‘If I kissed you now, you’d kiss me right back.’

The truth felt like a blast of cold air. Flora took a deep breath. Why was she fighting it? Would it really matter if she took Massimo’s hand and led him to some anonymous hotel in the town? For a moment she could almost feel the weight of the door key in her hand. Could feel the shimmering heat between their naked bodies. Only …

She straightened her shoulders. Sex made everything seem so simple. All it required was some bodies and the right mix of hormones. But, no matter how much she ached to feel the weight of his body on hers, she wasn’t going to give in.

She breathed out slowly as, behind her, a bus pulled noisily into the square. ‘Yes. I kissed you,’ she said defiantly. ‘And I’m not going to pretend that I didn’t enjoy it, or that I don’t find you attractive. Only it’s not enough. Not enough for me to sleep with you. It might have been if we felt the same way. But we both know your motives have nothing to do with passion and everything to do with paying me back for getting in your way.’

LOUISE FULLER was a tomboy who hated pink and always wanted to be the prince—not the princess! Now she enjoys creating heroines who aren’t pretty pushovers but are strong, believable women. Before writing for Mills & Boon she studied literature and philosophy at university and then worked as a reporter on her local newspaper. She lives in Tunbridge Wells with her impossibly handsome husband, Patrick, and their six children.

A Deal Sealed by Passion

Louise Fuller

www.millsandboon.co.uk

For my children:

Georgia, Eleanor, Hugo, Archie, Agatha and Millicent. Thank you for letting me stay in my cupboard.

I love you all. x

Contents

Cover

Introduction

About the Author

Title Page

Dedication

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

Extract

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

IN THE DARKENED bedroom of his penthouse hotel suite Massimo Sforza gazed in silence at the illuminated numerals of his watch. It was almost time. He held his breath, waiting, and then there was a quiet but audible beep. He breathed out slowly. Midnight.

His lean, dark features tightening, he shifted his gaze and stared down dispassionately at the naked women sprawled over both him and one another in the emperor-sized bed. They were beautiful and wanton and idly he tried to remember their names. Not that it mattered. He would never see either of them again. Women had a tendency to confuse intimacy with commitment but he liked variety and anyway the ‘c’ word was simply not part of his vocabulary.

The brunette shifted in her sleep, her arms flopping onto his chest. Feeling a spasm of irritation, he reached down and lifted the tangle of limbs away from his torso and onto the rumpled sheets before rolling over and out of the bed.

His breathing quiet and measured, he stood up and began to pick his way between the shoes and stockings strewn across the soft pale grey carpet. In front of the huge panoramic window that covered the length of the apartment he noticed a half-empty bottle of champagne and, leaning over, he picked it up.

‘Happy Birthday, Massimo,’ he murmured and, lifting it to his lips, he tipped it up. He made a moue of disgust. Flat and sour—like his mood. Grimacing, he looked down at the street below. He hated birthdays. Particularly his own. All that faux sentiment and ersatz celebration.

A signature on a contract. Now, that was a reason to celebrate. He smiled grimly. Take the latest addition to his ever-expanding property portfolio: a six-storey nineteen-thirties building in the exclusive Parioli district of Rome. He’d had his pick of five properties, two in the most sought-after road in the area: the Via dei Monti. His eyes gleamed. He could have bought them all—he still might. But the one he’d finally chosen hadn’t even been for sale.

Which was why he’d had to have it.

He gave a small tight smile. The owners had refused to sell. But their refusal had simply fuelled his determination to win. And he always won in the end. His smile widened. Which reminded him: those glitches in the Sardinian project should finally have been ironed out. He frowned. And about time too. Patience might be a virtue but he’d waited long enough.

Behind him, one of the women moaned softly, and he felt a frisson of lust shudder over his skin. Besides, right now, he was more interested in vice than virtue.

Savouring his body’s growing arousal, he glanced at the sky. It was nearly dawn. The project meeting was scheduled for that morning. He hadn’t been planning to attend—but what better birthday present could there be than hearing first-hand that the last remaining obstacle had been removed? And that work on his largest and most prestigious resort ever could finally begin.

His eyes narrowed as the blonde lifted her head, her lips curving into a suggestive pout. Coolly, he smiled back at her. Perhaps there was one thing...

He watched the brunette uncurl and stretch lazily and began to walk back to the bed.

* * *

Exactly fifty-one minutes later he strode into Sforza headquarters in Rome, wearing an immaculate navy suit and a deep blue shirt, his five o’clock shadow neatly trimmed.

‘Mr Sforza!’ Carmelina, the junior receptionist, gave a squeak of surprise.

‘Carmelina!’ he replied, smiling calmly.

‘I—I wasn’t expecting you in today, sir—’ she stammered. ‘I must have made a mistake. I thought it was—’

‘My birthday?’ Massimo laughed. ‘It is. You didn’t make a mistake, and I’m not planning on hanging around. I just thought I’d pop into the boardroom on my way to lunch at La Pergola. Don’t worry! I’m a big boy now. I can wait until tomorrow for my present from the staff.’

He watched Carmelina blush. She was sweet, and clearly had the mother of all crushes on him, but he never mixed business with pleasure. Nor would he—unless there was a sudden global shortage in the number of beautiful, sexually imaginative women eager to share his bed.

He paused briefly in front of the door to the boardroom and then pushed it open. There was a sudden flurry of people pushing back chairs and standing up as he walked purposefully into the room.

‘Mr Sforza!’ Salvatore Abruzzi, the company’s chief accountant, stepped forward, a nervous smile upon his face. ‘We weren’t—’

‘I know.’ Massimo waved him away with an impatient hand. ‘You weren’t expecting me.’

Abruzzi smiled weakly. ‘We thought you might be otherwise engaged. But please join us—and happy birthday, Mr Sforza.’

Around the table, his colleagues murmured their congratulations too.

Massimo slid into his seat and gazed calmly around the boardroom. ‘Thank you, but if you really want to give me something to celebrate then tell me when we’re going to start work in Sardinia.’

There was a strained, simmering silence.

It was Giorgio Caselli, his head of legal affairs, and the closest thing Massimo had to a friend, who cleared his throat and met his boss’s gaze. ‘I’m sorry, Mr Sforza, but I’m afraid we can’t give you that information at the moment.’

For a moment, the room seemed to shrink as though the air had been sucked out of it and then Massimo turned and stared unwaveringly at the lawyer. ‘I see.’ He paused. ‘Or rather, I don’t.’ He gazed slowly around the room, his blue gaze colder than an Arctic ice floe. ‘Perhaps somebody would care to explain?’ Frowning, he leaned back in his seat and stretched out his long legs. ‘You see, I was led to believe that all objecting parties had been—’ His eyes narrowed. ‘Removed.’

There was another strained silence and then Caselli raised his hand. ‘That’s what we believed too, Mr Sforza. Unfortunately the tenant of the Palazzo della Fazia is still refusing to accept all reasonable offers. And as you are well aware, she is legally entitled to stay on at the property under the terms of Bassani’s will.’

Pausing, Caselli tapped loudly on the top of a document box on the table in front of him; several of the junior board members jumped.

‘Miss Golding has made her feelings completely clear. She’s refused to leave the palazzo—and, to be perfectly honest, sir, I can’t see her changing her mind any time soon.’ He sighed. ‘I know you don’t want to hear this, but I think we might have to think about some sort of compromise.’

Seeing his boss’s set expression, Caselli sighed again and tipped over the box. There was a muffled gasp from around the table as Massimo stared coldly at the sprawling pile of identical white envelopes. Each one was franked with the Sforza logo. All of them were unopened.

He lifted his head, his expression suddenly fierce, his eyes the darkest ink-blue. ‘That’s not going to happen.’

Now the accountant cleared his throat. ‘I think on this occasion, sir, that Giorgio is right. Perhaps we might consider some form of conciliation—’

Massimo shook his head. ‘No!’ Leaning forward, he picked up one of the envelopes, his face blanked of emotion, the intensity of the gaze belying the quiet reasonableness of his tone. ‘I don’t compromise or conciliate. Ever.’

The eyes around the table stared at him with an unblinking mixture of fear and awe.

‘But we’ve tried every option, Mr Sforza.’ It was Silvana Lisi, his head of land acquisitions. ‘She simply won’t acknowledge our communications. Not even in person.’ She exchanged a helpless glance with her colleagues. ‘She’s completely uncooperative and volatile too, apparently. I believe she threatened to shoot Vittorio the last time he visited the palazzo.’

Massimo surveyed her steadily. ‘How volatile can some little old lady be?’ He shook his head dismissively. ‘Look! I don’t care how old she is, or whether she looks like his nonna, Vittorio is paid to acquire land and properties. If he wants to care for the elderly, I suggest he looks for another job.’

His face pale with nerves, Abruzzi shook his head. ‘I’m sorry, Mr Sforza. I think you must have been misinformed. Miss Golding isn’t a little old lady.’

Lounging back in his chair, Massimo frowned. ‘I thought she was some elderly Englishwoman?’

An awkward silence spread across the room and then Caselli said carefully, ‘There was someone living at the palazzo when we first bought the estate—but she was a friend of Bassani, not a tenant, and she left the property over a year ago.’

‘So she’s irrelevant.’ His boss’s face darkened. ‘Unlike the volatile Miss Golding, who appears to have single-handedly thwarted this project and run rings around my entire staff. Perhaps she should be working for me.’

Caselli gave a strained smile. ‘I can only offer my apologies...’ His voice trailed off as he saw the look of impatience on his boss’s face. Sweeping the envelopes off the table, Massimo leaned forward.

‘I own that palazzo, Giorgio. I own the estate and the land surrounding it. And we’ve had approval for the first stage of the project for nearly six months and yet nothing is happening. I expect more than an apology, Giorgio—I want an explanation.’

Hastily, the lawyer shuffled through the papers in front of him. ‘Aside from Miss Golding, everything is on schedule. We have one or two more meetings with the environmental agencies. Just formalities, really. Then the regional council in two months. And then we’re done.’ He cleared his throat. ‘I know we have permission to convert and extend, but we could just modify the plans and build a brand-new palazzo on some other part of the site. We’ll have no problem getting it passed, and it would mean we can bypass Miss Golding entirely—’

Massimo stared at him, the cold blue of his eyes making the temperature in the boardroom plummet abruptly. ‘You want me to change my plans now? To modify a project we’ve worked on for over two years because of one tricky tenant? No. I think not.’ Shaking his head, he glanced angrily around the room. ‘So who exactly is this mysterious Miss Golding? Can someone at least tell me that?’

Sighing, Caselli reached into a pile of folders on the table in front of him and pulled out a slim file. ‘Her name is Flora Golding. She’s English. Twenty-seven years old. She’s moved around a lot, so there’s not much detail, but she was living with Bassani until his death. Apparently she was his “muse”.’ The lawyer stared at his boss and smiled tightly. ‘One of them, anyway. It’s all there in the file.’ Caselli licked his lips ‘Oh, and there’s photographs. These were taken at the opening of the Bassani Wing at the Galleria Doria Pamphili. It was his last public appearance.’

Massimo gave no indication that he had heard a word of this explanation. His eyes were fixed on the photographs in his hand. More particularly they were fixed on Flora Golding. She was clinging to the arm of a man he recognised as the artist Umberto Bassani, and looked far younger than twenty-seven.

She also appeared to be naked.

He felt suddenly dizzy. Wrenching his gaze away, he took a shallow breath and then felt his cheeks grow warm as he saw that she was wearing a dress of some sort of unbleached silk, perhaps a shade lighter than her skin. Noting the soft curves of her breasts and buttocks beneath the clinging dress and the triangle of pale gold skin at her throat, he drew a breath, feeling lust uncurling in the pit of his stomach.

She most definitely was not a little old lady!

He studied her face in silence. With that disdainful tortoiseshell cat’s gaze and crooked crop of fine brown hair, she was an arresting, unorthodox beauty. But she was beautiful—there was no denying that.

A muscle flickered in his jaw as he studied the photograph intently. Beautiful and greedy. Why else would a woman like that surrender her body to a man more than twice her age? Suddenly he tasted bitterness in his mouth. She might look the part, clinging on to her lover’s arm, her eyes lit with an oh-so-convincing adoration, but he knew from personal experience that appearances could be deceptive. More than deceptive! They could be damaging and destructive.

Staring down into those incredible tawny brown eyes, he felt a spark of anger. No doubt a steely will lay beneath the misty softness of their expression. That and a gaping hole where her heart should be. His anger shifted into pity. But what man was truly going to care what lay beneath that satiny skin and curving flesh? And, although he might have been one of the greatest artists of his generation, Umberto Bassani had still been just a man. A sick, elderly, lovestruck fool.

His face hardened. This girl must be quite something if she’d been willing to hook up with a dying man. A lot more than something if she’d lured him into letting her stay on in his home. He felt suddenly sick to his stomach. But was her behaviour so surprising, really? After all, who knew better than he how low a woman like that was prepared to sink in exchange for a share of the spoils?

Or a footnote in a will.

He snapped the folder shut. At least Bassani had had no children. Whatever Miss Golding’s malign influence had been over the old man, it had now run its course. Slowly, he ran a finger over the clean lines of his neatly trimmed stubble. Soon her little protest at the palazzo would be over too, and then denuded of her former powers, she would be homeless and destitute.

Looking up, he studied the faces of the men and women seated around the table. Finally he said, almost mildly, ‘Perhaps you’re right. Maybe we do need a new approach with Miss Golding.’

Clearly surprised by this volte face, Lisi nodded nervously. ‘We could use an intermediary.’ She glanced at her colleagues for support. The lawyer nodded. ‘I think distancing ourselves might be the solution. There are several companies here in Rome that specialise in these sort of negotiations. Or we can go farther afield—London, maybe—’

‘That won’t be necessary,’ Massimo said softly. ‘We already have someone working for the company who’s more than capable of convincing Miss Golding that our way is the only way.’

Giorgio frowned. ‘We do? Who?’

Massimo stared at him calmly. ‘Me!’

There was a shocked silence and then Giorgio leaned forward, his forehead corrugated with confusion. ‘As your lawyer, I would have to advise you against such a course of action. Let’s do what Silvana suggested and find an intermediary. It won’t take long but it would be better to wait...’ His voice faded as his boss shook his head slowly.

‘I’ve waited long enough. And you know how I hate waiting.’

‘But, sir.’ Giorgio’s face was taut with shock. ‘You really shouldn’t get personally involved. This is business—’

‘Yes. My business. And it involves me personally.’

‘I understand what you’re saying, sir, but I really don’t think it’s wise for you to meet Miss Golding—’ The lawyer stopped, clearly horrified by the prospect of his uncompromising boss actually coming face to face with the shotgun-carrying, volatile Miss Golding. ‘Anything could happen!’

Massimo felt his body stir. Yes. It could! His eyes flickered over the photographs of Flora, inexorably drawn to the beauty of her body and the challenge of her gaze. His chest tightened. She would be passionate at first, and then tender, those honeycomb-coloured eyes melting as she pulled him fiercely against her...

Closing his mind to the tantalizing image of a naked, feverish Flora, he smiled and the tension around the table evaporated like early morning mist.

‘Don’t worry, Giorgio. I’ll be sure to wear my bulletproof vest,’ he said.

His lawyer grimaced and slumped back in chair. ‘Fine. You can meet her. But only if I’m there to make sure you don’t say or do anything you or more importantly I will regret!’ He shook his head in frustration. ‘I would have thought that you would have had something better to do, today of all days.’

Massimo pushed back his chair and stood up smoothly. ‘I do indeed. I have a surprise birthday luncheon waiting for me at La Pergola.’ His eyes gleamed beneath their dark brows. ‘Reschedule it for this evening! That should give Miss Golding more than enough time to sign on the dotted line. And now you and I have a helicopter to catch.’

* * *

Two hours later, Massimo closed his laptop with a decisive click. The file on Flora Golding had made an entertaining read, but she hardly offered anything in the way of a challenge. In his experience pretty, greedy young women simply needed the correct handling to help them towards the sticky end they so richly deserved.

Leaning back against the plush upholstery, he stared at the Tyrrhenian Sea through the window of his private helicopter. Away from the coastline the water gleamed flat and bluer than a gemstone, while in the distance he could just make out where the waves lapped against the island’s famous ragged granite outcrops.

He turned as the pilot leaned forward. ‘Beautiful scenery isn’t it, sir?’ he shouted over the whirring buzz of the helicopter’s rotors.

Massimo shrugged. ‘I suppose so.’ He glanced down at his watch and then shifted round to face the lawyer who sat, eyes squeezed tightly shut, his face damp with sweat.

‘Open your eyes, Giorgio. You’re missing the scenery,’ he said mockingly. Frowning, he shook his head. ‘I don’t know why you insisted on coming. You know you hate flying. Just take deep breaths and we’ll be back on terra firma before you know it.’ He turned back to address the pilot. ‘How long before we land?’

‘Ten minutes, sir.’

Massimo frowned. ‘That was quick!’

The pilot grinned. ‘We made good time—but then this chopper’s the best on the market.’

Massimo nodded. To him, the helicopter was simply a means of transport. He had no interest in the make or model. Nor did its stupidly high price tag excite him. In truth, all of his ‘toys’—the cars, jets and luxury yachts—left him cold. What truly excited him was the pursuit of some unattainable deal. He loved going head to head with an opponent. And the more he—or she—tried to outmanoeuvre him, the more single-minded and ruthless was his desire to bring them down.

As Miss Flora Golding was about to find out.

The pilot pointed out of the window. ‘That’s the Palazzo della Fazia, sir. If you don’t mind, I’ll probably bring her down over there.’ He gestured towards a large, flat patch of land at the end of the drive.

Massimo nodded, but his eyes were fixed on the honey-coloured building in front of him. The helicopter touched down lightly and as the rotors slowed, he stepped onto the parched grass, his gaze continuing to rest on the palazzo. He owned many large and impressive properties, but he found himself holding his breath as he stared at the golden stucco shimmering beneath the Majorelle blue sky. He was transfixed not by its grandeur but by its serenity and its sense of reassuring immutability—as though the building had grown up out of the land itself.

‘Thank goodness that’s over!’

Massimo turned sharply as Giorgio came and stood beside him, patting his pallid, sweating face with a handkerchief.

‘How are you feeling?’ he asked drily.

The lawyer smiled weakly. ‘I feel okay.’

Massimo frowned. ‘Really? You look terrible. Look... Why don’t you wait here? I don’t think you being sick in the flowerbeds is going to help close this deal, do you?’

Giorgio opened his mouth to object. Then took one look at his boss’s face and closed it again.

Massimo smiled. ‘Don’t look so worried. This won’t take long.’

The driveway definitely needed some attention, he thought critically, as he sidestepped a crater-like pothole. Up close, the palazzo too had clearly seen better days. Parts of the stucco were crumbling, and there were small plants poking through the plaster like loose threads on a jumper. And yet still there was something magical about its faded glamour.

He scowled, irritated by this sudden and wholly uncharacteristic descent into sentimentality. There was nothing magical about bricks and plaster. Especially when they were reduced to rubble. And as soon as Miss Flora Golding signed over her tenancy rights that was exactly what was going to happen.

Eyes narrowing, he climbed up the steps to the large front door and pulled purposefully on the bell rope. Tapping his fingers impatiently against the brickwork, he frowned and then pulled on the rope again. There was no answering jangle from inside and stifling a stab of irritation, he hammered hard against the peeling paint, resting his hand on the wood, the heat of it somehow feeding his anger.

Damn her! How dare she keep him waiting like this? Craning his neck, he looked up at the first-storey windows, half expecting to see a face, the eyes dancing with malice. But there was no face, and for the first time he realised that the windows—all the windows—were shuttered. Gritting his teeth, he straightened up. The message could hardly be clearer: Miss Golding was not at home to visitors. Ever.

His head felt full to spilling with rage. Turning on his heel, he walked down the steps and strode along an untidy path beside the palazzo, his shoes crunching explosively on the gravel. Each shuttered window seemed to jeer at him as he passed, and his anger swelled with every step. Reaching the end of the path, he found a gate, the latch broken and with what looked suspiciously like a woman’s stocking tied around it to keep it shut. Irritably, he tore at it with his fingers.

Stalking past a pile of discarded masonry and rusting iron railings, he felt a quiver of excitement as he stepped through a crumbling stone archway into a walled garden. In contrast to the front of the building, all the shutters and the windows at the back of the building were open, and then, turning towards the palazzo, he noticed a half-empty glass of water and the remains of an apple on a marble-topped table. So she was here! But where, exactly?

Blinking in the sunlight, his spine stiffened as he got his answer. Somewhere in the gardens, a woman was singing.

He stared fiercely around the terrazza, but it was empty except for a handful of sunbathing salamanders. For a moment he was rooted to the spot, the pounding of his heart drowning out the song, and then, forcing himself to breathe more slowly, he lifted his head. But it was too late. She’d stopped singing.

Damn it! He turned slowly on the spot, his eyes narrow slits of frustration. Where the hell was she? And then he heard it—the same husky voice—and he felt another flicker of excitement. With light, determined steps, he ducked under an archway festooned with roses—and then stopped almost immediately. It was just another empty terrace. His disappointment aching like a blow to the stomach, he glanced through a fringing of leaves at a large sunken ornamental pond and a collection of marble nymphs.

What the hell was wrong with him? Chasing after a singing girl like some foolhardy sailor bewitched by a siren...

And then his breath stopped his throat and his heart seemed to miss a beat as across the garden he saw one of the nymphs reach out to touch a cluster of pale pink oleanders.

Dry-mouthed, he watched her bend and twist in silence, his breath still trapped somewhere between his throat and his stomach. With the sunlight gleaming on her wet body she looked like a goddess fresh from her morning bath. Her beauty was luminous, dazzling. Beside her the exquisite marble nymphs looked dull and blandly pretty.

Staring hungrily at the slender curl of her waist, the small upturned breasts, he felt the blood start to pulse in his neck. His eyes followed the soft curve of her backbone down to the firm, rounded bottom. The vertebrae looked both defenceless and dangerous and he watched, silently mesmerized as she lifted her arms, and stretching languidly, began to hum. And then his breath almost choked him as he saw that she wasn’t completely naked but was wearing a tiny flesh-coloured thong.

The scrap of damp fabric tugged at his gaze.

His chest tightening, he stared at her hungrily, his blood pulsing thickly as she dipped her feet into the pond and then began to sing again in the same sweet, light voice.

Massimo smiled. He recognised the song, and with the breath spinning out of him like sugar turning to candyfloss he started to whistle the tune.

The girl froze, her head jerking upwards. Taking a step forwards, she frowned. ‘Who’s there?’

Moving out from under the archway, Massimo held his hands out in front of him. ‘Sorry. I couldn’t resist. I hope I didn’t scare you.’

She stared at him fiercely, and he realised with surprise that she didn’t seem scared. Nor had she made any attempt to cover her nakedness. But then given the beauty of that body, why should she? His own body hardened painfully as she looked up at him defiantly.

‘Then perhaps you shouldn’t creep about in the bushes. This is private property and you’re trespassing. I suggest you leave now before I call the police.’

Her Italian was fluent, and bore no trace of an English accent, and he felt another stab of surprise and admiration too. But neither showed on his face as he smiled at her coolly.

‘The police! That might be a little premature.’ His English was perfect and, watching her eyes widen with surprise, he smiled grimly, gratified to see that he had got under that delectable skin. ‘Don’t you want to know who I am first?’

‘I know who you are, Mr Sforza.’ Her voice was clear and calm. She lifted her chin. ‘And I know what you want. But you’re not going to get it. This is my home, and I’m not about to let you turn it into some ghastly boutique hotel for loud, sweaty tourists, so you might as well leave.’

‘Or what?’ His eyes drifted casually over her naked breasts. ‘If you’re concealing a weapon, I’d really like to know where.’ He stared at her mockingly. ‘This is my property and my land and you are my tenant. As your landlord, I’m entitled to inspect what’s mine. Although, to be fair, I think you’ve pretty much shown me everything there is to see.’

Flora glared at him, her eyes flashing with anger. So this was the famous Massimo Sforza—or was that infamous? The man whose arrogant swirling signature had dominated her days and dreams for so many weeks. He was everything she had imagined him to be: slickly clever, charming yet ruthless. But now, with that glittering blue gaze locked onto hers, it was clear she had underestimated the ratio of charm to ruthlessness. Meeting his eyes, she felt a shiver of fury run through her body. He clearly believed that his presence was dazzling enough to overpower her objections to his stupid hotel. If so, he was sadly mistaken. She’d had her fill of men simply assuming that she would fit in with their plans. Particularly one as smug as Massimo Sforza.

Her heartbeat began to quicken. He was completely, irredeemably loathsome. So why then was her pulse fluttering like a moth near a candle? Heat burned her cheeks and she shook her head in denial—but there could be no denying her body’s treacherous, quivering response to his. Nor the fact that he was the most wickedly attractive man she’d ever met.

And the most dangerous.

She gritted her teeth, confused and angered by her body’s response. It was so inappropriate and shallow and given who she knew him to be, frankly wrong. So what if he was handsome? Hadn’t she seen his photo in enough newspapers and magazines to have grown sick of that sculpted head? Her body felt hot and taut beneath the intensely blue focus of his gaze, but she shivered. It was crazy: he hadn’t even touched her. But nothing could truly have prepared her for the reality of his beauty or that air of power and self-assurance. With that sleek black hair, the flawless bone structure just visible beneath the stubble and that imperious gaze he might easily have been one of the bandits that used to roam the island’s hills.

She scowled. Only now, instead of robbing rich travellers of their money and jewellery, he robbed ordinary people of their homes and livelihoods. He might be wearing the trappings of respectability and wealth—his suit and shoes were clearly handmade and expensive—but he had the morals of a common thief.

Her gaze skipped swiftly over the breadth of his chest. It might be broad—but not because he was big-hearted. This man didn’t have a heart, and she would do well to remember that the next time she got dewy-eyed about his blatant masculine perfection.

‘I didn’t have you down as a prude, Mr Sforza,’ she snapped back. ‘Not given your well-documented fondness for scantily clad women. But then it doesn’t surprise me in the least that you’re a hypocrite. After all, you are the head of a multinational corporation—so it’s sort of a prerequisite, isn’t it?’

Massimo shrugged casually, but the intensity of his gaze made her breathing jerk. ‘I’m not a prude. You caught me off guard. You see I don’t generally discuss business with naked women. But then I don’t tend to frequent strip joints.’

Her eyes glittered brighter than the Sardinian sun. ‘I’m not a stripper,’ she said frostily. ‘And we are not doing business. This is my home and I can walk around in it any damn way I want.’ She paused, her face twisting with scorn. ‘Besides, unlike some people, I don’t have anything to hide.’

Her pulse leaped as his face darkened with anger.

‘Oh, you think nudity equates to honesty, do you? Interesting. In that case, I’ve got nothing to hide either.’ Eyes glittering, he slid off his jacket and tossed it disdainfully onto a nearby rose bush, showering petals in every direction.

‘Hey!’ Flora took an angry step towards him. ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’

He glanced at her and instinctively she tensed as she saw the hostility in their cobalt depths. ‘Me? I’m showing you the purity of my soul.’ Holding her gaze, he slowly began undoing the buttons on his shirt.

She gritted her teeth. ‘Really? You’re really going to do this?’

Flora stared at him helplessly. This couldn’t be happening. Surely he wasn’t going to take all his clothes off in front of her just to prove a point? She watched in silence, a knot forming in her stomach, her heart beating frantically as he tugged his shirt off and threw it on top of his jacket. Meeting her gaze, he pushed his belt through the buckle and undid the top button of his trousers.

‘No!’ Turning round, she grabbed a faded sundress from the stone slabs and pulled it over her head in one swift moment.

‘And I thought I was the prude!’

She heard the note of triumph in his voice and turned to face him with wide, scornful eyes. ‘Not wanting to see you naked doesn’t make me a prude. It’s just a matter of taste. I know you must find it hard to believe, but I don’t actually find you attractive enough to want to see you naked.’

‘Oh, I can believe that. I’m clearly a little young for your taste. Perhaps I should come back in thirty years.’

Flora frowned. ‘Thirty years?’ she repeated stupidly. ‘Why would that make any difference?’

Massimo shook his head. ‘Don’t play the innocent with me, cara. We both know I’m rich enough for you. But you like your men old and rich, don’t you, Miss Golding? Or should that be Miss Gold-Digger?

Her eyes blazed with fury. ‘How dare you?’ She stepped towards him, her hands bunching at her sides. ‘You know nothing about my relationship with Umberto.’

Her stomach muscles clenched, the knots inside pulling tighter. He was disgusting! A monster. Coarse, cold-blooded and corrupted. How could she have thought he was attractive? And he was such a hypocrite! Barging into her life and her home and judging her like that. Her breath felt sharp in her throat. Not just judging, but destroying something good and pure—sullying the memory of what had been innocent with his vile insinuations.

Scowling, she lifted her chin. Let him think what he wanted. She knew the truth. That she and Umberto had shared not passion but friendship, and a mutual desire to hide: she from her family’s claustrophobic love and he from the knowledge that his artistic powers were fading.

‘Just for the record, I don’t have a problem with your age. Just your character! Umberto was twice the man you could ever hope to be, and you will never be capable of understanding what we shared. But it certainly wasn’t his bank account.’

He smiled coldly. It was the smile of someone to whom such an outburst was a sign of weakness and imminent surrender. ‘The lady doth protest too much. Although in your case...’ he raised his eyebrow mockingly ‘... I think “lady” might be pushing it somewhat, don’t you?’

Leaning over, he picked up his jacket and reached into the inside pocket. He pulled out an envelope and held it out to Flora.

‘Save your self-justification for someone who cares.’ His face hardened. ‘“Just for the record”, I don’t care who you sleep with or why. I just want you out of here—and, despite your damning little speech about my character, I think if you look inside that envelope you’ll find that I understand pretty much everything about you, Miss Golding.’

His icy, knowing smile made her stomach flip over. She glared at him but he held her gaze.

‘I like playing games as much as the next man, cara, but you don’t have to play games with me anymore. And this is a game, isn’t it? You holding out for more and me giving you what you really want?’

She stared at him in silence. His blue eyes were as deep and tempting as the Tyrrhenian Sea.

‘Come on, cara,’ he said softly. ‘Umberto was a rich man, but accept my offer and you’ll be a far richer woman.’

Flora stared at the envelope in silence. A rich woman! She could almost picture the cheque: could see that authoritative swirling signature.

He watched with grim satisfaction as she hesitated momentarily and then took it from him. ‘Aren’t you going to open it?’

She looked up at him, hating the note of triumph in his voice. ‘No,’ she said quietly, her eyes fixed on his face. And then with slow deliberation she tore the envelope in two and threw it at him. ‘I don’t need to. You see, there’s nothing you can offer me that I will ever want. Except never to see your vile, arrogant face again!’

And before he even had a chance to reply she turned and darted through an archway and vanished as a light breeze blew the pieces of envelope and cheque across the flagstones.

CHAPTER TWO

MASSIMO STARED AFTER her in confusion. What the hell had just happened? Had she really just taken his cheque and ripped it up? Without even looking at it?

His stomach contracted. Everything he’d wanted had been almost in his grasp and now he felt stupid and out of place—almost as though she’d left him standing at the altar, with the pieces of envelope fluttering around his feet like discarded confetti. His breathing quickened. Damn her!

‘Mr Sforza?’ At the sound of Giorgio’s voice he turned sharply. Looking pale and flustered, his lawyer hurried across the flagstones. ‘I’m sorry I took so long. This place is like a maze. But I heard voices.’ His eyes popped slightly as finally he seemed to register his shirtless boss, and then he looked quickly away. ‘Er...is everything okay? I mean—’

Massimo’s face darkened. He was well aware of how he must look, standing there half-naked and alone like some spurned suitor. His confusion was gone, replaced by a rage so pure, so absolute, that it seemed to fill his entire body.

‘Everything is fine,’ he snapped. ‘I just thought I’d have a quick sunbathe.’

The lawyer gazed at him uncertainly. ‘Really...?’

Massimo shook his head in exasperation, his body seething with a frustration that took him straight back to his childhood. ‘No, Giorgio. Of course not. I was—’ Grimacing, he shook his head again. ‘It doesn’t matter.’ Breathing out slowly, he picked up his shirt and slid his arms into it. ‘You can tell Lisi she was right, though. She is volatile.’

‘That’s the impression I was given, sir.’ Giorgio nodded, a look of relief sliding over his face. ‘That’s why I think we should cut our losses and walk away before...’ He glanced furtively across at his boss, who was buttoning up his shirt with swift precision. ‘Before this gets any more out of hand.’

Massimo whirled towards him. ‘Walk away?’ Snatching up his jacket, he shrugged it on carelessly, his voice colder than marble. ‘Oh, I’ve got no intention of walking away, Giorgio. Not before I’ve taught Miss Golding a long and clearly overdue lesson in manners. Come with me.’

He turned and began to walk swiftly in the direction that Flora had just taken. Ducking under the archway, both men came to an abrupt stop as they emerged onto a neatly trimmed grass lawn. Across the lawn a high yew hedge rose out of the ground, in the centre of which was another archway. There was no sign of Flora—

‘This is getting ridiculous,’ Massimo muttered. ‘How many gardens does one palazzo need?’

They crossed the lawn and stopped in front of the archway. It wasn’t a garden.

‘It’s a maze!’ Giorgio gazed uncertainly at a small rusting sign. He looked up at his boss, his expression a mixture of astonishment and dismay. ‘Do you think she’s in there?’

Massimo scowled. Of course she was in there. No doubt laughing her pretty little head off at their expense.

He sighed. ‘I should have ripped the damned house down with her in it. I know I said this before, but I’m going to sort this out once and for all and then I’ll be back. And this time I really won’t be long. After all, how difficult can it be to find her?’

The answer to that question was really difficult, he decided some twenty minutes later, after he’d turned yet another corner to find yet another dead end. With a groan of frustration, he ran his hands through his hair and cursed Flora loudly.

‘I may not be a lady, but even I wouldn’t use words like that!’

His body froze as her voice, fizzing with malice, cut sharply through his tirade.

‘What’s the matter, Mr Sforza? Don’t you like hide and seek? I thought you liked playing games “as much as the next man”.’

He spun round, his gaze boring into the thick, dark leaves. ‘Oh, very funny. This is very amusing, I’m sure. But you can’t hide from me for ever!’

‘Probably not! But I’ve got a funny feeling that after an hour...’ she paused, and sighed elaborately ‘...or four spent wandering around in here, you might just want to go home. If a bullying, greedy monster like you actually has a home.’

He gritted his teeth and then his pupils flared as from somewhere behind the high green hedge, he heard a twig snap. Gotcha! Slowly, with delicate steps, his heart hammering with excitement, he crept towards the end of the path and stepped swiftly around the corner. But there was no one there.

‘You might as well give up and go home.’

Her voice floated through the foliage, the crisp, cool words acting like salt on his wounded pride. And yet despite his irritation part of him was enjoying this game they were playing.

His mouth curved into an almost-smile. ‘If you knew me better, cara, you’d know that I never give up or give in.’

‘Thankfully I will never know you at all. Anyway, carry on looking if you want, but I should warn you there’s over a thousand metres of paths and only one of them will take you to the centre. Still...happy hunting!’

Massimo glanced up at the sky, and his breathing slowed. She was going to pay for this. And a lot sooner than she thought. Reaching into his trouser pocket, he pulled out his mobile phone and punched in a number.

Flora stared up at the thick, yew bushes and felt a surge of satisfaction. The maze had been designed by Umberto and had a particularly fiendish layout. Massimo Sforza would be stuck wandering around between its high, impenetrable hedges hopefully until the sun set. She smiled happily. Which should give him ample time to ponder the ethics of harassment and bribery.

Her smile faded. His casual, unfounded assumption that her reason for staying at the palazzo was to squeeze more money out of him and his stupid company made her skin tighten with anger.

If only there was some way to get rid of him for good. But like most rich, powerful men, he was used to getting his own way.

She felt suddenly tired. Was it so much to ask to keep her home? But it was always the same. Even reasonable, well-adjusted men seemed to assume that a woman could and should change her life to fit in with their plans.

Remembering James’s angry disbelief when she’d refused to upend her life for his, she felt an ache spread inside of her. And it had been the same with Thomas too. He’d been bewildered and then furious with her for pursuing her own goals instead of supporting him.

Her lip trembled. Then of course there was her dad and her brother, Freddie. They’d always been protective but since her mother’s death, they’d treated her like she was a child; an adorable but foolish child who needed protecting from herself.

Still, at least they loved her and cared about her. Massimo Sforza, on the other hand, only cared about himself. But just because he was rich and used to getting his own way didn’t mean she should give up her home so he could turn it into a stupid hotel.

She shivered. The stone bench on which she’d taken refuge was cold, and even though the sun was gleaming like a huge pearl in the flawless blue sky the seven-foot hedges meant that little of its heat was reaching her.

Damn Gianni! It was all his fault. If only Umberto hadn’t left him the estate. And if only his feckless, greedy brother hadn’t sold it on as soon as the deeds were in his hands, she wouldn’t be here, hiding like a criminal on the run.

A twig cracked nearby, and she froze momentarily—then relaxed. It was probably just a lizard or a bird. Massimo Sforza might be rich and powerful but he’d need x-ray vision or wings to find her in here.

Her head jerked up abruptly. Above her, a Marsh harrier gave a shrill screech and, frowning, she slid off the bench, a shiver of apprehension scuttling down her spine. It might have been muted by the hedges, but it had definitely been a warning call. But before she could even ponder as to what might have caused the bird’s alarm she heard a faint droning noise, and then a shadow fell across her upturned face and the droning become a loud rhythmic ‘whumping’.

Open-mouthed, Flora stared up in astonishment at a large, sleek white helicopter. Where had it come from? And then she gave a sudden cry of rage. Sforza! It had to be. She’d assumed he’d driven to the palazzo, but who else would have such a showy boy’s toy? She must have been swimming under the water in the pond when he’d flown over—

There was a crunch of footsteps on gravel behind her, and her heart leaping in her chest, she turned, knowing before she did so that it would be him.

‘Thanks, Paolo. Yeah, I think I can find my way out. But I’ll call you if I need your help.’ Massimo clicked off his phone and examined her face, his eyes glittering with malice. ‘So. We meet again.’ He glanced at his watch and frowned. ‘Not quite fifteen minutes!’

‘Only because you cheated!’ Hands curling into fists, Flora stepped backwards. Her calves collided painfully with the stone bench, but it was nothing compared to the injuries she would inflict on Massimo if she stood too close to him.

He shook his head. ‘You’re not going to have a tantrum about losing, are you, cara? I told you—I don’t give up and I don’t give in. And, besides, I hate waiting.’

She shivered as his face shifted, grew harder and colder than the marble bench pressing against her legs.

‘And I never, ever lose.’

Flora stared at him stonily. ‘What a wonderful mantra for life. Your parents must be so proud of you.’

His eyes flared, and nervously she realised that his broad body was blocking her only way of escape.

There was a short, tense silence and then he shrugged. ‘And what about your parents, cara? Were they proud that their daughter was shacked up with a man old enough to be her grandfather?’ He paused, his lip curling, his teeth bared so that for a moment he seemed to resemble a large, dangerous animal more than a man.

She lifted her chin and met his gaze. ‘We can stand here all day and trade insults, if you want,’ she said stiffly. ‘But it won’t alter the fact that I have a legal right to stay here as a tenant for as long as I wish. Nothing you can do or say will change that fact.’

For a long moment he stared at her steadily and then, to her astonishment, he smiled without rancour. ‘That’s true.’

She waited tensely as he continued to study her, his abrupt change of mood almost as unsettling as the growing realisation that they were only inches apart, alone, separated from the rest of the world by seven-foot hedges. Goosebumps tiptoed over her skin, and she swallowed uneasily. Why was he looking at her like that? It reminded her of the way buyers used to look at Umberto’s paintings: cool, assessing, critical.

She shivered again, and he frowned slightly. ‘You’re cold! Of course, you must be.’

Before she could reply, he had pulled off his jacket and draped it over her shoulders. His hand grazed her skin, and she shivered once more, this time from the heat of his touch.

Feeling somehow disloyal—although to what or to whom, she wasn’t sure—she tried to shrug it off, but he shook his head.

‘It’s just a jacket, cara. Not a white flag.’

Blushing, wondering how or when her thoughts became so transparent, she nodded mutely. She felt hot. Impatient. Restless. But where had all her anger and outrage gone? Wrapping her arms tightly across her chest, she stared mutinously past his head. He was making her feel like this. His tantalising nearness seemed to have driven all rational thought from her mind. And now, wearing his jacket, with the warmth of his body still clinging to the fabric, she felt even more confused.

Still staring straight ahead and desperate to at least appear cool and calm, she cleared her throat. ‘I’ll walk you out.’ His gaze was burning her skin and, turning, her heart shivered as her eyes collided with his.

He nodded slowly. ‘Then I won’t charge you for the loan of my jacket.’ Her eyes widened and he grinned. ‘I’m kidding. Look. I can find my own way out—’

She rolled her eyes. ‘No you can’t. Come on. It’ll only take a few minutes.’

It took seven. Giorgio was waiting at the entrance. He glanced anxiously at their faces. ‘Ah, there you are. There you both are—’

Massimo interrupted him smoothly. ‘Giorgio. I don’t believe you’ve met Miss Golding. Miss Golding, this is my chief legal advisor, Giorgio Caselli. Our business is done here, Giorgio. I’ll see you back at the helicopter.’

Looking both astonished and respectful, the lawyer nodded. ‘It is? Excellent. Wonderful. It was a pleasure to meet you, Miss Golding.’

Flora stared after him, a sense of foreboding creeping over her skin. Was that it, then? After all these months of harassment, was he just going to give up and walk away?

She turned to face him. ‘I don’t understand. Are you saying I can stay? Or is this some game? Because I don’t know how to play.’

His mouth curved at the edges. ‘This isn’t a game.’

‘But it doesn’t make any sense,’ she replied fiercely. ‘One minute you’re jack-booting around like some crazed dictator on a rampage, and now you’re being—’ She stopped.

‘What? What am I being?’

His blue eyes were fixed on her animated features and she frowned. ‘I don’t know—reasonable, nice!’

He winced. ‘Reasonable! Nice? I don’t think anyone has ever accused me of being that before!’ His tone was teasing.

‘I don’t suppose they have,’ she said cautiously.

He grinned, his handsome face softening. ‘It’s a low blow! Arrogant, ruthless, crazed...I can handle. Niceness, though... That’s dangerous! Whoever heard of a nice CEO?’

She bit her lip.

He frowned. ‘I’m serious. You have to promise me: what happens in the maze, stays in the maze. I can’t have my reputation as a “bullying, greedy monster” ruined.’

Recognising her words, Flora blushed. ‘You were a bit bullying,’ she said carefully. ‘But I suppose that doesn’t matter now.’

He was watching her thoughtfully. ‘I’d like to think it doesn’t.’ Pausing, he glanced across the lawn. ‘Are there more gardens over there?’

Surprised by the change of subject, she nodded.

‘I’d like to see them. Will you show me?’ he asked simply.

Breathing in the drifting scents of blossom and warm earth, Massimo was surprised—impressed, even—by the scale and diversity of the gardens. He was no horticulturist, but even he could see that in stark contrast to the palazzo it looked as though someone was taking care of them.

Between narrow gravel-filled paths edged with meticulously trimmed bay hedges, the neat, square beds were filled with lavender, thyme, rosemary and sage, while espaliered fruit trees mingled with climbing roses, jasmine, honeysuckle and wisteria on the walls and arches.

Massimo ran his hand lightly over a topiary spiral. No doubt Bassani had taken up gardening when his career as an artist had begun to fade. Squinting into the sunlight, his face tightened. It was pretty, but gardening—like all hobbies—seemed a complete waste of time to him. He worked out with a personal trainer five mornings a week, but work fulfilled all his needs except rest and relaxation, which was why, in his leisure time, he liked to sleep and have sex.

His lip curled—although not necessarily in that order.

‘It’s beautiful,’ he said finally. ‘I didn’t know Bassani was such a keen horticulturist.’

Flora looked up at him, her mouth curving into a pout, and he felt his groin tighten almost imperceptibly. How to describe those lips? Not red, not pink— He smiled grimly as the words came to him from school art lessons: rose madder. He stared at her critically. A tiny scar just above her eyebrow and a sprinkling of freckles over her nose and cheeks contrasted with the classical symmetry of her face and saved her from being just another pretty girl. But that mouth was a work of art: a mixture of challenge and seduction, determination and—surrender.

An image of Flora, soft-eyed, her body melting against his, those lips parting, exploded inside his head.

Struggling to keep himself from touching the plump cushion of her lower lip, he gestured offhandedly towards a cluster of dark red peonies. ‘Did he choose everything?’

Flora shook her head slowly. ‘Umberto didn’t have anything to do with the gardens—’ She checked herself. ‘He liked sitting in them, of course, but he knew absolutely nothing about plants.’ She wrinkled her nose. ‘He couldn’t tell a weed from a wallflower!’

Watching her eyes mist over as she talked about her lover, Massimo felt something twist inside him. The thought of Flora and Umberto together, her bewitching young body pressed against the older man’s, made him want to snap the heads off the flowers—

Her voice broke into his thoughts. ‘He sometimes helped me with the planting, though. Not the actual digging, but he always knew what plant should go where. I think that’s because he was an artist; he had a wonderful eye for colour and composition.’

Massimo nodded. ‘I know even less about colour and composition than I do plants. But I have a couple of properties on the mainland,’ he said idly. ‘I could do with a capable gardener.’ His blue eyes gleamed. ‘Maybe I could poach yours.’

She burst out laughing. He was impossible. Incorrigible. Infuriating. And for one bizarre moment, it actually felt like they liked each other. Biting her lip, she met his gaze. ‘So now that you can’t have my home, you want my gardener?’

Amusement lit up his eyes. ‘I hadn’t thought of it like that but—yes. It seems only fair.’

The gentle, mocking tone of his voice made her heart beat faster. He was still her enemy, she told herself frantically. He was a devil in disguise and she shouldn’t let her guard down just because his eyes were like woodland pools and his voice was as sweet and silken as wild honey.

‘That’s not going to happen,’ she said carefully, hoping that her face revealed nothing of her thoughts. ‘Looking after these gardens—’ she frowned ‘Well, it’s not just a job. It’s more complicated than that.’

His eyes were dark and teasing. ‘Compared to that maze nothing is complicated! Don’t look so worried, cara, I’m not going to kidnap your gardener. I can see you don’t want to lose his services.’

Their eyes met, and she felt her skin grow warm and tingling beneath his lingering gaze. His eyes were a beautiful, deep, dark blue of a forget-me-not, and she felt a sudden sharp heat inside as she stared at his lean jawline and the full, passionate mouth. He would be impossible to forget even if his eyes didn’t demand that he be remembered: his lean, muscular body, the compelling purposefulness of his gaze and the intensity of his masculinity set him apart from every other man she’d ever met. And his smile— She felt a rush of longing. What woman wouldn’t want to be the cause of that smile?

And then, as though the sun had gone behind a cloud, his smile faded. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said slowly. ‘It must be the heat or something. I’m usually a little quicker on the uptake.’ He frowned. ‘You don’t have to explain. I get it.’

‘Get what?’ The hair on the nape of her neck rose at the sudden tension between them.

‘Obviously, he’s a “friend” of yours.’

She stared at him, confused. ‘Who?’

‘Your gardener.’

The expression on his face was hard to define, but she could almost see him retreating, and she felt a rush of panic. ‘He’s not a friend of mine. I mean, he can’t be. He doesn’t exist,’ she said breathlessly. ‘I do the gardening. Me. On my own.’

There was a moment’s silence as he studied her face and then he smiled slowly, and once again she felt her nerves flutter into life and her skin grow warm. ‘Is that so? You really are full of surprises, Miss Golding. No wonder Bassani was so smitten with you!’

There was nothing new in his words. She had heard them said in so many ways, so many times before. Normally she let them wash over her, but for some reason she didn’t want this man to think that they were true.

‘No—it wasn’t like—’ she began but her words stopped in her throat as he reached out and gently took her hand in his. Turning it over, he ran his fingers lightly over the hard calluses on her palm, and she felt her breath snag in her throat; felt heat flare low in her pelvis. Her heart was racing. She knew she should tell him to stop, should pull her hand away, but she couldn’t speak or move.

Finally, he let go of her hand and said softly, ‘So. This is why you want to stay.’

It wasn’t a question, but she nodded anyway. ‘Yes. Partly.’

She looked up at him hesitantly. She never talked to anyone about her real work. Most people on the island simply assumed that she was Umberto’s muse, and it was true—she had often posed for Umberto. But she’d only modelled for him as a favour. Her real passion, ever since she was a little girl, was flowers, although not many people took her seriously when she told them—probably because they were too busy pointing out the fact that her name was Flora and she liked flowers: a joke which had stopped being funny years ago.

She took a deep breath. ‘I’m actually writing a thesis on orchids. The island’s home to some very rare species. That’s why I came here in the first place.’ Feeling suddenly a little shy, she gave him a small tight smile. ‘I didn’t even know about the palazzo or Umberto before I arrived. I just bumped into him in a café in Cagliari.’

Massimo studied her assessingly. She made it sound so innocent, so unplanned. As though her relationship with Bassani had been a matter of chance. His face hardened. Yet here she was with her name on the tenancy agreement. He gritted his teeth. However she spun the story, he knew she had been looking for some sort of sugar daddy, and in Sardinia there was only one man who fitted the bill.

A muscle flickered in his jaw. Women like Flora Golding did their homework. Nothing was left to chance. Because if their efforts succeeded then, like his stepmother Alida, they need never work again—although spending his father’s money had pretty much been a full-time job for her. His body stilled as he allowed himself a brief memory of his stepmother’s icy disdain, and then he gazed coolly at Flora.

No doubt she’d found out where Bassani had liked to drink and set the whole thing up. He could well imagine the older man’s greedy excitement on discovering this beautiful young girl sipping cappuccino in some shabby little bar. And then all she’d had to do was pose for him. Naked. At the thought of Flora slipping out of her faded sundress, her eyes dark and shiny with triumph, he felt almost giddy with envy and lust.

For a moment he lost all sense of time and place, and then he breathed out slowly. ‘How fortuitous,’ he said smoothly. ‘To find your own blank canvas here at this palazzo—the very place you have chosen to make your home.’

He stared broodingly across the garden, blind to its beauty. He should have been satisfied by this final proof that she was as disingenuous and manipulative as he’d suspected, but beneath the satisfaction was an odd sense of disappointment, of betrayal. And of anger with himself for responding to her obvious physical charms.

His jaw tightened. But wasn’t it always so with women? Especially women like Flora Golding, who had duplicitous charms ingrained in them from an early age. Flora. It was a name that seemed to suggest a honeyed sweetness and an unsullied purity. And yet it tasted bitter on his tongue.

His gaze sharpened as she looked up at him, her light brown eyebrows arching in puzzlement at the shift in his voice. ‘I do love the gardens, but it’s more of a hobby than anything else. My real work is my dissertation and if I’m going to finish my thesis I need peace and quiet. And that’s what I get living here.’

Massimo smiled. Her tone was conversational, her words unremarkable, but she had unwittingly given him the means to her end.

They had reached the front of the palazzo. Abruptly he turned to face her. ‘It’s been an enlightening visit, Miss Golding. Don’t worry—we won’t be contacting you anymore. And there certainly won’t be any more financial incentives. You’ve made it perfectly clear that you’re not motivated by money, and I respect that.’

Flora blinked in the sunlight. Even though the day was now suffocatingly hot, she felt a chill run down her spine. His voice sounded different again—almost like a sneer or a taunt. But nothing had changed. Maybe it was just the heat playing with her senses...

‘Good,’ she said quickly, trying to ignore the uneasiness in her stomach. ‘I’m just sorry you had to make a personal trip to understand how I feel.’

He stepped forward, and she felt a spurt of shock and fear for this time there could be no confusion. His face was cold and set.

‘Don’t be. I always like to meet my enemies face to face. It makes closing a deal on my terms so much easier.’

It took a moment for the implication of his words to sink in. ‘Wh-what deal?’ she stammered. The word echoed ominously inside her head. ‘There is no deal,’ she said hoarsely. ‘You said so. You said you wouldn’t be contacting me or offering me money again.’

He smiled coolly, a contemplative gleam in his blue eyes. ‘I won’t. You won’t be getting a penny of my money. Not now. Not ever.’

She stared at him, chilled by the undisguised hostility of his gaze. ‘I don’t understand...’ she began, but her words died in her throat as he shook his head.

‘No. I don’t suppose you do. So let me make it clear for you. Like I said earlier, cara, I always get what I want.’ His face seemed to be no longer made of flesh and blood, but cold stone. ‘And I want you out of here. Normally I’d pay, but as money’s not an option I’m going to have to use some other method to get what I want. But believe me I will get it. And by the time I’ve finished with you, you’ll be begging to sign any contract I put in front of you for free.’

She stared at him, her heart pounding against her ribs. ‘What do you mean?’ But already he had begun walking down the drive. ‘Y-you’re wrong! Y-you can’t do anything!’ she called after him. ‘This is my home!’

She was panting, stuttering, her anger vying with her fear. He was bluffing. He had to be. There was nothing he could do.

But as she watched the helicopter rise up into the sky and slowly disappear from view she knew that it was she who was mistaken. She had thought he had come to the palazzo simply to broker a deal. And maybe it had started out that way. But that had been before she threw his deal back in his face. She felt a rush of nausea. Now there would be no more deals, for his parting words had been a declaration of war. And she knew with absolute certainty that when Massimo Sforza came back next time he would be bringing an army.

CHAPTER THREE

ROLLING OVER IN her large wrought-iron bed, Flora stared miserably out of the window at the cloudless sky. She’d slept badly again. Her night had been filled by images of Massimo Sforza, his eyes darker than his bespoke navy blue suit, beckoning her towards him only for the floor to open up beneath her feet.

Her cheeks grew warm, and she shifted uncomfortably beneath the bedclothes. The nightmares had been horrible, but the dreams were far more unsettling. Dreams of a naked Massimo, his lean, muscular body pressed against hers, those long, supple fingers drifting lazily over her skin and—

And what? Irritably, she sat up. He’d probably take the bed, with her still in it, and push it out to sea—and frankly she’d deserve it.

Gritting her teeth, she pulled on a faded black T-shirt and a pair of sawn-off jeans and stomped downstairs. Holding her breath, she forced herself to look at the letter cage hanging on the back of the door, but there was no heart-stopping white envelope to greet her, and she breathed out slowly.

It had been three weeks since Massimo had turned up at the palazzo, but still she sensed his presence everywhere. The thought that someday she would turn round to find him standing there, watching her, his face rapt and triumphant, made her feel dizzy.

But only until the anger kicked in.

In the kitchen, she took out a plate and a cup and glanced up at the deadbolts she’d fitted to the French windows. As a tenant, she was forbidden from changing the main locks, but there was nothing in her contract about adding additional security so she had bought new solid steel padlocks for all the gates too. Glancing up at the old iron range, she felt the tension inside her ease a little. There was only one key to the huge, solid oak front door and it was hanging there, between the skillet and the espresso coffee pot. Whatever happened, Massimo Sforza was not going to be able to barge his way unannounced into her home again.

* * *

She woke the next morning to the insistent ringing of her mobile phone. ‘Okay, okay,’ she mumbled, fumbling on the bedside table, her eyes still screwed shut. ‘Hello? Hello!’

Opening one eye, she squinted into the sunlight filtering through the gap in the curtains. Who the hell was ringing at this time? And, more importantly, why weren’t they saying anything? She gazed irritably at her phone and then her breath seemed to freeze in her lungs as the ringing began again—from somewhere downstairs.

For a moment she lay gripped with confusion, panic swelling inside her, cold and slippery as a toad. Wishing her heart would stop making so much noise, she strained her ears. Surely she’d imagined it—but there it was again. And then from nowhere came a high-pitched screeching that made her press her hands over her ears.

Still wincing, she rolled out of bed. She wasn’t scared now. Burglars didn’t use drills. She sniffed suspiciously. Or make coffee!

The noise downstairs was even louder than in her bedroom. Edging into the kitchen, she took a deep breath as her mouth fell open in horror. Everywhere she looked, there were people in overalls and boxes piled on top of one another.

Her lips tightening, she tapped the nearest man on the shoulder. ‘Excuse me! What are you doing in my kitchen?’

But before he could answer a woman with a sleek shoulder-length blond bob, wearing a clinging grey jacket and skirt, slid past her, miming apologetically.

Gritting her teeth, Flora gazed furiously in front of her. She might not go shopping much anymore, but she knew a designer suit when she saw one and that little outfit probably cost more than her food bill for a year.

It also answered her question more eloquently than any workman could have done.

Her face twisting with anger, she stormed out onto the terrazza. ‘I knew it,’ she spat. ‘I knew you’d be behind this! You are such a—’ She swore furiously in English at the man lounging at the table, drinking coffee.

He frowned, his handsome face creasing with mock horror. ‘Somebody got out of bed the wrong side.’ His eyes gleamed maliciously. ‘Good morning, Miss Golding! I hardly recognise you with your clothes on!’

‘Ha-ha! Very amusing. Now, will you please tell me what the hell you’re playing at?’

‘I’m not playing at anything, cara. This is work.’ His eyes pinned her to the spot. ‘I’m sorry we got you up so early, but not all of us have the luxury of a lie-in.’

He was speaking in English too, and she stared at him mutely, trying to work out why. And then abruptly he stood up and languidly stretched his shoulders and all rational thought went out of her head as her body went on high alert.

‘Don’t mind us,’ he said, stifling a yawn. ‘We can just carry on down here and you can go back up to bed.’

Flora gaped at him. Why was he acting like this? He was being friendly, pleasant. He was making it seem as though this was something she’d agreed to. Glancing round, she felt her skin grow warm as she saw two of the men on his team share a conspiratorial glance.

Did they think she and Massimo were—? She opened her mouth to protest—and then stopped as Massimo smiled malevolently at her outraged expression.

Their eyes met and his smile widened. ‘Actually, I had a very early start. Perhaps I’ll just come up with you—’

She glowered at him. ‘No. You will not—’ And then she jumped violently as a loud thumping started from somewhere further inside the house. ‘What the hell is that noise?’ Turning, she stalked back into the kitchen like an angry cat.

Following her, Massimo shrugged, his face bland and unreadable. ‘I’m not exactly sure.’ He gestured vaguely towards a box of cables. ‘Something to do with improving the internet.’

His eyes picked over the two spots of colour on her cheeks and the pulse throbbing in her neck and something in their considering gleam made her want to take some of the cable and strangle him with it. But instead she gritted her teeth. Knowing him, he was probably hoping she’d do just that so he could exercise some medieval right to remove unstable female tenants.

She took a deep breath. ‘You can’t do this, Mr Sforza—’

‘Call me Massimo,’ he said smoothly. ‘I know I’m your landlord, but there’s really no need to stand on ceremony.’

She bit her lip—he was baiting her. Worse, he was enjoying watching her struggle with her temper. ‘Yes. You are my landlord. Which means that you can’t just walk in here whenever you feel like it.’

‘You know, I thought you’d say that,’ he murmured, reaching into his jacket pocket. ‘So I had one of my staff print off a copy of your tenancy agreement. Here. You can keep it.’ He glanced at the slanting pile of letters stacked against the wall. ‘File it with all your other important documents.’

Staring at him mutinously, she snatched it from him. ‘I don’t need a copy. I know what it says, and it says that you can’t just turn up without warning. You have to give me notice.’

He frowned. ‘Did I not do that? How remiss of me. I can’t imagine how that happened. And there was me, trying to be a good landlord—’

‘You were not,’ she retorted, her resolve to keep her temper hanging by a fibre optic thread. ‘If you were, your men wouldn’t be bashing holes in my walls—they’d be fixing the roof and the plumbing. You’re just doing this to try and make my life difficult. So why don’t you just take your stupid internet cable and all this other rubbish and leave before I call the police?’

He held her angry gaze, and she saw that flecks of silver were dappling his eyes like sea foam. Her heart began to thump painfully.

‘Why bother?’ he said easily, glancing at his watch. ‘I’m meeting the Chief of Police in an hour for lunch. We’re old friends. I can mention your concerns to him, if you like.’

The expression on his face was hard to define, but whatever it was it didn’t improve her temper. ‘Which presumably he’ll then ignore?’ she snapped. Damn him! Pretending he was concerned about her when they both knew the exact opposite was true.

‘There’s no need to get hysterical, cara.’ There was a glint of satisfaction in his eyes. ‘I’m only trying to help you.’

It was the last straw. Her voice rose shrilly. ‘You’re not trying to help anyone but yourself.’

He took a step towards her and held out his hands apologetically, placatingly. ‘I am. Truly. And I’m sorry about all this noise and mess.’ Turning, he barked out a few words in rapid Italian, and as if a switch had been flicked the hammering and drilling stopped and within seconds the kitchen was empty and silent.

She stared at him, confused.

‘Here. Drink this.’ He held out a glass of water and then as she took it, he shook his head and said softly, ‘You see. You’re already starting to wish you’d taken the money, aren’t you?’

For a moment she floundered, shocked by his malice and sheer bloody-mindedness, and then anger, hot and damp like wet earth, rose in her throat. Breathing out slowly, she put the glass on the table. She wanted to kill him.

‘Is that why you’re doing all of this?’

He shook his head. ‘No. I’m doing all this for my new tenant. Your new neighbour.’

She gaped at him. ‘What new neighbour?’

‘The new tenant who’s moving in today. It was in the email.’ He paused. ‘The one that wasn’t sent.’ He smiled blandly. ‘Don’t look so worried. I hand-picked him myself.’

It took all her will-power not to throw the glass of water at his head. Finally, she said flatly, ‘Let me guess. He’s a drummer in a band. Or maybe he breeds huskies or budgerigars.’

He laughed. ‘Are you saying I’d deliberately pick an antisocial tenant to make your life hard?’ He shook his head. ‘Sorry to disappoint you but there’s no dogs or birds. Just a nice, quiet businessman.’

Something wasn’t right.

His words nudged each other inside her head and then she knew what it was. She went hot, then cold, and then hot again with horror.

‘No!’ She shook her head, her pupils flaring. ‘No! You are not moving in here. You can’t—’

‘But I can.’

He paused, and her pulse soared as he smiled at her slowly—a dark, taunting smile that sent a shiver through her body.

‘You’re not scared, are you, cara? After all, it’s a big house.’

She felt a jolt, low down, felt suddenly horribly out of her depth. It was a big house but she knew that he would dominate every inch of it. A lump rose in her throat. It wasn’t fair. This house was her home—her refuge from the world. But how was she supposed to feel safe living with a man who looked at her with such absolute focus? Such predatory purpose?

Fear mingling with desire, she stared at him in silence, terrified that he might somehow be able to read her mind as the blue gaze lingered on her hot, flushed face.

Finally, he shrugged. ‘I’ve taken the bedroom next to yours—the blue room.’ Pausing, he smiled coldly. ‘Of course if you don’t like it you can always move rooms. Or move out.’

Her stomach clenched, and she could barely swallow her anger. ‘Over my dead body.’

Massimo smiled coldly. Normally his business decisions were based on logic and reason. But his decision to move into the palazzo had been driven by pure, elemental rage. Flora had defied him and he’d wanted to punish her defiance—to rub his power in her face.

Giorgio had been appalled. His team astonished. It had been reckless and completely out of character. And yet he’d still gone ahead and done it.

His body twitched and he stared at her greedily, a memory of her near naked body stealing into his mind like a cat burglar. For weeks it had been the same story. He’d found it impossible to concentrate, his mind drifting off, distracted by images of a fierce-eyed Flora melting into his arms—

His breathing slowed. And why not, he thought idly. He’d tried money and threats and reasoning with her and none of those had worked. So why not seduction?

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