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‘You may consider it one.’
Only the flare of her fine nostrils betrayed her annoyance. ‘Very well,’ she said, then continued on her way.
For a moment Nico watched her go, her long dark hair swinging behind her, her olive-skinned arms, defined by muscle yet still slender and feminine, propelling the wheels of her chair forward with strong, confident movements.
She disappeared through a rear door and Nico spun away, making his own exit through the front of the gallery and down a short flight of stone steps. He strode along the wide tree-lined street to where he’d parked the silver sports car Bruno had had waiting at the airport for him this morning when his jet had landed.
He wrenched open the driver’s door and scowled.
He would very much enjoy giving Marietta a lesson in obedience, but he had no doubt her brother would kill him—slowly and painfully—if he knew the methods Nico had in mind.
CHAPTER TWO
MARIETTA DROVE HER bright yellow sedan into the basement of her apartment building and swung into her reserved space near the elevator. She cut the engine, pushed the door open and used her arms to shift herself around until her legs dangled out of the car.
She loved her modified car. In addition to its customised hand controls, the rear passenger door on the driver’s side had been altered to open in the reverse direction, so she could reach around from the driver’s seat, open the door and pull her wheelchair out of the back. She did so now, and with a little shuffling, some careful hand placements and a couple of well-executed manoeuvres she transferred herself out of the car and into her chair.
It was a routine refined
and perfected through years of practice, and one she could probably perform in her sleep.
She put her handbag in her lap and took the elevator to the lobby, confident Nico couldn’t have beaten her there despite the extra minutes she’d needed to get in and out of her car. He probably had a faster, flashier set of wheels, but she knew the roads between here and the gallery like the back of her hand—not to mention half a dozen shortcuts only a local would know to use.
And yet when she rolled out of the elevator onto the lobby’s shiny sand-coloured marble, there he stood. She frowned, confused as much as miffed. The building, she knew, was secure, the double doors from the street controlled by keypad access day and night. ‘How did you get inside?’
‘One of your neighbours was on his way out and let me in.’ His voice was dark. His expression, too. ‘Imbécile.’
His deep scowl deterred her from jumping to the defence of whichever neighbour had earned his disapproval. The man had no doubt thought nothing of it, but even Marietta had to admit that giving entry to a stranger off the street showed a dreadful disregard for security.
‘I’m on the ground floor,’ she said, deciding to leave that subject well enough alone, and wheeled her chair around.
Silent, his big body radiating tension like ripples of heat from a furnace, Nico followed her through the lobby, across the quiet interior courtyard with its great pots of manicured topiaries and into a small vestibule housing the front doors of her apartment and one other. As soon as they stopped his hand appeared, palm up, in front of her face.
‘Key.’
For a second—just a second—Marietta contemplated ignoring his curt command, but this, she acknowledged, was not the time for bravado. Her stalker might have been in her home.
Her stalker might still be in her home.
Her stomach gave a sharp, sickening twist and she promptly handed over the key and watched, heart thumping, as Nico unlocked the door.
‘Stay here,’ he ordered, and she nodded, her mouth suddenly far too dry to protest. He went in, leaving the door an inch ajar behind him.
Marietta clutched her handbag in her lap and waited. Endless minutes ticked by, followed by more endless minutes. When Nico still hadn’t reappeared and she could no longer stand the suspense, she nudged the door open, inched forward and hovered on the threshold.
‘Nico?’ she called out, her voice echoing off the parquet wood flooring in the entry hall.
Nothing.
‘Nico!’ she tried again, louder this time.
Still nothing.
This was ridiculous. She wheeled down the hallway, a hot mix of impatience and adrenaline spurring her on.
‘I told you to stay put.’
Nico’s deep voice slammed into her from behind. She turned her chair around and blinked, her brain instantly grappling to interpret what her eyes were seeing. The sight of Nico standing in her bedroom doorway—which, in her haste, she’d sailed straight by—was easy enough to compute. The rest—the blue latex gloves sheathing his large hands, something red and lacy dangling from his fingers—was enough to send her senses into a floor-tilting spin.
