The Good, the Bad and the Wild

‘Heidi Rice is simply brilliant when it comes to

writing sharp, sassy and sexy romantic novels!’

—www.cataromance.com

‘The amusing opening spins into

an emotional and heartfelt story.’

—RT Book Reviews on

Hot-Shot Tycoon

‘I was actually breathless while reading this book….

It’s a sensual ride you won’t want to lose

the opportunity of reading.’

—www.thePinkHeartSociety.com on

Public Affair, Secretly Expecting

About the Author

About Heidi Rice

HEIDI RICE was born and bred and still lives in London, England. She has two boys who love to bicker, a wonderful husband who, luckily for everyone, has loads of patience, and a supportive and ever-growing British/French/Irish/American family. As much as Heidi adores ‘the Big Smoke’, she also loves America, and every two years or so she and her best friend leave hubby and kids behind and Thelma and Louise it across the States for a couple of weeks (although they always leave out the driving off a cliff bit). She’s been a film buff since her early teens and a romance junkie for almost as long. She indulged her first love by being a film reviewer for the last ten years. Then a few years ago she decided to spice up her life by writing romance. Discovering the fantastic sisterhood of romance writers (both published and unpublished) in Britain and America made it a wild and wonderful journey to her first Mills & Boon® novel.

Heidi loves to hear from readers—you can e-mail her at heidi@heidi-rice.com or visit her website: www.heidi-rice.com

Also by Heidi Rice

On the First Night of Christmas…

Cupcakes and Killer Heels

Unfinished Business with the Duke

Public Affair, Secretly Expecting

Did you know these are also available as eBooks? Visit www.millsandboon.co.uk

The Good, the Bad and the Wild

Heidi Rice

www.millsandboon.co.uk

To Abby Green, for seeing me to the end of this book,

and being a fabulous roomie in NYC 2011!

With special thanks to Michelle Styles,

who knows the Bay Area much better than I do.

CHAPTER ONE

‘DON’T look now, but he’s here and he’s right behind us.’

Eva Redmond’s heart catapulted into her throat as the urgent whisper from her old college chum Tess sliced through the hum of polite conversation and the tinkle of champagne glasses in the upscale San Francisco art gallery. ‘Are you sure?’

Tess looked past Eva’s right shoulder. ‘Tall? Check.’ She nodded. ‘Dark? Check. Handsome? Check. The only one not in a suit? Check.’ She grinned at Eva. ‘Yup, it’s definitely your rebel scriptwriter.’ Her gaze flicked past Eva again. ‘And you’re in luck. Not only is he alone. But he’s even hotter than his photo.’

Eva stared blankly at the six foot square canvas in front of her—which was titled The Explosion of the Senses, but looked more like an explosion in a paint factory to her untrained eye—and swallowed down the knot of apprehension that had been tightening around her larynx ever since she’d boarded the plane at Heathrow that morning.

The knowledge that the man she’d travelled five thousand miles to meet was standing a few feet away made it feel as if she were trying to swallow a boulder.

‘Goodie,’ she muttered.

Tess laughed and nudged her. ‘Don’t sound so pleased.’

‘Why would I be pleased?’ Eva whispered back, fairly sure Nick Delisantro’s extreme hotness was not going to work in her favour. If only he were a geeky academic. Sticking with what you knew might be dull. But dull had its advantages.

‘Why wouldn’t you be?’ Tess countered. ‘Giving a scorching hot guy the news that he’s the heir to a fortune in Italian real estate is what I’d call a win-win situation.’

Eva nobly resisted the urge to sneak a peek over her shoulder. ‘Yes, but I’m not you, am I?’ she remarked wryly as she studied her friend dispassionately.

In her ice-blue, off the shoulder silk gown and six-inch designer heels, Tess looked elegant, slim, super-confident—and completely at home in the rarefied atmosphere of a gallery opening in San Francisco’s Union Square neighbourhood. Which wasn’t at all surprising. Tess had spent the last three years building a formidable reputation as an events planner in the US and even at university she’d been able to schmooze for England. Eva meanwhile had spent the years since she’d gained her first at Cambridge burying her nose in dusty antiquarian documents and computer research data. She couldn’t schmooze to save her life—and she’d never felt more out of place than among all these beautiful people who had elevated socialising to an art form.

The admission touched some lonely place deep inside. She shook off the thought. She wasn’t lonely; her life was exactly how she wanted it. Settled, secure, content. Until two days ago, when her boss Henry Crenshawe had demanded she travel halfway round the globe to be humiliated in public.

‘And it’s not as simple as telling him he could be the Duca D’Alegria’s grandson. I’ll also have to tell him the man he always thought was his biological father isn’t.’ Eva tensed at the thought of having such an intimate conversation with a stranger. A scorching hot stranger who had steadfastly ignored all her attempts to contact him in close to a month. ‘I shouldn’t have let you talk me into asking him for an appointment here. It’s not appropriate.’

Tess gave an easy shrug. ‘So don’t ask him straight away. Flirt with him first. He’ll be much more amenable. I guarantee it.’

Eva doubted that. She didn’t know how to flirt and this man was a master at it. During her extensive research for the firm’s high-profile new client, it was one of the few things she’d managed to discover about the elusive Niccolo Carmine Delisantro—the man who she had deduced was almost certainly the illegitimate grandson Don Vincenzo Palatino Vittorio Savargo De Rossi, the Duca D’Alegria, was offering a small fortune to locate.

The dry facts of Delisantro’s life had told her very little about him as a person—North London runaway turned successful Hollywood scriptwriter and San Francisco resident who had scripted the biggest box-office hit of the decade five years ago—except that he was a wow with the ladies and he guarded his privacy like a hawk.

‘You can take a look now, and see what you’re up against.’ Tess indicated with her champagne flute. ‘Kate Elmsly’s cornered him,’ she finished, mentioning the perky and persistent gallery owner who had greeted them both earlier.

Trying to even her breathing, Eva turned. And her lungs seized to a halt. The back of her neck bristled as she took a hasty sip of her champagne cocktail. This was worse than she thought.

As she studied the man standing about ten feet away Eva realised she wasn’t just out of her depth, she was in danger of drowning.

Tess was right. The grainy photo she’d managed to find on the Internet didn’t do Nick Delisantro justice.

No mere human being had a right to that level of perfection. Thick wavy hair the colour of rich caramel curled to touch the collar of a worn black leather bomber jacket, which matched his thin black sweater and jeans. Sharp angular cheekbones with a hint of stubble, tanned olive skin to highlight his Italian heritage and a honed, muscular six foot plus physique combined to set him apart from the pampered crowd of local celebrities and dignitaries. His dark brooding masculine beauty drew female eyes, and hers were no exception—the relaxed, almost insolent way he leaned against the bare brick column as the gallery owner chatted effusively only made him seem more aloof. Surly, sexy, supremely magnetic, effortlessly successful as a hunter-gatherer but with a dangerous edge, Nick Delisantro was the perfect male prototype to ensure the survival of his species.

Eva sighed, a shiver running down her spine then sprinting straight back up again. While she was the female prototype to ensure it failed. An academic whose knowledge of men and sex included a few fumbled encounters as a post-grad and a secret passion for florid historical romance novels that had half-naked men with exceptional pecs on the covers.

She swung back to face ‘The Explosion of the Senses,’ her own senses imploding as her gaze skimmed down the designer gown Tess had lent her. ‘This isn’t going to work,’ she murmured, more to herself than her friend. ‘I look ridiculous.’

The crimson velvet creation with its split skirt and plunging neckline would look sensational on her friend, but Eva was two inches shorter and had several extra inches round the bust. The gown had made her feel exhilarated when she’d squeezed into it an hour ago, but now only made her feel like more of a fraud.

She wasn’t one of those stunning damsels in distress with long flowing tresses and enough spirit to bring a marauding pirate captain to his knees. She was a risk-averse academic with a wardrobe full of beige who was still technically speaking a virgin at the ripe old age of twenty-four.

Tess placed a comforting hand on Eva’s forearm. ‘You do not look ridiculous. You look voluptuous.’

Eva crossed her arms over her chest. ‘Flashing my boobs at him is not the way to go here,’ she said, feeling more uncomfortable by the second. ‘I should just go to his agent’s office tomorrow morning and ask him for an appointment.’ That would be the safe, smart thing to do, and had been Eva’s plan all along until Tess had discovered through her many contacts that Nick Delisantro was attending tonight’s gala opening and wheedled them both an invite.

‘Cleavage is never a bad thing where men are concerned,’ Tess asserted. ‘And you said this commission is important,’ she urged. ‘If his agent blows you off, what are you going to tell your boss?’

Eva didn’t have an answer for that. Mr Crenshawe had told her in no uncertain terms that Roots Registry valued the De Rossi commission, and if Eva delivered the missing heir before one of the rival companies the duca had hired located him too, she would finally be in line for a promotion.

It was a powerful incentive. Eva adored her job. Poring over diaries and journals and correlating the evidence left by birth, marriage and death certificates allowed her to imagine lives often lived centuries ago—their passions, their pain, their triumphs and tragedies. And the promotion she’d worked so hard for would finally give her the job security she craved.

Tess craned her neck to peer past Eva. ‘It looks like he’s shaken off Kate,’ she continued. ‘Go now.’ She prodded Eva with her elbow. ‘Brush past him on your way to the bar. The dress will do the rest.’

‘And if it doesn’t?’ Eva asked tentatively, not sure the revealing dress was something she could actually control.

Tess shrugged. ‘Then you haven’t lost a thing. We’ll go back to my place and you can try out plan B for Boring tomorrow.’

‘Okay.’ Eva took a shuddering breath, feeling as if she were about to walk the plank—in nothing but her underwear. ‘I’ll walk past him on my way to the toilet.’ How hard could that be? ‘But then we’re leaving.’

She handed Tess her empty champagne flute and smoothed shaky palms down the luxurious velvet. The soft, seductive material brushed against her thighs as she concentrated on not falling flat on her face in the unfamiliar four-inch heels she’d also borrowed from Tess. She glanced towards him as she drew level, positive he wouldn’t even have noticed her. And froze.

Heavy lidded chocolate eyes, as bold and insolent as the rest of him, caught hers and held. The image of Rafe, the pirate captain from her favourite, much-thumbed novel, shimmered like a mirage then cleared. A shaky breath gushed out as she stared back, transfixed by the way the overhead light caught the golden flecks in his irises. The colour was unusually striking and very familiar. She’d seen the exact same shade when the duca had arrived at their offices in London to hand over his dead son’s journal.

His grandson’s lips lifted a fraction on one side, as if he were enjoying a private joke, then his gaze dipped. Eva’s heart punched her ribcage with the force of a heavyweight champ.

The lazy perusal raked over her sensitised skin like a physical caress, before his gaze met hers again. ‘Do I know you?’ he asked, the tone husky and amused, curt British vowels laced with the hint of a Californian drawl.

Eva shook her head, her tongue apparently stapled to the roof of her mouth.

‘So why have you and your friend been spying on me?’ he asked.

Good Lord, he has bionic hearing.

Eva’s breathing choked to a stop. Then released in a rush as her common sense caught up with the kick of panic. He couldn’t possibly have heard them—with all the hard surfaces the noise level in the gallery was loud and discordant. He must have spotted Tess watching him. Tess wasn’t exactly subtle.

‘We couldn’t help it,’ she said, trying to think of a viable excuse. ‘You’re a lot more intriguing than the art.’

‘Is that right?’ One brow lifted, making her breathing accelerate. ‘I’m not sure that’s a compliment. A daytime soap would be more intriguing than this stuff.’ The disdainful comment was belied by the wry tone. ‘What’s so intriguing about me?’

Eva’s breathing slowed and she began to get a little light-headed.

Was he flirting with her?

‘You don’t belong here,’ she stammered, the fierce buzz of anticipation in her stomach coming from nowhere. ‘But you don’t care. That’s unusual in a social situation. The normal response is to want to participate. To be part of the crowd. That makes you intriguing.’

The words trailed off as his lips quirked in a curious grin, softening his angular features.

Stop lecturing, you idiot. You sound like a professor.

He straightened away from the column, making her aware that he was at least half a foot taller than her, even in her borrowed heels.

Lifting his arm, he propped it against the column, angling his body so he shielded them both from the rest of the gallery. He stood close enough for her to smell the tantalising musk of soap and leather and pheromones. And see the crescent shaped scar drawing a white line through the shadow of stubble on his cheek. The pirate fantasy flickered at the edges of her consciousness. She forced it back, but not before the pulse of heat rippled over her skin and made her heart rate shoot back up to warp speed.

‘You worked all that out after a few minutes?’ he drawled.

Guilt tightened the muscles in her throat.

Not exactly.

‘That’s what I do. I’m an anthropologist.’ Of sorts. ‘I study people and their behaviour patterns. How they interact socially and culturally.’ It wasn’t exactly a lie, and she had a BSc to prove it.

‘An anthropologist,’ he said, savouring the word as if it were a rare single malt whisky. His gaze roamed over her, and her nipples squeezed into hard, aching points. ‘I’ve never met an anthropologist before.’

And he wasn’t meeting one now, she thought, her gaze flicking away from his. This was the perfect time to tell him the truth—that she was the woman whose phone calls and email messages he’d refused to return for three and a half weeks. But instead of seizing the opportunity to get down to the business of begging him for an appointment, the butterflies already fluttering in her stomach went AWOL, and she hesitated.

She’d never had the chance to flirt with a man like this before. Never been studied in that frank, assessing way, the pulse of awareness arching between them more potent than any drug.

‘Anthropology can be fascinating,’ she heard herself murmur, feeling inexplicably needy.

‘I’ll bet,’ he said. ‘Although you’re wrong about me.’ His gaze drifted over her hair, which Tess had spent an hour taming into a chignon. ‘I belong here just fine.’ Lowering his arm, he hooked one of the stray curls that had fallen out of the chignon. ‘But you, on the other hand, don’t belong at all.’ The back of his finger brushed her cheek, the touch subtle but so unexpected, she jumped.

He chuckled. ‘What are you afraid of?’

You.

Heat pulsed in that secret place between her thighs at the intimate question. She wasn’t afraid of him, that would be ludicrous, it was just that she’d never been touched like that before, with a sense of entitlement.

‘I’m not afraid,’ she blurted out, the urge to run sudden and instinctive and oddly intoxicating. ‘I have to go to the rest room.’

He tucked the lock of hair behind her ear with a care that made her heart throb in unison with her pulse points. ‘Let’s discuss anthropology when you get back.’

The suggestion was casual but proprietary and only disturbed her more. She might be a novice at this, but she didn’t think this conversation had anything to do with anthropology any more.

Giving a non-committal nod, she rushed away, sure she could feel his golden gaze boring into the bare skin of her back—with the patient, predatory instincts of a lion hunting a gazelle.

The preposterous image made her breath catch. She had to get out of here—before she completely lost her grip on sanity. Plan B for Boring would have to do, because Plan A was way too terrifying—and exciting.

Colour me amazed.

Nick huffed out a rough chuckle as he watched the sexy anthropologist dash through the crowd and admired the swing of her hips in the stop-light red dress.

When was the last time he’d met someone so intriguing, especially at one of these tedious social functions?

He’d have to send Jay, his publicist, a thank you note for insisting that he venture away from his laptop tonight. Except that he hadn’t really attended the gallery opening at Jay’s insistence, but out of sheer boredom having spent the day staring at a screen full of rubbish.

Leaning back against the column, he closed his eyes, shutting out the hum of inane chatter and hoping to deter anyone from approaching him while he waited for the Woman in Red’s return.

She’d captivated him, which was surprising in itself. He didn’t appreciate being watched or whispered about, and he’d spotted her and her friend doing exactly that. But there was something about the way she had peered at him, with none of the usual calculation or confidence he had come to expect from the women that approached him. And then when he’d got a better look at her, his senses had kicked into overdrive like those of a hormonally charged teenager.

He kept his lids closed, picturing her, and tried to determine the trigger. Creamy, translucent skin? Wide blue eyes so dark they were almost violet? The flutter of her pulse visible in the graceful arch of her collarbone? Russet curls that had escaped the mass of hair artfully piled on her head? The swell of her breasts revealed by the plunging neckline of her gown? The fresh, simple scent of soap and spring flowers? The crisp, precise London accent that he hadn’t heard in years?

Any one of those things could have turned him on. He was a guy after all. But still, she wasn’t conventionally beautiful: not particularly tall; her eyes had been maybe too big, she had a slight overbite and her forthright observations about his character had unsettled him. Even though they could only have been a lucky guess.

Weird? There was no explaining the ferocity of attraction. Not really. Except maybe…?

He opened his eyes, found himself shifting round to look at the doors to the rest room.

And realised that by far the most captivating thing about her had been her unguarded response. Her breathing had quickened, her pupils dilating wildly as soon as she stopped in front of him. The truth was he’d always been jaded where women were concerned. Even as a boy. Once he’d grown up, he found himself craving sex as much as any man, but for him it had never been more than a physical release. And as a result in the last few years, ever since The Deadly Touch had made him one of the hottest properties in Hollywood, he’d developed a cynicism about the women he dated that meant while sex was satisfying, it had become less and less exciting.

He knew precisely which buttons to press to get the response from women he wanted. But when was the last time a woman had responded to him so instinctively—and with so little caution? She’d been so transparent, the instant physical connection between them so intense, he was sure it had to be an act. But act or not, he was still captivated. And intrigued. It was certainly a very long time since he’d felt this level of attraction. He glanced round, smiling at his own impatience, then pushed away from the column as he spotted her standing by the rest-room doors, talking into her cell phone. Not talking, pleading by the look of it. She snapped the phone closed, stuffed it into her purse, then rushed out of the back entrance of the gallery.

He was so astonished, it took him a moment to figure out that she’d left. Acting on impulse, he charged after her, snaking his way through the crowd.

Where the hell was she off to in such a hurry? He didn’t even know her name. And he wasn’t finished with her yet. Not by a long shot.

CHAPTER TWO

‘HEY, wait up.’

Eva’s head whipped round at the shout from behind her. She skidded to a halt, stumbling as she recognised the tall silhouette backlit by the light from the open doorway.

Strong fingers grasped her arm, steadying her. ‘You okay?’

The firedoor crashed shut, throwing the alleyway into shadow.

‘Yes,’ she murmured, cursing the guilty blush burning her neck. ‘Thank you. I’m not used to these heels.’

His fingers stroked down her arm, setting off a series of lightning bolts, before he let her go. ‘I always wonder why women wear those ankle-breakers.’

‘To make our legs look longer.’

He gave a gruff chuckle, the sound strangely intimate in the darkness. ‘Is that so?’ She saw his head dip as her eyes adapted to the low light. She took a staggered breath and his tantalising scent engulfed her, masking the aroma of wet pavements and disinfectant.

‘You don’t need any help on that score,’ he remarked, his voice low and amused.

She wrapped her arms around herself, the chilled autumn air not the only thing causing her goosebumps. Was he flirting with her again? Why had he followed her? And why was his attention as intoxicating as it was terrifying?

‘I suppose you’re right,’ she said. ‘Given that broken ankles are even less attractive than short legs.’

He laughed again, the rough murmur chasing the blush into her cheeks.

Stop being so literal, you muppet.

‘Where are you going?’ he asked, mercifully ignoring her pathetic attempts at conversation.

‘I…’ She choked to a stop. She didn’t have an answer. Her instinctive need to flee from him seeming even more ridiculous than her small talk. ‘I wanted some fresh air. It’s stuffy in there,’ she lied.

Unfortunately, the lie didn’t quite come off when she shivered.

‘You’re cold.’ Shrugging off his jacket, he lifted her bag off her shoulder. ‘Here.’ Warm leather surrounded her. His scent clung to the garment, and she had to purse her lips to stop from sighing.

‘Let’s go for a ride.’

‘I beg your pardon?’ she stammered, the tone of his voice making all sorts of inappropriate, but far too appealing, thoughts pop into her mind.