Defying Her Billionaire Protector

by Angela Bissell

  Nico detached the envelope from the roses, his strong fingers snapping the straw ribbon like a strand of cotton, and handed the bouquet to Lina. ‘Get rid of them.’

  Lina—foolish girl—beamed at him as if he’d paid her a compliment rather than barked an order at her. Marietta bristled on her assistant’s behalf. Lina, however, was oblivious. Without so much as glancing at Marietta for confirmation, she took the roses and disappeared out to the back—heading, presumably, for the outdoor dumpster behind the building.

  Marietta couldn’t help herself. ‘That was rude.’

  Nico’s eyes narrowed on her again...so blue. So disconcerting. ‘Pardon?’

  ‘Lina,’ she clarified. ‘You could have asked nicely. Barking commands at people is rude.’

  One heavy eyebrow arced, ever so slightly, towards his dark brown hairline. ‘She did not look upset.’

  Of course she hadn’t looked upset. She’d looked smitten and flushed and...ravenous. As if she’d wanted to drag Nico into the storeroom, bolt the door shut and tear his clothes off—with her teeth.

  Marietta was sure Nico knew it, too.

  And yet, to his credit, he hadn’t encouraged her attentions. Hadn’t seemed to give out any inappropriate cues. In fact he’d seemed barely to notice her—unlike some of the male visitors to the gallery, who appeared more entranced by Lina’s legs than by the sculptures and paintings on display.

  And the girl had good legs—long and shapely—and a good body that she dressed, or on occasion underdressed, to showcase. Why shouldn’t she? She was tall and graceful. Feminine, yet lithe.

  Unbroken.

  Everything Marietta might have been and wasn’t, thanks to one fateful split-second decision. One irreversible moment of teenage stupidity. A moment that had altered the course of her life and shattered what little had remained of her childhood innocence.

  Still—as a few well-intentioned if slightly insensitive people had pointed out during the long, excruciating months of her rehabilitation—she’d been lucky.

  She had survived.

  The three teens in the car with her—including the alcohol-impaired driver—had not. Two had died on impact with the concrete median barrier, the third on a gurney surrounded by the trauma team trying desperately to save her.

  For Marietta, the sole survivor of that tragic car crash, a long string of dark, torturous days had followed. Days when she’d lain unable or sometimes unwilling to move, staring at the ceiling of the hated rehab unit. Reliving those final moments with her friends and wishing, in her darkest moments, that she had died alongside them.

  But she had not died.

  She had fought her way back.

  For the brother whom she knew had taken the burden of responsibility—and blame—upon himself. For the second chance at life she’d been given that her friends had not. For her mother—God rest her soul—who would have wanted Marietta to fight with the same courage and determination with which she’d battled the cancer that had, in the end, cruelly won. And—even though she’d stayed angry with him for a long time after he’d died—for her father, who’d fought his own grief-fuelled demons after his wife’s death and tragically lost.

  Her chin went up a notch.

  She had faced down every brutal obstacle the universe had thrown at her and she was still here. She would not let some stranger, some clearly unhinged individual, disrupt the life she’d worked so long and hard to rebuild. And she certainly wasn’t afraid of some pathetic words on a little white card.

  She held out her hand for the envelope. Nico hesitated, then handed it over. Willing her hands not to shake, she tore open the flap and pulled out the card. She sucked in a deep breath and started to read—and felt the cold pasta salad she’d had for lunch threaten to vacate her stomach.

  * * *

  Marietta’s hands had started to shake.

  She glanced up, her espresso-coloured eyes so dark Nico couldn’t differentiate between iris and pupil. They were glassy, enormous—larger than usual—and, he noted, unblinking. Combined with her sudden pallor, the tremor in her slim hands, they conveyed an emotion Nico had more than once in his life been intimately acquainted with.

  Fear.

  He cursed under his breath, reached over the glass-topped desk and whipped the card out of her hands.

  His Italian wasn’t impeccable, like his native French or his English, but he had no trouble reading the typewritten words. His fingers tightened on the card but he took care to keep his face expressionless. Marietta was a strong woman—something he’d intuited the first time they’d met in passing at her brother’s office, and again at Leo’s wedding—but right now she was shaken and he needed her to be calm. Reassured. Safe.

  Anything less would be a disservice to her brother, and Leo was a good friend—had been ever since their paths had crossed via a mutual client eight years ago. Nico had recognised in the Italian the qualities of a man he could like and respect. Leo’s company specialised in cyber security, and his people occasionally lent their technical expertise to Nico’s own. Outside of business the two men had become firm friends—and Nico did not intend to let his friend down.

  He slipped the card into a plastic folder along with the others. Aside from an insight into their composer’s mind, the notes offered nothing of real value and no means by which they could track the original sender. The flowers were always ordered online, the cards printed by the florist, the words simply copied from the order’s electronic message field.

  Bruno had been confident at first. Online orders meant a traceable digital trail to IP addresses and credit cards. But whoever Marietta’s stalker was he was careful—and clever. Their tech guys had chased their tails through a series of redirected addresses and discovered the account with the florist had been opened using bogus details. The invoices were sent to a rented mailbox and payments were received in cash via mail.

  It all indicated a level of premeditation and intent neither Nico nor Bruno had anticipated. And Nico didn’t like it. Didn’t like it that he’d underestimated the threat—assuming, at first, that they’d be dealing with nothing more troublesome than a jilted boyfriend. It galled him now to accept that he’d been wrong because he knew better than to assume.

  But he was here now, in Rome, with the meetings he’d had scheduled for today in New York cancelled after Bruno’s call twenty-four hours earlier.

  And they would find this guy. They’d break some rules, sidestep some local bureaucracy, and they would find him.

  He strode around the desk and dropped to his haunches in front of Marietta’s chair, bringing his eyes level with hers. She jerked back a little, as if she wasn’t used to such an action, and he wondered briefly if it were not the accepted thing to do. But he’d have done the same with any woman he sought to reassure, conscious that his height, his sheer size, might intimidate.

  ‘We will stop him, Marietta.’

  Her eyes remained huge in her face, her olive complexion stripped of colour. ‘He’s been in my home...’

  Nico ground his jaw. ‘Perhaps.’

  ‘But the note—’

  ‘Could be nothing more than a scare tactic,’ he cut in. Yet the tension in his gut, the premonitory prickle at his nape, told him the truth was something far less palatable. More sinister.

  I have left you a gift, tesoro. On your bed. Think of me when you unwrap it. Sleep well, amore mio. S.

  On impulse he took her hand—small compared to his, and yet strong rather than dainty or delicate. Her fingers were slender and long, her nails short and neat, manicured at home, he guessed, rather than by a professional.

  Incredibly, Nico could still remember clasping her hand on their very first introduction—four, maybe five years ago at her brother’s office. Their handshake had been brief but he’d noted that her skin felt cool, pleasant to the touch, her palm soft and smooth in places, callused in others. He remembered, too, seeing her at Leo’s wedding a couple of years later. Remembered watching her, intrigued an
d impressed with the way she handled her wheelchair—as if it were a natural extension of her body.

  In the church she’d glided down the aisle before the bride, composed and confident, unselfconscious—or at least that was the impression she’d given. Her sister-in-law, a beautiful English woman, had looked stunning in a simple white gown, but it was Marietta to whom Nico’s attention had been repeatedly drawn throughout the ceremony.

  In his thirty-six years he’d attended two other weddings—his own, which he preferred not to dwell upon, and an equally lavish affair in the Bahamas to which he had, regrettably, allowed a former lover to drag him—but he could not recall a bridesmaid at either who might have outshone Marietta in looks or elegance.

  With her thick mahogany hair piled high on her head, the golden skin of her shoulders and décolletage bare above the turquoise silk of her long bridesmaid’s sheath, the fact she was in a wheelchair had not diminished the impact of her beauty.

  And then there were the shoes.

  Nico could not forget the shoes.

  Stilettos.

  Sexy, feminine, four-inch stilettos in a bright turquoise to match the gown.

  That Marietta could not walk in those shoes had made him admire her all the more for wearing them. It was a statement—a bold one—as though she were flipping the bird to her disability...or rather to anyone who thought a woman who couldn’t walk was wasting her time wearing sexy shoes, and it had made him want to smile.

  Hell, it had made him want to grin.

  And that was an urge he rarely experienced.

  ‘Nico?’

  Marietta’s hand twitched in his, jerking his thoughts back to the present. He refocused, realised his thumb was stroking small circles over her skin. Abruptly he broke contact and stood. ‘Stay here. Keep Lina with you.’

  She wheeled back and looked up at him. ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘Your apartment.’

  She frowned, a smudge of colour returning to her face. ‘Not without me, you’re not.’

  ‘It is better that you stay here,’ he said evenly.

  ‘Why?’

  When he hesitated a fraction too long, her fine-boned features twisted into a look of horror.

  ‘Mio Dio. You think he might be there, don’t you?’ She stared at him accusingly. ‘But you said the note was just a scare tactic.’

  ‘Could be,’ he corrected. ‘I won’t know for certain until I’ve checked it out.’

  ‘Then I’ll come with you.’

  ‘I’d prefer you didn’t.’

  Her shoulders snapped back, her eyes, wide with shock and fear only seconds before, now narrowing. ‘It’s my apartment. I’m coming whether you prefer it or not.’ Her delicate chin lifted. ‘Besides, you need me. You won’t get in without my security code and key.’

  ‘Both of which you are about to give to me,’ he told her, keeping his voice reasonable even as he felt his patience slipping. He was unaccustomed to people arguing with him—especially women.

  Marietta folded her hands in her lap. The gesture combined with her conservative attire—a sleeveless high-necked lilac silk blouse, long black pants and, perhaps less conservative, a pair of purple high-heeled suede boots—made her look almost demure. Yet there was nothing demure in the set of her shoulders or the bright glint of defiance in her eyes.

  ‘Do people always jump when you bark?’

  He crossed his arms over his chest. Outwardly he was calm. Inside, impatience heated his blood dangerously close to tipping point. ‘Oui,’ he said, injecting a low note of warning into his voice he hoped she had the wisdom to heed. ‘If they know what is good for them.’

  Her eyebrows rose at that, but the shrug that rolled off her shoulders was careless. ‘Well, I’m sorry to disappoint you—’ she looked pointedly at her legs and then back at him ‘—but you might have noticed I can’t jump very high these days.’

  Nico flattened his mouth, returned her stare. Channelled his trademark control—or tried to. ‘You are wasting time, Marietta.’

  ‘Me?’ Somehow she managed to look utterly innocent. ‘You’re the one holding us up, Nico. We could have been halfway there by now.’

  He sucked in a breath and exhaled sharply. Leo had warned him that Marietta could be stubborn. Resolute. Headstrong. No doubt those qualities had served her well through some difficult times, helped her overcome the kind of obstacles most people, if they were fortunate, would never have to face in their lifetime. He respected those qualities, admired them, but right now he’d settle for a lot less lip and a great deal more acquiescence.

  The determined glitter in those liquid brown eyes told him he had zero chance of getting it. Nico couldn’t decide if that surprised him, impressed him, or angered him.

  People did not defy Nicolas César.

  They obeyed him.

  Fortunately for Marietta he had neither the time nor the patience to stand there and argue. He uncrossed his arms. Muttered an oath. ‘Wait here,’ he growled. ‘I’ll bring my car to the front of the gallery and collect you.’

  A smile broke on her face that almost made the pain of his capitulation worth it. He blinked. Mon Dieu. Did she give that smile freely to everyone she met? If so, he wouldn’t be surprised to find a thousand infatuated admirers lurking in the wings.

  ‘No need,’ she said, and rolled her chair forward to a small cabinet beside her desk. She pulled out an enormous leather handbag. ‘I have my car in the lane out back. I’ll drive myself and meet you there.’

  Lina reappeared at that moment, minus the roses. She tossed her blonde hair over one too bony shoulder and gave him a smile that lacked even a fraction of the impact of Marietta’s.

  ‘Can you please close up tonight, Lina?’ Marietta said to the girl. ‘I doubt I’ll be back. Call me if you need anything. I’ll see you in the morning.’ She lifted her gaze to Nico’s. ‘I suppose you already know my address?’

  ‘Oui,’ he said, and noted with a small punch of satisfaction how her pretty mouth tightened at that.

  ‘Okay. Well, I’ll see you there, then.’ She wheeled past him, towards the rear of the gallery.

  ‘Marietta.’

  She stopped, glanced over her shoulder at him. ‘Si?’

  ‘If you get there first, wait for me. Do not go in.’

  Her mouth pursed. ‘Is that an order?’

  ‘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.