The Revenge Collection 2018. Кейт Хьюит
Читать онлайн книгу.
her away and through to the dressing room she’d spoken of.
Whatever his personal feelings towards her and her family, and his plan to destroy them all, his destruction did not include allowing a vulnerable woman to be at the mercy of four armed men, one of whom he’d heard with his own ears wanted to hurt her.
He might hate Elena’s family but he still wouldn’t abandon her to such a fate.
He pulled the sash window up and looked out. As she’d said, a sloping roof ran under it.
Gabriele heaved himself out, dropping a couple of feet onto the roof.
‘Come,’ he said, righting himself when he was certain the roof was stable enough to hold his weight without crumbling beneath him.
Elena was already hoisting herself over the ledge. He put his hands to her tiny waist and helped her out, holding her tightly until he was sure she was secure on the roof. Apart from her bare feet, she was dressed in the perfect attire for escape, in long black shorts and a baggy khaki T-shirt.
Without exchanging a word, they both shimmied down to the edge of the roof.
‘Rescue is coming from the north beach,’ he said as he tried to get his bearings as to where they were, exactly, in conjunction with said beach. ‘We need to run to the right.’
She nodded, grim determination on her face, and then expertly swung over the edge so she was holding onto the rim of the roof with her fingers.
Being much larger, it took Gabriele a little longer to drop down. Before he could let go, she’d released her hold and fallen onto the wraparound veranda. Immediately she was back on her feet and jumping over the wooden rail and running to safety...except she was running to the left of the beach and not the right as they’d agreed.
He let go. He landed heavily but ignored the pain that shot up his leg and set off after her, calling as loudly as he dared, ‘You’re going the wrong way.’
She didn’t look back. The band holding her hair back had come out, her long, straight white-blonde hair billowing behind her.
* * *
Run, Elena, run.
In her mind’s eye she pictured the tree house her father’s staff had built for her and her brothers when they’d been children. If she could only reach it undetected, she would be safe.
But no matter how quickly she ran along the beach, she could hear him gaining on her.
Gabriele Mantegna. A man she vaguely remembered from her childhood. A man who scared her as much as the armed men in her family’s holiday home.
This was the man who had spent two years in an American federal prison and tried to implicate her father in his criminality.
In the distance ahead was the pathway that led into the forest and to her sanctuary.
She pushed on even harder but still he gained ground. His breaths were heavy behind her.
She wasn’t going to make it.
A burst of fury rent through her, overriding her fear. She would not allow herself to be captured by this man.
Coming to an abrupt halt, she turned on the spot and charged, propelling her entire body at him. It was like charging at a brick wall.
But her ruse worked. Taken by surprise, Gabriele stumbled back onto the sand. Unfortunately he wasn’t so off guard that he didn’t immediately hook his foot around her ankle, sending her tumbling on top of him. Within seconds he had gained the upper hand, twisting her onto her back and pinioning her beneath him.
‘Are you trying to get yourself killed?’ he demanded, his angry breath hot on her face.
Bucking beneath him, she tried everything she could to throw him off but she was too tightly caught.
Gabriele swore and, panther-like, sprang back to his feet. There was no way for her to escape again for he unceremoniously pulled her up, hooked an arm around her waist, and slung her over his shoulder.
No sooner had he started running than shouts echoed from the house.
Terror as she had never experienced, not even when she’d unexpectedly stumbled upon the gang, careered through her.
Yet, even with the indignity of being carried like a naughty child and the pain in her stomach as it jostled against his shoulder, when the first gun shots rang out she squeezed her eyes shut and thanked God for Gabriele’s strength, and prayed for the shots to fire wide.
She had no idea how long he ran with her thrown over his shoulder. It could have been one minute, it could have been an hour. All she knew was that the men were chasing and firing at them.
And then he was no longer running with her on the sand but wading through the sea. An engine ran close by. She hardly had time to register that a jet ski had appeared from nowhere before Gabriele had climbed onto it and shouted, ‘Go!’
Whoever was driving didn’t need telling twice. The jet ski shot off over the still waters.
Somehow Gabriele manipulated her body so she was no longer draped over his shoulder but secured on his lap, sandwiched between him and the man riding the jet ski.
Within minutes they approached an enormous yacht. To Elena’s amazement, they steered straight into an opened hatch on the side and parked, exactly as if they were parking a car in a garage.
Gabriele and the man who’d ridden the jet ski helped her off.
‘Are you all right?’ Gabriele asked, looking at her closely.
She opened her mouth to retort defiantly that of course she was all right when the magnitude of everything she’d gone through that evening and the exhaustion that had brought her to Nutmeg Island hit her.
A hot fog formed in her brain, perspiration breaking out all over, her hands suddenly clammy.
And then it all went black.
ELENA AWOKE TO find herself cocooned in a heavy duvet on a bed so comfortable that for a moment the fact she didn’t have a clue where she was didn’t matter.
She stretched then sat bolt upright as memories flooded her.
She’d fainted. She remembered feeling all...wrong, remembered strong arms holding her, overriding her protests.
Gabriele Mantegna .
He’d kidnapped her. He’d given chase, thrown her over his shoulder and spirited her to his yacht via a jet ski.
Or had he saved her?
Yes, that was right. He’d certainly saved her from the criminal gang who’d done the unthinkable and overridden her father’s state-of-the-art security system and broken onto their island.
But he was Gabriele Mantegna and instinct told her she’d be no safer with him than those men. The danger he carried was of a different kind.
He’d carried her away from the hail of bullets that had rained on them. God alone knew how they’d escaped without being shot.
What was he even doing there?
So many thoughts crammed in her brain it was a struggle to think straight.
Another memory came to her, of being placed on the bed and Gabriele’s rich voice murmuring in their native Italian that she should sleep.
The only comfort she could take was that her clothes were still on.
Climbing out of bed, she held onto the frame until she was certain her feet were steady, then drew the floor-length curtains.
Light flooded the cabin, almost blinding her with its brilliance. She opened the French doors and stepped out onto the balcony. The Caribbean Sea—at least