The Ultimate Risk

by Chantelle Shaw

  ‘I’m not …’ The denial died in her throat when he gave her a look of frank disbelief.

  ‘Does your nervousness stem from a previous relationship?’ Lanzo voiced what he had begun to suspect, and knew he was near the mark when she quickly looked away from him.

  ‘I don’t want to talk about it,’ she muttered, stubbornness creeping into her tone. As she pushed her hair back from her face Lanzo noted that her hand was shaking, and a feeling of tenderness swept through him.

  ‘Maybe we both need to open up?’ he suggested softly. He wanted to pull her close and simply hold her, until she felt with every beat of his heart that she could trust him. But as he moved towards her she stepped back and shook her head once more.

  ‘What’s the point? The only relationship I want with you is as your temporary PA.’

  ‘Look me in the eye and tell me that,’ Lanzo ordered, frustrated that he could not understand why she was determined not to give in to the chemistry that was a constant simmering presence between them.

  Gina was glad that she had reached into her bag for her sunglasses. She slipped them on and met his gaze calmly, thankful that her expression was hidden from him. ‘That’s all I want,’ she repeated firmly, desperately trying to convince herself as much as him, and before he could say another word she turned and walked out of the courtyard.

  There was luxury, and then there was out-of-this-world breathtaking opulence, Gina thought as she stared around in awe at the new Di Cosimo restaurant in St Tropez. Nestled in the hills above the town, it offered diners spectacular views over the bay and the harbour, where huge yachts and motor cruisers—undoubtedly owned by the many multimillionaires who flocked to the French Riviera during the summer—were moored.

  The restaurant was all white marble floors and pillars, with wallpaper flecked with the kind of gold-leaf which also gilded the Louis XV style dining chairs and matched the gold cutlery set out on pristine white linen tablecloths. Stunning centrepieces of white calla lilies and orchids filled the air with their heavenly fragrance, adding to the restaurant’s ambience of sumptuous elegance.

  ‘Are you impressed?’ Lanzo’s deep voice sounded from behind her and she spun round, her breath catching in her throat at the sight of him looking breathtakingly handsome in a formal black dinner suit.

  ‘I’m speechless,’ she replied honestly. ‘The décor is amazing. And the view from the terrace—those bright pink bougainvillea bushes and beyond them the sapphire-blue sea—is wonderful. I’ve never seen anything so beautiful.’

  ‘I agree,’ Lanzo said softly, not glancing at the view out of the window. Instead his eyes were fixed intently on Gina as he made a slow appraisal of her heather-coloured silkchiffon dress. Floor-length and strapless, the dress clung to her curves and emphasised her slender waist. She had piled her hair into a chignon with soft tendrils left loose to frame her face, and her only adornment was the rope of pearls that had once been her grandmother’s. The smooth, luminescent stones were displayed perfectly against her creamy skin.

  ‘The view from where I’m standing is exquisite,’ he murmured, watching dispassionately as soft colour flared along her cheekbones. Since he had kissed her in Rome their relationship had shifted subtly, and the tension between them was tangible. For the past week that they had been in St Tropez, Gina had been excruciatingly polite towards him, perhaps afraid that if they reverted to the easy friendliness they had shared since she had begun to work for him he would think she was willing to have an affair with him.

  But despite her coolness Lanzo had been conscious of the fierce sexual chemistry bubbling beneath the surface, waiting to explode. He felt strung out and edgy, his body in a permanent state of arousal—and his patience was at an end. His concentration was shot to pieces, his thoughts dominated by his need to take Gina to bed, and he knew from the way her eyes darkened every time she looked at him that her longing was as great as his.

  ‘Yes, well, everything is ready for the grand opening,’ Gina said shakily, dragging her eyes from Lanzo’s glinting gaze to glance at her watch. Her senses quivered as she inhaled the subtle scent of his cologne and she took a step away from him, terrified that he would notice her body’s betraying reaction to him, her nipples jutting beneath the sheer silk of her gown. ‘The guests should start to arrive soon.’

  She had barely uttered the words when a sleek black limousine drew up outside the restaurant and moments later a well-known Hollywood star emerged from the car.

  The guest list for tonight was chock-full of celebrities, and no expense had been spared to make the launch of the latest Di Cosimo restaurant an event that would hit the headlines around the world. Luisa had begun to organise the launch party before she had gone on maternity leave, but Gina had spent a hectic week finalising arrangements and dealing with last minute problems. Added to that, she had endured four days of the usual agony that accompanied her monthly period. She knew that the painful stomach cramps were a sign that her endometriosis was getting worse, and she was filled with an unbearable sadness that she was unlikely to ever have children.

  The only good thing was that she had been so tired and drained at the end of each day that she hadn’t had much time to think about Lanzo—although it had been difficult to ignore the escalating sexual tension between them. She did not know what to make of his assertion that he wanted her for more than just sex. If he did not want her for his mistress, what did he want? she wondered fretfully. She wished she had the courage to find out, but her marriage and subsequent divorce from Simon had been a bruising experience—and not just mentally, she thought ruefully, her hand straying unconsciously to the scar she had skilfully disguised with make-up. She was afraid to trust her judgement, afraid to give her trust to Lanzo, and now they seemed to be trapped in a strange stalemate which was dominated by their desperate physical awareness of each other.

  She was dragged from her thoughts when Lanzo drew her arm through his. ‘Duty time,’ he murmured when her eyes flew to his face. ‘We’ll wait at the front entrance to greet the guests as they arrive.’

  ‘Oh, but I thought that as you are the chairman of Di Cosimo Holdings you would prefer to do that on your own. Are you sure you want me …?’ Gina trailed to a halt as he gave her an amused smile.

  ‘I’m absolutely certain that I want you, cara,’ he drawled, his eyes glinting when she blushed scarlet.

  The launch party had been a great success, Gina mused hours later, stifling a yawn as she glanced at her watch and saw that it was almost midnight. The food had been divine, accompanied by a selection of the finest wines, and after dinner everyone had strolled out onto the terrace to enjoy the view and the endless supply of champagne served by white-jacketed waiters who wove through the throng of guests.

  Inevitably some people had drunk too much—notably an English celebrity television presenter, who regularly featured in the gossip columns and was renowned for his rowdy behaviour. Finn O’Connell had grown increasingly brash and loud-mouthed as the evening progressed. He was swaying unsteadily on his feet, Gina noted, looking over to where Finn was standing with a group of people, including his pretty young wife. Miranda O’Connell was a talented stage actress, and like many people Gina wondered what she saw in her boorish husband.

  Gina watched as Finn called to a waiter and demanded another glass of whisky—clearly he had moved on from champagne to neat spirits. His wife put her hand on his arm, as if to plead with him not to have another drink, and Finn reacted explosively, pushing Miranda away with such violence that she stumbled and fell. Gina heard the smash of glass on the tiled floor. As if in slow motion she saw Miranda fall, and memories instantly flooded her mind.

  Dear heaven, no—not again, she thought as she flew across the terrace. She pictured Miranda landing on the broken glass, and it brought back the horror of feeling blood pouring in a hot, sticky stream down her own face. Finn O’Connell was shouting at the two burly security guards who had appeared out of the shadows and were gripping his
arms. His wife was lying on the floor amid the shards of a broken glass, and Gina could barely bring herself to look, sure that Miranda must have been cut.

  Lanzo got there first. He knelt by Miranda’s side and spoke to her in a low tone before he gently helped her to her feet. There was no blood, Gina realised with relief. The young actress looked pale and shaken, but seemed otherwise unhurt.

  ‘Stay with Mrs O’Connell while I arrange for a car to take her and her husband back to their hotel,’ Lanzo instructed, glancing briefly at Gina. ‘I’ll tell a waiter to bring her some water—and black coffee for O’Connell,’ he added grimly. ‘He needs something to sober him up.’

  ‘I’m fine, really,’ Miranda said faintly as Lanzo strode away and Gina guided her to a chair. She bit her lip. ‘Finn just gets carried away sometimes.’

  ‘Fairly often, if the stories in the tabloids are even half right,’ Gina said quietly. When Miranda did not refute this she murmured, ‘You’re not responsible for the fact that your husband drinks too much. And he has no excuse for lashing out at you—certainly not that he’s downed too much whisky.’

  Miranda gave her a startled look. ‘You sound as though you’re speaking from experience.’

  Gina nodded. ‘I am. Alcohol affects people in different ways; some become happy and relaxed, while others feel morose. My ex-husband used to become bad-tempered and aggressive.’ She looked steadily at Miranda. ‘I pleaded with Simon to seek help, but he refused to admit he had a problem. When his heavy drinking made him violent I knew that for my safety I had to leave him.’ She hesitated, and gave the younger woman a sympathetic smile. ‘It’s not up to me to tell you how to live your life, but you need to take care of yourself—’

  She broke off when Lanzo returned. ‘Your car is waiting out front,’ he told Miranda. ‘I’ve taken the liberty of sending your husband back to your hotel in a separate car, accompanied by two of my staff. He seems more in control of himself now.’ He did not add that Finn O’Connell’s bravado had quickly dispersed when he had found himself sharing a car with the two burly bodyguards.

  ‘I hope she’ll be okay,’ Gina murmured as she and Lanzo watched the hotel manager escort Miranda out of the restaurant.

  ‘The security guards will make sure O’Connell behaves himself for the rest of tonight. Anyway, he’s so drunk that he’s probably out cold by now. Not that that’s an excuse. Any man who hits a woman is a pathetic coward,’ Lanzo said disgustedly. He glanced at Gina and frowned. ‘Are you all right? You’re deathly pale.’

  ‘I’m tired. It’s been a long day,’ she said hurriedly, desperate to deflect any further questions.

  ‘Go back to the hotel and get to bed. I’ll call the driver to take you,’ Lanzo said, taking his phone from his jacket. ‘I have a few things to finish up here.’

  She was weary—it hadn’t just been an excuse, Gina realised. The upsetting events with Miranda and Finn had been the final straw, and so she did not argue, simply collected her shawl and allowed Lanzo to escort her out to his limousine.

  They were staying just outside St Tropez, in a stunning five-star beach-front hotel. Some months ago Luisa had booked the luxurious Ambassador Suite for Lanzo, but she had not made arrangements for any staff who would be accompanying him. When Gina had later phoned the hotel to book a room for herself, and learned that there were no vacancies, she would have been happy to stay at another hotel. But Lanzo had insisted that she should share his suite.

  ‘It has two bedrooms, each with en suite bathrooms, as well as an enormous lounge. It’s ridiculous for you to stay somewhere else. After all, it won’t be any different than us living together in my apartment in Rome,’ he’d pointed out when she had tried to argue.

  The gleam in Lanzo’s eyes had warned Gina of his determination to have his own way, and from a work point of view sharing the suite made sense, she had been forced to admit. But tonight, as she crossed the spacious lounge and entered her bedroom, she locked the door behind her as she had done every night—although whether her actions were to keep Lanzo out or to stop herself from succumbing to temptation and going to him in the middle of the night, she refused to think about.

  The night was hot and sultry, and from far out across the bay came the distant rumble of thunder. Gina opened the French doors, hoping there would be a faint breeze blowing in from the sea, but the air was suffocatingly still.

  The scene at the restaurant kept playing over in her mind, but she resolutely pushed it and all its associated memories away as she hung up her dress, washed off her make-up, and slipped a peach silk chemise over her head before she climbed into bed. She had been on her feet since six-thirty that morning, rushing around sorting out last-minute arrangements for the launch party, and she was grateful for the bone-deep weariness that swept over her so that sleep claimed her within minutes.

  An hour later Lanzo entered the suite and made straight for the bar, where he poured himself a large brandy. It was his first drink of the night, for although the guests at the party had enjoyed unlimited champagne, he never drank alcohol while he was representing Di Cosimo Holdings. Nursing his glass, he strolled over to the French doors and opened them to step out onto the terrace. The sky was black, lit by neither moon nor stars, and the air prickled with an electricity that warned of an imminent storm.

  As he stared out across the dark sea, lightning suddenly seared the sky, ripping through the heavens and illuminating briefly the white wave-crests as they curled onto the shore. His jaw hardened. The day had been intolerably hot and sticky, and hopefully a downpour of rain would clear the air, but he hated storms.

  It was ironic that there should be one tonight, he brooded grimly. He hardly needed a reminder that it had been on this date fifteen years ago that lightning had struck his parents’ house in Positano and set it ablaze. The fire had been so intense and had spread so quickly that the occupants had not stood a chance. His parents and Cristina had been killed by smoke inhalation while they slept, and when the blaze had finally been brought under control the fire crew had found their bodies still in bed.

  He lifted his glass and drained it, feeling the brandy forge a fiery path down his throat. He could no longer see Cristina’s face clearly in his mind; time had shrouded her features behind its misty veil and it was now Gina’s face, her sapphire-blue eyes and her mouth that tilted upwards at the corners, that was burned onto his brain.

  The sound of a cry dragged him from his reverie. It had been a cry of terror—a sharp, frantic cry of mingled fear and pain—and it had come from Gina’s room. Pausing only to set his glass down on the table, Lanzo strode swiftly along the terrace, while above him the heavens grumbled menacingly.

  CHAPTER SIX

  THERE was so much blood. It was hot and wet, pumping all over her white dress and already forming a pool around her head. Gina tossed restlessly beneath the sheet, lost in her dream. She was amazed that she had that much blood, but she needed to stop it pouring out.

  With a cry, she jerked upright and pressed her hand to her cheek. It was dark, so dark that she couldn’t see, but as the dream slowly ebbed she realised that she wasn’t lying on the hard kitchen tiles, and there was no smashed glass beneath her face, no blood seeping from her.

  With a shaking hand she fumbled for the switch on the bedside lamp, and at once a soft glow lit up the room. Gina drew a ragged breath. It was a long time since she’d had the dream, and she knew it had been triggered by the events in the restaurant earlier, when Finn O’Connell had pushed his wife and she had fallen, her wine glass shattering on the ground seconds before she had landed. Miranda hadn’t been cut, thankfully. But the incident had brought back memories of Simon, drunk and aggressive, hitting her when she tried to take a bottle of whisky from him. The bottle had slipped to the floor, spilling its contents. The smell of whisky still made her feel sick.

  Afterwards, Simon had insisted that he hadn’t meant to hit her, but whether by accident or design his blow to her temple had been so hard that she h
ad reeled and fallen. She’d been shocked, and she hadn’t had time to put out her hands. She had landed on the broken glass, which had sliced through her face and neck.

  Pushing back the sheet, she jumped out of bed and fumbled to the open French doors, needing to escape the hot, dark room and the suffocating blackness of her dream. There was no moonlight, and she screamed when she walked into something solid. Hands gripped her arms as she lashed out.

  ‘Gina!’ Lanzo spoke her name urgently, shocked by her haunted expression. ‘What’s the matter, cara?’

  It was the cara that undid her. Lanzo’s voice was deep and soft, strength and gentleness meshed, so that she felt instantly safe. She felt instinctively that he would rather die than cause a woman physical harm. He was man of surprisingly old-fashioned values, who opened doors and gave up his seat, and considered it a man’s role to protect the weaker sex. Female emancipation was all very well, but at this moment, when she was trembling and felt sick inside, Gina simply allowed him to draw her close and stood silently while he stroked his hand through her hair.

  ‘What happened?’ he asked gently.

  ‘Nothing … I had a nightmare, that’s all,’ she whispered, unable to restrain a shiver as she recalled the details of the dream.

  Lanzo gave her a searching glance, feeling a curious little tug in his gut when he saw the shimmer of tears in her eyes. ‘Want to talk about it?’

  ‘No.’ She swallowed, and tore her eyes from the unexpected tenderness in his.

  He sighed and tightened his arms around her, resting his chin on top of her head. No way was he going to allow her to return to her bed alone when she was still clearly upset about her dream. He knew about nightmares. He still suffered from them himself sometimes: tortured images of Cristina, crying out for him amid the flames, and of him unable to save her. He knew what it was like to wake sweating and shaking, afraid to go back to sleep in case the nightmare came again, Lanzo thought grimly.