He clenched his jaw. Not helpful.
‘Marietta?’
He half hoped she was annoyed. A little reserve, a touch of coolness between them, might be a good thing. He had one objective and that was to keep her safe. This spark of attraction he felt—there was no room for it.
She turned her head then and his hopes met a swift end. She didn’t look angry. Didn’t even look mildly irritated. Hell, she was smiling at him.
‘Are we flying to the island in that?’
For a moment he didn’t register the question, blindsided as he was by that smile. The pretty flush on her cheekbones. The breathless quality to her voice that seemed to stroke right into him.
She looked out through the window again and he leaned down, followed the line of her gaze to where his chopper sat on the Tarmac, its long rotor blades and black paintwork gleaming in the sunshine. A man in blue overalls and a fluorescent orange vest moved around the craft, completing a thorough safety check that Nico himself would repeat prior to take-off.
‘Oui,’ he said. ‘The island is accessible by boat, but the chopper is faster.’
‘I’ve never been in a helicopter.’ Her gaze swung to his. ‘Will you pilot it?’
‘Of course.’
She fired another look out of the window and then undid her seatbelt and smoothed the creases from her grey linen pants. ‘Okay. I’ll wait here while the luggage and my wheelchair are transferred,’ she said, her voice turning brisk. ‘Take me last.’
‘There’s a lift—’
‘No,’ she cut across him. ‘No fuss. Please.’ Her gaze didn’t quite meet his. ‘It will be quicker and easier if you carry me.’
Easier, Nico reflected ten minutes later as he settled Marietta into the cockpit of the chopper, was a relative term. Because the effort of willing his groin not to harden in response to holding a soft, warm woman in his arms—a woman who smelled enticingly of strawberries and vanilla and something faintly exotic—had not come anywhere close to being easy.
He strapped her into the harness, made a couple of adjustments that brought his fingers dangerously, agonisingly close to her breasts, then hastily withdrew his hands.
‘Comfortable?’ She nodded and he handed her a black helmet. ‘This has a built-in headset so we can communicate. I need to do a final weather check and then we’re set.’
Her gaze turned skyward. ‘The weather looks perfect.’
‘Oui. But we’re flying twenty miles south over open sea. The marine winds can be unpredictable.’
Rather like his body, he thought grimly.
* * *
Marietta’s heart raced and she gripped the edges of her seat. She looked down at the deep, surging swells of the Mediterranean Sea, then up again to the lone mass of land looming in the distance. Silhouetted against a bright blue sky, the island’s long, uneven shape teased her imagination and made her think of a great serpent slumbering on the horizon.
She’d always wanted to fly in a helicopter and now she was hurtling over the ocean in one and struggling to hold back a grin. Which was crazy. What reason did she have to smile or feel breathless and giddy?
Yesterday her life had been turned upside down, her home invaded by a man who at worst was a predator and at best was a disturbed individual in dire need of a shrink. Yet somehow, right at this moment, all of that seemed very distant and she really was fighting an insane urge to grin.
She let her gaze roam the cockpit’s interior, fascinated by the dials and buttons and levers. Beside her, Nico looked at home in the pilot’s seat, his large hands working the controls of the powerful machine with dexterity and ease.
Strong hands, she thought, recalling how he’d carried her from the jet to the helicopter as if she weighed next to nothing. As if carrying a woman was something he did every day and the experience left him unaffected. While she had been hyper-aware of everything. From the hardness of his body and the citrusy scent of his cologne to the tanned triangle of chest in the opening of his shirt and the glimpse of dark hair at the base of that V.
She’d wondered whether the texture of that hair was soft or coarse. If it thickened and spread across his chest or was merely a dusting. If it arrowed into a fine line that bisected his stomach and travelled into the waistband of his pants and lower.
Inappropriate thoughts she should not have had then and should not be having now. Not about the man she was going to spend the next few days cooped up with on an island.
She dragged her attention off his hands and back to the mass of land ahead of them that was appearing more substantial by the second. Running her gaze along the nearest stretch of coastline, she made out three separate white sand beaches and, nestled into the lee of a lush hill range, a large village and a port, where rows of colourful boats were moored to long wooden wharves jutting into clear turquoise waters.
‘You own a whole village?’
A short burst of static came over the headset before the rich timbre of Nico’s voice filled her helmet. It was an odd sensation—as if he was inside her head and all around her at the same time.
‘No. I own sixty percent of the island, including the southern and western coasts. The rest—including the northern beaches, the olive groves to the east and a small commercial vineyard—is now owned by various locals whose families have lived on Île de Lavande for hundreds of years.’
‘Now owned?’ she said. ‘Did they not always own it?’
‘Non. For several centuries the island was owned by a single aristocratic French family. They employed caretakers and servants who settled on the land with their families. It wasn’t until a wealthy American industrialist bought the island in the early nineteen-hundreds and decided to sell off some parcels of land that the locals finally had the opportunity to become landowners instead of leaseholders.’
Fascinated, she took a moment to absorb it all. ‘How do the islanders make their living? Fishing?’
‘Oui. And from olives and wine. Most of which they sell to the mainland. Plus a controlled level of tourism.’
‘Controlled?’
‘Limited numbers of tourists, and only at certain times of the year. During those months a passenger and car ferry visits twice a week—no more. The villagers rely on the revenue, but they also want to protect the environment—and their privacy.’
‘Are most of them descended from the original settlers?’
‘Many of them, oui.’
‘That must be amazing—to know the history of generations of your family.’ Silence crackled in her headset. ‘Do you have any familial links to the island?’ she asked.
‘Non,’ he said.
‘So...you have family living in France?’
‘Non.’
The message in that second abrupt no was clear. Subject off-limits. Marietta bit down on her tongue—and her curiosity—and focused on the scenery.
Ahead, an old sturdy fishing vessel rode the ocean swells as it chugged slowly into the calmer waters of the harbour. Nico flew the chopper directly over the boat, low enough to see the broad smiles on the fishermen’s upturned faces. They raised their arms and waved and Nico waved back—and Marietta’s surprise lasted only a second. Mr Security Conscious would know his neighbours, she realised. Even a whole village of them.
They neared land and he banked the helicopter to the right, angling them over the port and the outskirts of the village. She glimpsed red-tiled roofs and open shutters on whitewashed houses, an old stone church and the crumbling remains of a sprawling derelict structure on the crest of a hill.
‘Where’s your home?’
‘Further around the coast,’ he said. ‘Twenty-five minutes by road from the port.’
The village fell behind them and she looked down, saw rows upon rows of pine trees extending into the island’s interior. It was lush and dense—much more fertile and beautiful than she’d expected.
‘Will you show me some of the island while we’re here?’
‘Perhaps. If time allows. We
have work to do first.’
She turned her head to look at him. ‘What kind of work?’
‘Questions and answers.’
Her brows knitted. ‘I don’t understand...’
‘We are going to dissect your life, Marietta. Day by day. Hour by hour. Minute by minute. You are going to break down every routine for me—everything you do, everywhere you go, everyone you meet—until we have ruled out the possibility that your stalker is someone you know or have met.’
A groan rose in her throat. ‘But I’ve answered all of Bruno’s questions. And yours.’
‘And you will answer them again,’ he said. ‘As many times as I need you to. Until I am satisfied.’
His tone was uncompromising and a shiver rippled through her. How ironic. Yesterday she’d spared a thought for anyone unfortunate enough to find themselves interrogated by Nicolas César—soon she would experience for herself that very ordeal.
Her mood well and truly dampened, she stayed silent for the rest of the flight, even stifling her exclamation of wow when she spotted the house perched on a high plateau above a steep limestone cliff.
Sleek, white, and über-modern, the expansive single-level dwelling might have dominated its surroundings. Instead, its simple understated design complemented the landscape, with acres of glass reflecting the sky and the rich, fertile land all around it. On the ocean side a flat terrace featured a large swimming pool, which sparkled like a sheet of cobalt glass in the sunshine. On the inland flank, a circular courtyard sat at the head of a long winding driveway which descended into a thick forest of towering pines.
Marietta surveyed the property as Nico set them down on a dedicated helipad a short distance from the courtyard.
It was, she decided after a moment, just like its owner.
Stark. Remote. And beautiful.
CHAPTER FIVE
‘ENOUGH!’
The shrill note in Marietta’s voice brought Nico’s head up. He laid his pen on the legal pad he used for old-fashioned note-taking and leaned back in his chair. ‘Take a breath, Marietta.’
‘Don’t patronise me,’ she snapped, a flash of Italian temper darkening her eyes to the colour of hot, bitter espresso. She squeezed them shut and pinched the delicate bridge of her nose.
Nico stretched out his denim-clad legs, crossed his bare feet at the ankles and waited for her to calm down.
‘I’m sorry.’ She dropped her hand, opened her eyes. ‘I didn’t mean to snap. I just don’t see how where I choose to buy my fruit and vegetables on a Saturday morning can possibly be relevant.’
A warm, gentle Mediterranean breeze rippled the surface of the pool and swayed the enormous umbrella which shaded the outdoor table where they sat. Sighing, Marietta scraped her long hair back from her face and secured the lustrous swathe into a high ponytail which she fastened with an elastic band from her wrist.
Toying with his pen, Nico studied her. He couldn’t detect a scrap of make-up on her this morning and still she was beautiful. ‘More coffee?’
She nodded. ‘Please.’
He refilled her cup from the heavy silver coffee pot his part-time housekeeper Josephine had set out for them, along with a selection of fruits, thick yoghurt, freshly baked croissants and homemade jams.
It had been good of Josephine to drive up from the village on a Sunday morning. She and her son Luc had already been at the house in the hours prior to Nico and Marietta’s arrival, cleaning, stocking the kitchen and installing special handrails in the guest en-suite bathroom at Nico’s request. He appreciated their commitment; he’d given them only a day’s notice and yet they hadn’t complained at a time when their family-run bistro had to be busy with the final late-summer run of tourists.
Josephine had said she’d returned this morning to check that everything was satisfactory, but Nico figured it was curiosity as much as solicitude that had brought her back. In the four years since he’d built his home on Île de Lavande, he’d never invited a guest there—had never allowed anyone inside his sanctuary aside from the select few he employed for its upkeep. In that respect Marietta was something of a novelty, and she had—not surprisingly—charmed his housekeeper.
It was a charm she had not extended to him for the last hour and a half, he noted dryly. He sat forward, picked up his pen. ‘Tell me more about Davide,’ he said, and watched her expression instantly shutter.
‘There isn’t much to tell. We had a relationship and then we broke up. End of story.’
‘You were together for two years.’ The same length of time he and Julia had been married. ‘It must have been serious,’ he said, ignoring the sudden sharp clench in his chest.
Her shoulders, bare aside from the straps of her pale blue tank top, hitched up. ‘For a while, si.’
‘Who broke it off?’
‘I did.’
‘Why?’
‘That’s personal.’ She picked up her sunglasses from the table and pushed them onto her face. ‘And if you think Davide could be my stalker, you’re wrong. He’s moved on. Married. Started a family. What is it the English say? You are barking into the wrong bush.’
His mouth twitched despite himself. ‘Up the wrong tree.’
She flicked a hand in the air. ‘Whatever. Anyway, it can’t be Davide. The cards are always signed off with an S.’
He put down his pen again. Worked to keep the impatience out of his voice. ‘First, the S could stand for anything,’ he said. ‘Second, I know this is difficult, but any previous romantic partners must be considered as potential suspects until they’ve been definitively ruled out.’
Her graceful chin took on that stubborn tilt he was learning to recognise. ‘How do you know my stalker isn’t a complete stranger?’
‘I don’t. And I haven’t discounted the possibility. But the majority of stalking victims are stalked by someone they know—two-thirds of female victims by a former or current partner.’ He paused before driving home his point. ‘It is extremely likely that you have met or know your stalker in some capacity. He could be your neighbour. Someone you’ve met through work. Maybe the guy who sells you fruit at the market on a Saturday morning.’
She shuddered visibly. ‘Santo cielo. It could be anyone.’
‘Exactement. And the sooner we narrow the field of potential suspects, the closer we get to identifying the real perpetrator.’
She sat a little straighter in her wheelchair, pulled in a deep breath and slowly expelled it. ‘Okay.’ She folded her hands in her lap. ‘What do you want to know about Davide?’
‘How did he react when you ended the relationship?’
She hesitated. ‘He was upset.’
‘Angry?’
‘A little,’ she said, quietly. ‘Mostly hurt, I think.’
‘He didn’t want it to end?’
She reached for her coffee, took a careful sip, then replaced the cup before answering. ‘He’d asked me to marry him.’
Nico blinked.
‘I know,’ she said, before he’d fully processed that potentially critical piece of information. ‘A perfectly normal, eligible, good-looking guy asks a crippled girl to marry him and she says no.’ She laughed, but the sound wasn’t at all pretty. ‘You’re thinking a girl like me can hardly afford to be choosy, right?’
A flash of anger—and perhaps indignation—snapped his brows down. ‘That is not what I was thinking.’
‘But you were thinking something,’ she challenged.
He felt a pulse leap in his jaw. ‘I was thinking you should have told me this sooner.’
‘Is that all?’
‘Non,’ he said tersely. ‘I was also thinking the poor bastard must have been crushed when you turned him down.’
Marietta’s chin jerked back—with surprise or scepticism? He couldn’t tell.
‘Why did you reject his proposal?’
She picked up her coffee again, took another sip, as if buying time to compose herself. When she put the cup down her hand wasn’t quite steady. �
��Davide wanted to fix me.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘He was obsessed with the idea of curing me.’
‘Your paralysis?’
‘Si.’
He frowned. ‘And that was a bad thing?’
‘For me it was. It made our relationship untenable.’
‘Why?’
Her slim shoulders lifted, dropped. ‘Because I didn’t share his obsession.’
Nico rubbed his jaw, assimilating that. ‘So you don’t believe in the possibility of a cure?’
A small groove appeared on her forehead. ‘I believe there’s hope for a cure. Technology and medicine will always advance, and people who are passionate about finding a way to reverse spinal cord damage will always be looking for the next major breakthrough. But at some point you have to stop chasing the miracle and get on with the business of living. And that means learning to accept the hand you’ve been dealt. Davide couldn’t do that. He couldn’t accept that I wouldn’t one day get out of this chair and walk. Instead he spent every spare minute researching medical journals and the latest treatments he thought I should try.’
Marietta paused. She was glad suddenly that she’d put her sunglasses on, because if eyes truly were the windows to the soul she didn’t want Nico seeing into hers. Didn’t want him seeing the hidden part of her that still hurt whenever she thought about Davide and his obsession with ‘fixing’ her.
She might have shared his enthusiasm if she hadn’t already travelled that same road with her brother in the early years after the accident, when Leo convinced himself—and her—that there was a real chance she would walk again. His tenacity and determination were contagious and she let herself get swept up in the possibilities—agreed, once Leo convinced her he could afford it, to travel to Germany and undergo the experimental treatments he’d researched.
But in the end it all turned into nothing more than a wild rollercoaster of shattered hopes and dreams. An enormous, heartbreaking reality check that devastated her for a time—until she picked herself up and fiercely told herself that from then on she was going to be a realist, not a dreamer.
Defying Her Billionaire Protector Page 5