Modern Romance April 2019 Books 5-8. Chantelle Shaw
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the falling rain.
‘What is it?’
‘I just said—’ He released a soft curse in Spanish. When she was eight, she’d mastered curse words in French, Italian, German, Spanish, Greek, Mandarin and Polish. She’d been bored on a yacht and the staff—one from each of these nationalities—had spent one late night teaching her. ‘It’s important, Amelia,’ Antonio said.
The fact he knew her name got her attention. With a frown on her face, she unlocked the door, keeping the chain lock firmly in place so that it only cracked open a wedge.
It was dark on the porch, but enough light filtered out to show his face and it was strong and interesting.
‘How do you know my name?’
There was a beat of silence and then, ‘I’m a business acquaintance of your brother’s. I need to speak to you.’
‘Why? What about? Is it Carlo? Is he okay?’
The man’s eyes flickered with something and for a moment Amelia was worried, but then he smiled. ‘So far as I know, Carlo is fine. This is a proposition just for you.’
At that, Amelia frowned. ‘What kind of proposition?’
His look was mysterious. ‘One that is too confidential to discuss through the door.’
‘It’s late at night. This couldn’t have waited until tomorrow?’
‘I just flew in.’ He shrugged, his eyes narrowing. ‘Is it a bad time?’
She wanted to tell him to go away, because something about him was making her pulse fire and her heart race. Fear, surely?
‘It will not take long,’ he said once more, appeasing, and her eyes lifted to his.
When had she become so suspicious? True, she’d had a baptism of fire when she’d gone to live with her father and half-brother. She’d learned that there were many people out there who would hurt you—not physically, necessarily, but with any means it took. His so-called friends had proved to be wolves in couture clothing. But she’d fled those people, that world. She’d moved across the earth, to the sweetness of a tiny village, and the homeliness of Bumblebee, and she’d become not Amelia Hamilton, nor Amelia diSalvo, but Amelia Clifton—her mother’s real surname. A normal name. An unrecognisable name. A name that didn’t attract attention or interest, a name that was all her own.
Intrusions from her other life weren’t welcome.
‘Fine,’ she said crisply, pushing the door shut so she could unchain it and then opening it wide.
She did a double-take. Through the one inch of open door it hadn’t been possible to see exactly how handsome he was. But now? His dark hair sat straight and spiky, enhancing the sharpness of his bone structure and, rather than looking as though it had been styled that way, it was more like he’d dragged his fingers through it enough times to make the hair stand on end. His was a face that was all angles and planes, symmetrical and pleasing, with a square jaw and a chin that looked as though it had been carved from stone. Only there was a divot in its centre, as if his creator had enjoyed pressing a thumb into it, a perfect little indent that drew her curious gaze.
His lips were broad and his jaw covered in stubble. His nose was long, straight and autocratic, but it was his eyes that robbed her lungs, momentarily, of the ability to pump air out of her body. They were eyes shaped like almonds, a dark grey in colour, rimmed in thick black lashes that curled in a way Amelia was both dumbfounded by and jealous of. They were eyes that seemed to tell stories, flickering with emotions and thoughts she couldn’t decode.
‘Well?’ he asked again, gruff, but a smile on his lips softened the word. ‘May I enter?’
‘Yeah.’ The word was breathy. She cleared her throat. ‘Of course.’
He shrugged out of his jacket, revealing a shirt that had suffered several drops of rainwater. It was a simple gesture—showing the breadth of his chest and the sculptured perfection of his torso.
She swept her eyes shut for a moment and then collected herself, offering an apologetic grimace before moving in a little. ‘I’m sorry; I don’t get many visitors.’
‘Apparently,’ he drawled. And then his smile deepened to reveal even white teeth. Her stomach flipped in on itself. ‘And so a meat cleaver is how you choose to defend yourself?’
She found herself nodding with mock gravity. ‘I feel it’s only fair to warn you: I have a black belt in kitchen instruments.’
‘Do you?’
‘Oh, you should see me wield a potato peeler.’
His laugh was a low rumble from deep in his belly and his eyes were assessing. She wanted to look away but found her gaze held by his, as though trapped. ‘Another time,’ he said.
‘You can unarm yourself,’ he added. ‘I assure you I don’t mean you any harm.’
‘I’m sure you don’t but I feel I have to point out that very few murderers announce their intentions, do they?’
‘I suppose not.’
‘So it’s quite possible you’re just planning the best way to kill me without making a fuss.’
‘Except that I’ve already explained why I’m here,’ he responded with a grin that seemed to breathe butterflies into her belly. He looked around her cottage with lazy curiosity.
Amelia didn’t have guests often—a few of the teachers from school had come around for her birthday earlier in the year, and once she’d had a student after school, as a favour for the parents, but generally Amelia kept to herself.
What was the point of country solitude if you chose to surrender it?
She tried to see the house as an outsider might—the quaint decorations, the homely simplicity of her furnishings, the absence of any photographs, the abundance of paperback novels and fresh flowers.
‘Ah, yes, your proposition,’ she murmured. ‘Please—’ She gestured towards the lounge.
He moved ahead of her and she realised she was staring at his rear, distracted by the way his trousers framed his tight, muscular bottom. Distracted by the way just looking at him was making her nerves buzz into overdrive.
She had practically no experience with men, besides a few casual lunch dates with Rick Steed, the deputy headmaster. And those had ended with chaste kisses to the cheek, nothing particularly distracting or tempting.
As a teenager, she’d railed against the life she’d been sucked into, hating the expectation that because her mother had been renowned both for her beauty and sexually free attitude Amelia must be exactly the same.
She’d begun to suspect she was, in fact, frigid. Completely devoid of any normal sexual impulse or desire. That had suited her fine. What did she need a man for when she had all the men the books in her life afforded?
What indeed? she thought to herself as he turned to face her.
‘Nice place.’
‘Thank you.’
He was quiet, watching her, and ingrained manners and a need to fill the silence had her offering, ‘Can I get you a drink?’
‘Thank you.’ He nodded.
‘What would you like? Tea? Coffee?’
He arched a brow. ‘At this hour?’
Heat suffused her cheeks at her own naivety. ‘Wine?’
‘Wine would be fine.’
‘Have a seat. I won’t be a minute.’