Defying Her Billionaire Protector

by Angela Bissell

  “You need me to keep you safe...”

  Marietta Vincenti is furious when her brother’s best friend—private security tycoon Nicolas César—takes her to his Mediterranean island to protect her from a stalker. Because Marietta isn’t weak. She survived the accident that cruelly stole the use of her legs and she’ll survive now.

  Nico is battle-hardened and scarred, and Marietta crashes against the impenetrable shields that surround this powerful magnate, sensing a kindred spirit beneath. But Nico unearths a passion in her that threatens to expose hopes and dreams she’d buried long before...

  Can she take a leap of faith with this man who could undo her completely?

  “There are still things I’d like to do. Swimming in the ocean...” That little smile continued to play about Marietta’s mouth. “Naked.”

  And just like that the steady, persistent hum of awareness in Nico’s blood intensified—until he felt as if a high-voltage current were arcing through his veins.

  “Somewhere private, of course,” she said. “Your beach would be perfect!”

  An image of Marietta naked in the clear water at the foot of his cliff flashed into his head. Heat and lust ignited in his belly—along with a stab of anger.

  She did feel the pull of attraction, the crackle of awareness in the air between them. He could see it—the sudden hectic colour in her cheeks, the way her eyes glittered and held his in silent challenge.

  She was provoking him.

  Playing with fire.

  He lunged up out of his chair, strode to her side and seized her chin. The dark, angry look he gave her should have intimidated. Instead her lips parted, soft and inviting, as though she were anticipating...a kiss.

  Dieu.

  He wanted to kiss her. Wanted to crush his mouth onto hers and let her feel the full unleashed power of the lust she was deliberately inciting. Wanted to punish her for dangling temptation in front of him like a treat he didn’t deserve.

  He held himself rigid. Controlled.

  “Be very careful what you wish for, Marietta.”

  And then he released her and stalked into the house, back to the relative safety of his study—where he should have had the sense to stay in the first place.

  Irresistible Mediterranean Tycoons

  Impossibly arrogant, overwhelmingly sexy... Meet the men you can’t say no to!

  Gorgeous, powerful and darkly brooding, Leo Vincenti and Nicolas César have dominated their fields–not only in their home countries of Italy and France, but across the globe.

  Now it’s time for them to turn their unwavering focus on a different challenge: conquering two defiantly delectable heroines of their own!

  But have these billionaires bitten off more than they can chew?

  Find out in:

  Surrendering to the Vengeful Italian

  Defying Her Billionaire Protector

  Available now!

  Defying Her Billionaire Protector

  Angela Bissell

  www.millsandboon.co.uk

  ANGELA BISSELL lives with her husband and one crazy Ragdoll cat in the vibrant harbourside city of Wellington, New Zealand. In her twenties, with a wad of savings and a few meagre possessions, she took off for Europe, backpacking through Egypt, Israel, Turkey and the Greek islands before finding her way to London, where she settled and worked in a glamorous hotel for several years. Clearly the perfect grounding for her love of Mills & Boon Modern Romance! Visit her at angelabissell.com.

  Books by Angela Bissell

  Mills & Boon Modern Romance

  Irresistible Mediterranean Tycoons

  Surrendering to the Vengeful Italian

  Visit the Author Profile page at millsandboon.co.uk for more titles.

  For my friend Lisa, a brave, beautiful and inspiring woman.

  Thank you for your valuable insights—and for letting me have a spin in your wheels.

  Here’s to many more Princess Days in the sun!

  Contents

  Cover

  Back Cover Text

  Introduction

  Irresistible Mediterranean Tycoons

  Title Page

  About the Author

  Dedication

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  EPILOGUE

  Extract

  Copyright

  CHAPTER ONE

  ‘MAMMA MIA! HERE they come.’

  Marietta’s hands stilled over the keys of her computer, her assistant’s warning—low-voiced yet laced with an unmistakable thread of anticipation—shattering her train of thought like crystal under a hammer. She looked up in time to see the courier pushing open the glass doors of the gallery she managed in the heart of Rome’s affluent Parioli district. In his arms he cradled a huge, hand-tied bouquet of roses.

  ‘Bellissimo.’ Lina moved from the storeroom doorway and stood by Marietta’s desk at the rear of the gallery. ‘They are the best yet!’

  Marietta would have liked to disagree with that assessment, but Lina was right. The long-stemmed roses were beautiful, each head—at least two dozen of them—exquisite, the velvety petals a vivid red that in the whiteness of the gallery made Marietta think, perversely, of blood.

  Her thoughts snapped to the elegant spray of white orchids that had been delivered earlier in the week—surprisingly, because until then the flowers had always arrived on a Friday. Pretty and delicate, the orchids, like the roses, had been lovely to look at, but their sweet, cloying scent had lingered in her nostrils and left her feeling faintly ill long after she had disposed of them.

  Even the note that had come with them had been heavily perfumed, and she’d wanted to destroy that too. Had wanted to rip the card and its intimate typewritten message into tiny, indecipherable pieces and flush them down the toilet.

  But she’d been told to keep the notes in case they held any clues, so she’d shoved the card into a drawer, along with all the others, and vowed that when this was over—when her secret-admirer-turned-stalker was caught or simply grew tired of his antics—she would set a match to those cards and enjoy watching them burn.

  The courier strode over the polished concrete towards them, and Marietta felt her stomach doing a little surge and roll. She didn’t want to touch the roses. She definitely didn’t want them near enough for her to smell.

  ‘Ciao.’

  The young courier’s broad smile did nothing to quell her dread. His gaze shifted sideways—drawn, unsurprisingly, to Lina’s tall, willowy form—and Marietta saw the predictable flare of male appreciation on his face give way to surprise—or maybe shock was a better word—the moment the man sitting behind her stood.

  He strode around her desk, straight into the courier’s path, and she imagined she heard the young man’s jaw crack, his mouth dropped open so fast. His face lost its colour, paling several shades as he took in the large, imposing man before him. She felt a twinge of sympathy for the guy; Nicolas César, ex-legionnaire, head of the widely revered global conglomerate César Security and her brother’s good friend, could scare the wits out of most people—and that was on the days he didn’t look hell-bent on throttling someone.

  He stared down at the courier from his massive height and extended a large, capable-looking hand. A hand that appeared elegant and bone-crushingly strong all at the same time. ‘Give them to me.’

  Nico’s deep voice rumbled with the kind of natural authorit
y only a fool with no thought for self-preservation would dare to challenge. Wisely, the younger man didn’t hesitate. He handed over the roses with a haste that might have amused Marietta had anything about this situation been remotely funny. His eyes darted back to Lina, but her attention was firmly fixed on the other man, and, as if understanding he couldn’t possibly compete with all that eye-popping masculinity, the courier shot Marietta a bemused look and hurried out of the gallery.

  She gripped the titanium hand rims on the wheels of her custom-made chair and reversed a few feet from her desk. Although Nico stood on the other side, with a great slab of horizontal glass between them, she needed the comfort of the extra distance before she looked at him.

  Not, she told herself, because she wasn’t used to looking up at people. Thirteen years in a wheelchair had accustomed her to seeing the world from a diminished height, and she’d long ago reconciled herself to that aspect of her disability. And although able-bodied people often thought of her as being confined to a wheelchair—as though the chair and not her paralysed legs were the prison—for Marietta the use of her modern, ultralight chair for mobility was a choice. One that gave her the freedom to work and travel. To live her life with a level of independence any single, career-focused woman of thirty would wish to enjoy.

  But Nicolas César wasn’t anything like the people Marietta encountered on an ordinary day, and it wasn’t only his unique physicality that set him apart—wasn’t only the impressive breadth of his shoulders, the fact that he stood taller than most. On par with her six-foot-four brother—or the fact that his dark trousers and close-fitting black shirt moulded the kind of lean, hard-muscled physique that spoke of discipline and sweat and the good fortune of strong, resilient genes. Rather, it was the raw power he exuded from every inch of that undeniably masculine frame—the overriding impression that here was a man few others dared trifle with—that made Marietta’s hormones sit up and take notice.

  Which irritated her enormously.

  Sexual attraction was a complication she didn’t need in her life right now—or ever, for that matter. Especially to a man so far out of her physical league her pride smarted just to look at him.

  ‘Are you not going to interrogate him?’ she asked, and her annoyance with herself—with that hot, inescapable lick of feminine awareness—lent her words a much pithier edge than she’d intended.

  Dark blue eyes thinned and settled on her, making her aware that her sarcasm wasn’t lost on Nico, and guilt instantly pricked her. He was here to help because her brother had asked him to. That Leo had done so without consulting her first was no fault of Nico’s. Unleashing her frustration on him was childish. Unfair.

  He held her gaze, his silent, prolonged eye contact causing her skin to flush and her insides to squirm with something far more unsettling than guilt. She didn’t look away and wasn’t sure she could even if she wanted to. His eyes were such a dark, mesmerising blue. Staring into them made her feel as if she’d been dragged beneath the surface of a vast, bottomless sea and could no longer breathe.

  She opened her mouth to offer an apology—and drag some much-needed air into her lungs—but Nico spoke first.

  ‘Bruno has cleared the staff at the florist’s shop and vetted the couriers they use. There is no need for me to...’ he paused for a fraction of a beat ‘...interrogate him.’

  That slight yet deliberate emphasis on the word interrogate elevated Marietta’s discomfort. Looking at him, it wasn’t at all difficult for her to visualise Nicolas César in the role of interrogator—nor did she have any trouble imagining that anyone on the wrong side of that arrangement would quickly find themselves either pleading for mercy or spilling their deepest, darkest secrets to him. Or both.

  At the same time, she imagined any man who possessed that degree of dark, potent magnetism would rarely, if ever, want for female companionship. Women flocked to him wherever he went, no doubt, drawn like hummingbirds to nectar by his hard-edged looks and his big, powerful body.

  And that would be before he opened his mouth.

  Before that deep-timbre voice, with its French accent and slight North American inflection, poured over them like heated syrup and turned their insides all gooey.

  Marietta suppressed a little shiver.

  Did Nico make his lovers plead?

  Did he make them scream?

  The shiver turned into a hot flush that cascaded through Marietta’s body and scalded her from the inside out. Madre di Dio. What was wrong with her? She had no business allowing her thoughts to veer in that direction. No business entertaining hot, lurid fantasies about her brother’s friend. Life had taught her some harsh lessons—lessons that had moulded her into a realist—and realists like her did not waste their time fantasising about things they would never have.

  And yet she wasn’t without aspirations. Cementing her place in the art world, achieving success and recognition as an artist in her own right, supporting herself independently of her brother’s wealth and generosity—those were her goals, the dreams that got her out of bed in the mornings.

  Plus she had a wish list tucked away—a ‘bucket list’, some people called it. Everyone had one, didn’t they? Everyone wanted to see things and do things that breathed some excitement, some magic into their ordinary lives.

  Marietta was no different. As an incomplete paraplegic she could no longer walk, but living with a spinal cord injury didn’t mean she couldn’t push her own boundaries, do things that were a little adventurous or wild.

  Paraplegics around the world skydived and flew planes and competed in rigorous sports.

  Every item on Marietta’s wish list was doable. Some more challenging than others, given her physical limitations, but all of them realistic. She certainly didn’t have her head in the clouds. She knew what was possible and what wasn’t. And there was no reason whatsoever that she couldn’t tandem skydive. Or float in a hot air balloon. Or travel to Egypt to see the pyramids.

  But what were the chances of a man who could crook his finger and have any woman in the world—any able-bodied woman in the world—he wanted desiring her?

  Now that was pure fantasy—a pointless, fanciful daydream she needn’t waste her time indulging.

  What she did need to do was stay focused, remember what was important: her job, her independence, her art.

  Especially her art.

  But now all of that was under threat. In danger of being disrupted by some anonymous admirer who must be mentally unstable, or, if she were being less kind, completely deranged.

  Six weeks. That was how long she’d been receiving the bunches of flowers and the notes she’d thought quaint and amusing—even flattering—at first. But over the weeks the messages had gone from sweet to intense, their content growing more personal, more intimate. More possessive.

  It was the note that had come with a bouquet of thirteen crimson tulips on a Friday two weeks ago, however, that had for the first time left her truly spooked.

  Such a beautiful dress you wore yesterday, amore mio. Red is perfect on you—and my favourite colour. You see? We were made for each other! S.

  Those words had clamped a cold fist around her throat and squeezed hard as their import had slowly sunk in. And she had realised something she hadn’t considered before then—that he, whoever he was, was following her, watching her, stalking her.

  Gooseflesh rose on Marietta’s forearms and she resisted the urge to rub them, to scrub away the sensation of something unpleasant crawling over her skin.

  She’d been so shaken she’d confided in her sister-in-law, Helena—which in hindsight had been a mistake. Helena, in spite of Marietta’s pleas for her not to, had told her husband—Marietta’s brother—who had, of course, flipped. Within minutes Leo had been on the phone, severely chastising her for not going directly to him and urging her to involve the police.

  Advice she’d promptly ignored. She hadn’t wanted to create a fuss and her big brother was, as always, being over-protective. The fact
he’d waited an entire forty-eight hours before calling on his friend Nico for assistance was, she reflected now, nothing short of astonishing.

  That Nico, whom she’d last seen at Leo and Helena’s wedding two years before, had, in the first instance, sent his man Bruno rather than handle the matter himself, was something Marietta had not, she’d assured herself, been a little disappointed about.

  Nicolas César was, after all, a busy man—CEO of a renowned global network that provided security and protection services to some of the world’s most powerful corporations and influential figureheads. Dealing with an overzealous admirer was never going to figure high on his priority list, no matter how solid his friendship with her brother.

  And yet...here he stood. Or perhaps towered was the better word, she thought, conscious of a crick in her neck. Of the warm pulse of blood beneath her skin. Her heartbeat had not quite settled back into its normal rhythm since he’d walked, unannounced, into the gallery some forty minutes earlier.

  After a brief, polite greeting he’d asked to see the cards Bruno had told her to keep, and then, despite the fact they were written in Italian, had proceeded to read every intimate word until Marietta’s face had burned with mortified heat. Then—since it was mid-afternoon on a Friday, and that meant another bouquet was likely on its way—he’d commandeered one of the soft chairs reserved for the gallery’s clientele and artists and waited for the flowers she had silently prayed wouldn’t come.

  ‘Where’s Bruno?’ she asked now. Not because she missed the rigid presence of the dark-suited man, but rather because she could see the small white envelope attached to the roses and wanted to delay, if only for a minute longer, having to open it.

  ‘Following up a lead.’

  A lead. That sounded vague. ‘What sort of lead?’

  He didn’t answer her. Instead he turned to Lina, as if he’d not heard the question or had simply chosen to ignore it.

  Marietta tamped down her annoyance—only to feel it flare again when she glanced at her assistant. Santo cielo! Had the girl no pride? No sense of dignity? Marietta wanted to snap her fingers at her. Tell her to wipe that silly doe-eyed look off her face. To straighten up and pull her hip back in, instead of jutting it sideways in a come-hither pose she probably wasn’t even aware she’d adopted.

 
-->