The Ruthless Italian's Inexperienced Wife. Christina Hollis
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my nephew. Your opinion means nothing to me. But why don’t you just come straight out with your complaints, instead of tossing that lovely brown mane of hair and flashing those beautiful eyes?’
Cheryl had been about to answer back, but his last words disarmed her completely. All her nervous tension about Vettor, the storm, meeting her new employer dissolved, and she giggled. Actually giggled! She couldn’t help it. But what sort of dedicated professional did something like that? Horrified, she clapped a hand to her mouth, stifling the sound. As she stared round-eyed at Marco Rossi she could hear her whole career shattering around her, louder than the storm.
And then he smiled. It was a triumphant gesture, as though she had fulfilled all his expectations.
The effect on Cheryl was alarming. Feathers of feeling began rippling up and down her spine. She tingled in such an intimate way it scared her. To cover her confusion she started flouncing the bedclothes and bustling around her patient’s bed to neaten the far side.
‘I’m sorry to cut your visit short, Signor Rossi, but Vettor needs peace and quiet. I shall have to ask you to leave.’ While I’ve still got a sensible thought left in my head, she thought. Marco Rossi filled her mind and distracted her body. The silent strength of his tall figure stopped her looking at him as she spoke. She couldn’t trust herself not to fall into the magnetism of his eyes again.
‘Of course.’
That was a surprise. She had expected an argument. Despite all her good intentions, Cheryl looked up. He nodded in agreement with her. As he did so, the light in his eyes faded. Looking down, he swore softly, as though noticing the state of his sodden clothes for the first time.
‘You’re right. And I shall be no good to Vettor if I catch my death of cold,’ he announced. ‘Did all my day staff get away safely?’
Cheryl nodded. ‘They left at around 5:00 p.m. That was when the weather warnings started to get really serious.’
‘I don’t blame them. Storms are trapped here by that ridge of hills.’ He nodded towards the far side of the building, moving restlessly inside his wet suit. ‘I need to dry off and change into some clean clothes. My staff take care of all my domestic details, but with no one else about I’ll have to ask you a favour, Cheryl. I know it’s not in your job description, but could you have a look around and try to find where they keep the towels?’
Cheryl blushed. This was awkward. She was only one of dozens of people who worked for Marco Rossi. She had already glimpsed a side of him the others had never even hinted at. She had been glad—far too glad—of his gentle reassurance when alone and scared. Flinging herself into his arms had been the most delicious, daring thing she had ever done in her life. But all that had happened before she knew who he was. Now it was a case of an employer giving his wage-slave instructions. The change was painful.
Cheryl hoped he would forget the way she had mistaken him for an electrician in the entrance hall. That had been a terrible mistake, but she’d never underestimate him again. She would make sure of that. From now on she would treat Marco Rossi with respect. There was a barrier between them for all sorts of reasons. One short tour around his estate and house had convinced Cheryl the rumours in the media were true. He really must be one of the wealthiest men in the west. Anyone who had the self-confidence to take on a wreck like the Villa Monteolio would need barrowloads of cash to back it up. Which Marco Rossi obviously has, she thought.
She didn’t need to look at the quality of the brand-new handcrafted staircase, or the Olympic-sized pool being installed on the south terrace to know that Marco Rossi was obviously mega-rich…and right out of her league. Thank goodness he’s not really my sort, she told herself. So why had his almost perfect features long ago burned their way into her brain? Somehow Cheryl knew that even if she never saw Marco Rossi again, his face would haunt her for the rest of her life.
Uninvited, the memory of jostling against him over Vettor’s bed rose up to tease her. For a few glorious moments they had been locked together. The touch of Marco’s hands was all power. She had felt them twice now. Once in gentleness, once with determination. They were so unforgettable they fired her blushes all over again. Trying to calm her emotional turmoil, Cheryl thought back to Nick Challenger. He’d been her one and only boyfriend, and the relationship had been disastrous.
As a distraction, her memory worked far too well. Her heart froze. The smile died on her lips. She shivered, hugging her arms around her body. Not that they could give her any protection against a man like Marco Rossi! Nick was only half his size, and she still carried the scars. Marco would make a much more formidable enemy. She didn’t want to put him to any sort of test.
His shoulders were wide and powerful, and two metres was such an awkward height. She already had a crick in her neck from looking up to him. As for his clothes—Cheryl looked them over carefully. His suit and open necked white shirt were obviously expensive. The cut was perfect. This man didn’t have any physical flaws to hide, and his tailor had concentrated on accentuating the tall masculinity of him. The materials used were the best quality linen and fine cotton, but it was all ruined now. Everything he wore was soaking wet, and dirty from his mercy dash.
Even Marco Rossi’s smile isn’t quite perfect, Cheryl realised. It might be white, it might be tempting, but there’s a tiny chip out of that front tooth, on the right…
‘How long will it take for your luggage to catch up with you, Signor Rossi?’ she said briskly, trying to divert her attention from his body to his situation.
‘I’ve told you—call me Marco.’
Cheryl smiled, and then wished she hadn’t. He smiled back, and the effect was electric. Luckily, another hurricane blast smashed against the house and the moment was broken. She glanced over her shoulder, terrified. Marco grimaced.
‘It will take my things some time to get here, judging by this weather.’
‘Then it’s just as well the rest of the staff showed me around before Vettor fell ill,’ Cheryl managed with a trace of her usual bright efficiency. At last there was something about this horrible day to smile about. ‘As we say in England, “it’s an ill wind that blows nobody any good”. While you go and have a shower, Marco, I’ll sort you out some dry things. Finding my way around by torchlight might take some time, though!’
‘I’ll get my clothes, if you could find where Housekeeping store my towels. And don’t worry, you won’t need a torch. Listen—the generators have kicked in.’
He reached across to the nearest wall switch and snapped it on. A low-wattage bulb glowed bravely in the darkness.
‘Oh, that’s wonderful!’
Marco gave a very Italian shrug. ‘It’s always a good idea to have back-up when you live in the country.’
The increased light tempted Cheryl to run an appreciative gaze over him again. She chose exactly the wrong moment to do it. Marco sensed where she was looking, and turned his head. The glint in his eyes made her glance away sharply.
‘That’s very efficient of you, Marco.’ She tried to sound prim.
‘But of course! What else would you expect from a man with my reputation? And you can smile when you speak to me. It’s allowed!’ His response was light and teasing.
Cheryl didn’t know what to think. To hear his staff talk, Marco Rossi was deadly serious about everything. But from the moment he’d burst into this house she’d been swept up by a whirlwind. He’d been protective, determined, and now he was smiling at her again.
She decided not to risk returning his gaze. It brought back memories of his hands touching hers. Cheryl didn’t dare let herself be carried away like that, so she made herself stick to purely practical things.
But trying to talk about one thing while her mind was on something else proved to be a big mistake. ‘When I’ve found the towels, I’ll take your wet clothes off you, Marco.’
Then she gasped,