The Forbidden Ferrara

Which was what frightened her.

The initial feeling of relief that had flooded her had been replaced by trepidation. If he were intent on developing the land then she’d never be safe.

‘My grandfather will never, ever sell to you so if that is what this visit is about you’re wasting your time. You might as well go back to New York or Rome or wherever it is you live these days. Pick another project.’

‘I live here.’ His lip curled. ‘And I am giving this project my personal attention.’

It was the worst news she could have had. ‘He hasn’t been well. I won’t let you upset him.’

‘Your grandfather is tough as boots. I doubt he is in need of your protection.’ A few layers of ‘civilized’ had melted away and the dangerous edge to his tone told her that he meant business. ‘Does he know that you’re deliberately attracting my customers away from the hotel to your restaurant?’

He was six foot three of prime masculinity, the force of his nature barely leashed beneath that outward appearance of sophistication. And Fia knew just how much heat bubbled under the cool surface. She’d been burned by that heat.

His passion has shocked her, but nowhere near as much as her own.

‘If by “deliberately” you mean that I’m cooking them good food in great surroundings, then I’m guilty as charged.’

‘Those “great surroundings” are exactly the reason I’m here.’

So that was what had brought him back. Not the night they’d shared. Not concern for her welfare or anything that was personal.

Just business.

If she weren’t so relieved that there wasn’t a deeper reason, she would have been appalled by his insensitivity. Whatever else had happened, a death lay between them. Blood had been shed.

But one inconvenient death wouldn’t be enough to stand in the way of a Ferrara on the path to acquisition, she thought numbly. It was all about empire building. ‘This conversation is over. I need to cook. I’m in the middle of service.’ The truth was she’d all but finished, but she’d wanted him out of here.

But of course he didn’t leave because a Ferrara only ever did what a Ferrara wanted to do.

Instead of walking away he lounged against the door frame, sleek and confident, those eyes fixed on her. ‘You feel so threatened by me you have to have a knife in your hand while we talk?’

‘I’m not threatened. I’m working.’

‘I could disarm you in under five seconds.’

‘I could cut you to the bone in less.’ It was bravado, of course, because not for one moment did she underestimate his strength.

‘If this is the welcome you give your customers I’m surprised you have anyone here at all. Not exactly warm, is it?’ The fringe of thick lashes made his eyes seem darker. Or maybe the darkness was something they created together. She knew that the addition of just one ingredient could alter flavour. In this case it was the forbidden. They’d done the unforgivable. The unexplainable. The inexcusable.

‘You’re not a customer, Santo.’

‘So feed me and then I will be. Cook me dinner.’

Cook me dinner. Just for a moment her hands shook.

He’d walked away without once glancing back. That, she could handle because, apart from one night of reckless sex, they’d shared nothing. The fact that he’d played a much bigger role in her dreams wasn’t his fault. But for him to walk back in here and order her to cook him dinner, as if his return was something to celebrate …

The audacity of it took her breath away. ‘Sorry. Fatted calf isn’t on the menu tonight. Now get the hell out of my kitchen, Santo. Gina manages the bookings and tonight we’re full. And tomorrow night. And any other night you wish to eat in my restaurant.’

‘Gina is the pretty blonde? I noticed her on the way in.’

Of course he would have noticed her. Santo Ferrara not noticing a blonde, curvy woman would be like a lion not noticing a cute impala. That didn’t surprise her. What surprised her was the ache in her chest. She didn’t want to care who this man took to his bed. She’d never wanted to care and the fact that she did terrified her more than anything. She’d grown up witnessing that caring meant pain.

Never love a Sicilian man had been the last words her mother had flung at her eight-year-old daughter before she’d walked out of the door for ever.

Afraid of her own feelings, Fia turned her back and finished chopping garlic, but they were the ragged, uneven cuts of an amateur, not a professional.

‘It’s dangerous to handle a knife when your hands are shaking.’ Suddenly he was right behind her, too close for comfort, and she felt her pulse sprint because even though he wasn’t touching her she could feel the warmth of him, the power of him and feel her answering response. It was immediate and visceral and she almost screamed with frustration because it made no sense. It was like salivating over a food that she knew would make her ill.

‘I’m not shaking.’

‘No?’ A strong, bronzed hand covered hers and immediately she was back in the darkness of that night, his mouth burning against hers, his skilled fingers showing her no mercy as he drove her wild. ‘Do you think about it?’

She didn’t need to ask what he meant.

Did she think about it? Oh, God, he had no idea. She’d tried everything, everything, to wipe the memory of that night from her mind but it was always with her. A sensual scar that was never going to heal. ‘Take your hand off mine right now.’

His hand tightened, the strength in those fingers holding hers still. ‘You finish serving food at ten. We’ll talk after that.’

It was a command not an invitation and the sure confidence with which he issued that command licked at the flames of her anger. ‘My work doesn’t finish when the restaurant closes. I have hours of work and when that is done I go to bed.’

‘With that puppy-eyed boy who works for you? Playing it safe now, Fia?’

She was so shocked by the question that she turned her head to look at him and the movement brought her physically closer. The light brush of her skin against the hardness of his thigh triggered a frightening response. It was as if her body knew. ‘Who I invite into my bed is none of your business.’

Their eyes met briefly as they acknowledged privately what they’d never acknowledged publicly.

She watched, transfixed, as his gaze turned black.

A long dormant feeling slowly uncurled itself inside her, a response she didn’t want to feel for this man.

What might have happened next she’d never know because Gina walked in and when Fia saw who she was carrying she wanted to shout out a warning. She wanted to tell the other girl to run and not look back. But it was too late. Her luck had run out. It was over. It was over because Santo was already turning to locate the source of the interruption, an irritated frown scoring the bronzed planes of his handsome face.

‘He had a bad dream—’ Gina cooed, stroking the sobbing toddler. ‘I said I’d bring him to his mamma as you’ve finished cooking for the night.’

Fia stood, powerless to do anything except allow events to unfold.

Had circumstances been different she would have been pleased to see a Ferrara shocked out of his customary cool. As it was the stakes were so high she watched with the breath trapped in her lungs, reluctant witness to his rapidly changing emotions.

His initial irritation at the disturbance gave way to puzzlement as he looked at the miserable, hiccuping child now stretching out his little arms to Fia.

And she took him, of course, because his welfare mattered to her above all other things.

And two things happened.

Her son stared curiously at the tall, dark stranger in the kitchen and stopped crying instantly.

And the tall, dark stranger stared into black eyes almost identical to his own, and turned pale as death.