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He studied it for a moment, a frown on his face as, for a brief and uncharacteristic moment, he rethought the necessity of this.
He had already bought his way into—through shell companies and entities—many of Carlo diSalvo’s businesses, giving him if not a controlling interest in their operation, enough of a stake to be difficult and a nuisance to the man he had been raised to hate.
But this was different. He would gladly let the rest go if he could only get this one company under his control. And if Amelia diSalvo proved difficult, if appealing to her sense of decency didn’t win her over, then he’d show her what he’d been doing and how close he was to ruining her brother.
He crossed his arms over his chest as the first drop of rain began to fall, quickly followed by another. It was a summer storm that brought with it the smell of sun-warmed grass and the threat of lightning. Inside the cottage a shape moved and he narrowed his gaze, homing in on its location.
Amelia.
He held his breath unconsciously as, with blonde hair scraped into a bun, she moved into his vision. Her face was pale; at this distance it was hard to tell, but he would say she wore no make-up. She stared out of the window for several moments and then turned away.
Certainty fired in his gut.
She was a diSalvo.
That made her fair game.
It had been less than a month since he’d buried his father and in that moment Antonio’s only regret was that Javier had not lived to see this final, deeply personal revenge be enacted.
With renewed determination, his stride long and confident, he walked up the winding path. Gravel crunched underfoot and the moon peeked out from behind a storm cloud for a moment, casting him in an eerie sort of silver light. Foreboding, some might have called it, but not Antonio.
Bumblebee Cottage, a brass sign near the door proclaimed, and he ignored the image it created—of sweetness and tranquillity. Amelia diSalvo might be playing at this life, but she was the daughter of a supermodel and the most ruthless bastard on earth. And she was also the piece of the puzzle he needed—victory was within reach.
* * *
As if her loneliness had conjured a companion, the doorbell rang. Olivia wasn’t so maudlin and self-indulgent to forget all common sense. It was almost nine o’clock at night—who could be calling at this hour?
She’d bought Bumblebee Cottage because of its isolation. No prying neighbours, no passing motorists—it sat nestled into a cul-de-sac of little interest to anyone but her and the farm that bordered the cottage on one side. It was a perfect, secluded bolthole. Just what she’d needed when she’d run from the life she’d found herself living.
She adored it for its seclusion but a frisson of something like alarm spread goosebumps over her flesh. She grabbed a meat cleaver, of all things, from the kitchen bench then moved to the door.
‘Who is it?’
A man’s voice answered, deep and gravelled, tinged with a European accent. ‘Can you open up?’
‘I can, but I’m not going to,’ she muttered to herself. ‘Who are you?’ she called more loudly. ‘What do you want?’
‘Something that is easier to discuss in person.’ He was hard to hear over the falling rain.
‘What is it?’
‘I just said—’ He released a soft curse in Spanish. When she was eight, she’d mastered curse words in French, Italian, German, Spanish, Greek, Mandarin and Polish. She’d been bored on a yacht and the staff—one from each of these nationalities—had spent one late night teaching her. ‘It’s important, Amelia,’ Antonio said.
The fact he knew her name got her attention. With a frown on her face, she unlocked the door, keeping the chain lock firmly in place so that it only cracked open a wedge.
It was dark on the porch, but enough light filtered out to show his face and it was strong and interesting.
‘How do you know my name?’
There was a beat of silence and then, ‘I’m a business acquaintance of your brother’s. I need to speak to you.’
‘Why? What about? Is it Carlo? Is he okay?’
The man’s eyes flickered with something and for a moment Amelia was worried, but then he smiled. ‘So far as I know, Carlo is fine. This is a proposition just for you.’
At that, Amelia frowned. ‘What kind of proposition?’
His look was mysterious. ‘One that is too confidential to discuss through the door.’
‘It’s late at night. This couldn’t have waited until tomorrow?’
‘I just flew in.’ He shrugged, his eyes narrowing. ‘Is it a bad time?’
She wanted to tell him to go away, because something about him was making her pulse fire and her heart race. Fear, surely?
‘It will not take long,’ he said once more, appeasing, and her eyes lifted to his.
When had she become so suspicious? True, she’d had a baptism of fire when she’d gone to live with her father and half-brother. She’d learned that there were many people out there who would hurt you—not physically, necessarily, but with any means it took. His so-called friends had proved to be wolves in couture clothing. But she’d fled those people, that world. She’d moved across the earth, to the sweetness of a tiny village, and the homeliness of Bumblebee, and she’d become not Amelia Hamilton, nor Amelia diSalvo, but Amelia Clifton—her mother’s real surname. A normal name. An unrecognisable name. A name that didn’t attract attention or interest, a name that was all her own.
Intrusions from her other life weren’t welcome.
‘Fine,’ she said crisply, pushing the door shut so she could unchain it and then opening it wide.
She did a double-take. Through the one inch of open door it hadn’t been possible to see exactly how handsome he was. But now? His dark hair sat straight and spiky, enhancing the sharpness of his bone structure and, rather than looking as though it had been styled that way, it was more like he’d dragged his fingers through it enough times to make the hair stand on end. His was a face that was all angles and planes, symmetrical and pleasing, with a square jaw and a chin that looked as though it had been carved from stone. Only there was a divot in its centre, as if his creator had enjoyed pressing a thumb into it, a perfect little indent that drew her curious gaze.
His lips were broad and his jaw covered in stubble. His nose was long, straight and autocratic, but it was his eyes that robbed her lungs, momentarily, of the ability to pump air out of her body. They were eyes shaped like almonds, a dark grey in colour, rimmed in thick black lashes that curled in a way Amelia was both dumbfounded by and jealous of. They were eyes that seemed to tell stories, flickering with emotions and thoughts she couldn’t decode.
‘Well?’ he asked again, gruff, but a smile on his lips softened the word. ‘May I enter?’
‘Yeah.’ The word was breathy. She cleared her throat. ‘Of course.’
He shrugged out of his jacket, revealing a shirt that had suffered several drops of rainwater. It was a simple gesture—showing the breadth of his chest and the sculptured perfection of his torso.
She swept her eyes shut for a moment and then collected herself, offering an apologetic grimace before moving in a little. ‘I’m sorry; I don’t get many visitors.’
‘Apparently,’ he drawled. And then his smile deepened to reveal even white teeth. Her stomach flipped in on itself. ‘And so a meat cleaver is how you choose to defend yourself?’
She found herself nodding with mock gravity. ‘I feel it’s only fair to warn you: I have a black belt in kitchen instruments.’
‘Do you?’
‘Oh, you should see me wield a potato peeler.’
His laugh was a low rumble from deep in his belly and his eyes were assessing. She wanted to look away but found her gaze held by his, as though trapped. ‘Another time,’ he said.
‘You can unarm yourself,’ he added. ‘I assure you I don’t mean you any harm.’
‘I’m sure you don’t but I feel I have to point out that very few murderers announce their intentions, do they?’
‘I suppose not.’
‘So it’s quite possible you’re just planning the best way to kill me without making a fuss.’
‘Except that I’ve already explained why I’m here,’ he responded with a grin that seemed to breathe butterflies into her belly. He looked around her cottage with lazy curiosity.
Amelia didn’t have guests often—a few of the teachers from school had come around for her birthday earlier in the year, and once she’d had a student after school, as a favour for the parents, but generally Amelia kept to herself.
What was the point of country solitude if you chose to surrender it?
She tried to see the house as an outsider might—the quaint decorations, the homely simplicity of her furnishings, the absence of any photographs, the abundance of paperback novels and fresh flowers.
‘Ah, yes, your proposition,’ she murmured. ‘Please—’ She gestured towards the lounge.
He moved ahead of her and she realised she was staring at his rear, distracted by the way his trousers framed his tight, muscular bottom. Distracted by the way just looking at him was making her nerves buzz into overdrive.
She had practically no experience with men, besides a few casual lunch dates with Rick Steed, the deputy headmaster. And those had ended with chaste kisses to the cheek, nothing particularly distracting or tempting.
As a teenager, she’d railed against the life she’d been sucked into, hating the expectation that because her mother had been renowned both for her beauty and sexually free attitude Amelia must be exactly the same.
She’d begun to suspect she was, in fact, frigid. Completely devoid of any normal sexual impulse or desire. That had suited her fine. What did she need a man for when she had all the men the books in her life afforded?
What indeed? she thought to herself as he turned to face her.
‘Nice place.’
‘Thank you.’
He was quiet, watching her, and ingrained manners and a need to fill the silence had her offering, ‘Can I get you a drink?’
‘Thank you.’ He nodded.
‘What would you like? Tea? Coffee?’
He arched a brow. ‘At this hour?’
Heat suffused her cheeks at her own naivety. ‘Wine?’
‘Wine would be fine.’
‘Have a seat. I won’t be a minute.’
CHAPTER TWO (#u7aa4b4c6-407e-5ce7-a980-150bfe8f7a29)
HER LOUNGE WAS even cosier—if that was possible—than the exterior of this country cottage had promised.
Delicate and pretty, and oh, so feminine, with soft cushions and blankets everywhere and pictures of flowers on the walls. It was cosy, homely and warm, but his mind was only half-focused on his surroundings. He was mulling over the proposition he’d come here to offer—and what he’d do if she refused.
Already he could see that Amelia diSalvo was different to what he’d expected.
Did that matter? Did it fundamentally change what he needed from her? And what she’d agree to?
His research showed that she’d been inactive in the business, not attending meetings of any kind. She was on the board but didn’t contribute; it was clear she had no interest in the day-to-day operations of diSalvo Industries.
But would she be easily convinced to sell her shares to him?
Would she recognise his name and recall the bitter rivalry that had engulfed their families? Would he then have to launch straight into his backup plan? The idea of revealing his machinations to this woman hadn’t bothered him an hour earlier but, standing in her living room, suddenly he wasn’t in a rush to reveal his reasons for coming to Bumblebee Cottage late in the evening.
Which was absurd given that he’d had an investigator searching for her for over a year. Absurd given that he’d jumped on a flight as soon as she’d been located, with scant regard for the timing of things. If he’d been patient, he could have spent the night in London and driven into the countryside first thing the following morning, catching her in the daytime rather than on a rainy summer evening.
But he was here, and he wouldn’t let himself get distracted by the fact that she wasn’t the hard and cynical heiress he’d imagined. Nor by the fact she seemed kind of sweet and funny, and lived in a house that was like a tribute to quaint history.
He had spent his adult life setting things right, avenging this feud, and now he was within striking distance. All that stood between himself and success was this one tiny woman.
She was different to what he’d expected, but she was still a diSalvo and she still held the key to his ultimate revenge.
He had to remember that.
* * *
It was impossible to say why she felt as if she needed a moment to steady herself in the kitchen, but Amelia took several, sucking in a deep breath and then another and another as she reached for a bottle of wine and a corkscrew. All the wines she’d been given as gifts had actual corks.
She lifted it out easily enough and poured a measure into two glasses—her plans for a cup of tea falling by the wayside as she thought it would give her some fortifying courage.
Wine glasses in hand, she moved back into the lounge. And froze.
He was simply standing, staring at one of the pictures of hydrangeas she’d painted in watercolours, and it was that image of him that did something completely unexpected to her insides.
He was so utterly masculine in the midst of her living space and yet there was something strangely perfect about seeing him there. She stared at him, at the harshness of his face in profile, the strength of his body, broad shoulders and a narrow waist, legs that looked strong and athletic, and her pulse began to speed and her heart was trembling.
Oh, God, what was happening to her? Her mouth was dry and when she lifted her reluctant gaze back to his face she saw he’d turned and a hint of sardonic amusement danced in the depths of his eyes, bringing another flush of pink to her cheeks.
‘Here,’ she muttered, pushing the wine glass towards him.
He held her gaze as he took it, a smile playing about his lips. ‘Gracias.’
‘You’re Spanish?’ she heard herself say and then winced. Why was she making small talk with him?
‘Sí.’ The word resonated with something spicy and mysterious and, despite the fact it was now raining, she was reminded of the day’s sunshine and warmth.
She needed to focus. Why was he here?
‘What’s your name?’
‘Antonio Herrera,’ he said, and Amelia frowned, her eyes sweeping shut for a moment.
She felt his gaze, heavy and intent on her face, and her skin goosebumped once more. There was something in her mind, a memory, but it was distant and when she tried to grab it, to focus on it, the thing slipped away from her, like trying to catch a piece of soap that had been dropped into the bath.
‘I know that name.’
