Ultimate Temptation

Cover Letter to Reader Title Page 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 Endpage Copyright

Happy Birthday Harlequin

25 Successful Years!

Hope there are many more.

Best Wishes

Anne Mather

Dear Reader,

Welcome to the twenty-fifth anniversary of Harlequin Presents®—a perfect opportunity for opening a bottle of champagne and toasting the world’s most exciting romance line.

I’ve had the privilege of contributing to it for over twenty happy, fulfilling years, and I can’t imagine a better job.

I love to read as well as write, and I’ve been fascinated to see how Presents has developed over the years to meet the romantic needs and aspirations of so many women. Long may it continue.

With love,

Sara Craven

Ultimate Temptation

Sara Craven

www.millsandboon.co.uk

CHAPTER ONE

‘LUCY—check out the guy on the end table. Have you ever seen anything so gorgeous?’

Lucy Winters felt herself shrivel inwardly as Nina’s penetrating stage whisper reached her ears—and, presumably, those of everyone else around them at the pavement café. She stared down at the guide to Tuscany she was studying, wishing she could climb inside it, closing the covers behind her.

Her only hope was that this unknown Adonis was either stone-deaf or spoke no English. But one swift, embarrassed glance in his direction told her instantly that her optimism was unfounded.

She saw a profile that Michelangelo might have sculpted in bronze, etched now with lines of total disdain. A high-bridged, aristocratic nose complemented a firm mouth, curling in contempt and annoyance, and a strong chin jutted arrogantly as their owner signalled to the waiter for his bill. He turned to pick up a flat leather briefcase from the adjoining chair, and for a moment his eyes, cold as frozen amber, met Lucy’s.

They said that ice could burn. And Lucy felt as if she’d been scorched from head to foot.

She muttered urgently, ‘Nina—for heaven’s sake. He heard you.’

‘Well, what of it?’ Nina was unrepentant. ‘That’s what these Italian studs live for—being looked at—admired. There he goes.’ She leaned back in her chair, sighing gustily. ‘God, look at the way he moves his hips. I bet he’s a sensation in the sack.’

Lucy, wincing at her companion’s crudity, watched the tall figure’s retreat with more clinical interest.

Yes, he was almost classically good-looking, although his thick, waving black hair was worn rather too long for her taste, she decided with detachment. And he moved with a careless grace which was probably instinctive rather than studied. But he’d clearly resented being the object of Nina’s blatant interest, and made no bones about it either. And who could blame him?

Not, Lucy thought, a man to cross.

She said drily, ‘I think there could be more to him than that. He was wearing a designer suit—probably Armani.’

Nina giggled. ‘I was more interested in what was underneath it,’ she returned, unabashed. ‘I’m beginning to like Italy.’

She signalled to the waiter to bring two more cappuccinos, and Lucy returned to her guidebook.

Not for the first time in the forty-eight hours since their arrival, she found herself wondering if she’d done the right thing.

It had been a total shot in the dark, agreeing to share a villa in Tuscany with three other girls who were comparative strangers to her. But she’d been desperate to get away—to have a break—a complete change of scene.

And when she’d heard Nina, who worked in the accounts department, lamenting the fact that the fourth member of their projected house party had let them down virtually at the last minute, she’d heard herself, to her own astonishment, saying, ‘I’ll go with you.’

Three weeks of Tuscan sun would have been unthinkable while she was with Philip. He liked action holidays—white-water rafting, orienteering in Scotland, rock-climbing in Wales—and Lucy had masked her apprehension and tried to join in. Flotilla sailing in the Greek islands had been the nearest thing to relaxation he would agree to, but Lucy had turned out to be not a very good sailor.

Maybe his open irritation and impatience with her during that last trip should have alerted her to the fact that all was not well with their relationship. Or maybe love really did make you blind, after all, she thought, trying not to look at the pale band on her finger where his ring had been.

When he’d told her, quite abruptly, that there was someone else, she’d been devastated. But, looking back, she realised the signs had been there for a while.

She’d watched numbly while he briskly packed his things, and moved out of the flat they’d been sharing. Hers, of course, to begin with, but that was through choice. Now she had to choose again—to decide whether to stay there with all her memories or find somewhere new.

‘You can always camp out with us for a while,’ her sister Jan had told her, her pretty face wrinkled with concern. ‘Until you find your feet.’

Lucy loved Jan, and her enormous rugby-playing brother-in-law, and her pair of permanently mud-stained nephews, but she’d known that moving in with them all, however temporarily, was not the answer.

‘That’s one of the reasons I’m taking this holiday—to think—to get my life sorted.’ She’d tried to smile. ‘It takes time to adjust.’

‘But is this the right way to do it?’ Jan sprinkled sugar over the fruit in the pastry case in front of her. ‘Sharing a house with a girl you hardly know, and two of her friends?’ She shook her head. ‘Sounds like a recipe for disaster to me.’

‘Well, you stick to apple pies.’ Lucy tried to sound cheerful. ‘I’ve seen a photograph of the Villa Dante and it looks fantastic, besides being absurdly cheap. It belongs to a friend of the manager of the Italian restaurant that Sandie and Fee go to after their language class.’

‘Not a proper holiday company?’ Jan’s frown deepened, and Lucy hugged her.

‘Stop being a mother hen. It’ll be marvellous. I might even get some painting done.’

‘Well, if you’re sure.’ Jan sighed. ‘Oh, damn Philip. I can’t believe he’s done this to you.’ She paused, giving Lucy a wary glance. ‘Who is this new lady?’ she asked carefully. ‘Do you know?’

Lucy ate a slice of apple to cover her grimace. ‘Remember he changed his job a few months ago—went to a merchant bank in the City? Apparently she’s the chairman’s daughter.’ She added stonily, ‘He always was very ambitious.’

‘That’s not the word I’d choose,’ Jan said grimly. ‘Well, you forget about the two-timing swine and have a great holiday.’

That had been Lucy’s intention, but she’d been conscious of her misgivings even on the flight to Pisa, when the others had taken full advantage of the free drinks offered by the stewardesses, as well as engaging in a noisy and uninhibited flirtation with a group of young men across the aisle.

Lucy, staying off alcohol because it had occurred to her that someone had to drive the rented car awaiting them at Pisa, had seen some of the scathing looks directed towards them by other passengers. She’d also been aware that some of the men opposite had girls with them who were beginning to look downright hostile.

But her attempt to cool the situation had been treated with derision by her companions.

‘What a drag,’ she’d heard Sandie mutter to Fee. ‘No wonder her boyfriend dumped her.’

Tommaso, their landlord, had been waiting at the airport with the car—a smart little Fiat—and the keys to the villa. He was younger than Lucy had expected, efficient and more than charming, but she hadn’t warmed to him.

And one glance from his bold dark eyes had told her that neither her slender shape, her smoothly bobbed hair nor her wide, faintly slanting hazel eyes held the least appeal for him. Her companions, in their skimpy sundresses, high on booze and excitement, were far more to his taste, and he’d ogled them shamelessly while conducting the necessary negotiations.

Lucy had not expected to hand over her share of the rental in cash, there and then, but the others had seen nothing wrong in it, so she’d supposed she was being overly fussy.

‘Isn’t there an inventory we should see?’ she asked doubtfully, but Tommaso waved that away with one of his wide smiles.

‘Any problem—you tell the maid, Maddalena,’ he decreed.

‘And if she can’t deal with it?’ Lucy’s voice was cool. She’d come to Italy to relax, but this was altogether too casual.

Tommaso shrugged. ‘Then you come to me.’ He gave her a dog-eared card with a hand-written address on it. ‘I live here, in Montivemo.’

Lucy, struggling to accustom herself to the left-hand drive, as well as the unfamiliar clutch, felt consumed by pessimism about the whole enterprise, especially when her merry companions insisted she make a detour so that they could glimpse the famous Leaning Tower before they left Pisa.

‘Bloody thing looks straight,’ was Nina’s slurred comment from the back seat.

Lucy sighed under her breath as she edged carefully out of Pisa and headed south.

It was a wonderful day, the sun warm in a faultlessly blue sky, the faint breeze redolent of pine and rosemary. She found herself driving past fields of sunflowers, through tiny villages bright with flowers and shuttered against the heat, and always on the edge of her vision were the untamed rolling hills. The others had fallen asleep, so Lucy had it all to herself, and was content.

Following the sketch map Tommaso had given her, she bypassed Montiverno—a small town clinging to its rocky hilltop, and dominated by a ruined fortress—and turned into a wide valley lined by terraces of vines and silvery olive groves.

And, as she rounded a sharp bend, there, somewhat to her surprise, was the Villa Dante, its name carved into one of the tall stone pillars which flanked the gateway.

An imposing entrance for a holiday let, Lucy thought as she steered the Fiat carefully through the high wrought-iron gates and up the long, winding drive where cypresses stood like dark sentinels.

And when the house came finally into view, standing proudly back from a broad gravel sweep, Lucy felt the breath catch in her throat.

It was love at first sight.

She braked gently and sat, drinking in ancient walls the colour of pale apricot, the faded terracotta roof, the wide stone steps leading up to the heavily timbered front door.

The photographs in London hadn’t done it any kind of justice, she thought almost reverently. It was like some exquisite antique painting set in the matchless frame of the golden Tuscan landscape.

‘Well, it’ll do,’ Fee remarked as she emerged from the Fiat. ‘I hope to God the plumbing works.’

Maddalena was waiting to greet them. She was small, her black hair was liberally streaked with grey, and she was patently nervous. She barely spoke or smiled as she led them on a swift tour of inspection.

The villa had been built on three sides of a large courtyard, surrounded by a colonnaded veranda, with the usual shady loggia on the first floor. In the centre of the courtyard was a large stone fountain into which water poured eternally from a tilted urn upheld by a smiling nymph, while steps led down to a broad terrace with a swimming pool, and finally to a tumble of garden with tall hedges, gravelled paths and banks of roses and flowering shrubs running riot beyond.

Inside, the rooms were spacious, and while not overfurnished they gave the impression that each item had been selected with great care.

Lucy’s eyes widened as she assimilated the dining room, with its frescoed walls, massive polished dining table set off by ornately carved wooden candelabra and tall-backed formal chairs, and then went into the formal salotto, with its exquisite ceiling, elaborately patterned in coloured plaster, the wide stone fireplace, big enough to roast one of the wild boar for which the region was famous, and the cavernous but supremely comfortable leather sofas.

All this grandeur for the kind of rent we’re paying? Lucy questioned silently, but the others seemed to take it in their stride.

‘A bedroom each, and a couple over,’ Nina exulted. ‘Let’s hope we get lucky.’

Lucy was hoping for nothing of the sort. That kind of encounter had never been her style, and she felt too raw and vulnerable to contemplate even the most casual of relationships.

The first couple of days passed tranquilly enough. They sunned themselves, bathed in the pool and enjoyed Maddalena’s excellent cooking. Sandie and Fee spent a fair amount of time on the telephone, having low-voiced giggly conversations.

Lucy could only pray they weren’t calling home to Britain, or the bill at the end of their stay would be horrendous, and her funds were strictly limited.

But she would worry about that when the time came. In the meantime, she could revel in the drowsy ambience of her surroundings, and the unusual luxury of having a maid to wait on them.

Except, this morning, Maddalena hadn’t turned up.

‘Perhaps it’s her day off,’ Nina commented crossly as she wrestled with the coffee-machine. ‘Did she say anything to you, Lucy?’

‘She hardly says anything at all,’ Lucy admitted wryly. ‘She still seems scared to death of us.’ She looked at Sandie. ‘Why don’t you go down to her cottage and see if she’s all right?’

‘Why me?’ Sandie bridled.

‘Because you and Fee have been to Italian classes,’ Lucy reminded her patiently.

Fee pulled a face. ‘And a lot of good it’s done us so far. But I’ll try and get some sense out of her,’ she added, with the air of one making a great concession.

She was back almost at once. ‘There’s no one there,’ she reported. ‘I had a look through one of the windows and the place looks deserted, as if she’s cleared out altogether.’

‘Oh, Lord.’ Nina was alarmed. ‘Our money—our travellers’ cheques...’

But all their personal possessions and valuables were still safely in place.

‘She must have got fed up with the job,’ Fee said discontentedly. ‘But maid servce is included in the price Tommaso’s charged, so he can bloody well provide someone else. We’ll tell him after we’ve been to the alimentari this morning.’

Which was how Lucy now found herself sitting in Montiverno’s main square drinking coffee with Nina, while the other two shopped for provisions—something they’d volunteered to do, to her surprise.

They came back laden, and smiling like cats with a saucer of cream.

‘You’ll never guess who we bumped into in the supermarket,’ Sandie said airily as she sat down. ‘Those guys we met on the flight over—Ben and Dave. Ben’s parents have got a summer place just a couple of miles away at Lussione. Isn’t that an amazing coincidence?’

Her face and voice were equally guileless, but Lucy spotted the wink she directed at Nina.

They’d clearly been in touch with each other from the start. That was what all the phone calls were about, she thought resignedly. And this morning’s shopping trip had been a rendezvous.

‘So tonight we’re throwing a little party—a welcome to Tuscany bash for us all. They thought it was a great idea.’ Fee adjusted her sunglasses nonchalantly.

Lucy stared at her. ‘You’re having this party at the villa?’

‘Why not?’ Sandie challenged.

They were all glaring at her suddenly, looking as if they were waiting for her to put a damper on everything. As she felt she must.

‘It doesn’t seem the right setting for that kind of thing.’ She felt about one hundred and three. ‘A lot of the furniture’s old and very valuable. And Tommaso may not want a lot of strangers on his property.’

‘Well, if you’re so uptight about it, ask him,’ Nina flung at her. ‘Get his permission at the same time you tell him about Maddalena. Ask him to join us, if he fancies it.’ She looked at her watch. ‘I’m going to look in that little boutique down the road. We’ll see you back here in an hour.’

Now I really am the outsider, Lucy thought as she climbed up through the maze of narrow cobbled streets towards the rocca. Party pooper par excellence.

She stopped to check the address Tommaso had given her, frowning slightly. She’d asked for directions at the café before setting off, but the houses in this area seemed far too shabby and run-down for the man who controlled the Villa Dante. The paint was peeling off many of them, and the roofs needed attention as well, their tiles either slipping or missing altogether.

A scrawny dog, lying in a patch of shade, lifted its head and growled at her as she went past, peering at the numbers on the doors.

Tommaso’s house was in the middle of the street. Two cracked steps led to the front door, and a broken shutter hung at a crazy angle from the main ground-floor window.

When the bell didn’t work, Lucy hammered on the door, but to no avail. There was no sound or movement in the house.

She stood on tiptoe, peering through the window. The room was totally bare. No furniture. No sign of life at all.

Lucy bit her lip as she stepped back onto the street. First Maddalena, she thought uneasily, now Tommaso. What on earth’s going on?

She glanced round, uncertain what to do next. Her phrasebook didn’t equip her to deal with errant maids and missing landlords, and she had the uncanny feeling, anyway, that she was being watched from several adjoining houses, and not in any kindly spirit either.

I’d better find the others—tell them, she decided, and began to retrace her steps, glad to get away from the mean, narrow street and its unseen eyes.

But she must have taken a wrong turning, because she found herself in a different square altogether. No bars or bustle but dominated by an elaborate Gothic church, and completely deserted apart from the statutory pigeons.

Lucy heard her own footsteps echoing as she crossed the cobbles and she paused, wondering which of the many alleys leading off the square would take her back to the town centre.

The silence was oppressive—threatening. Then suddenly it was shattered by the roar of a motorcycle coming from behind her.

The pigeons flew up in a flurry of alarmed wings. Lucy spun round, had a confused impression of two figures, leather-clad and anonymous in helmets, and realised a gauntleted hand was reaching towards her as the bike swerved in her direction.

She cried out, and tried to jump back as the hand snatched at the strap of her shoulder bag and tried to jerk it from her. But Lucy clung on grimly, refusing to let go. She heard the snarl of the throttle, warning her that the bike was about to accelerate away, and was pulled forward, falling painfully onto the cobbles. She was going to be dragged behind the bike if she didn’t release her bag.

She screamed, ‘No,’ her voice cracking, half in fear, half in anger. Then she cried, ‘Help me, someone,’ and heard a man’s voice shout in answer.

She saw a dark figure running towards her, felt another shoulder-wrenching jerk at her bag, and then suddenly the metal clips on the strap gave up the struggle and she was left lying on the ground, winded, bruised but free, her bag still clutched in both hands, while her assailants sped off with the dangling strap as their only prize.

It seemed safer to stay where she was. Her heart was pounding, she was shaking all over, and she felt deathly sick. She was dimly aware of someone bending over her, of a man’s deep voice speaking urgently in Italian, of a hand touching her shoulder.

‘No.’ She was galvanised into panicky reaction, kicking out. ‘Get away from me.’

She heard him mutter something under his breath as her foot connected with his shin. He said curtly in English, ‘Don’t be a fool, signorina. You called out for help. Can’t you see that’s what I’m trying to do? Are you badly hurt? Can you sit up?’

Wincing, Lucy allowed him to help her into a sitting position. The hands that touched her were gentle as well as strong, and a faint musky scent of masculine cologne teased her senses.

She turned her head slowly and looked at him, tensing with dismay as she realised that her saviour was none other than the man from the pavement café.

Nina’s designer stud, she groaned inwardly. It would be.

At close quarters, he was even more devastating. Handsome as a Renaissance prince, and, she acknowledged as his eyes narrowed in recognition, just as distant.

‘So, we meet again,’ he commented without pleasure. ‘What are you doing, wandering alone like this? Don’t you know it isn’t safe?’

‘I know now.’ She lifted her chin and gave him her own brand of dirty look. ‘Actually I was looking for someone, and I thought things like this only happened in big cities.’

‘Unfortunately, criminal elements from bigger places now sense there’s a living to be made even in towns like Montiverno.’ His tone was dry. ‘Now, let’s see if you can stand.’

She would have dearly loved to slap his patronising hand away, not to mention his sneering face, but she let him help her to her feet. She was bitterly aware that she was filthy from her contact with the ground, and that her new white cotton trousers were torn beyond repair. Every part of her seemed to be throbbing, and she knew an ignominious impulse to burst into tears.

Instead, she said, her voice wobbling slightly, ‘They wanted my bag, but I wouldn’t let them have it.’

‘Stupida!’ he said crushingly. ‘Better to lose your bag than be killed or maimed.’

Lucy pushed her dishevelled hair out of her eyes with a shaking hand. She said, ‘I’ve just been through one of the worst experiences of my life, and all you can do is criticise.’

‘No,’ he said. ‘That’s not all I can do. My car is nearby. I will drive you to the clinic for a check-up.’

‘No.’ The denial was instinctive and immediate, driven by some deep female consciousness that motorbike thieves were far from the only danger in the situation.

He was very still, his brows rising in regal hauteur. He said very quietly but with cool, relentless emphasis, ‘I beg your pardon?’

To add to her other ills, Lucy felt herself blushing all over as the amber eyes swept over her, slowly and comprehensively.

She said hurriedly, ‘I mean—thank you, but there’s no need for you to bother any more. I’m fine—really. Just—a little shaken.’

‘And prey, I think, to certain illusions.’ He was smiling, but there was no amusement in his eyes. ‘I am offering my help, signorina, but nothing more. I do not require sexual favours as a reward for my assistance, whatever fantasies you or your friend may enjoy,’ he added bitingly.

The contempt in his face and voice stung Lucy like a flick from a whip. There was no real reason to feel so mortified, she told herself angrily. He was a stranger to her, and she was never going to see him again, so what did it matter if he thought she was tarred with the same brush as Nina?

Yet somehow, and quite ridiculously, it seemed to matter a lot.

She said stonily, ‘Think what you wish, signore. I’m grateful for your help but not your opinion of me.’

‘Then accept my aid,’ he said. ‘Believe that I cannot simply walk away and leave you here like this.’ And, when she still hesitated, he added, ‘But on the other hand, signorina, I do not have the entire day to devote to your interests either. So please make up your mind.’

Lucy bit her lip. ‘Well—perhaps a lift back to the main square. I’m meeting my friends there.’