Awakening His Innocent Cinderella

Will she resist his scandalous proposition...

Or succumb to mindless pleasure?

Softhearted Gracie James is mortified when Rafael Vitale finds her accidentally trespassing on his luxurious Italian estate! She can’t refuse Rafe’s teasing demand that she attend an exclusive party with him. From the dangerous intensity in his eyes, virgin Gracie knows she’s playing with fire—after all, outrageous playboy Rafe is only promising a temporary liaison. Can she resist the power of his raw sensuality?

Be seduced by this spellbinding Cinderella story!

NATALIE ANDERSON adores a happy ending—which is why she always reads the back of a book first. Just to be sure. So you can be certain you’ve got a happy ending in your hands right now—because she promises nothing less. Along with happy endings she loves peppermint-filled dark chocolate, pineapple juice and extremely long showers. Not to mention spending hours teasing her imaginary friends with dating dilemmas. She tends to torment them before eventually relenting and offering—you guessed it—a happy ending. She lives in Christchurch, New Zealand, with her gorgeous husband and four fabulous children. If, like her, you love a happy ending, be sure to say hi at Facebook.com/authornataliea, follow @authornataliea on Twitter or visit her website/blog, natalie-anderson.com.

Also by Natalie Anderson

The Forgotten Gallo Bride

Claiming His Convenient Fiancée

Princess’s Pregnancy Secret

The King’s Captive Virgin

The Throne of San Felipe miniseries

The Secret That Shocked De Santis

The Mistress That Tamed De Santis

Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk.

Awakening His Innocent Cinderella

Natalie Anderson

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ISBN: 978-1-474-08729-2

AWAKENING HIS INNOCENT CINDERELLA

© 2018 Natalie Anderson

Published in Great Britain 2018

by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

By payment of the required fees, you are granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right and licence to download and install this e-book on your personal computer, tablet computer, smart phone or other electronic reading device only (each a “Licensed Device”) and to access, display and read the text of this e-book on-screen on your Licensed Device. Except to the extent any of these acts shall be permitted pursuant to any mandatory provision of applicable law but no further, no part of this e-book or its text or images may be reproduced, transmitted, distributed, translated, converted or adapted for use on another file format, communicated to the public, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of publisher.

® and ™ are trademarks owned and used by the trademark owner and/or its licensee. Trademarks marked with ® are registered with the United Kingdom Patent Office and/or the Office for Harmonisation in the Internal Market and in other countries.

www.millsandboon.co.uk

For Bridge and Kat—

thank you so much for the coffee catch-ups,

giggles and goss.

Thursdays are the best!

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

About the Author

Booklist

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Extract

About the Publisher

CHAPTER ONE

BRUSHING BACK A lock of hair, Gracie James entered the last three digits into the discreet keypad and paused expectantly. An electronic beep sounded and the heavy iron gates smoothly swung back. She wheeled her bike through the opening and leaned it against the nearest of the tall trees that formed a guard of honour the length of the driveway. She walked the rest of the way, making the most of her opportunity to see one of Lake Como’s luxury hideaways and cooling down from her ride at the same time. The grounds were stunning enough, but she still gasped when the building came into view.

Oh...yes.

In the gorgeous Italian village of Bellezzo, where she’d been living for the last four months, Gracie had thought she’d become immune to the stunning architecture Italy had to offer. So wrong. Villa Rosetta was an eighteenth-century masterpiece of symmetry and style with its precisely spaced archways, three floors of warm-coloured stone with large, gleaming windows and that perfectly placed turret on top. The luxury looked all the more magical thanks to the golden hue from the setting sun.

‘Amazing,’ she whispered as she walked to the edge of the marble patio to get a better look. ‘Amazing, amazing, amazing.’

The villa had long been an exclusive holiday home for wealthy families seeking privacy and luxury during the Italian summer, but for the last month it had been closed. Apparently the new owner had undertaken refurbishment work—upsetting the locals by shutting off access and shipping in city contractors.

No one in Bellezzo knew what he had planned now the work had been completed. But Gracie had heard whispers that he might not lease it out any more, which worried the villagers—the spending power of the beautiful people was of huge benefit to the community. Now, according to one gossip, Rafael Vitale, billionaire broker and reckless playboy, planned to have orgies there. Gracie inwardly giggled at the ridiculous thought—though the villa was certainly armed with all the privacy required for decadence and sinful delight.

Not that she knew much about either. But it didn’t seem right to her that just one person would enjoy this. She’d feel like a peanut rattling around in a shoebox if she lived here alone. So, yes, bring on the nymphs and satyrs.

She glanced along the villa’s private beach and saw the narrow hidden channel behind the wall through which boats could reach the lavish boat shed. She turned to the gardens—the reason for her visit. On the first terrace a swimming pool and a spa were set into crisply manicured lawns, with a half-dozen sun loungers evenly placed along the side. The azure water was another temptation—no one would ever know if she had a quick, secret dip. She glanced at her watch and reluctantly walked past to that springy, lush lawn.

Hidden beyond the trimmed hedges up on the next terrace was the famous tangled rose garden—dozens of heirloom roses planted in a deceptively ‘careless’ manner that formed a sweet-scented lover’s knot—entrancing and romantic and utterly gorgeous. No wonder her elderly neighbour Alex Peterson had been desperate for her to check on them.

She’d met the widower on her first day in Bellezzo. He lived on the ground floor of the small apartment building in which she’d rented a small unit. She’d stopped to enjoy the roses growing in the container garden by the gate. They’d started talking—in English—a heavenly treat given her appalling Italian.

Like her, Alex was an import. He’d married an Italian woman and had lived lakeside with her for fifty years until her death eleven months ago. His son lived in Milan, while his daughter and grandchildren lived in London. His life now was all about his hybrid roses as he aimed to create delicately scented flowers with masses of petals, while at the same time avoiding the matchmaking attempts of half the village.

It had become Gracie’s habit to bring him a pastry in her afternoon break from the café where she worked—Bar Pasticceria Zullo. But he’d been knocked down with the flu in the height of summer, which was unfair, and given his age she was worried. In turn, he was overly agitated about the precious flowers that he’d been tending for decades.

Despite the villa’s sale, Alex had refused to relinquish responsibility for the rose garden. Seeing it in full bloom now, she wasn’t surprised. With the amount of work that he’d put in, she knew he wanted them perfect for the new owner. He’d been desperate for her to ensure they weren’t wilting in the intense heat. Even now, at nightfall, the temperature was a touch too hot.

Tucking that loose strand of hair back again, Gracie fossicked for the hose and spent five minutes figuring out how to attach the thing to the tap. Natural gardener she was not. But finally she got it sorted. Then she phoned her friend because she’d already taken longer than planned.

‘Alex, it’s me, Gracie. I’m at the villa. The roses are beautiful. I’ll just water them and come back.’

‘How are they looking?’

‘Amazing. I’ll take a picture for you.’

‘Don’t worry about bringing me a picture. You just go into the village.’

She smiled at his bossiness. ‘I’m not leaving you alone for any longer than necessary. You’re not well.’

‘I’m not alone. Sofia arrived ten minutes ago with six pints of minestrone and won’t leave until I’ve eaten it all. I don’t know why she’s fussing. I’m not that sick.’

Sofia was the cousin of Francesca, Gracie’s boss at the pasticceria, and she was formidable. ‘Hide some in the roses.’ Gracie laughed.

Her stomach rumbled in outrage, reminding her she’d not eaten since grabbing a small roll before the rush had begun. Six pints of Sofia’s minestrone sounded fantastic to her.

‘Are you crazy?’ Alex muttered.

Gracie laughed again. ‘I’ll still—’

‘Go into the village,’ he interrupted. ‘Enjoy the festival. It’s your first. The fireworks are good.’

Gracie hesitated. She would like to go to the festival, especially seeing she’d spent all day baking a million pastries to be sold at the pasticceria’s stall, and Francesca had insisted she not work the evening shift in return. But Gracie was conscious of how horrible it was to be alone—especially when sick. ‘Are you sure?’

‘Of course I’m sure.’ He sighed. ‘Sofia has settled in. I won’t get rid of her for ages.’

‘Well, I’ll check on you in the morning.’

‘Not too early,’ he said gruffly. ‘You get up even earlier than I do.’

Gracie winced. Such were the perils of working both the early morning and the evening shifts at Bar Pasticceria Zullo, but working this hard to gain respect and a foothold was worth it, and she was happier than she’d ever been. ‘I’ll see you after my first shift, then.’

‘I look forward to it. Thank you, Gracie.’

‘My pleasure, Alex.’

Happy that he sounded so much better, she quickly snapped a picture to show him in the morning anyway. As soon as she got to the village she would be visiting the pasticceria for some sustenance. Tonight was Bellezzo’s annual festival—featuring lanterns on the lake, music and dancing. Fireworks. Food. Families. Fun. All the things she’d never experienced.

There’d be tourists, of course, plenty of tourists, but Gracie refused to consider herself one. She was a local with a home and she was determined to remain. After a childhood of upheaval and constantly having to rebuild, her spirits soared at the pleasure of now having a place to call hers. And while she might not have family here, she had a friend who needed her. She loved that.

Finally she flicked on the hose. The power of it caught her unawares. With a laugh she gripped it more tightly, giving each rose bush a big drink.

A hand suddenly slammed on her shoulder from behind—hard and heavy and so unexpected she screamed and whirled, brandishing the hose like a machine gun. All she could make out in the blurry spray was a massively large masculine frame and that simply made her aim all the more accurate.

‘What are you doing?’ she shrieked at him.

‘What are you doing?’ he shouted back—matching her English—but his accent had an American tang.

He wrenched the hose from her but it twisted as he grabbed it, spraying a shockingly cold streak across her stomach before he flung it to the ground, the water gushing harmlessly across the lawn. Gasping, Gracie stared at her assailant.

He was stunning. Wet. Angry. Soaked to the skin, the tuxedo he was wearing was now ruined. Tuxedo. Her stunned feeble brain attempted some computations.

‘Why the water cannon?’ He wiped one hand over his face, the other down his front. Droplets of water splattered from his fingers.

That tux was saturated and this was no intruder. Instinctively—unthinkingly—she reached out to help sweep the streaming rivers of water from his suit. She brushed frantically, her hands sopping, until she realised that he was no longer attempting to do the same thing. He was standing utterly still. She froze too, mortification finally sinking in.

Slowly—reluctantly—she glanced up. She encountered glittering eyes so brown they were almost black and they were fringed with unfairly long lashes. Of course he had lashes like those. Superlative, to match the rest of him. As for the cheekbones? You could slice steak on them they were so high and sharp and, oh, goodness...

‘Sorry.’ She whipped her hands behind her back and wished for another cold shock of water from that hose, because now she was so hot it was amazing her blouse wasn’t steaming. She stared up at the masculine magnificence towering several inches above her. She knew who this was. Francesca had flashed her a picture printed in the local newsletter when she’d told her about the sale of the villa. Gracie hadn’t understood a word of the accompanying text but that quick glimpse of those cheekbones had been unforgettable. Rafael Vitale. The billionaire orgy man himself.

‘You’re not supposed to be here,’ she said shakily.

‘I think that’s my line. Again.’ He watched her coolly, decidedly unimpressed. ‘This is my house. You’re the invader.’

‘I’m so sorry.’ She pulled on a smile and hoped he’d forgive her. ‘Wasn’t expecting you to be home.’

‘Clearly not.’ He didn’t smile back. Definitely not seeing the funny side yet.

She was dying...and was...uh...stunned.

Rafael Vitale was so much more than anyone she’d ever met—more tall, more good looking, more well dressed, aside from—

‘You’re very wet. I’m so sorry.’ She glanced at the water still streaming from his muscular frame and died all over again. ‘Will it be...okay?’

‘No,’ he answered bluntly, and peeled off the sodden jacket.

Paralysed, Gracie stared, slack-jawed. His shirt was glued to his skin. Glued. She could see the ridges of his muscles—of which there were many. Hot, hard muscles. He was the most strapping man. Panty-dropping gorgeous but so intimidating that she actually giggled. He looked up from shaking out the jacket and shot her another less than impressed look.

She covered her mouth with her hand. She really needed to stop staring at him. But she couldn’t. Was this what instant attraction felt like? Lust at first sight? She inwardly squirmed at her unruly overheated reaction. No wonder he was a rake if all women had this reaction to his appearance. He’d have his pick of bedmates. Clearly he thought she was a complete fool. But, then, he must be completely used to getting this kind of reaction, which meant she was as much of a fool as any of them. Hell, she needed to pull herself together!

Quickly she moved to get away from him but she slipped on the wet grass. Her feet slithered out from under her and she went down awkwardly, smashing her knee hard.

This time he slammed his strong hand beneath her elbow. Without any apparent effort he hauled her to her feet. Only, she slipped in her stupid wet sandals again. She heard a muttered curse and the next thing she knew she was pressed against his body as he formed a literal pillar of support. His arm was firmly about her waist, holding her far, far too close. Those muscles were even harder than they’d looked. And hotter.

Blistering with embarrassment, she couldn’t bear to look up at him. Dimly she realised her knee was killing her, but her proximity to his physical perfection was providing the most amazing anaesthetic. The thought idly crossed her mind that his woodsy scent ought to be bottled and used in operations in every hospital theatre.

Another ferociously muttered curse made her blink.

‘Are you all right?’ he snapped.

He probably thought she was simple. Most definitely useless. She tried putting her weight on her foot and winced. A second later she was flying through the air into his arms. His arms, as she’d suspected, were very strong. And the chest she was now pressed against was very solid. Fortunately the contact kick-started her rational thinking processes.

‘Put me down,’ she said stiffly.

‘And have you slip again and break your neck?’ he snarled, stalking back towards the beautiful villa. ‘You’re a liability. Not just to yourself. The sooner you’re off my property, the better.’

‘You’re going to carry me all the way to the gate?’

He probably was strong enough. She could feel his muscles burning through the cold, wet fabric. The man was built. But he was also obviously unimpressed. Desperately she suppressed her appreciative shiver. So inappropriate and lamely predictable. He must get women literally throwing themselves at him all the time. She was not going to be another. But as he effortlessly strode over the manicured lawns towards that magnificently impressive building, she couldn’t hold in another giggle.

‘Are you hysterical?’

She heard the unmistakable note of horror in his question.

‘No.’ She breathed in and steadied herself. ‘I’m embarrassed. Laughing is my nervous release. I’m sorry.’ She peered up to try to see into his face and braved another smile. ‘At least it’s better than crying.’

‘Well, that’s true,’ he answered grimly. ‘Heaven forbid I have a tearful trespasser on my hands.’ He climbed the wide steps and entered through the open doorway into the glorious large lounge. ‘I’m Rafael Vitale.’

‘I figured.’

‘And you are?’

Now she was inside, it immediately struck her that the best way of minimising his insane effect on her was to scope out the amazing interior of the villa instead. But he didn’t stop in the eye-poppingly ornate lounge, rather he marched straight through it down a long corridor to a vast kitchen. He unceremoniously set her on the large table. Fascinated, Gracie gaped at the gleaming appliances.

‘Wow,’ she murmured as she stared at the elegance of the set-up. ‘State of the art.’ And that was an understatement.

He gave the kitchen a dismissive glance and turned back to her with businesslike seriousness. ‘Is it sore?’

‘What?’ Oh. Her knee. ‘My embarrassment has numbed my knee.’

She snatched a breath and tried to look anywhere but at him again. Except he was so close and so good looking, her attention was the iron filing to his magnetism.

‘How helpful,’ he commented dryly. ‘Ice will bring out the bruising.’ He strode over to the gleaming fridge and pushed some buttons.

‘Because I want a purple knee,’ she muttered.

He didn’t respond as he walked back, holding ice in a glass and a clean cloth.

‘That’s an impressive fridge. The whole place is impressive,’ she babbled. ‘This kitchen is bigger than our one at the bakery and that’s a commercial operation. You could cook enough in here to feed an army. Though you’d need an army to use all the appliances at once.’

He still didn’t respond, just neatly wrapped some ice in the cloth. She shivered before he got the cold pack anywhere near her, but at the same time was still sweltering with embarrassment. And awareness. And yet more embarrassment.

She stared hard at her lap as he bent before her.

‘You’re not supposed to be here.’ She winced, desperately trying to ignore the brush of his fingers on her skin as he pushed up her skirt to reveal her grass-stained, bruised knee. ‘The villa was supposed to be empty until tomorrow. That’s what I heard.’

‘You talk all the time when you’re nervous too?’ He held the ice to her knee.

‘This isn’t usual,’ she muttered. Usually she went silent. She’d learned long ago that talking too much meant secrets might slip out and that habit was surprisingly hard to break. She preferred not to tell people about her upbringing now out of choice, rather than necessity. The difference of it made people awkward. ‘You know, it’s not that bad. You can stop with the ice now,’ she gasped. ‘I’m fine.’

He ignored her and increased the pressure even more. ‘Here. Hold it firmly.’

Mortified at the realisation that the last thing the man wanted was to press an ice pack against her leg, she slapped her hand down to hold it in place, inadvertently hitting his hand in the process.

‘Sorry,’ she muttered, dying all over again. If she were a cat, she’d be down to her last life by now.

She pushed back a wet ribbon of hair and tried to ignore the fact that Rafael Vitale was unfastening his wet shirt. Ten timeless seconds later he wasn’t wearing said shirt. Her mouth dried as her brain shorted out. His chest was bronzed and, as she’d suspected, his muscles were ultra-defined. Furthermore, he had the finest trail of hair leading to the waistband of his perfectly tailored black trousers. He was officially a living freaking angel. When he turned away, she quickly pressed the wrapped ice against her burning cheeks instead of her knee and racked her brains for what Francesca had told her about him.

Rafael Vitale had made billions from the kinds of financial transactions Gracie had no desire to ever understand and now he was amassing a property empire. Another thing she’d never understand. She wanted only the one place to call home—that would make her happier than anything.

And if Francesca’s favourite websites were to be believed, the guy dated models and aristocrats—as in the aristocrats who were models. He had an endless supply of stunning well-connected women to warm his bed. Seeing him in the flesh—indeed seeing most of his flesh—Gracie could totally understand why.

She pressed her legs together, primly rejecting the insidious warmth and restless kick deep within. The sooner she got away from here, the better. She’d embarrassed herself enough. She didn’t need to drool over a man who was so far out of her league and who’d never send her a second look in ordinary circumstances. But his kitchen was totally droolworthy—she could make amazing things in this kitchen.