The Tuscan's Revenge Wedding(3)

She looked away, gripping her hands together in her lap as her face clouded. “No, I just—”

“Bene. Let it pass. You will fly with me now to Florence. We can be at the hospital in a matter of hours.”

Her chin came up and wariness returned to her eyes. “There’s no need for that. I’ll go to Jonathan as soon as possible, tomorrow at the latest, but have things that must be done first.”

“Time is of first importance,” he said with hard precision. “It will be better to go at once.”

“But I have a job, an apartment to be looked after.”

“A leave of absence has been approved for you. An agency that monitors apartments while tenants are away has been contacted, and will send someone to water your plants and retrieve your mail. If you like, I can have your clothing packed and sent after us, though it would be more practical to buy a few things after you arrive.”

She sprang to her feet. “You went to where I work?”

“Naturally,” he answered as he stood as well, facing her in the gray dimness of the room. “Your employer was most understanding. The receptionist was kind enough to tell me where you normally lunch when both understood why I had to speak to you.”

“You know where I live, that I have plants?” Her voice climbed an octave. “You went into my apartment?”

“By no means,” he answered with an impatient gesture.

“But how can you—”

“The details were handled by my personal assistant. An investigating firm was called in as all I had was your name and city. They located your employer, discovered your address, and interviewed the superintendent of your building.”

“Just like that.”

Her voice held remnants of anger, but also a trace of bewilderment. Hearing it, he gentled his tone. “Come, this is getting us nowhere. I have a car and driver downstairs. We will stop at your apartment long enough to collect your passport and other personal belongings, but must be at the airport within the hour. Our window for takeoff is narrow and may be altered by the rain.”

“You can’t just arrange my life as you please.”

“It’s done,” he said with finality.

She searched his face for long seconds while a pucker of suspicion lingered between her brows. “Why are you doing this? Why are you going to so much trouble to take me to Italy?”

“Not for the purpose you seem to think,” he answered, while heat kindled in his veins at the idea. “To meet you was Carita’s dearest wish as she hoped to be a sister to you one day, the last words she said to nonna, our grandmother, on the morning of the accident. Nonna is no longer young and has great faith in portents. She asked that I find you, and will be greatly relieved to know you are on this return flight.” That he also wished to meet Jonathan Davies’s sister was not pertinent, nor was the fact that this fast journey gave him something to do other than prowl hospital corridors while Carita lay comatose in Critical Care.

Her features smoothed a degree, but she still shook her head, opened her lips to speak.

He responded to that negative movement before she could make a sound. “I also assumed you would wish to be with your brother. You are, so I am told, his only family, just as he is yours. If I am wrong, if you don’t want to be with him as soon as possible, you have only to say so.”

“Of course I want to see him! I intend to see him. But I’m not helpless. I can book my own flight, make my own way.”

“No doubt, but it will take time. I am here, the plane is ready, and you can be with your brother many hours sooner by putting your trust in me. Can you not do that?”

Silence descended in which he could hear the distant roar of traffic, rain against window glass and the muted ping of the elevator bell on a floor somewhere below. His nerves stretched to annoying tightness. His fingertips tingled with the urge to touch her, to soothe her distress and encourage the answer he wished as well as to test the softness of her skin. The impulse, natural as it might be for him, could have the opposite effect from the one intended. Restraining it did nothing to soothe his temper.

She met his eyes then, her own silver with defeat. “I suppose I had better.”

“Excellent.” Nico kept his voice rigorously even to conceal his satisfaction. “Shall we go?”





2


Amanda could not believe she had agreed to this rushed trip. The shock of the news about Jonathan was the explanation. She had been numb with it, still was, even after the brief stop at her apartment.

Yet Nicholas de Frenza had gone to considerable trouble to find her and let her know what had happened. The arrangements he had made were certainly convenient. It would be ungrateful of her to fling all his careful planning in his face.

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.