Defying Her Billionaire Protector

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 and 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.

Her stomach gave a sharp, sickening twist and she promptly handed over the key and watched, heart thumping, as Nico unlocked the door.

‘Stay here,’ he ordered, and she nodded, her mouth suddenly far too dry to protest. He went in, leaving the door an inch ajar behind him.

Marietta clutched her handbag in her lap and waited. Endless minutes ticked by, followed by more endless minutes. When Nico still hadn’t reappeared and she could no longer stand the suspense, she nudged the door open, inched forward and hovered on the threshold.

‘Nico?’ she called out, her voice echoing off the parquet wood flooring in the entry hall.

Nothing.

‘Nico!’ she tried again, louder this time.

Still nothing.

This was ridiculous. She wheeled down the hallway, a hot mix of impatience and adrenaline spurring her on.

‘I told you to stay put.’

Nico’s deep voice slammed into her from behind. She turned her chair around and blinked, her brain instantly grappling to interpret what her eyes were seeing. The sight of Nico standing in her bedroom doorway—which, in her haste, she’d sailed straight by—was easy enough to compute. The rest—the blue latex gloves sheathing his large hands, something red and lacy dangling from his fingers—was enough to send her senses into a floor-tilting spin.

She stared at the bizarre image before her a moment longer, until her breathing resumed some kind of normal rhythm, then gripped the hand rims of her chair and started forward—only to have Nico plant his feet firmly in the doorway and block her path.

She hiked up her chin, wishing there was a way to plough through that imposing wall of muscle. ‘Let me in,’ she demanded, and reached for the scrap of red lace.

He jerked it out of reach. ‘Marietta—’

‘No. This is my home, Nico. Whatever he’s done, whatever he’s left for me, I want to see.’

It took every shred of determination she possessed not to back down under the full force of Nico’s reprimanding stare. Finally, just as she began to think he wouldn’t budge, his rigid stance loosened.

He pointed a latex-clad finger at her. ‘Do not touch anything. There could be DNA and prints to lift.’ Then he stepped aside, allowing her to enter.

Marietta’s gaze went straight to the bed. To the crimson box lying open on her cream cotton coverlet and the items of luxury lingerie spilling haphazardly from between layers of soft white tissue. Scattered around the box and all across her bed were dozens upon dozens of red and white rose petals.

She moved closer, made out a red satin and black lace chemise, a sheer negligee and a pair of skimpy scarlet knickers. She closed her eyes, turned away, fighting a sudden stab of nausea. When she opened them again, her gaze landed on the item in Nico’s hand. A bra, she registered now. A lacy, see-through concoction designed to be sexy and revealing as opposed to any kind of practical.

Her gaze jerked up, collided with Nico’s, and for a fleeting moment it seemed as though something arced in the air between them. Something hot and bright and electric.

Which just went to prove how easily stress could affect the mind—because surely she had imagined that strange ripple of energy in the room that had felt almost like... What? Sexual awareness?

Heat flooded her face. Si, she was definitely stressed—not to mention embarrassed and horrified.

She yanked her gaze away from Nico’s and took one last look at her bed. Did her stalker think he would one day share it with her? Thick bile coated her throat and the heat drained from her face, leaving her cold and clammy.

‘Was there a card?’ she managed to ask.

Nico turned away from her to lay the bra on the bed. ‘No,’ he said, snapping the gloves off his hands. He turned back to look at her, his blue eyes dark and unreadable. ‘You’re pale, Marietta. Do you have anything to drink?’

She nodded. Si, a drink...something to wash the bile out of her throat, shave the edge off her nerves. She wheeled out of the room. She wouldn’t be able to sleep here tonight. Perhaps she could stay at Leo’s penthouse for the weekend? He’d be travelling to Tuscany this evening, back to Helena and their adorable baby boy Riccardo. Leo’s apartment building—a stunning renovated historic structure in the heart of the old city—wasn’t as wheelchair-friendly as this one, but there was an elevator at least. Or perhaps she could telephone a girlfriend?

Her mind spun in jerky circles until she reached her lounge and paused. She looked around the cosy, light-filled room. Had her stalker been in here, too? Had he snooped through every inch of her beloved home? Had he touched her things?

Angry and sickened, she dumped her handbag on her plum-coloured sofa and headed for the solid oak sideboard. The cabinet housed a small selection of spirits—brandy, limoncello, and a bottle of whisky for her brother when he visited.

She grabbed two cut-glass tumblers and, hearing footsteps on the hardwood floor behind her, twisted her chin round to look at Nico. ‘What will you have?’

He shrugged, the movement accentuating the breadth of his shoulders under his black open-necked shirt. ‘Whatever you’re having.’

She chose the brandy, unscrewed the cap and started to pour. But her hands shook and the liquid sloshed out too fast, hit the rim of the glass and splashed onto the sideboard. She cursed, the mishap pushing her to the verge of ridiculous tears, and then Nico’s hand was closing over hers. Without a word, he removed the bottle from her grip and poured a generous measure into each tumbler.

Feeling foolish, she took the glass he handed her and tried to ignore the lingering effect of his touch. It was the same hot, static-like sensation she’d experienced at the gallery, when he’d crouched in front of her and taken her hand in his. Except his touch then had lasted longer, she recalled, and his thumb had rubbed gentle, delicious circles on the back of her hand, setting off a chain reaction of tiny sparks under her skin.

She took a gulp of brandy and welcomed its distracting burn. ‘I don’t understand,’ she blurted when the heat had abated. ‘Why me?’ It was a question with no logical answer, she knew. She threw up a hand in helpless frustration. ‘Your company provides protection services to public figures,’ she said. ‘You must know something about this sort of thing. Why would he go to such lengths to get my attention and yet keep his identity a secret?’

Nico stood with one hand wrapped around his glass, the other shoved in his trouser pocket. He paused, as if carefully weighing his response. ‘In his mind, he’s courting you, and he wants total control over this stage of his fantasy,’ he said finally. ‘The longer he remains anonymous, the more time he has to build the perfect relationship with you in his head and avoid the risk of real-life rejection.’

Marietta grimaced. ‘That is totally twisted.’

Nico knocked back his brandy in a single swallow that made the muscles in his strong throat visibly work. ‘I agree,’ he said, then put the glass down and pulled his mobile phone from his pocket.

‘Who are you calling?’

‘Bruno, the police—’ he tapped the screen and pressed the phone to his ear ‘—and your brother.’

Marietta sighed. Eccellente. An army of men was about to invade her beloved home. She chafed at the intrusion—at the very knowledge that she could no longer handle this situation by herself—but, loath as she was to admit it, she had no choice. She’d have to accept help.

Her brother arrived first, and he must have driven like a madman to complete the journey from his office in less than twenty minutes. He looked like a madman, too, with his tie skewed, his hair on end, his handsome face creased with worry—an expression that grew considerably darker the moment he looked in her bedroom.

‘I’m fine,’ she told him as he tipped up her chin and searched her face with dark, probing eyes. His jaw clenched, as if he didn’t trust himself to speak, then he simply dropped a kiss on her head and stalked across the room to Nico.

Shortly afterwards, Bruno turned up, with a thin middle-aged man he introduced as a private forensic specialist, and, surreal though it all seemed, her lovely peaceful home began to resemble an official crime scene.

Marietta reached again for the brandy bottle and refilled her glass. She’d suffered through countless indignities during the painstaking months of rehabilitation and therapy after her accident, but this was a violation beyond her experience—beyond anything she’d equipped herself to deal with.

And it was so unfair—even though she knew life was unfair. Life didn’t owe her anything. Which was why she had worked so hard for everything she had: her job at the gallery, which provided a steady income, the loft she’d bought and turned into a nice little earner by converting it into an art studio and hiring out the space to working artists, and her own art career—which, with a few exhibitions of her paintings and some lucrative commissions under her belt, was finally taking off.

Admittedly she’d accepted some help from Leo in the early days, but she’d repaid him every euro she’d borrowed—despite his vociferous protests. While her dear brother had never understood his little sister’s need to assert her independence, he had finally accepted it.

She looked around at her apartment, filled with strangers. For years she’d prided herself on her strength and resilience, but she didn’t feel at all strong and resilient today. She felt helpless and afraid and she hated it. Her gaze travelled across the room to where her brother and Nico stood by the window, deep in conversation, their dark heads bowed. Leo had already swooped in like a man possessed, bent on taking control. How long before he tried to smother her in a suffocating blanket of protectiveness?

And then there was Nico. A man so commanding, so authoritative, she imagined the world would stop on its axis if he so ordered it.

As though sensing her scrutiny, the men stopped talking and looked up, two sets of eyes—one midnight-dark, the other a startling blue—settling on her. At once unease bubbled up inside her. She didn’t like the looks on their faces. Didn’t like the determined set of Nico’s jaw or the hint of something too much like apology in Leo’s eyes.

Marietta lifted the brandy she’d poured without spilling a drop this time and took a large, fortifying gulp.

Those expressions told her the men had decided something—and she wasn’t going to like it.

* * *

Nico had lied. First to Marietta and then, by omission, to her brother. Her stalker had left a note, and it was now in the hands of the forensic technician who was under strict orders to keep it out of sight. Leo already looked white-lipped and murderous. If he saw the sexually explicit language in the card he would undoubtedly lose the tight rein he held on his temper.

And Marietta—well, she’d already seen more than Nico had intended her to, thanks to a stubborn streak as wide as the Atlantic. Why she couldn’t have simply obeyed him and stayed put, he couldn’t fathom. Most of the time women were eager to please him, not defy him, and yet Marietta seemed to have a unique talent for the latter.

He handed his friend a double shot of whisky and Leo tossed the liquid down his throat, then glared at the empty glass as if he’d like nothing more than to smash it against a wall.