The Tuscan's Revenge Wedding

This is a work of fiction. The characters,
incidents, and dialogues are products of the author’s imagination and are not
to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or
dead, is entirely coincidental.

No part of this
book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic
or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage
and retrieval system — except in the case of brief quotations embodied in
critical articles or reviews — without the written permission of publisher or
author, except where permitted by law.

Cover Art by
Amanda Kelsey of
Razzle Dazzle Design
.

Copyright © 2012
by Patricia Maxwell

Published by

Steel Magnolia Press

Desire so strong it destroyed the ability
to resist was a myth. Any woman who fell into bed with a man did it because she
made the choice at some point between meeting him and removing her clothes.

Amanda Davies’s opinion on that subject was triggered by the
man who entered the restaurant where she lunched every day. Well, and by the
reaction of the flight attendants at the next table who gasped and nudged each
other as they stared at him. If he only crooked a finger, either of the two
would undoubtedly go with him at once. It would not be from compelling passion,
however, but because she panted to know what it was like to have him make love
to her.

What someone like him was doing in a chain eatery was a
mystery. The suit he wore whispered of money and Milan, and was expertly
tailored to showcase male strength. His shirt and tie were perfect examples of
understated elegance. The precision of his grooming and fluid grace of his
movements gave him an indefinably European air. One of the better downtown
restaurants seemed far more his speed.

He really was beautiful in the ultra-masculine style of avenging
angels painted by Italian masters. Dark hair clung to his head in the sculpted
waves achieved only by an excellent stylist, while espresso-black eyes fringed
with thick lashes promised bedroom delights. His skin had the bronze tint that
came from near year-round sunshine, his cheekbones rivaled alpine ridges and
his mouth, set in stern lines just now, was molded with outrageously sensual
curves and surfaces.

He was, in fact, the very personification of sexual allure
as he paused to scan the seating area with a narrow gaze. He appeared capable
of every sin and every glory, and of shifting heaven and earth to gain what he
desired. That he ever failed seemed doubtful.

Amanda gave a wry shake of her head before taking the last spoonful
of her gazpacho and pushing back her soup plate. Men like that would be used to
polished perfection in a woman, the kind of gleaming beauty produced by endless
leisure and copious amounts of cash. He’d have no time for mere flight
attendants — or for assistants to managing directors, if it came to that.

Not that she would be led astray, even if he turned his
attention in her direction. She wasn’t that gullible.

A small shiver caught Amanda by surprise, rippling down her
spine. She was acutely aware of every millimeter of skin on her body in that
instant, as if the individual cells had come to tingling attention.

It must have been the cool, damp draft from the opening and
closing of the restaurant’s door, that was all. The light outside had grown dim
with the promise of rain since she’d left the office. She should start back at
once if she didn’t want to be caught in one of Atlanta’s early summer
downpours. Sitting here people-watching, speculating about their lives and
attitudes, would not earn her paycheck.

Amanda counted out the price of her meal plus tip and tucked
it into the folder on the table. As she glanced around for her waitress, her
gaze skimmed over the man at the entrance once more. He was not the kind to be
ignored, it seemed. He’d just given the restaurant hostess an imperious stare
followed by the lift of a brow.

The woman immediately put down the phone she was using. She
picked up a menu and went toward him with a smile. He waved away the
possibility of eating, it seemed, bending toward her with what appeared to be a
grave question. The hostess hugged the plastic-coated menu to her breasts
before indicating the corner where Amanda sat.

The flight attendants at the nearby table gasped as one when
the man turned in their direction. They straightened in their seats, exchanging
whispered questions and exclamations as he began to move toward them.

Amanda was tempted to stay and see the little drama played
out, but it really was time she returned to work. Besides, watching women make
fools of themselves over a man was more than a little depressing. She’d seen
too much of that growing up, lived through too much of it with her mother.

Amanda set her shoulder bag on the table in front of her.
Turning in her chair, she reached for the jacket of her navy suit that she’d
draped over its back.

“Miss Amanda Davies?”

The deep voice which accompanied that courteous inquiry
vibrated through her, thrumming along her nerves like distant thunder. She
jerked, so her jacket snagged on the chair back and fell from her grasp.

The man beside her reached to catch it. Holding the jacket
in one well-formed, brown hand, he stared down at her with intent appraisal
while waiting for her answer.

Amanda was so stunned by the approach and rich, dark gaze
fixed upon her that it was an effort to force sound from her throat. “Yes?”

“
Va bene
.” He inclined his head. “Come with me, if
you please.”

He spoke with an accent, and the first phrase he used was
almost certainly Italian. Incredulity struck her that he had singled her out.
Hard on its heels was amazement at his cool assumption she would go with him.
Hadn’t she just been thinking that was something she’d never do?

“You can’t be serious.”

“I assure you, I am completely serious.”

“But I have no idea who—”

“I beg your pardon. I am Nicholas de Frenza. It’s true we
have not met, but you’ll have been told of my family.”

“No, I can’t say I have.”

“But you must.” Something very like suspicion rose in the
black depths of his eyes.

Amanda snatched her jacket from his grasp. Irritation for
his doubt made her copy his precise foreign phrasing. “I assure you, I have
not.”

“No matter. You must come with me at once.”

“The only place I have to go is back to my office.” She rose
to her feet.

She’d thought standing would ease the sensation of being
dominated by his superior height and attitude. She was wrong. He still topped
her by several inches and was too dynamic, broad of shoulder and intensely
masculine for comfort.

He was also too close within her personal space, and made no
effort to step away, much less allow her to move past him. The whiff of clean,
healthy male and some elusive men’s fragrance that crept around her was so
unexpected she stepped away, bumping the table so the dishes rattled upon it.

Controlled impatience came and went across the Italian’s
features. He reached inside his jacket, pulled out a thin wallet of supple
black leather and flipped it open.

Amanda glanced at the international driver’s license he held
out to her. It confirmed his identity, but gave no clue as to why she was
supposed to know him. She began to struggle into her suit jacket. “I’m sorry,
but you must have the wrong person.”

“I don’t believe so.” He swung her chair out of the way then
took her jacket from her hands. Shaking it out, he held it for her.

Amanda studied the hard, determined planes of his face. To
refuse the courtesy he offered could lead to a ridiculous tug-of-war, not to
mention more delay. She turned to thrust her arms into the jacket sleeves with
quick, impatient gestures.

His fingers clasped her shoulders as he eased the jacket
into place and then turned her to face him. A lightning bolt of sensation
flashed into her chest at that brief touch. It stopped her breath while its
heat surged over her nerve endings, settling deep inside her.

Disturbed against her will, she pulled away from him, almost
dragging herself from his grasp. “If you don’t mind!”

“I regret accosting you here, Miss Davies,” Nicholas de
Frenza said, glancing at the two flight attendants and other customers who
watched them with avid interest, “but time is of the essence. I have serious
news best discussed in private. I’ve taken a temporary room at a hotel just
down the street. If you will—”

“I’m sure you have.” Temper heated her face as she picked up
her shoulder bag and swung away from him.

“I do not invite you to an assignation, I promise you,” he
called after her with warning in his voice. “It’s about your brother.”

Amanda came to a halt as if hitting an invisible wall. Icy
fear crusted the edges of her heart as she turned back. “Jonathan? What about him?”

“There has been an accident.”

“What — what kind of accident?”

Nicholas de Frenza made no answer, but moved to join her.
Cupping her elbow, he gestured toward the restaurant entrance with his free
hand. The command was silent, but no less authoritative for it. It was also
impossible to ignore.

Serious news. An accident that involved Jonathan.

Amanda could imagine any number of disasters, had endured
too many to take the words lightly. Her grip on her shoulder bag strap
tightened while a shudder moved over her. She turned and walked from the
restaurant with the Italian.

~ ~ ~

Nico strode toward the hotel, threading
through traffic and workers returning from lunch in a fever of impatience. He
might have known Amanda Davies would make this as difficult as possible; she
was very like her brother after all, the same coloring, same wary independence,
same stiff pride.

She was definitely female; he was Italian enough to notice
that without trying.
Grazie a Dio,
she was not his type. He preferred
less cool intelligence and more fire, less prickly defiance and more smiling
agreement.

Jonathan Davies’s sister was an American beauty with a trim
shape marked by gently rounded breasts in excellent symmetry with the curves of
her hips. Her skin was so fine it was almost translucent and touched delicately
with rose across the cheekbones. Her hair, an intriguing blend of natural blond
shades from pale ash brown to sun-gold, brushed her shoulders in a soft bell
shape. Her eyes were the color of smoke yet as transparent as window glass,
revealing her every thought. She didn’t trust him and didn’t care if he knew
it.

It was maddening when time was so short. He was used to
instant respect. Yes, and instant recognition as well. Being forced to identify
himself, to explain and persuade where he wanted to insist, wore on his temper.
That had not been in the best shape since he’d left Italy long hours ago, was
strained still further as he sought his quarry in Atlanta’s muggy heat.

The sister he’d come to find wasn’t what he’d expected.
Whether that was good or bad, he had yet to decide.

At the hotel, he went directly to the private elevator in a
side corridor. It opened as if waiting for them. Inserting his key card as
required, he pressed the button for the penthouse suite.

Amanda Davies gave him a wary glance as they rode upward.
Nico ignored it. She would discover soon enough why privacy was required, also
that he had no designs upon her delectable body.

“Is Jonathan all right?” she asked, her voice so low he
barely heard it above the elevators quiet hum.

“He will live.”

Alarm leaped into her eyes. The color drained from her face,
leaving it pale as she stepped back against the wall behind her. “What do you
mean? What happened to him? Where is he?”