Chapter 1
HOT AND FRAGRANT, THE AROMA OF RIPENING OLIVES ENVELOPED ME THE MOMENT THE limo door opened. I boosted myself from the shadowed leather backseat, blinking against the sudden brightness of the lazy afternoon sun. Our ride through Italy’s Tuscan countryside had been chilly, cushioned bliss, but the moment I crunched one foot on the gravel outside, I was engulfed again by the day’s oppressive heat.
Bennett Marshfield, my boss and benefactor of this whirlwind excursion, had come around from the other side and now offered me his hand to help me alight. How he managed to remain so cool and stately when beads of sweat exploded at my hairline, I didn’t know, but I accepted his assistance as the chauffeur held the vehicle’s door.
Bennett turned to him. “Will you be driving us to the airport tomorrow?”
The elderly driver smiled. “It will be my great pleasure,” he answered in heavily accented English. As he trotted to the limo’s trunk to retrieve our luggage, he added, “Signor Pezzati has arranged for me to be available whenever you have need.”
Bennett thanked him as we made our way up the path to the grand villa before us. The patchwork of stones beneath our feet had been worn to a shiny, flat surface over the centuries, making me wonder about the warriors who had trod this path before us.
“Some place Nico’s got here, eh?” Bennett said under his breath, though there was no one nearby to overhear.
Built in the fourteenth century and renovated countless times since, this former fortress was now home to one of Bennett’s oldest friends, Nico Pezzati. Smaller than Marshfield Manor—though not by much—it sprawled atop this hillside like a cat sunning itself on the back of a lush outdoor sofa.
My pale pink blouse—the one a saleswoman claimed would “breathe” but rather saw fit to absorb moisture from the air and deliver it directly to my skin—clung for dear life against the front of my chest and between my shoulder blades. As Bennett and I took the uneven stone stairs up to the home’s front doors, sweat rivulets raced down to pool at my waist. Another two minutes out here and I’d be drenched in my own perspiration. What a lovely way to meet Bennett’s old school chum.
To my great relief, the moment we reached the top step, thick mahogany doors swung wide, and a delicious rush of cold air swirled around us.
A young man in a crisp, white shirt greeted us in enthusiastic Italian. “Benvenuto, signore e signorina.” He flashed a smile that contrasted against his rich bronze complexion and switched to English. “Signor Pezzati anticipates eagerly your arrival.”
“Thank you,” I said as I stepped deeper into the oasis of cool. “We are very happy to have been invited.”
I gestured toward the car, but before I could voice my question, the young man answered me. “Your belongings will be sent upstairs ahead of you.”
“Thank you,” I said again. “And you are?”
The young man pressed his fingers against his chest. “I am Marco,” he said with a rousing, rumbling R. Sweeping his hand in front of us, he stepped backward, allowing us to pass. “Prego, please enter.”
As we’d driven up, I’d been struck by the villa’s austere appearance, tabby cat–colored bricks stretching outward and upward in bland, undulating monochrome. No doubt the structure had served well in its fortress days, but I’d had my doubts about how it would fare in its contemporary role as a Tuscan home for an elderly billionaire.
The moment I stepped inside the soaring foyer, however, I sucked in a breath of surprise. Yellow reflective walls, set ablaze by the sun streaming in from high skylights, made me believe the room was lined in gold. “Oh,” I said. Words escaped me, and I realized by Marco’s smile that he was used to such a reaction.