Contents
Just This One Summer
Excerpt - Loving the Enemy
Just This One Summer
The Montebellos Book Two
Content Warning
JUST THIS ONE SUMMER explores the fallout from domestic violence and some readers may find this triggering.
First and foremost this is a romance novel, filled with happy, passionate, beautiful escapism and the promise of how much can go right if you let yourself hope.
Prologue
Six months ago, London.
SHE DIDN’T PACK MUCH. One bag, just enough to throw over the shoulder and carry with ease. Enough to keep her going until she found her feet. Enough to help her get away – and to get away quickly. Madeleine left without looking back, because looking back hurt too much.
If she looked back far enough, she’d see Michael as he’d been when they first met. Charming, handsome, kind, everything she’d ever thought she wanted.
But new memories had overwritten those quickly enough. The smell of alcohol on his breath. The way his voice went quiet and soft when he was angry; somehow, that was so much more frightening than when he yelled. The certainty his temper was always worse when he’d bet big and lost bigger. And finally, the feeling of his hand around her throat, the way breath had burned in her lungs, the way her eyes had ached, darkness encroaching until she’d remembered she had legs and had lifted one, kneeing him in the groin. It hadn’t been hard but it had been enough.
She’d never fought back before. Then again, he’d never made it so imperative that she did.
Looking over her shoulder was an impulse. She did it now, twisting her head so her blonde ponytail flicked in the breeze, making sure no one she knew witnessed her step onto the bus. Her heart was slamming against her ribs, her breathing rushed. As the bus whistled out of Putney, it occurred to Madeleine that she had no idea where she was going.
She knew though that she would no longer be Madeleine Gray. She’d be Maddie. Someone different to this. Someone stronger. Someone who’d never be fooled again. Someone who was independent. Solitary. Safe.
She watched from the window as the bus rounded the corner. Shops she knew so well – the Tesco express, the bank, the post office, a Wagamamas, all so familiar to her, but all relegated to the back of her mind, to the past.
Another bus and an overground and she’d arrived at Heathrow, and by then, Maddie had a plan.
It didn’t come to her perfectly formed, but when she closed her eyes and imagined peace and tranquillity, she saw a place with a musical name, a place she’d found herself wondering about for no reason in particular, a place she was eager now to go to. It didn’t make sense, it was as though her soul was being called on in some way, and for lack of other ideas, she was content to listen.
Ondechiara.
Even the name was somehow magical. She’d read it on the bottom of the picture enough times to know it by heart. “What does it mean?” She’d asked Michael, on one of the first occasions she’d gone to his flat and seen the print.
“Clear waves. It’s perfect.” His smile had been like sunshine. Back then, he’d smiled at her often. She’d come to fear his smile though, because she knew it was a brief burst of warmth, almost always followed by a deafening thunderstorm. “The city itself is quite ancient. Cobbled streets that wind through tiny stone buildings, all brightly coloured and washed by the sea. The roofs are terracotta and the smell of citrus is everywhere. The ocean is the most striking shade of green, but as it comes into shore, the waves become clear, like glass, so you can see every grain of sand on the ocean floor.”
“Do you go there often?”
“I’ve only been once.” He lifted his broad shoulders, his body strong, his frame bulky. “With one of my closest friends.”
“Well, I think it sounds perfect. I’d love to see it.”
“I’ll take you there one day.”
Michael was good at making promises, but he was much better at breaking them.
She lifted a hand to her throat unconsciously, wincing as she felt the sting of her flesh there, concealed beneath her turtleneck. After the last time, he’d promised he’d never touch her again. He’d promised he was sorry, that he hadn’t meant it, that he’d get help. He’d promised he’d stop gambling, drinking. That he would do anything rather than lose her.
But two weeks later, he’d pinned her to the fridge and gripped her around the neck until she’d truly thought she might die.
Michael had broken every promise that mattered to her.
She paid cash for her ticket to Rome, despite the fact he didn’t have access to her bank statements. She couldn’t afford to let her guard down. She needed to get away first, to think, to work out what she’d do next.
Ondechiara wouldn’t shelter her forever, but perhaps with a little time she’d be able to see the grains of sand that made up her fractured, confusing life a little more clearly. Perhaps she’d be able to float once more…
Chapter 1
IF SHE HADN’T BEEN wearing that yellow hat, he’d never have seen her. But from where he stood halfway along the floor to ceiling windows that made a wall of glass in his home on the edge of the cliff, rain buffeting the glass so that it was grey and almost impossible to see through, he was aware of a slight figure being pushed by the breeze, the rain that was coming in sideways dragging the summery dress around her slender frame.
He didn’t think twice. Nico Montebello paced to the front door and wrenched it open, so a gale force wind blew through the architecturally designed home, rattling a painting that hung in the hallway. Dante, his loyal border collie, Labrador, poodle, something, something, had taken shelter beneath the piano some time earlier – he hated storms – but he barked now, bounding towards the door to see where Nico was going.
“Quiet boy. Stay.” Nico patted the dog’s head, between his ears, then strode onto the deck, taking the steps two at a time, crossing the grassed cliff top until he was within reach of her.
Her hair was silky blonde, long and loose, halfway down her back. It was wet though, clinging to her like seaweed does the water in the ocean. Her tan was golden, proof of a summer spent somewhere like this, and yet he’d never seen her before. Ondechiara wasn’t a large town, he knew most people in the close-knit community. A frisson of well-trained caution danced across his spine.
This was private land and there’d been a lot of press interest surrounding his family since Fiero and Elodie’s wedding. The First Montebello Bachelor Bites the Dust! The papers had cried, speculating on who would be next to settle down. Little did they know the curse of the Montebellos was a hard one to shake. Fiero had been lucky but Nico found it almost impossible to believe his brothers or cousins would enjoy a similar fate, despite what the tabloids might wish.
Si, she could definitely be a reporter, coming to snoop around. It wouldn’t be the first time. Damn it, he’d meant to get security tightened around the property. It had been years since he’d bothered, given the remoteness of the location, which served as its own natural barrier to prying eyes.
Which meant she must be really good at her job…
His first reaction of concern was muted to one of suspicion. He approached her from behind. She wasn’t snooping around as a reporter might. Nor was she doing anything to avoid being seen. That yellow hat was like a beacon against the grey sky the summer storm had dragged in over the ancient town and usually crystal clear sea that surrounded this part of Italy.
When he was close e
nough to be heard, he shouted, “Basta.” She jumped half a foot off the ground as she turned to face him.
“Oh my God!” Up close, it was impossible not to be struck by her beauty. Wide-set eyes with an almost turquoise colour, long black lashes that were clumpy and thick from the rain, a fine nose with a slight lift at its end, skin that was tanned caramel, lips that were shaped like a cupid’s bow, and cheeks that had dimples in them when she smiled, which she was doing now. “I didn’t hear you approach. This weather is wild.”
Another flash of lightning. She was saturated. “What the hell are you doing here?”
She had to shout to be heard above the lashing rain. “Exploring.” An impish grin. Something surged inside of him with which he was eminently familiar. Desire. Curiosity. That first flush of interest he felt when he met a woman he wanted to know better. It was ridiculous, given that she could very well be here to write an expose on his family.
“This is private property.”
She lifted a brow. “Really?” Her gaze drifted to the ocean, so churned up by the wind and waves that it looked dramatic and angry. “It should be illegal to privatise views like this.”
Curiosity grew. “You’re drenched.”
Another smile. “I know.”
“You shouldn’t be out in this weather.”
“I didn’t mean to be,” she turned back to face him and there it was again: desire, a rolling wave seizing his insides, making it difficult to think of anything else. “It was sunny when I set out.”
“It’s been raining most of the day.”
She lifted her shoulders. “Then I’ve been exploring most of the day.”
She was probably not a journalist but the likelihood of her being a tiny bit crazy was increasing.
Lightning slashed closer, the bright light dancing towards the sand so Nico swore and gestured to the house. Of the six Montebellos, he was perhaps the most notoriously guarded with his privacy, so he was surprised to hear himself say, “You should wait out the storm here.”
Her smile dropped. “Oh, no,” she shook her head. “I’m fine.”
His eyes narrowed. “Where are you staying?”
Her lips tugged downward into a frown that was bordering on a pout. Mentally, Nico swore. She was somehow even more attractive when she was frowning.
“I’m not planning to stalk you,” he assured her drily, so she laughed.
“Sorry.” But there was something in her expression, a hint of wariness that had him wondering. “I rented La Villetta di Pietra for the summer.”
He made a noise of disbelief but the pouring rain devoured it. “That’s five miles away.”
“Is it? So far?”
He stared at her. “You walked here?”
She nodded.
“In the rain?”
Another nod.
That settled it. “You can’t possibly walk back now.”
“The storm should clear soon.”
“It won’t. It isn’t blowing out to sea, it’s settling in.”
“How do you know?” She looked towards the ocean so he had a glimpse of her elegant, swan-like neck, the skin there smooth and golden.
“Experience.” He gestured to his house once more. “Come and wait it out.”
She looked at him thoughtfully, hesitantly. It was an unusual response. Nico was used to women tripping over themselves to be alone with him, but she seemed to be genuinely uncertain.
“It’s a simple neighbourly invitation,” he heard himself promise. “Nothing sinister whatsoever.”
“How do I know that?” Her arched brow held a challenge.
“That I don’t have any bad intentions?”
“Right.”
“You don’t.” His own grin was unknowingly charming. “You’ll have to trust me.”
“I don’t trust easily.”
Admiration shifted inside of him; he recognised the trait and appreciated it. He’d trusted easily once and it had burned him. He didn’t make a habit of it anymore. “Nor do I.”
Her eyes shone like the sea on a sunlit day but when she spoke, the words were swallowed completely by the storm.
“Better to trust me than this weather,” he shouted to be heard.
She bit down on her lower lip then jumped as another slash of lightning burst through the sky. A few seconds later, the accompanying rumble of thunder growled overhead and a strong wind threatened to blow the hat right off her head.
“Just until it passes.”
“Bene.” He nodded approvingly at the resurgence of her common sense, leading the way back to the house. The timber deck was a little slippery so he held a hand out in an offer of support. She ignored it, side-stepping the boots and Dante’s leash with grace and ease, pausing just inside the door while she looked around. Her attention moved through the hall and into the living area, which caused him to do the same, viewing it as if through her eyes. It was unmistakably grand. White marble flooring that gave way to walls of glass framing spectacular views of the ocean in one direction and the countryside in the other. A grand piano sat down the far side of the room, and priceless art adorned the walls.
“Nice place to wait out a storm,” she quipped, lifting her hat off and holding it in her hands. Her nails were bare of colour and cut short.
“Grazie.” The door blew closed with a fierce bang before he could catch it and she flinched, whipping around to face him as though he’d purposefully made the noise. “Sorry,” he lifted his hands, her actions reminding him a little of Dante when he’d first inherited the dog and he’d been wary as a default setting.
“What for?” She covered it so quickly that he wondered if he’d invented her response.
“You’re soaking. Let me get you some clothes,” he offered.
“That’s very thoughtful of you. Thanks.”
He was glad she didn’t refuse, because he didn’t really want to argue with her, nor did he want her pneumonia on his conscience. He had only his own clothes to offer and there was a substantial size difference between them. He pulled out a sweater and a pair of board shorts that had a drawstring waist, as well as some socks. When he returned to the lounge room, she was staring at one of the paintings – a landscape of the area that had been done by a well-known impressionist. It had been turned into a print at some point, before his family’s acquisition, and the replication was sold all over the world.
Her eyes flicked to his. “I’m making a puddle.”
“Di niente. I have towels.”
Her eyes held his in a way that was compelling and unnerving. “This is beautiful.”
“Si.” He moved towards it. “It captures Ondechiara well.”
She nodded. “It’s the original?”
“Si.”
“Wow.” The word escaped her lips so softly he barely heard it.
“Here. There’s not much but at least it will keep you warm for now.”
“Thanks.” She looked around. “Is there somewhere…?”
“Of course,” he nodded crisply. “The door on the left.” He gestured down the corridor. As she walked towards the powder room, he found his eyes following her without his knowledge, studying the lithe grace of her step, the gentle curve of her rear, her neat waist. He dragged his gaze away with effort, turning his attention to the water she’d leaked onto the marble floor. Grabbing a towel from the linen press, he’d just finished drying it when she returned.
Seeing her dressed in his clothes was his undoing. She was so petite and feminine, she was dwarfed by his shirt, and his socks came halfway up her calves, all wrinkled and thick. Out of nowhere, he imagined the feel of his fabric on her body and his whole body tightened in response. His desire now was no stealth-like whisper. It was a throb, a drum beating intensely in his gut, pulsing through his body in a way that was unsettling, given the promise he’d rendered in order to convince her to take shelter.
“What are you doing so far from la villetta?” His voice was a little unnatural. He silently cleared his t
hroat.
“I told you,” she smiled, her wet clothes clutched in front of her. “Exploring.”
He moved towards her, noting more details up close. She wore no make up – or perhaps she had at some point that day, but it had all been washed off now. She didn’t need cosmetics. She had a beauty that was completely natural, her bone structure so fine, her complexion stunning. She’d towel-dried her hair and pulled it over one shoulder and the size of his shirt meant the fine bones of her décolletage were displayed to him.
“Can these go in the machine?” He gestured to her clothes.
She pulled a face that was borderline teasing. “Yeah. But you don’t need to bother…”
“We’re stuck here til the storm passes. It’s no trouble.”
“If you’re sure.”
He held a hand out by way of acceptance and she placed the clothes in them. The gesture was unconscious but it brought them nearer; up close, there was a hint of citrus surrounding her, as though she’d been kissed by the grove to the east of the house. Her eyes flared wide, as though she too felt this zip of awareness, this hum of need, and neither of them moved for several seconds. They stared at each other so he caught every detail of her response. Her lips parted and her breath was warm, fanning against his Adam’s apple. A hint of colour flared in her cheeks, and the fine pulse point at the base of her throat trembled visibly.
Curiosity strangled him.
“I…” Her voice was soft. She swallowed, as if struggling to grab the threads of her thoughts. “I didn’t realise this was a house. I wouldn’t have encroached on your privacy…”
“Di niente.” He shook his head, and it was like breaking a spell – or postponing its hold at least. “I’ll be right back.”
But she padded behind him, so that as he pushed the towels and her clothes into the washer, he was conscious of her leaning against the doorjamb watching him with an undisguised curiosity of her own. “You’re more domesticated than you look.”
Just This One Summer: A billionaire forbidden love romance... (The Montebellos Book 2) Page 1