Reunited with Her Italian Ex

Natasha found herself facing Mario.

‘You’ve danced with everyone else,’ he observed. ‘Will it ever be my turn?’

‘Not until you ask me.’

‘No,’ he said. ‘I’m not going to ask you.’

But as he spoke his arm went around her waist in a grip too firm for her to resist, even if she had wanted to.

Once before they had danced together. One night in Venice, when they had been having supper at an outdoor café in St Mark’s Square, a band had started to play and before she’d known it she’d been waltzing in his arms.

‘Is this all right?’ he’d whispered.

‘I’ll let you know later,’ she had teased.

It had lasted only a few minutes, and she had promised herself that one day she would dance with him again. But the next day they had broken up and it had never happened again. Until now.

It was unnerving to feel his arms about her, his hand on her waist, holding her close. Her heart was beating softly but fervently. She glanced at him, trying to know if he felt the same. Would he invite her to dance with him again?

Reunited with Her Italian Ex

Lucy Gordon

www.millsandboon.co.uk

LUCY GORDON cut her writing teeth on magazine journalism, interviewing many of the world’s most interesting men. She’s had many unusual experiences, which have often provided the background for her books. Once, while staying in Venice, she met a Venetian who proposed in two days and they’ve been married ever since. Naturally this has affected her writing, in which romantic Italian men tend to feature strongly. Two of her books have won a Romance Writers of America RITA® Award. You can visit her website at lucy-gordon.com.

Contents

Cover

Introduction

Title Page

About the Author

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

Extract

Copyright

PROLOGUE

VENICE, THE MOST romantic city in the world.

That was what people said, and Natasha was becoming convinced that it was true. Where else could she have met the man of her dreams within hours of arriving, and known so soon that she was his and he simply must become hers?

Sitting in a café by a small canal, she looked out at the sun glittering on the water. Nearby she could see a gondola containing a young man and woman, wrapped in each other’s arms.

Just like us, she thought, recalling her first gondola ride in the arms of the man who had changed the world in moments.

Mario Ferrone, young, handsome, with dancing eyes and a rich chuckle that seemed to encompass the world. She’d met Mario just after she’d arrived in Venice on a well-earned holiday. He’d insisted on showing her the city. As his brother owned the hotel where she was staying, she’d briefly thought this a professional service, but that idea soon changed. There was an instant attraction between them, and nothing had ever seemed more wonderful than the time they spent together.

Until then, there had been little in her life that could be called romance. She was slim, pretty, humorous, with no difficulty attracting admirers. But where men were concerned she had an instinctive defensiveness.

It went back to her childhood, when her father had abandoned his wife and ten-year-old daughter for another woman. Until that moment Natasha’s life had been happy. Her father had seemed to adore her as she adored him. But suddenly he was gone, never to get in touch again.

Never trust a man, her mother had told her. They’ll always let you down.

She’d been content to heed the warning until Mario came into her life and everything turned upside down.

Her own reactions confused her. Her heart was drawn to Mario as never before to any other man. Sometimes her mother’s voice echoed in her mind.

No man can be trusted, Natasha. Remember that.

But Natasha felt certain that Mario was different to all other men—more honest, more trustworthy, more faithfully loving.

Last night he’d kissed her with even greater fervour than before, murmuring, ‘Tomorrow I want to...’ Then he’d stopped, seeming confused.

‘Yes?’ she’d whispered. ‘What do you want?’

‘I can’t tell you now...but tomorrow everything will be different. Goodnight, mi amore.’

Now here she was in the café where they often met, waiting for him to appear and transform her world yet again.

She almost ached with the yearning to know what he’d meant by ‘everything will be different’. Was he going to propose marriage? Surely he must.

Oh, please hurry, she thought. How could Mario keep her on tenterhooks when it mattered so much?

Suddenly, she heard his voice call, ‘Natasha!’ Looking up, she saw him walking by the canal, waving to her from a distance.

‘Sorry I’m late,’ he said, joining her at the table. ‘I got held up.’

She had a strange feeling that he was on edge.

‘Is everything all right?’ she asked.

‘It will be, very soon,’ he said.

His eyes never left her and every moment her conviction grew that tonight they were going to take the next step—whatever it might be.

He took her hand. ‘There’s something I’ve been trying to tell you for days but—’

‘Trying? Is it so hard to tell me?’

‘It could be.’ His eyes met hers. ‘Some things just aren’t easy to say.’

Her heart was beating with anticipation and excitement. She knew what he was going to say, and she longed to hear it.

‘That depends how much you want to say them,’ she whispered, leaning close so that her breath brushed his face. ‘Perhaps you don’t really want to say this.’

‘Oh, yes, you don’t know how much it matters.’

But I do know, she thought happily. He was going to tell her how much she meant to him. In a moment her life would be transformed.

She took his hand in hers, sending him a silent message about her willingness to draw closer to him.

‘Go on,’ she whispered.

He hesitated and she regarded him, puzzled. Was it really so hard for him to reach out to her?

‘Natasha—I want to tell you—’

‘Yes—yes—tell me.’

‘I’m not good at this—’

‘You don’t need to be good at it,’ she urged, tightening her clasp on his hand. ‘Just say it—’

‘Well—’

‘Traitor!’

The screamed word stunned them both. Natasha looked up to see a woman standing by the table, glaring at them. She was in her thirties, voluptuous, and would have been beautiful but for the look of livid hatred she cast on Mario.

‘Traitor!’ she screamed. ‘Liar! Deceiver!’

Mario’s face was tense and pale as Natasha had never seen it before. He rose and confronted the woman, speaking angrily in Italian and pointing for her to leave. She screamed back at him in English. Then turned to Natasha.

‘It’s about time you knew what he is really like. One woman isn’t enough for him.’

She raved on until Mario drew her into a corner, arguing with her vigorously. Natasha could no longer hear the words but there was no mistaking the intensity between them. The dark-haired woman’s rage grew with every moment.

‘He’s a liar and a cheat,’ she screamed in perfect English.

‘Mario,’ Natasha said, ‘who is this woman? Do you really know her?’

‘Oh, yes, he knows me,’ the woman spat. ‘You wouldn’t believe how well he knows me.’

‘Tania, that’s enough,’ Mario said, white-faced. ‘I told you—’

‘Oh, yes, you told me. Traitor! Traitor! Traditore!’

For a moment Natasha was tempted to thrust herself between them and tell Mario what she thought of him in no uncertain terms. But then her impetuous temper flared even higher, driving her to a course of action even more fierce and desperate. While they were still absorbed in their furious encounter, she fled.

She ran every step of the way to the hotel, then up to her room, pausing at the desk to demand her bill. Nothing mattered but to get away from here before Mario returned. It had all been a deception. She’d believed in him because she’d wanted to believe, and she should have known better. Now she was paying the price.

‘You were right,’ she muttered to her mother’s ghost. ‘They’re all the same.’

The ghost was too tactful to say I told you so, but she was there in Natasha’s consciousness as she finished packing, paid her bill and fled.

She took a boat taxi across the water to the mainland, and from there she switched to a motor taxi.

‘Airport,’ she told the driver tensely.

Oh, Mario, she thought as the car roared away. Traitor.

Traditore.

CHAPTER ONE

Two years later...

‘I’M SORRY, NATASHA, but the answer’s no, and that’s final. You just have to accept it.’

Natasha’s face was distorted by anger as she clutched the phone.

‘Don’t tell me what I have to do,’ she snapped into the receiver. ‘You said you were eager for anything I wrote—’

‘That was a long time ago. Things have changed. I can’t buy any more of your work. Those are my orders.’

Natasha took a shuddering breath as yet another rejection slammed into her.

‘But you’re the editor,’ she protested. ‘Surely it’s you who gives the orders.’

‘The magazine’s owner tells us what to do and that’s final. You’re out. Finished. Goodbye.’

The editor hung up, leaving Natasha staring at the phone in fury and anguish.

‘Another one?’ asked a female voice behind her. ‘That’s the sixth editor who’s suddenly turned against you after buying your work for ages.’

Natasha turned to her friend Helen, who was also her flatmate.

‘I can’t believe it,’ she groaned. ‘It’s like there’s a spider at the centre of a web controlling them all, telling them to freeze me out.’

‘But there is. Surely you know that. The spider’s name is Elroy Jenson.’

It’s true, Natasha thought reluctantly. Jenson owned a huge media empire that until recently had provided her with a good living. But he’d taken a fancy to her and pursued her relentlessly, ignoring her pleas to be left alone. Finally he’d gone too far, forcing her to slap his face hard enough to make him yell. One of his employees had seen them and spread the story.

‘Everyone knows you made him look a fool,’ Helen said sympathetically. ‘So now he’s your enemy. It’s a pity about that quick temper of yours, Natasha. You had every right to be angry but...well...’

‘But I should have paused before I clobbered him. I should have been calm and controlled and thought about the future. Hah!’

‘Yes, I know it sounds ironic, but look at the price you’ve paid.’

‘Yes,’ Natasha said with a heavy sigh.

As a freelance journalist her success had been dazzling. Magazines and newspapers clamoured for her sassy, insightful articles.

Until now.

‘How can one man have so much power?’ she groaned.

‘Perhaps you need to go abroad for a while,’ Helen suggested. ‘Until Jenson forgets all about you.’

‘That would be difficult—’

‘It needn’t be. The agency found me a job in Italy, doing publicity. It would mean going out there for a while. I was about to call them and say they’d have to find someone else, but why don’t you go instead?’

‘But I can’t just... That’s a mad idea.’

‘Sometimes madness is the best way. It could be just what you need now.’

‘But I don’t speak Italian.’

‘You don’t have to. It’s an international thing, promoting the city all over the world.’

‘It’s not Venice, is it?’ Natasha asked, suddenly tense.

‘No, don’t worry. I know you wouldn’t want to go to Venice. It’s Verona, the city of Romeo and Juliet. Some of that story is real, and tourists love to see Juliet’s balcony and other places where different scenes are set. So a group of luxury hotel owners have clubbed together to create some publicity for the place. Of course, I know you’re not exactly a fan of romance—’

‘It doesn’t bother me,’ Natasha said quickly. ‘I’m not going into retreat just because one man— Well, anyway—’

‘Fine. So why don’t you take this job?’

‘But how can I? It’s yours.’

‘I really wish you would. I accepted it impulsively because I’d had a row with my boyfriend. I thought we were finished, but we’ve made up and it would really suit me if you went instead of me.’

‘But if they’re expecting you—’

‘I’ve been dealing with the agency. I’ll put you in touch with them and sing your praises. Natasha, you can’t let your life be ruled by a man you haven’t seen for two years. Especially when he was a cheating rogue. Your words, not mine.’

‘Yes,’ she murmured. ‘I said that. And I meant it.’

‘Then go. Put Mario behind you and put Elroy behind you, too. Seize your chance for a fresh start.’

Natasha took a deep breath. ‘All right,’ she said. ‘I’ll do it.’

‘Fine. Now, let’s get started.’

Helen logged on to her computer and contacted the agency. Moments later, Natasha was reading an email, written in efficient English, offering her the assignment and giving her instructions:

You will be dealing with Giorgio Marcelli. The hotel owners employ him to handle publicity. He looks forward to welcoming you to Verona.

‘You see, it’s a no-brainer,’ Helen said. ‘I’ll leave you to have a think.’

She departed.

Left alone, Natasha stared out of the window, trying to decide what to do. Despite what Helen said, it wasn’t easy to make up her mind.

‘Not Venice,’ she had asserted and Helen had reassured her, because she knew that nothing would persuade Natasha ever to go back to that beautiful romantic city where her heart had been broken.

Natasha thought back to herself as a very young woman, haunted by her mother’s warnings never to trust a man. She had pursued a successful career, devoting her time to her writing, avoiding emotional relationships. Of course she could flirt and enjoy male company. But never for very long. Eventually distrust would make her back away from any man who attracted her.

She’d been glad of it, sure that caution would protect her from suffering her mother’s fate. On that she had been resolved.

Until she’d met Mario.

He had affected her as no other man ever had. Together they had walked the streets of Venice, drifting by the canals. In one tiny alley he’d drawn her into the shadows for their first kiss. Despite her attempts to obliterate the memory, it still lived in her now.

Her whole body had responded to him, coming alive in ways she had never dreamed of before. She could sense the same in him, although every instinct told her that he was an experienced lover. Wherever they went, women had thrown admiring glances at him and regarded Natasha with envy. She’d guessed they were thinking how lucky she was to be sharing his bed. That day had never come, although several times Natasha had been on the verge of giving in to temptation.

As the day of her departure neared, Mario had begged her to stay with him a little longer. Blissfully happy, she had agreed.

Even now, two years later, remembering that happiness was the most painful thing of all, despite her frantic attempts to banish it from her memory, her heart, her life.

She imagined his face when he’d returned to the table and found her gone.

Vanished into thin air, she thought. As far as he’s concerned I no longer exist, and he no longer exists to me.

In fact, the man she’d believed him to be had never existed. That was what she had to face.

Bitterly, she replayed the scene. She’d been so sure that he was about to declare his feelings, but when he’d said, ‘There’s something I’ve been trying to tell you for days,’ he’d actually been planning to dump her.

He’d probably spent the afternoon with Tania, perhaps in her bed.

She thought he was being unfaithful to her with me. In fact he was being unfaithful to both of us. That’s the kind of man he is.

After fleeing from Venice, Natasha had done everything she could to disappear for ever, changing her email address and phone number.

But one email from him had just managed to get through before the old address was cut off:

Where did you vanish to? What happened? Are you all right?

Yes, she thought defiantly. I’m all right. I got rid of the only person who could hurt me. And nobody is ever going to do that to me again.

She’d never replied to Mario, merely instructing the server to block his emails. Then she’d moved in with Helen. If he came to her old flat he would find the door locked against him as firmly as her heart was locked against him.

At night she would lie awake, dismayed by the violence of her response. He had touched her emotions with an intensity that warned her to escape while there was still time. That way lay the only safety.

Oh, Mario, she thought. Traitor. Traditore.

Since then she’d devoted herself to work, making such an impression that she came to the attention of Elroy Jenson. The media magnate had propositioned her, certain that a mere freelance journalist would never refuse him. When she did refuse he couldn’t believe it, persisting until she was forced to slap his face and bring her successful career to a sudden end.

After that, her life had been on a downward spiral. Her income had collapsed. Now she could barely afford the small rent she paid on the room she rented from Helen.

The time had come for firm action. And if that meant leaping into the unknown, she would do it. The unknown had its attractions, and suddenly she was ready for anything.

She exchanged brisk emails with Giorgio, the publicity manager. He informed her that she would be staying at the Dimitri Hotel and a driver would meet her at the airport. Two days later she embarked on the journey that might lead to a triumphant new life, or a disaster. Either way, she was venturing into the unknown.

During the flight to Verona she kept her mind firmly concentrated on work. Romeo and Juliet was a story that had long touched the world: two young people who fell in love despite the enmity of their families. In the end, they chose to die rather than live without each other.

Legend said that Shakespeare’s play was based on real events. The lovers had really lived and died. It would be her job to immerse herself in the story and entice the world to join her.

The driver was at the airport, holding up a placard bearing the words ‘Dimitri Hotel’. He greeted her with relief, and ushered her into the car for the three-mile journey to Verona.

‘The hotel is in the centre of town,’ he said. ‘Right next to the river.’

Verona was an ancient, beautiful city. Delighted, she gazed out of the window, enchanted by the hints of another, mysterious age. At last they drew up outside a large elaborate building.

‘Here we are. Dimitri Hotel,’ the driver said.

As she entered the elegant lobby, a man came forward. He was in his sixties, heavily built, with a plump, smiling face. He greeted her in English.

‘The agency told me there had been a change of plan,’ he said. ‘Apparently the original candidate couldn’t make it, but they say you have excellent credentials.’

‘Thank you. I’m an experienced journalist. I hope I can live up to your expectations.’

‘I’m sure you will. I’m very glad you’re here. I promised the President the lady would be here for him tonight and it’s never good to disappoint him.’

He gave a comical shudder which made Natasha ask, ‘Is he a difficult man? Scary?’

‘Sometimes. Mostly he’s very determined. People don’t cross him if they can help it. He only bought this hotel just under two years ago and set about changing everything practically the first day. There’s been a massive redecoration, and the staff has been reorganised to suit him. Everything has to be done his way. Nobody argues.’

‘You called him the President.’

‘President of the Comunità. It was his idea that a group of hotel owners of Verona, the Comunità, should all work together. They thought it would be an easy-going organisation but he said it needed leadership. The others just did as he suggested and named him President.

‘A while back one of the other owners thought of challenging him for the top job, but he was “persuaded” not to. Nobody knows how, but neither was anyone surprised.

‘When he gives his orders we jump to attention, especially me, because he could fire me any time he likes. I’m only telling you so that you’ll take care not to offend him.

‘We’ll dine with him tonight and tomorrow you will meet all the Comunità members. They’re looking forward to having you spread the word about our lovely city.’

‘But isn’t the word already out? Surely Romeo and Juliet is the most famous love story in the world?’

‘True, but we need to make people realise how they can become involved. Now, I’ll show you to your room.’

On their way up they passed two men having a noisy argument. One was clearly in command, yelling, ‘Capisci? Capisci?’ so fiercely that the other backed off.

‘What does that word mean?’ Natasha asked curiously. ‘It really scared the other guy.’

‘It means “Do you understand?”’ Giorgio laughed. ‘It’s really just a way of saying “You’ll do as I say. Get it?”’

‘It sounds useful.’

‘It can be, if you’re trying to make it clear who’s in charge.’ He grinned. ‘I’ve had it said to me a few times. Here’s your room.’

Like the rest of the place, her room was elegant and luxurious. A huge window looked out over the river, where the sun shone on the water. The atmosphere seemed peaceful and she took a deep contented breath.

When she’d unpacked she took a shower and began work on her appearance. For this meeting she was going to look her best.

She was attractive so not too much effort was required. Her blue eyes were large and expressive. Her blonde hair had just a touch of red that showed in some lights but not in others.

Natasha pinned her hair high on her head, suggesting businesslike severity. Usually, she preferred to let it flow, curved and luscious about her shoulders in a more relaxed way.

But not tonight, she mused, studying herself in the mirror. Tonight I’m a businesswoman, here to earn a living.

She fixed her hair firmly away from her face until she felt it conveyed the serious message she intended. Giorgio had warned her that the owner was a man to be reckoned with, but she could deal with that. She’d meet him on his own ground, a woman to be reckoned with.

‘I did the right thing in coming here,’ she whispered. ‘Everything’s going to be fine.’

* * *

In Venice, a city where most of the roads were water, motor cars could only come as far as Piazzale Roma, the car park on the edge of town. In the glowing heat of a sunny day, Mario Ferrone went to collect his car, accompanied by his brother Damiano.

‘It sounds like your hotel is doing really well,’ Damiano said. ‘You’ve got a great future ahead of you.’