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CHAPTER ONE
VALERIO MARCHESI AWOKE to the thunder of his own heartbeat, his senses taking in the complete darkness that surrounded him and the feeling of cold sweat on his skin. It was not the first time he had awoken in a state of panic in the past six months. His physician had called it post-traumatic stress, and like countless others had sympathised with him for his ordeal. He didn’t want their damn sympathy.
Gritting his teeth, he fought through the fog left by the entire bottle of whisky he had downed the night before and reminded himself why he’d completely sworn off drinking in recent months. As he came fully to consciousness and tried to sit up, he became instantly aware of two things.
One, judging by the soft clearing of a throat nearby, he was not alone in the room. And two, he couldn’t move his upper body because he had been tied to his own bed.
Any remaining effect of the alcohol in his system instantly evaporated. The room was dark, but he could just about make out the blurry outline of his luxury yacht’s master cabin around him. Both of his wrists had been tied to the ornate wooden headboard on either side of his head, using what felt like soft fabric. He tested the bonds, black panic snaking up his back like wildfire, followed by the swift kick of fury.
He would die before he allowed this to happen again.
‘Good, you’re awake.’
A female voice cut across the shadows.
‘I was just debating if I should throw some water over your head.’
The woman’s voice silenced his growls momentarily as his brain scrambled to differentiate between the danger of his past and in the present moment. Drawing on some recent meditative practice, he inhaled deeply past the adrenaline, focusing his mind to a fine point. The woman’s voice sounded familiar, but Valerio couldn’t quite place it other than to note that it was English, upper class, and deathly calm. Nothing like the rough-hewn criminals from his memories, but one never knew.
‘What the hell is going on here?’ he demanded gruffly. ‘Show your face.’
Heels tapped across the wooden floor, the dim light from the curtain-covered windows throwing her shape into relief. She was tall, for a woman, and had the kind of exaggerated full-figured curves that made his spine snap to attention. A knot of awareness tightened in his abdomen, catching him completely by surprise. At thirty-three years of age, he’d believed himself long past the kind of embarrassing loss of control usually attributed to youth. But it seemed he hadn’t been around a woman in so long, apparently anyone was going to ignite his starving libido. Even someone who was possibly attempting to hold him hostage.
It was a strange kind of twist, considering his most recent brush with captivity had been the catalyst for his self-imposed isolation from society. Had his broken mind moved on to finding some kind of thrill in the possibility of danger?
He pulled at the headboard once again, a sharp hiss escaping his lips at the burn of the fabric on his skin. The sheet that only partially covered his nude body slipped further down the bed.
‘You’re only going to hurt yourself by struggling.’
‘Well, then, cut these damn ropes off,’ he growled, trying and failing to keep the edge from his voice. ‘I don’t keep money here, if that’s what you are after.’
A soft laugh sounded out, closer this time. ‘I’m not here to rob you, Marchesi. The ropes are for my own safety, considering the night we’ve just had.’
‘Your safety...?’ He tried and failed to process her words, feeling the tug of a memory in his mind.
He knew that voice.
Soft hands brushed against his skin as
the woman gently adjusted the sheet over his body. Another shiver of awareness heated him from the inside out. It had been so damn long...and her familiar scent was all around him, tugging at those memories. He breathed her in greedily, feeling the warm blend of sweetness and musk penetrate his chest, melting some of the ice that seemed permanently lodged inside.
A soft lamp was flicked on beside the bed without warning, the sudden golden light making him wince with pain. The woman came into focus slowly, a watercolour of long ebony curls and flawless dark caramel skin. Recognition hit him with a sudden jolt, his eyes narrowing, and all anxiety was suddenly replaced by swift, unbridled anger.
‘Dani.’
‘Only my friends get to call me that, Marchesi.’
Daniela Avelar narrowed her eyes, pulling a chair closer to the bed and lowering herself down elegantly, as though sitting down to afternoon tea.
‘You made it clear the last time I saw you that you are not my friend.’
Guilt hit him in the gut even as he fought to remain outraged. Memories assailed him of the last time they had spoken. Six months ago he had delivered the most painful speech of his life, marking the death of his business partner at a memorial ceremony. His best friend. Her twin brother.
Duarte Avelar had been shot dead right in front of him, after they’d both been taken hostage after an event in Rio de Janeiro and kept at gunpoint for two weeks, deep in the slums of the city. The story had made global news. He’d been lamented as a hero for surviving. He alone knew the truth of what had happened.
He had forced himself to hold it together throughout his friend’s memorial service on a rainy morning in the English countryside. He had tried to speak words that would honour the sacrifice Duarte had made to save his life. But eventually he’d lost his grip on control and had torn out of the church as if the fires of hell had been at his heels, needing to get away from all the sympathetic stares and unbearable grief.
But Dani had run after him, standing in front of the door of his chauffeur-driven car. Daniela Avelar—a woman who prided herself on being one of the best PR and marketing strategists in the business, and who had always seemed to look down her nose at him and his wild playboy lifestyle. She was a woman who never asked anyone for help, not even her own brother, but she had begged him to stay. She’d held on to his arm and begged him to tell her the truth of what had happened in Brazil...to let her help him.
He had scraped together enough composure to growl at her, telling her that knowing wouldn’t make anything different. That it wouldn’t bring Duarte back. Then he had got into his car and driven away, pretending not to be affected by the sight of the tears streaming down her cheeks.
Shame was a familiar lead weight in his solar plexus even now.
In the lamplit room, Daniela crossed her legs, drawing his attention to the spindly-heeled shoes on her feet. She had been working for Velamar as their PR strategist for years, so he was used to her trademark pinstriped trousers and perfectly pressed blouses, with their delicate ribbons tied at the throat. But on this cream-coloured confection the collar was undone, the ribbons hanging limp and creased as though someone had grabbed them and held them tight in their grip.
She looked tired, though she was trying hard not to let it show. But he could see the faint dark shadows under her eyes, the tightness around her mouth. He wondered if grief had stolen her perfect polished image and grace, just as it had stolen his carefree nonchalance.
‘Do you have any idea how long I’ve been trying to find you?’ She met his eyes without fear or hesitation—an easy feat considering she had him half naked and trussed to a bed.
‘I’ll admit that of all the ways you could have got my attention this is quite creative, if not a little insensitive.’ He spoke easily, pulling at the bonds and feeling them slide slightly to one side. The knots were strong, but not strong enough. She might be about to inherit part-ownership of Velamar—one of the most exclusive yacht charter companies in the world—but she was no sailor.
Valerio ignored the pull in his chest at the thought of the brand he had built from the ground up, the work that had once given him purpose and pride. ‘Did you ever think that maybe I didn’t want to be found?’
‘You walked away from your responsibilities, Marchesi.’
