Modern Romance April 2019 Books 5-8. Chantelle Shaw
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and pretty, and oh, so feminine, with soft cushions and blankets everywhere and pictures of flowers on the walls. It was cosy, homely and warm, but his mind was only half-focused on his surroundings. He was mulling over the proposition he’d come here to offer—and what he’d do if she refused.
Already he could see that Amelia diSalvo was different to what he’d expected.
Did that matter? Did it fundamentally change what he needed from her? And what she’d agree to?
His research showed that she’d been inactive in the business, not attending meetings of any kind. She was on the board but didn’t contribute; it was clear she had no interest in the day-to-day operations of diSalvo Industries.
But would she be easily convinced to sell her shares to him?
Would she recognise his name and recall the bitter rivalry that had engulfed their families? Would he then have to launch straight into his backup plan? The idea of revealing his machinations to this woman hadn’t bothered him an hour earlier but, standing in her living room, suddenly he wasn’t in a rush to reveal his reasons for coming to Bumblebee Cottage late in the evening.
Which was absurd given that he’d had an investigator searching for her for over a year. Absurd given that he’d jumped on a flight as soon as she’d been located, with scant regard for the timing of things. If he’d been patient, he could have spent the night in London and driven into the countryside first thing the following morning, catching her in the daytime rather than on a rainy summer evening.
But he was here, and he wouldn’t let himself get distracted by the fact that she wasn’t the hard and cynical heiress he’d imagined. Nor by the fact she seemed kind of sweet and funny, and lived in a house that was like a tribute to quaint history.
He had spent his adult life setting things right, avenging this feud, and now he was within striking distance. All that stood between himself and success was this one tiny woman.
She was different to what he’d expected, but she was still a diSalvo and she still held the key to his ultimate revenge.
He had to remember that.
* * *
It was impossible to say why she felt as if she needed a moment to steady herself in the kitchen, but Amelia took several, sucking in a deep breath and then another and another as she reached for a bottle of wine and a corkscrew. All the wines she’d been given as gifts had actual corks.
She lifted it out easily enough and poured a measure into two glasses—her plans for a cup of tea falling by the wayside as she thought it would give her some fortifying courage.
Wine glasses in hand, she moved back into the lounge. And froze.
He was simply standing, staring at one of the pictures of hydrangeas she’d painted in watercolours, and it was that image of him that did something completely unexpected to her insides.
He was so utterly masculine in the midst of her living space and yet there was something strangely perfect about seeing him there. She stared at him, at the harshness of his face in profile, the strength of his body, broad shoulders and a narrow waist, legs that looked strong and athletic, and her pulse began to speed and her heart was trembling.
Oh, God, what was happening to her? Her mouth was dry and when she lifted her reluctant gaze back to his face she saw he’d turned and a hint of sardonic amusement danced in the depths of his eyes, bringing another flush of pink to her cheeks.
‘Here,’ she muttered, pushing the wine glass towards him.
He held her gaze as he took it, a smile playing about his lips. ‘Gracias.’
‘You’re Spanish?’ she heard herself say and then winced. Why was she making small talk with him?
‘Sí.’ The word resonated with something spicy and mysterious and, despite the fact it was now raining, she was reminded of the day’s sunshine and warmth.
She needed to focus. Why was he here?
‘What’s your name?’
‘Antonio Herrera,’ he said, and Amelia frowned, her eyes sweeping shut for a moment.
She felt his gaze, heavy and intent on her face, and her skin goosebumped once more. There was something in her mind, a memory, but it was distant and when she tried to grab it, to focus on it, the thing slipped away from her, like trying to catch a piece of soap that had been dropped into the bath.
‘I know that name.’
‘Do you?’ he murmured, the words throaty.
He held his wine glass to hers, a salute, and she completed it on autopilot. Only their fingertips brushed together and it was as though Amelia had been thrown from an aeroplane. Her stomach twisted in a billion knots and she was in freefall, everything shifting and pulling and nothing making sense. The world was over-bright and her senses jangling. His eyes were merciless, pinning her to the spot, and from grey to black they went once more. She couldn’t speak, couldn’t move.
‘Why do I know your name?’ she asked when the answer hadn’t come to her. Then, like a bolt of lightning, she remembered. ‘Oh! Of course!’
Did his shoulders tighten? Or was she imagining it? ‘Yes?’
Hadn’t she realised he was a man used to being in command? A figure of dominance and assertiveness?
‘You’re that guy,’ she said, clicking her fingers together. ‘I read about you a while ago. You bought that airline and saved all those people from getting fired.’
‘Being made redundant,’ he clarified. ‘And that’s not why I bought the airline.’
‘No?’
‘It was going for a song.’ He shrugged.
‘I see,’ she said thoughtfully, wondering why he was downplaying the altruism of the purchase. He didn’t really care about twenty thousand people poised to be out of work if the airline went bust? Or did he want her to think he didn’t care?
Her eyes narrowed speculatively. ‘And you invest in schools in eastern Europe. And hospitals.’
He arched a brow. ‘You seem to know quite a bit about me.’
‘It was a long opinion piece,’ she explained, her cheeks heating. ‘And I like to read the paper. From cover to cover.’ She was babbling a little. When she’d moved to her father’s home, she’d been surrounded by men like this. Well, not precisely like this; he was somewhat unique. But men who were just a little too much of everything. Too handsome, too sharp, too rich.
And she’d never felt overawed by those qualities before. Having seen her mother fall under their spell time and time again, she’d always been determined to remain immune to those charms.
Then again, she supposed it was a little like the aquarium effect.
‘The aquarium effect?’ he prompted, and Amelia was mortified to realise she’d been speaking out loud.
She turned away from him, walking unsteadily towards an armchair and sitting in it, then immediately wishing she hadn’t when their height disadvantage became even more apparent.
‘Please, take a seat.’ She gestured towards the sofa.
‘Sure. If you’ll elaborate,’ he drawled. ‘I should like to see if you are comparing me to a shark or a seal.’
Her laugh was spontaneous. She watched covertly as he sat—not on the sofa but in the armchair across from hers, his long legs stretched out and dangerously close to her own legs.
‘I didn’t mean that,’ she promised, sipping her wine. ‘It’s only that when you go to an aquarium you’re expecting to see myriad fish, so that even the most beautiful tropical fish or the fluffiest penguin fail to have much of an impact. But if I were walking along the Thames and a beautiful penguin happened to cross my path I’d