Too Devious to Tame (The Giovanni Clan) (2 page)

A slight flush spread across her cheeks at his words, and her eyes narrowed, as if to assess him better. The slow appraisal she gave his body had his insides tighten in need. It had been a while since he last lost himself in willing female flesh, and this little spitfire standing close enough to him that the scent of her skin invaded his senses, promised to be an interesting interlude. Already the inherent contradictions he'd witnessed piqued his interest. He flashed her his best killer smile and was rewarded with a haughty sniff and sideways glance from under her naturally long eyelashes. An enticing little cluster of freckles on her jaw drew his gaze, and he watched her pulse speed up with a satisfied grin.

Definitely not immune to him. Not that many women were. Giorgio was used to female adoration. With classic dark looks, a six foot plus frame, and the Giovanni name behind him, women were drawn to him like moths to the proverbial flame. Little did they know that the vineyard was in severe financial trouble, thanks to the debt his drunkard of a father and said father's flamboyant string of ex-wives had accrued. Having recently come into ownership of his heritage, Giorgio had been hard at work trying to rebuild the vineyard's reputation, which had led to a pact with the devil, and had left little time for pursuits of the flesh.

So, he was long overdue a little indulgence, and this little female shivering in his arms would do just fine. The rain had changed to a light drizzle, but the clouds hung low in the sky and foretold more heavy rain to come.

"We should take our chances while we can." He glanced at the ever darkening sky and tightened his hold on her waist. She stiffened in his arms and pushed against his chest.

"
We
aren't doing a thing.
You
may think you're God's gift to womankind, but this English girl is not one of your easily impressed local girls." She glared at him, and he let her go. But damn it, if the barely banked passion in the expressive pools of her brown eyes didn't have him grow hard as nails.

"I appreciate you picking those up for me." She gestured to the bundle of papers tucked under his other arm. "But thanks to that idiotic countryman of yours, I'm now behind on my assignment. So, if you're planning on a roll in the hay with me, you can forget it. I've lost weeks of work, dammit."

"I was more thinking of several rolls on satin sheets, but whatever floats your boat,
dolce mia.
I aim to please. Giorgio Giovanni at your service.
"
He flashed her another practiced smile that changed to one of genuine amusement as her mouth formed into a silent O.

"My. I'm surprised you fit under here with an ego that size, and is that name supposed to mean something to me? You're local royalty or some such claptrap, that I should shiver in my boots? Spread my thighs and lie back and think of England? Well, dream on, buster."

Her tone mocked him, but her breath hitched when he leaned in closer and traced the shell of her ear with his tongue. He bit down on the soft flesh, and the hand still resting on his chest curled into the fabric of his tee. Her barely suppressed moan shot straight to his cock, and he tightened the hold on her waist. His fingers found the silky skin where Basque and skirt didn't quite meet, and he swallowed his own groan as his cock pressed painfully against the denim fly of his jeans.

"Whatever makes you think I'd want you lying back? Far too vanilla for my liking. No, I like my women screaming my name as they beg me for their orgasm, whilst my cock is so deeply buried in their ass they see stars."

She went very still at his whispered words, and just as he wondered whether he'd read her all wrong, she cupped his aching shaft through the fabric, barely holding in his erection.

"Well, in that case, you'd better show me that you can use this big boy." She smiled up at him, and what little blood hadn't already shot to his groin pooled south. He yanked her hair back to make her look at him, and her lips parted. He wasted no time slipping inside the moist, warm haven of her mouth. She met each one of his bold strokes with one of her own and ground her pussy into his groin. He caged her in against the stone wall of the patisserie, and took the kiss deeper. By the time he wrenched his mouth away, they were both breathing heavily and the musk of her arousal hung heavy between them.

"
Dio santo, dolce mia.
Who are you?"

****

Giorgio watched the nurse fuss over the frail woman in the hospital bed, and he forced himself to unclench his tights fists. Seeing her awake made the change in her even more shocking. Gone were the curves he remembered losing himself in. The pale woman huddling on her side barely made an indent under the starched linen covers. Her brown eyes looked too huge for her heart-shaped face, her mass of tangled, dark blonde hair the only splash of color to break the sea of white surrounding her. Oxygen tracks were still under her nose, the rapid beat of the monitor testament to her agitation. She looked terrified, the expressions in her doe-like eyes reminding him of a frightened rabbit caught in the headlights. Bile churned in his gut. She must have looked just like that when the hit-and-run driver bore down on her. Giorgio swore under his breath when she flinched away from the young male nurse trying to take her pulse. The Jemima he knew took every opportunity to flirt. She positively craved touch and attention, did not shrink away from it like a wilting flower.

The rush of protectiveness he felt, when she drew her knees up to her chest and screwed her eyes shut, took him by surprise. He didn't need to complicate this. Jemima was an accomplished actress, a liar, and a cheat, who had taken him for a fool. He needed to hold onto those facts and ignore the way his blood heated, seeing her bite her plump bottom lip. He'd made a promise, one he would stick to, but that didn't mean he would ignore this opportunity for revenge. She would rue the day she crossed him.

Giorgio took a deep breath and schooled his features into a well-practiced mask of indifference, as he pulled open the door to Jemima's private room, and addressed the doctor writing in her notes.

"
Dottore
, how is my wife?"

Chapter Two

The deep male voice asking after his wife stirred a long forgotten memory. Slightly accented, it washed over her senses and cocooned her in a web of comfort and familiarity. She knew that voice, now holding a rapid discussion with the doctor. Whoever that voice belonged to sounded angry. His baritone deepened, the air of command unmistakable, as the unknown man informed the doctor that he was taking his wife home.

Tingles of awareness prickled over her skin when her bed dipped and a warm hand brushed the hair off her face.  The hint of expensive aftershave mixed in with raw masculinity caused a flutter of arousal in her belly. Who was this man, and did she dare find out?

Since she'd left the hazy world of sleep behind, and opened her eyes to the clinical surroundings of a hospital room, nothing had made sense. The insistent ache in her bruised and bandaged ribs and the pounding in her head confirmed that she was not dreaming. Yet she had no recollection of how she got here, or, more worryingly, who she was. The only recollection she did have was the glare of headlights and the sounds of a car engine being revved before her world went black and she woke up in this bed.

The insistent fear gnawed a hole into her gut. It was so intense that she could barely breathe. When she'd first come round, she'd tried to leave, her only thought to escape, to get away. The room was too bright, too visible. She needed to stay low, to hide in the shadows, to disappear, to get away from…

Fuck it, from whom? Why could she not remember anything past that lump of fear choking the breath from her lungs? Fear that had made her rip her IV out of her arm and stagger off the bed. Fear that made her hit the nurse coming to her rescue, until the scratch of a needle in her arm had sent her back into the blissful oblivion of sleep.

Somehow she didn't think that would be an option again. The man who had come to claim his wife—his
wife—
didn't sound as though he would take no for an answer. Again he stated his intention to take her home, and her heart rolled over in her chest. She forced herself to open her eyes and bit her tongue to stop herself from gasping out loud. The man who claimed to be her husband sat perched on the side of her bed, his back to her, as he talked to the
dottore.

His broad shoulders strained the light summer jacket off his tailored suit, and his powerful thighs flexed slightly as he shifted on the bed. His dark hair curled over the collar of his shirt, and when he raised a hand to run it through his hair in an almost absentminded gesture she caught a glimpse of strong, tanned wrists. The large hand he placed on the bed next to her leg held a dusting of black hair, and this time she couldn't hold back her gasp, as a memory surged to her forefront. That same hand on her pale flesh kneading, pinching, just the right side of pain, as he surged inside her, pinning her in place with his superior bulk, as she screamed his name.

"Giorgio?" Her voice was a mere whisper, but the room stilled, and she held her breath when he turned around and looked at her. One thick eyebrow raised, he ran his gaze over her form, his eyes silver gray orbs of steel pinning her in place. Every line of his powerful body screamed his arrogance and his wealth. From the devastatingly handsome roman features, with the straight nose, high cheekbones, and angular jaw, covered in the first shadow of his appearing stubble—to the full lips, now curled in a sardonic smile that didn't reach his eyes—over the suit that only accentuated the muscled and honed physique—to the Rolex on his wrist and the polished Italian shoes on his feet.

Her mouth went dry, and her toes curled. She couldn't be married to him?

"So, you remember my name, Jemima? I thought you had amnesia?" The tone of his voice raised gooseflesh on her arms, and she swallowed nervously. His eyes followed the frantic movement of her throat, and if possible his gaze grew frostier. He ran his hand through his hair again and swore softly in Italian.

"
Signor Giovanni
, it's to be expected that your wife would recall the people closest to her." The doctor's words broke his intense perusal of her, and Jemima drew an unsteady breath into her lungs.

Jemima, is that my name?
It didn't ring any immediate bells. In fact it did nothing, not a flicker of recognition. How could that be? How could she not know her own name, yet remember his? How could she be swamped with such spine-tingling awareness of him, mixed in with an overwhelming sense of loss, regret, and guilt? What had she done to this man that he would look at her with such disdain in his cold eyes?

"I would believe that if my wife and I were close,
dottore.
As it stands I find it extremely hard to believe that Jemima here would only recall my name. She certainly never cared about her marriage vows enough to evoke any sort of emotion from her before."

The ice cold voice settled in her heart like lead, and she blinked the tears away.

"Then why are you here insisting on taking me away?" From somewhere she found her voice. A thready and weak impression of one, but as she had no clue what she normally sounded like, it would have to do. Heck, for all she knew this might be her normal cadence.

"I'm not going anywhere with you. You could be an axe-murderer for all I know. If we're married, where's the proof? I'm not wearing a ring."

She glanced down on her ring-less left hand, a flicker of unease invading her senses as another memory probed. There had been a ring; she was sure of it. For a moment, emotion overwhelmed her, love, yes, definitely love. She risked a peek at the man watching her quietly, his eyes like hard steel, his face an unreadable mask, arms crossed over his chest. The expression in his eyes stirred another emotion so strong and so confusing that she lowered her own eyes, hugging her knees to her chest. Guilt, shame, and heartbreak. 
What had she done to him?

His cold voice made her look up.

"You are coming with me,
cara
, make no mistake. You belong to me, and you can't stay here. It's not safe for starters."

"Safe?"

"How do you think you ended up in this state in the first place? Had it not been for the dog walkers, you would have been left to die in that ditch."

"I … I can't remember. Are you saying whatever happened to me wasn't an accident?"

He swore softly in Italian, before gesturing to the
dottore
to leave.

"You really don't remember, do you?"
             

He perched himself on the side of the bed, grimacing at her involuntary flinch at his closeness. Taking one of her hands, he carefully uncurled her clenched fingers and dropped a kiss on her palm.

"You were run off the road deliberately. It was a clear stretch of road, and there were no skid marks. They didn't even try to brake,
cara
. It's a miracle you're alive. And as soon as they find out you are, they will try again. I promised your sister to keep you safe, so you're coming with me, if I have to drag you out of here, kicking and screaming. Trust me. No one will dare stop me!"

She tamped down the fresh wave of terror washing over her. She remembered the car hurtling towards her with sudden, sickening clarity, and another whimper escaped before she could stop it.
What on earth have I done to deserve this?
And she couldn't shake the nauseating feeling that she
had
deserved it. She had done something awful. She could feel it in her bones, the chilling knowledge invading every pore of her, filling her with self-loathing, and acute regret at what might have been.