“Ha ha, Joe.” I took the chance to introduce the two. “Julia, this is Joe. If you find a mess or accidentally make one, you’ll call him.”
She reached out, and the two shook hands. “Nice to meet you, Joe. I’ll try not to make any messes I can’t clean up myself.”
Joe took his job very seriously. “Miss, I don’t want you to go getting your nice clothes messed up by trying to clean a thing. My extension is 411, and I want you to call me and let me handle the messes around here. No matter how small they are. You hear me?”
“I hear you, Joe. Let you handle that. Not a problem, sir.” I liked the way she used the term ‘sir’ with the older man. Respect for others always went a long way in my book. Just one more thing I liked about my new assistant.
I had this odd feeling that the things I’d like about her would just keep stacking up. Most people would’ve been overjoyed that they’d found such a great assistant. But I was both thrilled and not thrilled by my increasing respect for my employee.
Julia had already managed to take hold of me in a way no one ever had. But it was the rules that I had come up with myself that made it impossible to ever act on the feelings that I knew would continue to grow. I could already feel them blossoming into a lovely flower—a flower that had thorns all up and down its pretty little stem. I just had to keep myself from touching the flower, or else I knew I’d get cut, leaving me bleeding and hurting.
To be continued.
This novel will be published the second week of April.
Under Her Skin
The last thing I need is to fall in love.
I came to this beautiful part of Italy to escape, not to become a billionaire’s plaything.
And yet…
Arturo Bachi. He’s the worst of them, I know, a devastatingly handsome and undoubtedly skilled and charming player. I know better than to get involved with him…
But when I think of his lips on mine, those perfectly manicured hands on my skin, and his cock inside me, driving me relentlessly onto…
God. I need some self-control…but Arturo haunts my dreams…
Which makes a change from another man haunting my nightmares…
I shouldn’t fall for Arturo…but god help me…I am…
The first thing I think about when I wake, every damn morning, is wrapping her thick, dark hair around my fist, pulling her beautiful head back, and crushing my lips onto those delicious lips of hers…
And yet, she doesn’t want me. Me!
I could have anyone, anyone and yet this woman, Hero, beautiful, stubborn, and sexy as all hell.
I need her in my bed now, my cock buried deep inside her, dominating her, fucking her into submission…
But she keeps saying no…
I won’t give up. Hero Donati will be mine, I swear she will…
I’ll do anything to make it happen…
Chapter One
Arturo Bachi smiled at his guests as he raised his glass. “So, friends, tomorrow the final apartment in the Villa Patrizzi will go up for auction, and I have been assured by the seller that it will finally be mine. Good news for my plan to build Lake Como’s finest and most exclusive hotel. So, friends and fellow investors, let’s drink—to the future Hotel Bachi!”
His friends cheered and applauded and Arturo stepped off the stage to talk with his guests. After an hour when it had seemed he’d shaken hands with everyone in Northern Italy, he was relieved when his best friend, Peter, spirited him away and into the grounds of Arturo’s mansion.
“Fortitude and strength,” Peter grinned at his friend as they sat down at the edge of the garden. Lake Como washed in gentle waves against the stone wall, and across the water, one of the towns of the area, nestled in the Alps, lit up at night.
Peter had snagged a bottle of scotch for them, and they lit cigars. Peter smiled at his friend’s satisfied expression. “So close, now, Turo. Can you see it coming together quickly after the sale is settled?”
Arturo nodded. “I do. Everything is in place, the constructions teams, architects, everyone is just waiting for my go-order. God, Peter, it seems like, finally, my dream is coming through.” His green eyes shone with excitement. “I was rethinking the name though—Hotel Bachi seems… a little self-indulgent.”
Peter shrugged. “Not necessarily, but I take your point. The main thing is—we’re close. Do you think the apartment will sell for much?”
Arturo shook his head. “It’s tiny, only four rooms. I plan to make it and the adjoining apartment into one suite. No, I think I’ll get it for a steal—the Board has set a price limit if we’re to secure it and be able to afford to go ahead with every design feature we’ve planned.”
He sighed. “A part of me wishes that I’d used my own money, then I wouldn’t have to answer to anyone about budgets. But my accountant wouldn’t let me.” He shot a mock-scowl over to his friend, who shrugged good-naturedly.
“I just didn’t want you to go broke, buddy. With this and the other hotels around the world… you’re stretching yourself, and you know it. You can rely on your trust fund to keep you afloat—Philipo could withdraw it at any moment.”
Arturo sighed. His uncle Philipo had been made executor of Arturo’s father’s will when Arturo was too young to take over the company when Frederico died. The grieving teenager had fallen into alcohol and drugs, and since then, Philipo had handed out Arturo’s inheritance in regulated increments. The bulk of his inheritance, nearly a billion Euros, Arturo would inherit at age forty. He both admired and resented his uncle for his decisions—his cations had made Arturo leave that wild life behind and work towards his own fortune. Property had been Arturo’s chosen career path, and he had a natural talent and flair for it, so much so that by the time he was thirty, he had made his first billion Euros.
Now at thirty-nine, he was on the cusp of adding his inheritance to his own fortune and become one of the world’s richest men. Arturo lived for his work, but he also enjoyed the trappings of his wealth, and it didn’t hurt that he was considered one of Italy’s, perhaps even the world’s handsomest and eligible bachelors.
A face that could look warm and friendly ne moment, then dangerous and brooding the next, his teenage beauty had matured into a more masculine and sculptured face. His large green eyes were ringed with thick midnight-black lashes, his brows dark and heavy, his beard trimmed but not over fussy, his sensual mouth just on the cusp of being too full. His wild black curls wouldn’t be tamed for anybody… it had to be said—Arturo Bachi was sensational and he knew it.
He had no time for relationships, and was always honest with his conquests, of whom there were many. They always wanted more, of course, his beautiful face, rock hard body and huge cock meant they always wanted to fuck him over and over but Arturo never slept with the same woman twice. Not since Flavia, his sweetheart in college. He had loved Flavia with all his heart, had known she was his future, his true north, his love. And Flavia had loved him for him, not the rich, handsome boy born into wealth and opportunity, but the goofy, fun-loving boy with the big heart and poetry in his soul. She loved him for him.
They were inseparable, except for that one fateful night when he had been ten minutes late to meet her at the party, and Flavia had been taken by another man, another man with hate in his heart and murder in his soul.
They had found Flavia’s body a week later with multiple stab wounds. She had been raped and murdered, then dumped in the lake. Arturo had run to the lake as soon as the news hit the radio and had been in time to see her brought up onto the banks, her long dark hair wrapped around her body, her usually dark olive skin grey and wan. The water had washed the blood away, but Arturo could see clearly the stab wounds in her stomach, vicious, brutal. He had fallen to his knees and screamed until his friends Peter and George had been summoned to collect him.
Arturo thought of Flavia now, her kind brown eyes shining up at him. As usual, the image melted into imagining how scared, how terrified she must have been as her ki
ller took her life.
God. An involuntary groan slipped out, and Peter glanced at his friend. “You okay?”
Arturo nodded, not trusting himself to speak. Peter, who had always been able to read Arturo’s mind, looked at him with sympathy. “Flavia?”
Arturo nodded. “Maybe… Hotel Flavia?”
Peter sighed. “Arturo, as sweet as that gesture would be, it’s not going to help you let her rest in peace. It’s been twenty years, buddy.”
Arturo nodded, knowing Peter was right. His eyes slid across the lake to George’s villa. George Galliano, his other friend that night. A friend no more. What had happened between them to make them into the enemies they were today? Arturo could hardly remember.
“Hey.” Peter nudged his shoulder. “Stop wallowing. Let’s get back to your guests.”
Arturo threw back the rest of his scotch, his gaze returning to the almost empty villa across the lake, Villa Patrizzi that he owned 99% of right now and tomorrow, it would be his entirely.
He couldn’t wait.
Hero Donati looked around the tiny apartment. She had persuaded the realtor to let her in, even this late at night so she could be prepared for tomorrow. This place was perfect; tiny, compact, but with that balcony that looked out over the lake where she could sit and sketch or read, or just… be.
Peace. Serenity. How she had wished for that feeling over the past two years. Here, she could imagine regaining at least some of it.
Back at her hotel, she checked her bank account for the hundredth time, made sure the money was all transferred and ready for the auction tomorrow, then went to soak in the tub. She wound her long dark hair up onto her head. I really ought to get this cut, she thought. Her hair hung down past her waist now; she hadn’t been to a hairdresser since she didn’t know how long. She risked a glance in the mirror, but then looked away again. Her dark eyes still had that haunted look she had grown to become accustomed to lately, but she could no longer bear to look at herself.
At twenty-eight, Hero Donati had been adopted at birth by an Italian-American businessman and his wife, who already had a daughter, Imelda. Hero’s birth mother had been a young Indian student at one of Milan’s colleges who had fallen pregnant to her Italian lover and had given her child up for adoption, unable to care for the girl herself. From her mother, Hero had inherited the dark beauty which had been a beacon for so much male attention that Hero deliberately downplayed her good looks. She became intentionally tomboyish in her dress, wore thick-rimmed spectacles, and she remained resolutely single until Tom.
Tom, with his merry grey eyes and blonde hair, hadn’t put the moves on her at all. Instead, they sat together in class at the college in Chicago they attended and made fun of all the rich kids. Tom, working class from Wisconsin, had become her best friend, and then one night, her lover. They married the day after graduation and Beth had been born a year later, the family settling in Chicago.
Hero had become a mother and wife, and to her shock, she loved it. Working on her doctorate while raising Beth, she and Tom had been blissfully happy together, and even Hero’s sometimes fraught relationship with her adoptive family had improved. Beth was a radiant ball of utter joy and love, and even Imelda, who didn’t have a maternal bone in her body, adored the young girl.
Beth had been three when she died. Three years, four months, and six days to be exact. The family had been driving up to Wisconsin to spend Christmas with Tom’s family when a snow plow slammed into the side of their Volvo at high speed. The driver was drunk, five times over the speed limit. Beth was killed instantly. Tom lingered in a coma but was pronounced brain-dead on day five. His parents made the decision to turn off his life-support because Hero couldn’t. She was also in a coma and not expected to survive.
When she woke three months later, she wished she hadn’t. There wasn’t a word to describe the depth of her heartbreak. Her worried parents, Tom’s bereaved parents tried to reach her but no-one could. On her behalf, they sued the drunk driver’s employers and secured Hero a settlement just shy of eleven million dollars, but she couldn’t even begin to think about starting again.
For months, she stayed at home in the apartment she had shared with her husband and daughter, and let life go on without her. It had taken two incidents to shake her out of the fugue.
The first was one she still couldn’t believe happened now. One night, instead of sitting at home, wrapped in Tom’s sweater, with Beth’s favourite ‘blankie’ nuzzled next to her face, something snapped inside Hero. She put on her tightest dress, all her make-up and went out to a nightclub in the city. She’d drunk herself into a manic mood, danced, made out with strangers, trying to forget. She fully intended to fuck someone, something to numb the pain, but she had chosen wrong, so, so wrong. As soon as the man got her into his car, he turned aggressive and Hero had to fight for her life, escaping only when she managed to punch her attacker hard in the balls and ran from his car.
She had caught a cab home, then, inside her apartment, had spent the night alternating between sobbing and screaming.
One of her neighbors had called Imelda. “I think Hero needs you.”
Imelda, who had never been a warm person, stripped Hero off and put her in the shower. Feeding her oatmeal and strong coffee, she put her adoptive sister to bed, making her take some sleeping pills and stayed with her while she slept it off.
The next day, Hero, feeling sheepish, listened to Imelda’s harsh pep talk. Imelda didn’t mince her words. “I don’t care what you do, Hero, but do something. Go off on a world trek, open an art gallery, go teach in China. But you need to snap out of this. Tom and Beth are dead.”
Hero had turned on her sister. “Do you think I’ve forgotten, Melly? I know they’re fucking dead! I wish I were too. Jesus.”
Imelda regarded her coolly. “Then do it. Kill yourself. Be that selfish. Mom and Dad need that on top of losing Beth. Do it.”
Hero had stared at her sister, dumbfounded. She knew Melly was just trying to shock her out her funk, but at that moment, she hated her sister. Hated. “I have to get out of this damn country.”
“Good. Do it. Bye, now.” Imelda had walked out, calling back over her shoulder. “And if I see you again, it’ll be too soon.”
Fucking bitch, Hero was angry now, but her anger had become a cold, silent thing that ate away at her soul. She would escape. She would go back to Italy—she still held citizenship thee, after all. Maybe she would try to find her mother, or her father—her birth parents—maybe. She just knew she couldn’t stay in Chicago a moment longer.
Which is why she was now about to bid for the small apartment in the Villa Patrizzi in the hope that soon, it would become her home, and she could begin her new life.
Chapter Two
The great terrace of the Villa D’Este in Cernobbio was packed with guests, mostly those curious to see whether Arturo would finally realize his dream of owning the entirety of the Villa Patrizzi. Lake Como’s elite were gathered, the woman perfect and gorgeous, the men handsome in their designer suits as they drifted around, champagne in hand, talking and socializing before the auction began.
There was only one lot in this auction and as Arturo arrived, he went to find the auctioneer, and shake his hand. “I’m looking forward to this, Claudio.”
The older man nodded. “It certainly has the feel of an event, Signore Bachi. I have a feeling you will be a very happy man by the end of today.”
Arturo went to find Peter then, and as he walked around the party, he found himself frequently stopped by attractive women and admiring men, all who wanted a few moments of the great Arturo Bachi’s attention. By the time he reached Peter, who was rolling his eyes and smirking, Arturo’s confidence was sky-high. He threw his arm around his friend. “Peter, my friend, this is a good day.”
“Cautious optimism, Turo,” Peter said, his Canadian stoicism at full power. Arturo grinned at his friend.
When they’d met, at Harvard no less, they quickly found they had
the same irreverent sense of humor. Peter had been the man-whore of the college, and he relished his role; Arturo had Flavia and was deliriously happy. It had only been when Flavia was murdered, that Peter showed his serious, mature and loyal side. He never left Arturo’s side through the funeral and then the investigation of the murder, of which Arturo was a natural suspect. Luckily for him, he had an alibi—the reason he had been ten minutes late to the party that day was that he was helping a young single mother change a burst tire in the pouring rain. The mother happened to be the daughter of the local newspaper owner, and when Arturo was questioned, she came forward immediately.
Peter Armley was a year older than Arturo, already forty and still resolutely single. Unlike Arturo, he was picky about who he slept with and always called them back, even if it was to say goodbye. He was on good terms with most of his former girlfriends and even dated a couple for significant periods of time. A tall man, an inch shorter than Arturo’s six-six, he looked like he should have been wearing a toga and laurel wreath in the Coliseum during Roman times. His handsome face looked to be hewn from rock, but when he smiled, his blue eyes shone with warmth. His close-cropped mid-brown hair was always neat, and his suits were Saville Row.
A math genius, he was recruited by Philipo to be the company’s financial director—and to look after Arturo’s finances. Arturo teased his friend about being his ‘accountant,’ but really, it was down to Peter’s handling of his finances that Arturo was the man he was now.
“Listen,” Arturo told his friend now, “I just want you to know, that if everything goes well today, it’s entirely down to you, Pete. You picked me up out of the sinkhole. I love you, brother.”
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