Behind her stood the ominous shape of someone else.
A man.
Tall, immense.
An intruder dressed entirely in black tactical gear.
Bella sucked in a startled breath.
Fear streaked through her, but before her shriek could rip up the back of her throat, a broad palm came up to cover her mouth.
Oh, God.
The bowl slipped out of her grasp, thudding onto the thick rug. Muscular arms caged her from behind, immobilizing her. She staggered on her high-heeled sandals, drawn helplessly against the unmistakable heat of a very strong, very male body.
Not Massioni’s. This wasn’t any of the other men gathered in the salon with him either, although there was no question that the male trapping her in his unbreakable hold was Breed.
“Don’t scream, Bella.”
He spoke against her ear, his growled command voiced in a deep baritone that brushed over her jangled senses like a caress.
He knew her name. How? Who the hell was he? Where had he come from?
She struggled and fought to break free, but he didn’t let go. He was much too strong, and none of her squirming or resisting was getting her anywhere. All her grunts and cries for help were snuffed by the hand still sealed firmly across her lips.
Trapped, she could only stand there, her breath rushing out of her nose in panicked gusts while terror wrapped around her heart like a vise.
“Be calm. I’m not going to hurt you.”
Did he think she was a fool? She didn’t believe him for a second, not when she could feel the lethal power radiating off his big body. Whoever this man was, he was beyond dangerous, and she had no doubt that his only business in the villa was death.
She groaned, trying futilely to pull away from him in another burst of desperation. Her heart was speeding, banging against her rib cage as if on the verge of exploding. Yet despite her alarm, her instincts had begun to prickle with some kind of distant recognition.
She knew it was impossible, this strange feeling that this intruder was no stranger at all. Her blood was still racing and cold with terror, but beneath the fear was a growing sense of familiarity.
A name skated across her memory, one she had tried for years to bar from her thoughts and her heart.
No. It couldn’t be him.
The beautiful, golden-haired Breed male she had known all those years ago had been a scholar, not a soldier. He would have no business in a place like this, among thugs like the ones gathered downstairs.
Then again, there was a time when she’d have said the same thing about herself.
“I’m going to remove my hand from your mouth now,” he murmured.
As he spoke, his breath skimmed warmly against her cheek and along the side of her neck. She shivered from the sensation, astonished to realize how deeply he affected her, even after all this time.
Because, yes, she did know that low, velvet voice.
Just as she knew the scent that enveloped her as she stood immobilized in his arms. Heaven help her, but she had carried the scent of him, the sound of his voice, in a private corner of her heart since she was a teenage girl.
“Don’t be afraid, Bella. I didn’t come here to harm you. Nod your head if you understand.”
She nodded, and his grip on her relaxed. His palm fell away from her lips, leaving a coldness in its wake. Arabella slowly turned around in his slack hold.
“Oh, my God.” The words leaked out of her on a disbelieving sigh. “Ettore.”
Even though she thought she was prepared to see him again now, her first glimpse of Ettore Selvaggio standing mere inches away from her was a complete shock to her system.
She brought her fingers to her lips, her fear replaced by an overwhelming feeling of incredulity…and confusion.
Although she knew his voice and scent, she barely recognized the hard, disapproving face that stared back at her.
A black knit skullcap covered the loose golden waves that would have framed his lean, angled cheeks and firm, square jaw. While she knew that when he smiled there were dimples on either side of his lush mouth, right now his sculpted lips were held in a grim, unforgiving line. His hazel eyes were intense, his brows lowering as he pinned her in a measuring stare that felt as dangerous and unyielding as his hold on her a moment ago.
“Jesus Christ,” he whispered on a sharp exhalation. His expression hardened even more. “It really is you, Arabella. I had to be sure. I didn’t want to believe it.”
She frowned. He sounded as surprised to see her as she was to be looking at him.
It had been ten years since they last saw each other. Ten years since he crushed her heart and walked away, never to return. Now, here he stood, dressed like a nightmare in black combat gear and staring at her in accusation, as if she were the one to blame.
His gaze seared her, making her feel cold and exposed in the curve-hugging red silk dress Massioni insisted she wear tonight. She knew what she must look like, what Ettore must think.