Too Devious to Tame (The Giovanni Clan) (4 page)

Vines slapped in her face, grapes crushed under her feet, yet she kept on running. Oblivious to the beauty of her surroundings, bone-shattering fear held her in its thrall, adrenaline pushing her on ruthlessly.

She finally stopped running, when she reached a small clearing, and she collapsed on the wrought iron bench situated under a cluster of olive trees. She could see the main house in the distance on top of the gentle slope. Rows and rows of vine surrounded her as far as the eye could see. This was hopeless. She was never going to find her way out of here, and even if she did, where was she going to run to? She had no money, no papers, no clear idea where she was, no idea who her friends were, or her enemies. Fear took hold of her again in a choking iron grip. Her breaths whooshed in and out in short, painful bursts. She could hear Giorgio's cool voice saying she had to die.
Oh my God, whom can I trust?
Elise said she could trust him, but he wanted her dead.

The keening sound echoing in the stillness of the breeze had her clamping her hands over her ears.
What is that sound? Is that me?
She bit her lips in a vain effort to stop herself. Rocking frantically to and fro, she finally managed to just whimper. She could taste her own blood on her tongue. Tears streamed down her face, and then, suddenly, strong hands stilled her shuddering shoulders.

"Stop that, you will hurt yourself." Giorgio's strained voice reached her through the buzzing in her ears, and she allowed herself to relax against him for a second, before a renewed surge of adrenaline pushed her to her feet.

"Don't touch me! You're one of them!" She practically screamed the words at him, and he winced.

"Them being?"

Giorgio watched her warily, hands pushed into his jeans. His frosty gaze assessed her, brows drawn together in a dark frown.

"I heard you. You're …. You're going to kill me."

His harsh laugh did little to alleviate her dread. He looked so formidable, so tall, and closed off. The danger she sensed in him back in the hospital very much surrounded him. Her eyes darted around for a weapon, but there was nothing to be had. Besides, he would be on her in seconds if she tried anything. His body seemed coiled for action, even as he tried for an air of nonchalance.

"Has your mother never taught you to not listen at doors,
cara
?"

The endearment was delivered like a slap to the face.

"My mother never taught me anything." She spat the words at him with a vitriol that stopped her in her tracks, before memories assaulted her out of nowhere.

A frail woman lying in a hospital bed, surrounded by tubes, trying to smile at her reassuringly. The lady from social services in her irritatingly sympathetic voice, telling her that her mummy was dead, and she would have to come with her. The families she stayed with, whom she hated with a vengeance. The funeral. Her hate and anger so vivid and raw. The knife cutting through her skin to stop the hurt, the pain, the despair, the loneliness, the envy. Elise … always there … hugging her … bailing her out. Elise … despairing … wringing her hands … yet another police car… another detention center. So much anger and despair, so much desolation, too much to bear, too much.

Another whimper escaped before she could stop herself, and she sank to the floor, hugging her knees to her chest, despair surrounding her like a clinging, suffocating shroud.

"What are you remembering,
cara
?"

Giorgio still watched her, an unreadable expression on his handsome features.

"She left me. She left us. Why? Why did she die, Giorgio?"

"Your mother,
cara?"

Giorgio took a step toward her, and at her barely noticeable nod, he pulled her to her feet. He cradled her to his chest. The deep rumble of his voice was a soothing antidote against the horrific memories. Memories she knew she'd not allowed herself to have in many years. They were too painful, too raw, and too primitive for her to cope with. Some of her despair lifted with his murmured Italian endearments, which she didn't quite catch. She allowed herself to be held, craving his touch, anything to help her forget, to erase the painful memories echoing around her brain, the images too vivid to process.
Why, oh why do I have to remember my miserable childhood?
She didn't need to remember
that.
She needed to remember how she got into this nightmare. She needed to protect herself, not lean on this man, who could snap her in half without even trying.

"Mothers die,
cara.
It just happens."

The roughness of his voice made her look up. He had a faraway look in his eyes, his features grim, but before she could question him further, the mask came down, and the eyes assessing her were glittering, icy jewels.

"Dinner is getting cold. Time we went back in."

She blinked at the abrupt change in conversation.

"I ... I'm not hungry. I couldn't eat a thing."

"Tough, you need to eat. If you intend to keep on running, at least do so on a full stomach. No point in making their job easier by starving yourself to death. When did you last a have a decent meal?"

"I can't remember."

The sound of disgust he made, before he grabbed her by the arm and propelled her forward, made her flinch.

"You're hurting me."

The iron grip on her arm gentled, but he didn't let go of her. He dragged her along the vines, back to the house, mumbling to himself in Italian. Jemima blew out a breath, and she tried to dig in her heels.

"There is no need to manhandle me, damn it, and I will not eat anything. You can't make me."

The low, menacing, growl in her ear made her jump. His hot breath fanned along the sensitive skin of her neck, and her heart beat faster, and her breathing sped up.

"On the contrary,
cara
. I will make you eat, even I have to handcuff you to me to stop you from running away again."

He chuckled at her outraged gasp, and the slap of her hand was far too loud in the quiet dusk, surrounding them. He didn't even flinch, even though the force of her slap left a visible red hand-print on his cheek. He simply smiled, and Jemima inched backward and away from him.

"You wouldn't dare." She whispered the words as he stalked her every move, disapproval and determination written all over his sun-kissed features. She swallowed nervously as he loomed over her, crowding her against the garden wall, they had reached without her noticing.

"What's the matter,
cara?
I seem to recall you used to rather enjoy the handcuffs."

Slow heat spread low in her abdomen, and she bit her lips to suppress her gasp as another memory surfaced. Giorgio loomed over her in different circumstances. Excitement warred with arousal, and she screwed her eyes shut. She could hear her moans mingling with his harsh breathing, and there had been pleasure …
so
much pleasure.

Oh hell, why do I have to remember that?

"I don't remember." Her voice sounded husky and far too breathy.
Damn that's really going to convince him.

His knowing eyes raked her up and down, his smile cynical, as he stepped even closer to her, so close that the heat of his body scorched her skin. He leaned down, and she clamped her thighs together at the sensation of his breaths lifting the fine hair on her neck. A shiver went through her at his whispered, "Liar."

He pulled back slightly, and his mouth hovered over hers for several agonizing, erratic heart beats. Their breaths mingled, and she willed him to close the distance, suddenly desperate to know what those firm lips would feel like pressed to hers. But he stepped back and released her. One corner of that sensual mouth rose in another cynical smile, and she finally took a shuddering breath. His next words brought her back down to earth with a bump.

"Don't flatter yourself,
cara.
It's only dinner I'm offering this time. I'm not the fool that I once was. Don't make the mistake of thinking that."

Hands seemingly made from steel grasped her arms and dug into her tender flesh, as he propelled her through the open doors and into the dining room.

The enticing smell of her favorite pasta dish made her mouth water. Her stomach growled; and the hard wall of menacing maleness behind her chuckled, and Giorgio's iron grip on her gentled.

"Sit down and eat. It's been a long day."

Jemima risked a peek up at his face when she did so, and her heart took an uneasy flutter at the churning emotions she glimpsed in his eyes, before he schooled his features into an indifferent mask. She sat down and concentrated on her food instead.

The first mouthful, exploding on her tongue, made her groan in delight.

"This is
so
good." The words were out before she could stop them, and she closed her eyes, savoring the delicious mixture of flavors invading her senses. Clara had always been a wonderful cook. In a flash of insight she could see a younger self, standing in the big, country kitchen, quizzing a laughing Clara about her secret ingredients. She had been happy here; she knew that. Why ever had she left?

"It used to be your favorite, so I asked Clara to make it." Giorgio's words confirmed the vague memories, and his unexpected thoughtfulness brought tears to her eyes.

Clara and she had been friends once. If not friends, then at least, friendly. From the way the older woman had stiffened in her arms earlier when she had hugged her, it was clear she didn't think of Jemima as a friend anymore.

"Why … why would you do that? After everything I did?"

Giorgio shrugged his shoulders, his steely gaze holding her captive as effectively as any ropes would have done. The thought of ropes made her breath hitch, and she bit her lips. Another fleeting memory struggled to surface. Pleasure mixed with pain, and ultimately terror. The room spun, and she clung to the table for support.

"I thought you don't remember what you did?" The deep, steady tones pulled her back from the brink, grounded her, in a way she couldn't even begin to understand. All she knew was that deep down, she needed, craved his approval, and the fact that she didn't have it, tied her stomach up in knots.

Jemima squirmed on her seat, uneasy again under his steady regard, as the vague memory rose and fell. Every time she tried to grasp hold of the sliver of her past, it evaporated like morning mist in the sunshine. So close, yet not there.

"I don't, not exactly, but I did something, didn't I? To us? I must have done. Elise sounded surprised we were married."

Giorgio's harsh, answering laugh made her jump. His whole body tensed and went still. A small muscle twitched in his jaw, the only visible sign of his agitation, as he lowered his wineglass far too carefully.

"It wasn't common knowledge, and when you left, well, let's just say I wasn't exactly going to broadcast it."

Something in that steely, controlled, voice reached through the fog in her brain, and the sudden knowledge of her betrayal choked the breath out of her.

No, no, no, no, how could I have done that to him?

She'd heard that exact tone of voice before, when he'd caught her red-handed.

Chapter Five

Another splash of  black paint splattered across the foliage, followed by a string of swear words, as Jemima screwed up another sheet of paper and sent if flying down the garden path. It missed the burly man standing guard by a mere inch. He didn't even flinch, just stared her down with fathomless black eyes, before turning his back on her again. Those same eyes scanned his surroundings, the bulge of his hand-gun clearly visible under his light summer jacket.

Jemima pulled a face at him and resisted the urge to throw her pot of paint at his back. It would be useless anyhow. He would simply dodge it, with those irritatingly fast reflexes of his, before calling for someone to clear up the mess, and going back to his silent watch.

Alfonso, or her very own pain in the ass, as she secretly called him, was one of many goons that had been installed at Giorgio's vineyard, following on from the failed attempt at her life, three nights ago.

A cold chill went through Jemima, remembering how Giorgio had burst into her bedroom, clad in nothing but hastily thrown on jeans. His face had been murderous, his large hand clamped painfully over her mouth, his voice an urgent, low growl in her ear.

"Be very quiet, and do exactly as I say."

He'd dragged her through the dark house and into the wine cellars, where he'd locked her into one of the huge, empty fermenting tanks with strict orders to be quiet before he'd disappeared. She'd sat there in a huddled, frightened mess for what seemed like ages. The distant rumble of gunfire and the occasional male shouting caused her to hyperventilate, sweat trickling into her eyes.

By the time that steel door had finally been opened, she'd been a slobbering, crying mess, and the sight of Giorgio's blood-stained clothes, black eye, and gun in one hand, surrounded by his equally disheveled security team had done little to reassure her. She'd been so relieved to see him that she'd thrown herself at him, dimly aware of his low grunt of pain, as his arms had tightened around her for a few precious seconds. He'd pushed her away, his face a controlled mask. Giorgio had barked at one of his team to take her back upstairs and had turned his back on her, stalking away with the rest of the somber looking group of men. Her escort hadn't said one word to her, despite her attempts to make conversation, and the click of the lock when she'd been pushed through her bedroom door had been the final insult.