The Tuscan's Revenge Wedding (3 page)

Amanda allowed herself a brief glance at the Italian where
he sat beside her in the limo. He had taken out his mobile phone and was making
a series of swift calls, switching with ease between excellent English and
rapid-fire Italian. His presence seemed to fill the small space, so she was hyper-aware
of him as the sleek vehicle wove in and out of traffic while rain splattered on
its roof.

As if drawn by her appraisal, he turned his head to meet her
gaze. Her pulse fluttered and her breathing turned ragged. He really was lethally
handsome at close quarters, with a polished, foreign appeal unlike anything she
had ever known. He made the executives and other men she worked with seem pale,
rumpled and depressingly average in comparison.

Even as he listened to whoever was speaking in his ear, he
lifted a dark, inquiring brow, his coffee black gaze intent. She shook her head
in negation, looking away again.

Jonathan, she must think of Jonathan, she told herself as
she stared out the window at gray streets wet and slick with rain, at the
yellow and black beetles of taxicabs and artistic graffiti on the sides of
overpasses. Her brother was the reason she was allowing herself to be swept
away. Yes, even if her doubts were returning as the effect of what she’d been
told wore off.

Her brother was something of a daredevil, attracted to
danger in all its many forms. He loved deep sea diving, skydiving, hotdog skiing
and dirt bike racing. That was in addition to driving at supersonic speed in
any vehicle with four wheels and a working speedometer.

Yet he was beyond careful, a true lover of life. Because of
it, no doubt, his luck had always been phenomenal; he had never been hurt as he
went from stock cars to Formula One racers.

Their father had been Michael Davies, however, a legend on
the race tracks of the world until he died in a fiery crash during the Grand
Prix. It was a painful object lesson.

Amanda had lived in dread of the phone call that would tell
her Jonathan’s luck had run out just as their father’s had all those years ago.
Here it was, that long expected notification. She could finally stop waiting.

At least Jonathan was alive.

He had been seven when their father died, so had barely
known him. Amanda had been thirteen and remembered him well. Michael Davies had
been larger than life. A distracted and irresponsible parent without doubt,
he’d also been warm and loving when he could find time for his children. He’d
sweep down upon them with laughter in his eyes, carrying them off to amusement
parks and carnivals, to water parks in the Florida heat or on fast motorboat
rides that plowed figure-eight-shaped wakes across blue Mediterranean waters.

Amanda had spent years of her young life watching her father
on television in various hotel rooms. She’d seen him die in a moment of horror
still etched into her brain. And it never quite went away. Every spinout and
burn at a race track prompted a rehash of that spectacular, fiery crash. She’d
seen the photos and videos so many times they’d lost the power to make her
cringe, but they always took her back to that day.

Before then, she looked after Jonathan during the days and
nights when Michael Davies and their mother were at the track with racing
friends or enjoying the victory parties that followed. The life they led was
unsettled, a constant round of one hotel after another, of revolving
continents, race tracks, social sets or party venues. Being left to themselves
so often, Amanda and Jonathan were closer than most siblings.

Their mother, Marianne, had loved Michael Davies to
distraction; he’d been her sun, moon and brightest star. Daughter of an old
Atlanta family, she had defied them all to marry him. Wherever he traveled in
the racing world, she went without question; when he could spare the time for
her, she was there. On his death, she ceased to exist as surely as if she had
died with him in that inferno of twisted metal.

Alcohol and prescription drugs had been her coping methods
of choice, her retreat from unbearable reality. The combination took her away
only five years later.

It made little real difference. For all purposes, Amanda had
only had Jonathan, and he’d had her, for years.

Amanda didn’t drink except on rare occasions, such as when
an overbearing man with a fascinating accent tipped brandy down her throat. She
didn’t party, didn’t stay out late, didn’t speed, avoided all forms of danger.
She kept her emotions in check, determined to avoid becoming so dependent on a
man that his death would destroy her. Her life was simple, tidy and under
control, exactly as she liked it.

She would not allow herself to be intimidated or upset by
Nicholas de Frenza. She would fly to Italy with him, but that was all. She’d
bring Jonathan home to recuperate from his injuries, and everything would be
the same as before.

“We arrive,” Nicholas said as the car passed through an
airport security check point and purred between a pair of electronic gates.

Amanda roused from her thoughts to glance forward. She drew
a quick breath of surprise as she saw what appeared to be a private jet waiting
for them on a stretch of open tarmac.

No wonder the Italian had spoken of a window of opportunity
for take-off instead of a flight time, or that he seemed to have her airfare
under control. Jonathan had apparently fallen in with a family that was
something beyond the ordinary.

An airport official met them at the plane steps. The
formalities were brief. Moments later, Nicholas de Frenza guided her onboard
with a hand under her elbow as if he expected her to turn and run at the last
minute. Perhaps she would have, for there was something disturbing in the idea
of being spirited away on a private jet by a man she’d barely met.

The interior of the plane was decorated in serene shades of
sea blue and gray. Comfortable chairs and tables sat in cozy groupings and the
carpet underfoot was cloud-soft. A pleasant-faced attendant greeted them,
brought coffee for Nicholas and fruit juice for Amanda, and informed them they
would take off immediately.

Minutes later, Atlanta was fast receding, looking like a
child’s toy city below as they rose into the clouds. Rain streaked backward
across the windows, and then stopped as they broke through into blue skies. The
plane banked in a slow turn and headed toward Italy.

When they leveled out, Amanda’s companion took a thin laptop
and handful of files from his briefcase. “You permit?” he asked, tipping them
toward her with a lifted brow. “I would not work, usually, but have things that
must be done.”

“Of course, please don’t feel you have to entertain me.”

He watched her for a long moment. Then he inclined his head
and opened the laptop.

An Atlanta newspaper lay on the table in front of Amanda.
She picked it up, skimmed the headlines, read an article or two. Now and then,
she threw a quick look at Nicholas de Frenza, intrigued by his ability to
concentrate in spite of the strained circumstances. He read what appeared to be
reports, made notes, checked files and used his mobile to dictate what might
have been memos. If he knew she was anywhere near, he gave no sign.

Without taking his gaze from his work, he reached up and
loosened his tie, sliding it from under his collar with a silken whisper. He
tossed it aside and opened the top buttons of his shirt so the first hazy edges
of black chest hair appeared.

Amanda’s mouth went dry. Her heartbeat quickened and her
breasts tingled with the need to press against the soft mat that surely lay
beneath his silk shirt. She twisted in her seat to face away from him, closing
her hands slowly on the paper she held.

“You are all right? Flying isn’t a problem for you?”

“No, not at all.”

“If you are uncomfortable, don’t stand on ceremony. Take off
your jacket and shoes. Relax. Nap. Whatever pleases you.”

“I’m fine,” she said tonelessly, staring at meaningless
newsprint. Perhaps she would comply later, when she was sure he was no longer
paying attention.

“Sleeping accommodations are in the rear of the plane if you
would care to rest in privacy.”

She gave him a quick glance, but saw only the polite concern
of a host in the blackness of his eyes. It seemed best to play it safe anyway.
“Thank you, but I don’t think so.”

“As you prefer.” He returned to his work.

Quiet stretched with nothing except the rustle of papers and
dull roar of the engines to fill it. When it threatened to become more than a
little uncomfortable, Amanda moistened her lips. “How long until we arrive?”

“Nine hours, give or take,” he answered without looking up.

“You spoke to someone at the hospital while on the way to
the airport, I think. What did they say?”

“There has been no change.”

She folded her paper and leaned to return it to the table.
“Just that, nothing more?”

“Nothing.”

“Why didn’t you tell me anyway?”

The sudden lift of his dark eyes in full attention made her
sit back in her seat. She was almost sorry she’d asked.

“I didn’t realize you were listening to my conversations or
that you understood them.”

“I wasn’t, I don’t,” she said with heat rising in her face. 
“I just — I thought I heard the word for doctor.”

He gave a brief nod. “
Dottore
, yes. But there was no
news about your brother, so no reason to disturb you by making you think of the
accident again. Had there been anything to report, I would have told you at once.”

How very autocratic
, she thought, studying his stern
yet incredibly well-arranged features. Still, she was fair-minded enough to
recognize that he’d been considerate in his way.

“No change in your sister’s condition, either?” she asked
after a moment.

“None.” With that single clipped word, he returned to his
paperwork again, effectively ending the conversation.

Autocratic, indeed.

She should have picked up the novel she’d been reading, she
thought, tucking it into her carryon as she left her apartment. She needed
something to occupy her thoughts. Still, it might not have served the purpose.
She was too unsettled to turn on the small television built into the arm of the
chair where she sat, and she had no interest in a movie or whatever else might
be available. She had exhausted the possibilities of the newspaper, and the
magazines beside it were in Italian.

She eyed that table while wondering just how comfortable its
height might be. After a moment, she slipped out of her plain pumps with their
low heels and lifted her feet to the cool surface. Crossing them at the ankle,
she let out a soft sigh of relief. She leaned her head back and allowed her
eyes to close while listening to the soothing drone of the plane.

The tears came from deep inside, making it difficult to
breathe. Jonathan, oh, Jonathan, she thought, so like the father he’d idolized
in death, even to becoming a highly paid race car driver whose face stared out
from motor oil bottles and cereal boxes. Every daredevil adventure, every
trophy won at the track was a forlorn search for the love and acceptance he’d
never had from his famous parent. And now he’d taken a young woman with him on
one of his skilled yet too-fast rides. How could he? How could he?

Yet he was not really like their father, caring more for
risk, speed and adulation than for family. Jonathan had a tender place inside
that he protected fiercely from everyone except her, his older sister. Well,
and possibly this girl Carita, who lay comatose in a hospital bed. If she
should die because of him, it might well send him down the same path of
destruction that had taken their father and mother.

Amanda turned her head away from the man beside her as she
wiped under her eyes with the edge of her hand. Thinking such things would not
help; nothing would help until she could see her brother, could give him a hug
and make everything all right as she used to do when they were children. She
drew a deep breath, swallowed salt tears and closed her eyes.

~ ~ ~

Nico glanced at the woman beside him more
often than was wise. Finally, he put aside the report he’d read six times
without gleaning a single piece of useful information. Brows drawn together in
puzzlement, he allowed his gaze to rest on Amanda Davies.

She’d done nothing whatever to attract him, the opposite in
fact. Regardless, he had never been so painfully aware of a woman. It was
exasperating, given her relationship to the man who had almost killed Carita.

In another time, not so far in the past, she would have been
considered an enemy. He would have been justified in taking her in revenge for
the injury done by her brother to his sister and to family honor. He could have
picked up Amanda Davies and put her into his bed, could have stripped her naked
and buried himself in her softness, taking her in the most personal and
intimate sense of the word.

He shifted in his chair. The idea had far too much appeal
for comfort.

Not that he would ever dream of such barbaric retaliation.

Still, what would she have done if this were the old days,
he wondered? Would she have cried, pleaded, or screamed in a fighting rage? Or
would she have submitted to the inevitable, knowing it was his due? Would she
have melted into his arms, giving kiss for kiss in willing recompense for the
injury done to his family by hers?

What would she taste like? How would she feel beneath him,
with her gentle curves, her instant responses and faint shivers at his touch?

Dio
, he must turn his thoughts elsewhere. As stirring
as the fantasy might be, he was a civilized man, not some feudal lord from ages
past.

Yet he did think, now and then, that human society had grown
too polite, too prudent. People had allowed honor to become no more than a
word, a tarnished concept of little value. They ignored the passionate sense of
fairness in their soul, the urge to return injury for injury — or seduction for
seduction.