The Ultimate Risk

Her blue eyes clashed with his glinting gaze. She did not want to talk, she admitted shakily. She was so aware of him that her skin prickled. Perhaps he really was a magician and could read her mind, because his eyes narrowed, and to her shock and undeniable excitement he slowly lowered his head.

‘Lanzo …?’ Her heart was thudding so hard she was sure he must hear it.

‘Cara,’ he murmured silkily. He had wanted to kiss her all evening. Even though she had carefully avoided him for most of the party, his eyes had followed her around the room and he had found himself recalling with vivid clarity how soft her mouth had felt beneath his ten years ago. Now the sexual tension between them was so intense that the air seemed to quiver. Desire flared, white-hot, inside him, and his instincts told him that she felt the same burning awareness. Anticipation made his hand a little unsteady as he lifted it to smooth her hair back from her face.

CHANTELLE SHAW lives on the Kent coast, five minutes from the sea, and does much of her thinking about the characters in her books while walking on the beach. She’s been an avid reader from an early age. Her schoolfriends used to hide their books when she visited—but Chantelle would retreat into her own world, and still writes stories in her head all the time. Chantelle has been blissfully married to her own tall, dark and very patient hero for over twenty years, and has six children. She began to read Mills & Boon(r) as a teenager, and throughout the years of being a stay-at-home mum to her brood found romantic fiction helped her to stay sane! She enjoys reading and writing about strong-willed, feisty women, and even stronger-willed sexy heroes. Chantelle is at her happiest when writing. She is particularly inspired while cooking dinner, which unfortunately results in a lot of culinary disasters! She also loves gardening, walking, and eating chocolate (followed by more walking!).

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CHAPTER ONE

Did every woman remember her first lover? Gina wondered.

Surely she was not the only woman to have felt her heart slam against her ribs when she had glanced across a crowded room and caught sight of the man she had once been madly in love with?

It was definitely Lanzo. Their brief affair had taken place ten years ago, but he was regarded as one of Europe’s most sought-after bachelors. Photographs of him regularly featured in celebrity gossip magazines and he was instantly recognisable. She couldn’t help staring at him, conscious of that same swooping sensation in the pit of her stomach that she had felt when she had been eighteen and utterly in awe of him.

Perhaps he felt her scrutiny? Her breath caught in her throat when he turned his head in her direction. For a few seconds their eyes met and held, before Gina quickly looked away and pretended to idly scan the other guests at the party.

The tranquillity of Poole Harbour, on England’s south coast, had been shattered over the weekend by the staging of the international offshore powerboat racing championships. Generally regarded as the most extreme and dangerous of all watersports, powerboat racing had been going on all day far out in the bay. But this evening the engines were silent, and dozens of sleek, futuristic-looking powerboats were moored in the harbour, bobbing gently on the swell.

It was certainly a sport that attracted the beautiful people, Gina noted, as she glanced around the restaurant where the after-race party was being held. Glamorous promotional models—uniformly tanned, blonde, and sporting unnaturally large breasts and very short skirts—flocked around bronzed, over-loud male boat crews, the drivers and throttle-men, who between them sent their boats skimming over the waves at death-defying speeds.

She had never understood why anyone would choose to risk their life for fun, and she had taken no interest in the racing. The party was definitely not her scene, and she had only come because her old schoolfriend Alex had recently taken over as manager of the exclusive Di Cosimo restaurant, and had requested her moral support on his first big event.

Instead, it was she who was in need of support, Gina reflected ruefully. Her legs felt like jelly and her head was spinning—but she could not blame either on the one glass of champagne she had drunk.

She was so shocked to see Lanzo again. She hadn’t realised he was still involved in powerboat racing, and it had not crossed her mind that he might attend the party. True, he owned the restaurant, but it was one of many around the world belonging to the Di Cosimo chain, and she had not expected Lanzo to be in Poole. She was unprepared for her reaction to him, for the way her stomach muscles clenched and the tiny hairs on her arms prickled when she studied his achingly familiar profile.

With his striking looks—olive-gold skin, classically sculpted features, and silky jet-black hair that showed no signs of grey, even though he must be in his mid-thirties by now—Lanzo di Cosimo looked like one of those impossibly handsome male models who featured in fashion magazines. Tall and powerfully built, his tailored black trousers emphasised his height, and his white shirt was of such fine silk that the hard ridges of his abdominal muscles and the shadow of his dark chest hairs were visible beneath the material.

But it was more than just looks, Gina thought, as she stared down at her empty glass and dragged oxygen into her lungs. Lanzo possessed a simmering sensual magnetism that demanded attention. Supremely self-assured and devastatingly sexy, he was impossible to ignore, and the women who thronged around him made no attempt to hide their fascination with him.

He was a billionaire playboy whose passion for dangerous sports matched his passion for leggy blondes—none of whom remained in his life for long before he exchanged them for another model. Ten years ago, Gina had never really understood what he had seen in her—an averagely attractive brunette. But at eighteen she had been too overwhelmed by his interest to question it, and only later had realised that her attraction had probably been her embarrassingly puppy-like eagerness. Lanzo had not had to try very hard to persuade her into his bed, she acknowledged ruefully. For him she had been a convenient bedmate that summer he had spent in Poole, and no doubt he hadn’t meant to break her heart—she only had herself to blame for that.

But time and maturity had healed the wounds of first love, she reminded herself. She was no longer the rather naïve girl with a massive crush on him she had been a decade ago. Resisting the urge to glance over at Lanzo again, she turned her back on him and strolled over to the huge wall of windows that ran the length of the restaurant and offered wonderful views over the harbour.

Lanzo shifted his position slightly so that he could continue to watch the woman in the blue dress who had caught his attention. He recognised her, but to his frustration could not place her. Now that she had her back to him he saw that her gleaming brown hair fell almost to her waist, and he imagined threading his fingers through the silky mass. Perhaps he had noticed her because she was so different from the blonde groupies who always attended the after-race parties, he mused, feeling a flicker of irritation when the young woman at his side, sensing that he was distracted, moved closer and deliberately pressed her nubile body up against him.

The girl was young, he thought with a frown as he glanced at her face, which would be far prettier without the thick layer of make-up. In her thigh-high skirt and ridiculous heels she reminded him of a baby giraffe—all gangly legs and long eyelashes. He doubted she was much over eighteen, but the invitation in her eyes told him he could bed her if he chose to. Once he would have been tempted, he acknowledged. But he was no longer a testosterone-fuelled twenty-year-old; his tastes had become more selective over the years, and he had no interest in girls barely out of high school.

‘Congratulations on winning the race,’ the blonde said breathlessly. ‘I think powerboat racing is so exciting. How fast do you go?’

Lanzo stifled his impatience. ‘The boat can reach a top speed of one hundred miles an hour.’

‘Wow!’ She smiled at him guilelessly. ‘I’d love to go for a ride some time.’

He winced at the idea of giving ‘rides’ in his pride and joy. The Falcon was a million pounds’ worth of superlative marine engineering. ‘Racing boats are not ideal for sightseeing trips because they are built for speed rather than passenger comfort,’ he explained. ‘You would have more fun on a cruiser. I’ll speak to a friend of mine and see if he’ll take you on a trip along the coast,’ he murmured, as he gently but firmly prised the girl’s hand from his arm and moved away from her.

Gina watched the setting sun cast golden rays across the sea and gild the tops of the trees over on Brownsea Island. It was good to be home, she mused. She had spent most of the last ten years living and working in London, and she had forgotten how peaceful it was here on the coast.

But thinking about home, and more specifically her new, ultra-modern flat with its sea views, a little way along the quay, filled her with anxiety rather than pleasure. Since she had lost her job with a local company she had been unable to keep up with the mortgage repayments. The situation was horribly similar to the time when she had struggled to pay the mortgage and bills on the house she and Simon had owned in London, after he had lost his job and she had become the only wage earner.

After she had left him the house had been sold, but because it had been in negative equity she had come away with nothing. She had no savings—hence the reason why she had taken out such a large mortgage to buy the flat. But now it looked increasingly as though her only option was to sell her new home before the bank repossessed it.

Her life wasn’t turning out the way she had planned it, she thought dismally. She had always assumed that a few years spent building her career would be followed by marriage and two children—a boy and a girl called Matthew and Charlotte. Well, she’d had the career, and she’d had the marriage, but she had learned that babies didn’t arrive to order, however much you wanted them, and that marriages didn’t always last, however hard you tried to make them work.

Her hand strayed unconsciously to the long, thin scar that ran down her cheek close to her ear, and continued down her neck, and she gave a little shiver. She had never expected that at twenty-eight she would be divorced, unemployed and seemingly infertile—the last evoked a familiar hollow ache inside her. Her grand life-plan had fallen apart, and now the prospect of losing the flat that she had bought when she had moved back to Poole, in the hope of starting a new life away from the bitter memories of her failed marriage, was the final straw.

Lost in her thoughts, she jumped when a voice sounded close to her ear.

‘How do you think it’s going?’ Alex asked tensely. ‘Do you think there’s enough choice of canapés? I asked the chef to prepare twelve different types, including three vegetarian options.’

‘It’s a great party,’ Gina assured him, pushing her concerns to the back of her mind and smiling at Alex. ‘Stop looking so worried. You’re too young for grey hairs.’

Alex gave a rueful laugh. ‘I reckon I’ve gained a few since I took over as manager here. Lanzo di Cosimo demands the highest standards at all his restaurants, and it’s important that I impress him tonight.’

‘Well, I think you’ve done a brilliant job. Everything is great and the guests seem perfectly happy.’ Gina paused, and then said in a carefully casual tone, ‘I didn’t realise that the head of Di Cosimo Holdings would be here.’

‘Oh, yeah. Lanzo visits Poole two or three times a year. If you had come home more often instead of living it up in London, you would probably have seen him around,’ Alex teased. ‘He comes mainly for the powerboat racing, and a year or so ago he bought a fabulous house on Sandbanks.’ He grinned. ‘It’s amazing to think that a little strip of sand in Dorset is one of the most expensive places in the world to live.’ He suddenly stiffened. ‘Speaking of the devil—here he comes now,’ he muttered below his breath.

Glancing over Alex’s shoulder, Gina felt her stomach lurch when she saw Lanzo striding in their direction. It didn’t matter how firmly she reminded herself that she was a mature adult now, and well and truly over him. Her heart was pounding and she felt as awkward and self-conscious as she had been when she’d had a summer job as a waitress in this very restaurant ten years ago.

His eyes were hypnotic—perhaps because their colour was so unexpected, she thought shakily, her gaze drawn against her will to his face. With his swarthy complexion and jet-black hair, brown eyes would have seemed more likely, but his irises were a startling vivid green, fringed with thick black lashes and set beneath heavy brows.

Time had done the impossible and improved on perfection, Gina decided. At twenty-five, Lanzo had been a sleek, incredibly handsome man who had still retained a boyish air. A decade later he was rugged, sexy, and utterly gorgeous—his face all angles and planes, his slashing cheekbones and square jaw softened by a mouth that was full-lipped and blatantly sensual.

Something stirred inside her—something that went deeper than sexual attraction. Although her physical reaction to him was shockingly intense, she acknowledged, flushing when she saw Lanzo lower his gaze to the outline of her nipples, clearly visible beneath her dress.

A long time ago he had held her in his arms and she had felt certain that he was the only man in the world for her. So many things had happened since then. She had escaped from a violent marriage and knew that she was strong and could look after herself. But for a crazy moment she wished Lanzo would draw her close against his broad chest and make her feel safe and cherished, as he had made her feel all those years ago.

But of course Lanzo had never really cherished her, she reminded herself sharply. It had just been an illusion—part of a silly daydream that he would fall in love with her as she had fallen in love with him. And, like most daydreams, it had turned to dust.

‘The party is superb, Alex.’ Lanzo greeted his restaurant manager, his eyes still focused on the woman at Alex’s side. ‘The food is excellent—as people expect from a Di Cosimo restaurant, of course.’

Alex visibly relaxed. ‘Thank you. I’m glad you approve.’ He suddenly realised that he did not have Lanzo’s full attention, and gestured to Gina. ‘Allow me to introduce a good friend of mine—Ginevra Bailey.’

‘Ginevra—an Italian name,’ Lanzo observed softly. He was intrigued by her obvious reluctance to shake his hand, and the slight tremble of her fingers when she placed them in his palm. Her skin was soft and pale, in stark contrast to his deep tan, and he had a sudden erotic image of her naked—of milky-white limbs entwined with his darker ones. He lifted her hand to his mouth and grazed his lips across her knuckles, feeling an unexpectedly sharp tug of desire in his gut when her eyes widened and darkened.

Gina snatched her hand from Lanzo’s grasp, feeling as though an electrical current had shot along her arm. She swallowed and struggled for composure. ‘My grandmother was Italian, and I was given her name,’ she murmured coolly, thankful that the years she had spent working for the very demanding chairman of a world-renowned department store chain meant that she was an expert at hiding her private thoughts. Hopefully no one would guess that

Lanzo’s close proximity was making her heart race so fast that she felt breathless and churned up inside.

His green eyes glittered and she quickly looked away from him, assuring herself that he could not possibly read her mind. He gave a small frown as he studied her intently. She sensed that he was intrigued by her, but she had no intention of reminding him that they had once, very briefly, been lovers. Ten years was a long time, and undoubtedly countless other women had shared his bed since her. It was far better, and less embarrassing, that he did not recognise her. And, to be fair, it was not his fault that, while she had not forgotten him, he had presumably never given her a second thought after he had casually announced at the end of that summer a decade ago that he was returning to his home in Italy.

Lanzo’s eyes narrowed as he studied Ginevra Bailey. Something about her tugged on his mind, but the faint memory was elusive. And as he skimmed his gaze over her hourglass figure, displayed to perfection by a navy blue silk-jersey dress that clung to her curves, he was certain that if they had met on a previous occasion he would not have forgotten her.

Her beauty was understated: a perfect oval-shaped face, skin as smooth as porcelain, and deep blue eyes that were almost the exact shade of her dress. Once again something stirred in his subconscious—a distant recollection of eyes as intensely blue as the deep ocean—but the memory remained frustratingly intangible, and perhaps it was nothing. He had known many women, he acknowledged wryly. It was possible that Ginevra Bailey simply reminded him of a past mistress whose identity eluded him.

Beside him, Alex made a slight movement, and Lanzo realised with a jolt that he was staring at the beautiful brunette. He resisted the temptation to reach out and run his fingers through the long chestnut-brown hair that rippled down her back and inhaled sharply, his body taut with sexual anticipation. He had not been so instantly turned on for a long time, and his reaction was all the more surprising because he was usually attracted to tall, willowy blondes. The woman in front of him was a delectable package of voluptuous curves who was having a profound affect on his libido, and Lanzo was in no doubt that he intended to bed her at the first opportunity.

‘I hope you are enjoying the party, Ginevra,’ he murmured. ‘Are you a fan of powerboat racing?’

‘No. I’ve never seen the attraction of dangerous sports,’ Gina replied shortly.

She was struggling to disguise her overwhelming awareness of Lanzo, and must have sounded more abrupt than she had intended because Alex interspersed quickly, ‘Gina was responsible for the floral displays tonight. The table centrepieces are beautiful, don’t you think?’

‘Indeed.’ Lanzo glanced at the arrangement of red and white roses and trailing variegated ivy on a nearby table. ‘You are a florist then … Gina?’ He frowned, wondering why the shortened version of her name seemed familiar.

‘Not professionally. It’s simply a hobby,’ she replied. During her marriage to Simon he had encouraged her to take an expensive flower-arranging course, as well as an even more expensive course of lessons in French cuisine, so that she could be the perfect hostess at his business dinner parties. The cookery lessons were not of much use now that she was only preparing meals for herself—often a ready-meal heated up in the microwave, Gina thought ruefully—but she had enjoyed making the floral displays for the party.

‘The floristry firm I’d originally booked were forced to pull out because of staff illness,’ Alex explained. ‘Luckily

Gina offered to step in and decorate the tables.’ He paused as he caught sight of one of the waiters frantically signalling to him from across the room. ‘There seems to be some sort of crisis in the kitchen,’ he muttered. ‘Would you excuse me?’

Gina watched Alex thread his way through the throng of guests, feeling a flutter of tension now that she was alone with Lanzo. Of course they were not really alone, she reminded herself impatiently. The restaurant was packed with party guests, but as she slowly turned back to him she felt the strangest sensation that they were in a bubble, distanced somehow from the hum of voices around them.

Surely every woman remembered her first lover? she told herself again. Her response to Lanzo was a natural reaction to seeing a face from the past. But deep down she knew it was more than that. She’d had a couple of relationships before she had married, but no other man—not even Simon in the happier times of their marriage—had evoked this helpless, out-of-control longing; this violent, almost primitive desire that shocked her with its intensity.

Lanzo had been incredibly special to her, she acknowledged. Although their affair had not lasted long, the discovery that a man like him—an international jet-set playboy who could have any woman he wanted—had desired her, had boosted her confidence. Because of him she had changed from a shy teenager into a self-assured woman who had built a successful career and later caught the eye of an equally successful City banker.

But if Lanzo had given her confidence Simon had stripped it from her, she thought ruefully. Thanks to her disastrous marriage she no longer had faith in her judgement of others. She felt stupid that she had not realised what Simon was really like beneath his charming exterior, and right now she was wary of Lanzo’s potent masculinity and felt painfully vulnerable.

To her relief a waiter approached and offered to refill her glass. Usually she only had one drink at social events—a throwback to all the times Simon had drunk too much at parties and become embarrassingly loud and unpleasant. But tonight she was grateful for any distraction from Lanzo’s overwhelming presence, and when the waiter had gone and she was alone with him once more she took a hurried sip of her champagne and felt the bubbles explode on her tongue.

‘So you don’t like powerboat racing?’ he drawled, in his gravelly, sexy accent. ‘Are there any forms of watersports you do like?’

‘I enjoyed learning to sail in the bay when I was a child. Sailing is rather more peaceful than tearing through the water at a ridiculous speed,’ she said pointedly.

‘But not as adrenalin-pumping,’ Lanzo murmured, his eyes glinting with amusement when she blushed.

Gina had a horrible feeling that he knew her adrenalin levels were sky-high as her instincts sensed the threat he posed to her peace of mind and she prepared to fight him or flee.

‘Do you live locally, Gina?’ The way he curled his tongue around her name caused needle-darts of pleasure to shiver across her skin.

‘Yes, I was born here. Actually, I’m the fourth generation of Baileys to be born in Poole—but the last, I’m afraid, because I don’t have any brothers to carry on the family name.’ She knew she was babbling but it was preferable to an awkward silence, when Lanzo might hear the loud thudding of her heart. She took a deep breath and prayed that her usual calm nature would reassert itself. ‘Are you staying in Poole for long, Signor di Cosimo?’

‘Lanzo,’ he corrected her. ‘Regrettably, this is only a short trip as I have other business commitments, but I hope to return soon.’ He studied her flushed face and smiled. ‘Perhaps sooner than I had planned,’ he drawled.