerations, and they hadn’t given her a chance to plan a damned thing.

‘Quit fretting, carina.’ Leo glanced over, then returned his attention to negotiating the chaotic morning traffic. Even on a Saturday Rome’s roads were flat-out crazy. ‘Nico has everything under control.’

She cast him a sideways look. ‘Will you stop doing that?’

‘What?’

‘Reading my mind.’

He grinned. ‘If I knew the secret to reading women’s minds, I would be a very rich man indeed.’

Had Marietta been in the mood for banter she would have reminded her brother that he was a rich man. Instead she turned her gaze out through the side window and watched the blur of busy streets and piazze and sidewalk cafés go by. She believed Leo when he said his friend had everything under control—and that was the problem. Nico had all the control and she had none. It made her feel adrift, somehow. Alienated from her life. She didn’t even know where exactly in the Mediterranean they were going. Until yesterday she’d never heard of Île de Lavande.

She rested her head against the soft leather seat.

Island of Lavender.

At least the name was pretty.

Perhaps she’d find some inspiration there for her next series of paintings? The European summer was in its twilight, but Nico had said the island was still warm, so she’d gone light on clothes and made room for packing her brushes and a set of fast-drying acrylic paints, a sketchpad and a small canvas. She’d even squeezed in a collapsible easel.

She supposed a few quiet, uninterrupted days of sketching and painting wouldn’t be so bad—but only a few. She’d agreed to a week, no longer, and she still planned to be back in time for little Ricci’s party. Nico’s men would just have to pull out all the stops to find her stalker, because she wasn’t compromising on that.

As for the gallery—she’d made two phone calls from Leo’s apartment last night: one to her boss, the owner of the gallery, who’d expressed her support and understanding once apprised of the circumstances, and the other to Lina, who’d assured Marietta that everything would run smoothly in her absence.

Too soon, the powerful car decelerated and the runway of the Aeroporto dell’Urbe came into sight. They drove through a security checkpoint and then they were on the Tarmac, headed for a sleek silver and black jet with the circular logo of César Security emblazoned on its tail.

Nico appeared in the open hatchway and Marietta leaned forward in her seat for a better view of the aircraft—and him.

And, mamma mia, he looked good. Faded jeans clung to long, muscular legs, he wore an untucked, open-necked white shirt, and a pair of dark shades obscured those deep blue eyes. His dark brown hair was stylishly mussed and his angular jaw sported a layer of stubble that only exaggerated his masculine appeal. He looked less formidable than yesterday. More relaxed, despite the ever-serious expression he wore.

Edible, an inner voice whispered, and she felt her face flame. Santo cielo! Her mind was not going there.

He jogged down the steps with an easy masculine grace, and he was pulling open the car door before her cheeks had even had time to cool. He hunkered down beside her.

‘Bonjour, Marietta.’ He removed his sunglasses and the impact of that blue gaze arrowed all the way to her stomach. ‘Are you ready for our journey?’

The morning breeze ruffled his hair and carried into the car the scent of soap and lemons, along with something more earthy and rich. Marietta tried not to breathe in, but the need for air prevailed. She frowned, growing more irritable by the second. No man should smell that enticing. That delectable.

‘Do you have half-decent coffee on board?’

A muscle quirked at the side of his mouth—a mere flicker of movement that might have turned into a smile if he’d allowed it.

Had she ever seen Nico smile? It occurred to her that she hadn’t—not properly.

‘The coffee is exceptionnel,’ he said, and she wished he wouldn’t speak French.

It did squishy things to her insides and there was nothing good about squishy. Nothing.

He slid his shades back on. ‘There’s a lift on standby if you want it.’

She shook her head. ‘Grazie, but Leo will carry me on,’ she said, preferring that simple, no-fuss solution over the mechanical platform that could raise her, wheelchair and all, to the door of the plane. Besides the ground crew there were few people around, but all the same she hated anything that created a spectacle or shone a spotlight on her disability. People often stared without meaning to, and though she’d grown inured to the curiosity of others, occasionally the attention still bothered her.

Minutes later her luggage was stowed and she was settled in a large, soft leather seat, her wheelchair reassembled and within reach should she wish to move about the plane’s roomy interior once they were airborne. Out on the Tarmac, Nico and Leo exchanged final words. A moment before, when Leo had kissed her goodbye, silly tears had pricked the backs of her eyes, and she blinked now to clear her vision, annoyed because she rarely allowed herself to cry. She’d taught herself to be strong, to handle whatever challenges life threw at her, and all this—this was just another obstacle to overcome.