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“There’s talk all over the island of the idiots who are going to take foolish pictures for a useless magazine.”
It was a lie. There’d been no talk. Carla had kept to the bargain; she’d been discreet and he’d surely told no one, but it was as good an excuse as any. He was angry, angrier than he had the right to be, and for no good reason. What Fallon O’Connell did for a living was her affair, not his.
Apparently, she thought so, too. Her smile vanished; that lovely face turned cool.
“I don’t consider my occupation useless, Mr. Lucchesi.”
“My apologies,” he said in a way that made a mockery of the words. She knew it, too, because color swept into her cheeks.
“You don’t know anything about my profession, mister! The pictures will be beautiful, and thousands of readers would tell you how much the articles in the magazine—”
“I’m sure they would,” he said, cutting her short, “but then, there’s no accounting for bad taste.”
Just for a second, he thought she was going to slug him. The thought had a certain appeal. Her hand swinging in an arc, his reaching out to stop her, grabbing her by the shoulders, pulling her against him and crushing that lush mouth beneath his until her indignation became desire…
Damn it, was he crazy?
“Okay.” Her voice was low and trembling with repressed anger. “That’s enough.”
She reached for the door; he caught her hand to stop her and felt a bolt of electricity shoot from her fingers to his before she jerked back.
“How you earn your living is your affair. The point is, I know the place you want.” He leaned forward and tapped his driver’s shoulder. “Luigi. The lady wants to go to the castello. Take her there.”
“I’d rather walk than accept a favor from you.”
“Don’t be a fool. How can you go someplace if you don’t know its location?”
“Just tell me where it is and we’ll call it even.”
“My driver will take you.”
“Damn it, are you deaf? I don’t want to spend another minute in this car!”
“It isn’t the car, it’s me.”
Her eyes flashed. Soaked to the skin, as disheveled as a wet cat, she still had a presence about her.
“You’ve got that right!”
“In that case…” Stefano wrenched the door open, stepped into the road and slammed the door shut. “Arrivederci, Miss O’Connell. Luigi?” He slapped the side of the car. “Andante.”
Fallon O’Connell said something to him. He couldn’t hear it but this close to the smoked glass window, he could see her mouth open in angry indignation.
Whatever it was, he suspected it wasn’t polite.
She reached for the door and he slapped the car again. Luigi, ever obedient, discreetly activated the door locks and floored the gas pedal.
The car shot away from the curb.
Stefano strode into the terminal, got halfway through it and stopped. What the hell was he doing? He cursed under his breath, an eloquent, earthy string of Sicilian that would have made his grandfather proud as he took his cell phone from his pocket and called his pilot.
“Change of plans,” he said briskly. “We’re not going anywhere today. In fact, you might as well take the next few days off. I’ll be staying in Sicily for a while.”
Of course he’d stay, he thought grimly as he hurried back to the taxi stand. What had he been thinking, to risk leaving the castello while Carla and her people were there?
She had instructions. So did his house staff. None of the Bridal Dreams people were to be permitted past the door. Carla had been upset; where would she put her little crew? she’d said. She’d already told them they’d be staying in the castle.
Untell them, he’d said coldly.
For all he gave a damn, she could put them in sleeping bags on the rocky beach, but there was an inn a few miles away and that was where she’d arranged they’d spend the week.
He’d checked to make sure she’d really made the reservations, and he’d pushed up the installation of a full security system for the castello by a couple of months. He’d even gone a step further and arranged for around-the-clock security people to patrol the grounds.
“Taxi, signore?”
Stefano nodded, handed over a few bills and climbed into the cab.
“Il Castello Lucchesi,” he said.
Still, how could he be sure his orders were followed unless he was there?
He’d been stupid to leave his home while strangers were on the property. Going back was the only way to safeguard his privacy.
An image flashed before him of the woman he’d just met, her eyes wide and mysterious, her mouth warm and sensual. For an instant, he thought he could smell her scent, an innocent breath of vanilla that only accentuated the lushness of her beauty.
Stefano’s mouth thinned.
He wasn’t doing this because of Fallon O’Connell. He was doing it because it was logical.
There was no other reason.
None at all.
CHAPTER THREE
A TRAVEL magazine would have dubbed the Lucchesi Estate magnificent.
The setting was spectacular. Tall cypresses flanked the ancient ruins that had once been a medieval castle. It backed against a cliff that fell away to the deep blue Mediterranean, and faced the slumbering volcano called Mount Etna.
On the same plateau, probably where the ancient outbuildings of the castle had once sprawled, stood a modern castle, a structure that was all cool smoked glass and native stone. There was a terrace behind it, a garden surrounding that, and off by itself, a free-form pool with an infinity edge that made it seem as if the water in the pool fell straight down the cliff, into the sea.
Beautiful, all of it…and after almost a week, Fallon hoped to God she’d never set eyes on the place again.
The sun was merciless, blazing down like golden fire from a sky so blue it seemed artificial. Shooting on the terrace hour after hour, with the sea at her back, meant she spent most of her time staring at the castle and all that dark glass. It was like looking at someone wearing mirrored sunglasses. Were they watching you, or was it your imagination? It was always impossible to tell.
Filming in the pool was better, but Maurice thought that setting too tame. He preferred the beach, and that was hell.
The beach was rocky, the stones hot and sharp beneath her bare feet, and even when Maurice motioned her into the surf, the water was tepid against her ankles and calves rather than cooling.
The last day of the shoot seemed endless. Maurice was barking out orders, as usual.
“Angle toward me! Get that arm back! Think sexy!”
Think sexy? All she could think was thirsty, but she moistened her lips, turned a half smile to the camera and clung to the thought that they’d be finished in just another few minutes.
She was hot; her feet were raw from the rocks and her skin was itchy under its layer of sunscreen. Andy had used waterproof makeup on her face and it felt like a mask, and the hairdresser—Carla had brought along more than the three people she’d promised—the hairdresser had sprayed so much gunk at her head that she felt like she was wearing a wig.
“Let’s go, O’Connell! This time, run into the surf. Look like you’re having a good time. Give me lots of splash.”
The only thing she wanted to give him was a sock in the jaw. But she was a pro; she knew how to do her job. And she was trying to do it, she really was. It was just that she’d come here expecting to love this place.
Instead, she hated it.
“Smile. Yes. That’s it. Another one, over your shoulder this time.”
The sun, reflecting off the sea in sparkling flashes, was too bright. She had a headache from it by the end of each day. The beach was impossible to walk on, all those stones cutting into the tender soles of h
er feet.
“Okay, honey. Drape yourself over the big rock. You know what I want, babe. Lean back on your hands. Nice. Very nice. Bigger smile. Yeah, like that. Good, fine—except turn your head. Give me the look. You know the one. That’s it. Nice. Very nice. Now you’re cookin’.”
Cooking was the word. This place could pass for hell’s anteroom. Had it been this hot last time she was in Sicily?
“Go a little farther into the water. Good. Push your hair back. Use both hands—I want to see those tits lift! That’s it. Perfect. Now wet your lips and smile.
“O’Connell? Turn around. Try one hand on your hip. Give me a pout. Let your lashes droop. Look at me. You’re a bride, you’re on your honeymoon, and you’re looking at your groom with sex on the brain and nothing else. Pretend you’re going to get out of the water soon, go up to that castle and jump his bones. Good. Better. We’re getting there.”
Go up to that castle? No way. The closest she’d come to it was the day she’d arrived.
The driver had taken her through an imposing gate, past a couple of men with ice for eyes who looked as if they should have been wearing camo and combat boots instead of suits, past security cameras tucked high in the trees, toward a soaring edifice of stone and glass.
“Il castello,” the driver said, his voice as solemn as if he were in one of the ancient churches they’d passed on the way.
That he said anything at all startled her. He hadn’t spoken a word since they’d left the airport. He didn’t understand English, he’d indicated with a lift of his shoulders, but it was a lie.
He’d understood every bloody word his arrogant feudal lord had spoken. It was only when Fallon demanded he let her out of the car that the man suddenly turned mute. She’d ended up shouting at him; she’d come close to reaching over the seat and pummeling his shoulders with frustration.
That wasn’t going to happen again.
“How nice,” she said coolly.
