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One last night with him.
Her heart somersaulted. ‘Okay,’ she agreed—too readily.
He glanced at his watch. ‘Bien. I’ll call Josephine. See if she or Luc are available to come and collect you.’ He started gathering together papers on his desk. ‘You should go and pack an overnight bag straight away.’
Marietta blinked at him. ‘Why would I do that?’
He paused. ‘Because you’ll be staying at Josephine’s tonight.’
She blinked again. ‘And why would I do that when I can stay here?’
He frowned. ‘Because I don’t want you staying here on your own.’
She stared at him. ‘Why not? I live alone in Rome. You know that, Nico. I’m more than capable of spending a night here on my own.’
‘Rome is different. You live in an urban apartment, with neighbours and people nearby. It’s too isolated up here. I want to know you’re safe while I’m gone.’
‘You mean you want someone to babysit me?’ Her face heated with indignation. ‘I’m paralysed, Nico—not useless.’
His expression darkened. ‘I did not say you were useless.’
‘But you might as well have. Heaven forbid the poor cripple is left to fend for herself!’
Now his face turned thunderous. ‘Don’t call yourself a cripple!’
‘Then don’t treat me like one!’
‘Marietta...’ His voice was a low, warning growl.
She pushed her chin up. ‘I’m staying here.’
He cursed loudly. ‘I don’t have time for this.’
‘No, you don’t,’ she agreed. ‘So I suggest you get a move on and go and pack your bag.’
A nerve flickered in his temple. He opened his mouth and closed it again, then scowled and stalked out of the room.
* * *
Nico sat in a leather recliner in his private jet and stared out at the thickening wall of cloud as the aircraft’s powerful engines ate up the miles to Toulon.
It was twenty-six hours since he’d left for Rome and he was eager to get back to Île de Lavande. Leaving Marietta alone at the house had not sat well with him, but she was proud—stubborn as hell—and she’d argued him into a corner.
He stretched out his legs, rubbed eyes that felt gritty and strained. Dealing with endless police bureaucracy in Rome and the vagaries of the Italian legal system had been an exercise in frustration. But he’d called on some old contacts, pulled a few strings and in the end got what he’d wanted: a little one-on-one time in a non-surveillance holding cell with Sergio Berardi.
Nico hadn’t laid a finger on the man and he hadn’t needed to. Berardi had nearly wet himself the second Nico had locked the door, shrugged off his jacket and rolled up his sleeves. He intended to do everything within his power to ensure that the charges against Berardi stuck and he was locked up, but Nico had wanted to make certain that in the event the man was released he understood exactly what kind of retribution to expect if he went anywhere near Marietta.
He swallowed a mouthful of whisky.
He had missed Marietta last night. Missed her sweet, intoxicating smell, her soft warmth, the taste of her lingering on his tongue after making love. Even thinking about her now sent a powerful throb of desire pulsing through him.
Mon Dieu.
He’d crossed a line with her but he couldn’t bring himself to regret it. Marietta had been a balm to his tortured soul. A ray of light in the sea of darkness that had closed over his head a long time ago.
He took another gulp of whisky.
Perhaps he was being hasty, confining their affair to these few days on the island? He couldn’t imagine his hunger for her dying any time soon—nor could he imagine another woman satisfying him while his need for Marietta still burned in his blood. He could see her occasionally, could he not? A casual arrangement might be the perfect solution. Might suit them both until—
