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  “Any problems with seasickness?”

  His hand finally left hers, and she stared down at the huge, sparkling stone. “Seasickness?” They were in the back of a sleek black limo weaving through the seething Naples traffic. Its suspension was superb, so she didn’t understand why he was asking her such a thing. “No, not as far as I know. Why?”

  “Buono, because the fastest way to get to Sorrento is straight across the bay of Naples, and I’ve missed driving my boat.”

  She moved her fingers back and forth against the platinum band of the ring. It felt deliciously cool and smooth. His last remark had sounded like something a young boy would say, not a ruthless Sicilian tycoon. “Let me guess: this boat of yours is actually a multimillion-euro superyacht?”

  “No, it’s a 1960s wooden speedboat. A Riva Aquarama to be precise. It cost me a small fortune to get her restored.”

  “Nice. Vintage transport. What if it sinks?”

  “It won’t.” His hand unexpectedly found her knee, and her nerve endings sizzled at the sudden heat she felt. “Because I won’t let it.”

  Surprise blitzed through her but mellowed into a twinge of confused excitement. She eased herself away from his touch. “Of course not, how silly of me.”

  He laughed softly, and out of the corner of her eye, she could see him running his fingers over the dark stubble appearing on his jaw. “I’ll be at the helm, fidanzata. The next leg of our journey is just you and me. Our luggage will go ahead by road, but if it makes you nervous, there are other options.”

  “Of course I’m not nervous.” She glared at him, and her voice faltered when she noticed the curve of his delicious-looking lips. “I don’t enjoy driving like a maniac, but it doesn’t mean I’m a drip.”

  “Buono.”

  The journey from Napoli airport to a marina near the ferry terminal took less than twenty minutes, and Lora was pleased to have the opportunity to stretch her legs on the harborside. There was a stiff breeze, but it cut through the heat and engine fumes and the sound of ferry horns, car engines, raised voices, and discordant radio stations that filled the air. She found herself shouting as he gestured for her to walk ahead of him toward a pontoon. “Noisy!”

  He nodded and pulled a pair of designer sunglasses over his eyes. He looked like something out of a high-end fashion magazine—a picture-perfect Italian male in his designer suit and shiny black shoes. “And dangerous. You’ll be mugged in seconds if you hang about here too long.” He glanced at the rock on her finger. “Let’s get on board quickly before it gets dark.”

  He gestured for her to follow him across a rough concrete car park to the edge of a sea wall. At the bottom of some steps leading down to the water, a dagger of polished wood and chrome gleamed in the setting sun. It bobbed in the water below, all cream leather upholstery and toffee-colored fittings. Her heart rate kicked up as the softly fizzing swell reached her ears and reminded her of sparkling wine and happy days. The speedboat looked like the one she’d seen in her American mother’s old photographs; her and Dad before they were married sitting in a Hacker on Lake Tahoe. “It’s dinky. Well, not small exactly, but compared to those ferries over there…”

  “She’s glorious,” he replied. “Jump in and get a feel for her.”

  Lora couldn’t wait to do just that. The setting sun over the Bay of Naples flamed a molten gold in a sapphire sky, bathing the harbor area with seductive color. The resultant wash of orange-pink was like a bare light bulb shining through red curtains, attractive, beckoning, but a touch sordid because of what it was advertising. The city felt even more dangerous; she breathed in the engine fumes and briny air. Cooking smells, clashing music, and a jangle of colored lights made the place feel like a fairground—and maybe somewhere she shouldn’t be once the sun went down.

  The risk thrilled her, as did the way the boat rocked when she made her way down the wet, slick steps. The water lapped against the wooden bows, and she buzzed with excitement when she saw there were no seatbelts. It had been too long since she’d let her hair down. Work, worry, and responsibility had been her existence for the last year, and she hadn’t practiced what she preached professionally. If she were one of her clients, she’d be telling herself to take a good break.

  “Careful.” He offered her his hand as support. “I’ve got you this far; it would be a pity for you to go overboard now.”

  Her fingers slipped into the dry warmth of his hand, which closed firmly around hers. She hoped he didn’t notice the tiny flare of her nostrils when she breathed in sharply to suppress a shiver of awareness. “My practical, print toner-proof wardrobe now is vindicated.” She pointed at her long black trousers and then reached for the leather seat back with her free hand. “Boarding like this would be much more undignified if I’d been wearing a short skirt and high heels.”

  He tipped his sunglasses back onto his forehead and his eyes became an even more complex mix of blues in the setting sun. “Could have been fun, all the same,” he said with a crooked smile and gestured to the hovering quay hand that they were ready to leave.

  The roar of the engine made conversation difficult, and Lora was glad of that. His remark about the short skirt had made her feel uneasy, or at least that’s what she thought the emotion was that left her skin tingling and her breath short. The low thrum of the turbines grew more intense as he maneuvered the boat out of the harbor, and when they picked up speed, the cool salty breeze on the open water buffeted her cheeks. The craft bounced off the surface of the water a few times, and she felt the breath leave her body as she clutched the leather armrest of her seat. It was totally thrilling.

  She sensed him looking across at her, and when she turned her head to match his stare, he offered her a go at the wheel. She shook her head and mouthed a vehement “no.” She reached around and slipped off the clip that was keeping her hair in place. At first the long locks whipped painfully around her face and eyes, but she quickly smoothed them away and tilted her head into the wind. Her hair streamed backward, mirroring the Italian flag at the rear of the boat.

  She closed her eyes and savored the cold air rushing across her body. She had about twenty minutes to enjoy a dream-world fantasy of being a whirling seabird, of clinging to a flying carpet, or being thrown into the sky by strange magic. She was going to enjoy every second of it.

  …

  Lorenzo tried hard to convince himself it was the wind speed taking his breath away, not the woman beside him. During the last fifteen minutes crossing the bay of Naples, he’d stolen quick glances as she threw her head back into the oncoming breeze. He couldn’t help but stare like a schoolboy as her knuckles gripped tight onto the dashboard, her plain white blouse leaving very little to the imagination, the material straining over her firm, round breasts. With her eyes closed and lips parted, he had found it impossible not to imagine her in the throes of orgasm, clinging onto the bars of a metal bedstead. Either astride a lover or being taken from behind. And then he’d slotted himself into the erotic scenario and hadn’t been able to shake either the thought or the growing desire that was eating away at him.

  It was ridiculous; he should have more control over his thoughts, and it was reckless to even consider seducing an employee. But since when had he always obeyed the rules? Somewhere on their journey over the water, between the blue-gold sky and the black-green churn of seawater, the intrigue he’d felt at their first meeting had exploded into full-blown sexual chemistry. Lust burned like a wildfire. He should never have touched her, because now he wanted her so badly, he could think of nothing else, and it was a distraction he could do without when he had so much important work to concentrate on. And women were always bad news after the first day or two from his experience.

  The only immediate option would be to seduce her quickly to slake his carnal needs and get back to business. Hopefully a byproduct of this plan would be a newly molded and compliant fake fiancée to make his grand deception even more convincing. He’d pay her a bonus if necessary; money wo
uld motivate her if she was anything like her brother, and it would probably excite her, too. Impatience now scratched at his insides. God, he couldn’t wait to get her alone and naked.

  “We’re here,” he said when the engine slowed and the boat slid around the end of a landing promenade. He killed the engine entirely, and they floated with a silky lapping noise into a tiny horseshoe-shaped bay at the foot of a sheer rock face. The breeze died completely behind the shelter of the wooden deck, which protected the bay from the open water and the swell of passing cruise ships.

  Lora stared silently up at the cliff that faced them ashore, its forbidding, black rocks illuminated in parts by the fairy lights that lit up the landing deck. He watched her gaze drift to the small beach bar at the foot of the precipice, its brightly colored shutters firmly closed for the night and then over the crescent of sandy beach. She stepped out of the boat and onto the lowest of three steps up to the pontoon. It was deserted and fringed with neatly stacked sun beds, the only sounds being the gentle wash of the waves and distant revelry.

  “The beach is private to the hotel,” Lorenzo said, anticipating the question. “It closes at around five unless there’s a special evening event planned.”

  She lifted her chin and nodded toward the enormous chunk of a building built on top of the cliff, so close to the edge it could have been part of the rock itself. Flood-lit columns, white plaster, and metal filigree lanterns illuminated mysterious alcoves, twinkling like silver and gold coins on soft black velvet. “It’s impressive.”

  “It’s expensive.”

  “Looks like a luxury fortress. Impenetrable.”

  “You’d think so from here.” He tethered the boat with thick rope and offered her a hand. “There’s a lift shaft behind the beach bar that takes you straight up into the hotel foyer.”

  “That’s a relief. I was beginning to think we had a long walk ahead of us.” She put her foot on the second step. “My feet ache even with these sensible flat shoes.”

  He waggled his long fingers to encourage her to take his hand, but she waved him away. “They always swell up when I fly,” she said.

  Lorenzo watched with horror as she slipped over the edge of the pontoon. Her arms circled instinctively as she tried to save herself, but it was too late. Plunging spectacularly into the water, she created such a splash that it reached the front of his shirt.

  He swore in Italian before wrenching off his jacket, kicking off his shoes, and diving into the dark water. They surfaced almost simultaneously, and, when he grabbed her by the collar of her blouse, she let out a hacking splutter before finding her voice. “Get off me!”

  “What?”

  “Get off!”

  “I was trying to save you from drowning!”

  “Well, I can bloody swim, okay?”

  For a moment, he simply tread water, cold drops trickling down his face, salty dribbles reaching his tongue, and the sea current tugging like a puppy at the fabric of his trousers. He had every right to feel indignant. And annoyed. “Sorry I bothered.” His irritation was then exacerbated when she twisted around and swam back the couple of meters to the pier.

  Her bare feet and sodden clothes made a slapping noise when she hauled herself up onto the steps, and, for a second, she reminded him of a sea lion until she turned around and scowled at him. She must have sensed her white blouse had a button missing and was now completely see-through because she crossed her arms across her chest.

  Lorenzo followed her up to the landing platform, the concrete sharp on his wet palms. She looked pathetic standing there, but he was cold, wet, and angry, too. “Per l’amor di Dio! Why didn’t you let me help you up the steps?” He shook his head, sending a spray of water all around them. “What if I couldn’t swim? What would have happened then?”

  “If you couldn’t swim?” She blew a droplet of water from the end of her nose. “I’d have saved you, of course, but hopefully you wouldn’t have been daft enough to have leapt in like a superhero in the first place.”

  She’d have saved him? Saved Lorenzo Ferrante? Ridiculous creature. “I can look after myself,” he said and calmly leaned down to pick up his shoes and jacket. He then straightened and considered her angry features. Pretty. Sexy, even, with that dash of fury coursing through her. He still wanted to bed her in spite of the icy dousing he’d had. “Avanti. Let’s get to the hotel before we die of hypothermia.”

  Lora turned away from him and began to walk. “Excellent plan,” she muttered into the half-light.

  “Just a minute.” He grabbed her left hand from behind, bringing her to a halt. “The ring.”

  She wrenched free and twisted to face him. “It’s still there; don’t worry.” She lifted it to within an inch of his chin, so close he could feel his own breath bouncing off her salty, damp knuckles. “I know that’s what you really jumped into the water for; it’s worth an awful lot more than I am.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “Ridiculous? I don’t think so, Mr. Ferrante. You could find yourself another fake fiancée within a day if you had to. A prettier one, even, maybe a cute little thing that wouldn’t even charge.”

  If he wasn’t mistaken, there was a slight tremble in her voice.

  “Personnel are all highly expendable in your organization from what I hear.”

  “Right now, I’m almost tempted,” he murmured and turned her hand from left to right as he checked her ring finger. “No harm done.”

  “Would you like it back for safe keeping?”

  “That would rather defeat its purpose as we’re about to step into the cradle of Sorrento high society.”

  They made the short walk to the beach elevator in silence, and Lorenzo steeled himself for the spectacle they’d be once the door opened in reception. At least they’d arrived the day before his business contacts had. Being caught with his trousers not only down but soaking wet was a humiliation he was unsure he could tolerate.

  The elevator door slid open, and the concierge looked stunned for a few seconds before straightening his top hat and walking toward them. “Good evening, Signor Ferrante. I trust you had a good journey.”

  Lorenzo felt his bottom lip tighten as he heard a tiny snort from his companion. Now she thought it was all very funny. Well, he didn’t. “My fiancée thought it was a fine evening for a dip, Toni, so we will be going straight up to the penthouse.”

  Toni’s eyebrows arched with surprise, but he regained his composure immediately. “Of course. Everything is ready for you and…your fiancée. My congratulations on your engagement. The best champagne will be sent up with our compliments.” He glanced down at the puddle that was spreading from their wet clothing all over the marble reception area and snapped his fingers to summon help from the shadows. “Janitor! Presto!” He plastered on a polite but tight smile. “Some slippers for you, signorina?”

  She stared down at her bare toes peeping out from under damp, puckered polyester and shook her head. “I’d ruin them, but thanks anyway.”

  “Sorry about the mess,” Lorenzo mumbled and guided Lora firmly by the elbow toward the internal elevator. The doors slid shut with a soft hiss. “You do realize how embarrassing that was?”

  “Totally. I’m sorry.”

  The door slid open. “Come on, we’re making a mess of the elevator now.” He could hear her breath catch in the vast hallway that only had one double door to escape through. “This way.”

  “Are the girls here?”

  He stepped out of the elevator into the silence of the hall. “No. You’ll see them the day after tomorrow. After I’ve had this meeting with Pinerapid and finalized the agreement we’ve been working on.”

  “A done deal?” Lora followed him to the door of the penthouse, her bare feet sinking into the luxurious red carpet.

  “Not yet.”

  “And if things don’t go to plan?”

  “They will.”

  Chapter Five

  Lora paused in the doorway of the penthouse to take in
the vista of extreme luxury. Scarlet and gold Persian rugs on a black marble floor, black lacquer doors set in golden frames at each end of the huge reception room, crystal lighting, marble consoles, and antiques everywhere.

  “Good enough?”

  She could feel his gaze burning into her without even looking at him. “You know that’s a silly question.”

  “Excellent, because now would be a very good time to get all these wet clothes off.” He pointed to his left. “There are four suites at each corner of this room, and this one is mine, just so you know. You can take your pick of the other three; however, I believe Madame Farage has arranged for your new wardrobe to be left in the Pearl Apartment.”

  Her eyes followed as he pointed to the door on the opposite side of the room. “I’m quite happy with my own pajamas,” she said flatly.

  “They haven’t arrived yet. Still coming by road so…you can slip into something more comfortable or anything, a ball gown, I don’t care. But do it soon because you’re ruining the soft furnishings in all that wet stuff.”

  He was exasperating. “Fine. I will. And I’ll have a shower while I’m at it.”

  Lora wrenched the door open and slammed it behind her, eyes half closed with relief at getting away from him, half with annoyance at how she’d humiliated herself so effortlessly. She took a deep breath in the silence and leaned her head against the cool wood of the door. She heard the click of Lorenzo’s suite door closing, too. It was a relief to know she was safe from him for a good half an hour or so or at least.

  Her eyes focused on a huge room decorated in creams, gold, and mother-of-pearl. The décor was lavish, and the sensual perfume of a vase of enormous lilies hung heavy in the air. A long, dark clothes rail against the interior wall interrupted the flowing lines. Rows of garments were hung in color order, visible through transparent covers. They ranged from ice white on the left to ink black on the right with a rainbow of hues in different lengths and thicknesses in between. Beneath the garments on the floor were shoeboxes and silky pastel-colored pouches that must contain matching bags and accessories. “Talk about over the top,” she whispered but was helplessly drawn to investigate.