Defying Her Billionaire Protector. Angela Bissell

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      Marietta’s gaze went straight to the bed. To the crimson box lying open on her cream cotton coverlet and the items of luxury lingerie spilling haphazardly from between layers of soft white tissue. Scattered around the box and all across her bed were dozens upon dozens of red and white rose petals.

      She moved closer, made out a red satin and black lace chemise, a sheer negligee and a pair of skimpy scarlet knickers. She closed her eyes, turned away, fighting a sudden stab of nausea. When she opened them again, her gaze landed on the item in Nico’s hand. A bra, she registered now. A lacy, see-through concoction designed to be sexy and revealing as opposed to any kind of practical.

      Her gaze jerked up, collided with Nico’s, and for a fleeting moment it seemed as though something arced in the air between them. Something hot and bright and electric.

      Which just went to prove how easily stress could affect the mind—because surely she had imagined that strange ripple of energy in the room that had felt almost like... What? Sexual awareness?

      Heat flooded her face. Si, she was definitely stressed—not to mention embarrassed and horrified.

      She yanked her gaze away from Nico’s and took one last look at her bed. Did her stalker think he would one day share it with her? Thick bile coated her throat and the heat drained from her face, leaving her cold and clammy.

      ‘Was there a card?’ she managed to ask.

      Nico turned away from her to lay the bra on the bed. ‘No,’ he said, snapping the gloves off his hands. He turned back to look at her, his blue eyes dark and unreadable. ‘You’re pale, Marietta. Do you have anything to drink?’

      She nodded. Si, a drink...something to wash the bile out of her throat, shave the edge off her nerves. She wheeled out of the room. She wouldn’t be able to sleep here tonight. Perhaps she could stay at Leo’s penthouse for the weekend? He’d be travelling to Tuscany this evening, back to Helena and their adorable baby boy Riccardo. Leo’s apartment building—a stunning renovated historic structure in the heart of the old city—wasn’t as wheelchair-friendly as this one, but there was an elevator at least. Or perhaps she could telephone a girlfriend?

      Her mind spun in jerky circles until she reached her lounge and paused. She looked around the cosy, light-filled room. Had her stalker been in here, too? Had he snooped through every inch of her beloved home? Had he touched her things?

      Angry and sickened, she dumped her handbag on her plum-coloured sofa and headed for the solid oak sideboard. The cabinet housed a small selection of spirits—brandy, limoncello, and a bottle of whisky for her brother when he visited.

      She grabbed two cut-glass tumblers and, hearing footsteps on the hardwood floor behind her, twisted her chin round to look at Nico. ‘What will you have?’

      He shrugged, the movement accentuating the breadth of his shoulders under his black open-necked shirt. ‘Whatever you’re having.’

      She chose the brandy, unscrewed the cap and started to pour. But her hands shook and the liquid sloshed out too fast, hit the rim of the glass and splashed onto the sideboard. She cursed, the mishap pushing her to the verge of ridiculous tears, and then Nico’s hand was closing over hers. Without a word, he removed the bottle from her grip and poured a generous measure into each tumbler.

      Feeling foolish, she took the glass he handed her and tried to ignore the lingering effect of his touch. It was the same hot, static-like sensation she’d experienced at the gallery, when he’d crouched in front of her and taken her hand in his. Except his touch then had lasted longer, she recalled, and his thumb had rubbed gentle, delicious circles on the back of her hand, setting off a chain reaction of tiny sparks under her skin.

      She took a gulp of brandy and welcomed its distracting burn. ‘I don’t understand,’ she blurted when the heat had abated. ‘Why me?’ It was a question with no logical answer, she knew. She threw up a hand in helpless frustration. ‘Your company provides protection services to public figures,’ she said. ‘You must know something about this sort of thing. Why would he go to such lengths to get my attention and yet keep his identity a secret?’

      Nico stood with one hand wrapped around his glass, the other shoved in his trouser pocket. He paused, as if carefully weighing his response. ‘In his mind, he’s courting you, and he wants total control over this stage of his fantasy,’ he said finally. ‘The longer he remains anonymous, the more time he has to build the perfect relationship with you in his head and avoid the risk of real-life rejection.’

      Marietta grimaced. ‘That is totally twisted.’

      Nico knocked back his brandy in a single swallow that made the muscles in his strong throat visibly work. ‘I agree,’ he said, then put the glass down and pulled his mobile phone from his pocket.

      ‘Who are you calling?’

      ‘Bruno, the police—’ he tapped the screen and pressed the phone to his ear ‘—and your brother.’

      Marietta sighed. Eccellente. An army of men was about to invade her beloved home. She chafed at the intrusion—at the very knowledge that she could no longer handle this situation by herself—but, loath as she was to admit it, she had no choice. She’d have to accept help.

      Her brother arrived first, and he must have driven like a madman to complete the journey from his office in less than twenty minutes. He looked like a madman, too, with his tie skewed, his hair on end, his handsome face creased with worry—an expression that grew considerably darker the moment he looked in her bedroom.

      ‘I’m fine,’ she told him as he tipped up her chin and searched her face with dark, probing eyes. His jaw clenched, as if he didn’t trust himself to speak, then he simply dropped a kiss on her head and stalked across the room to Nico.

      Shortly afterwards, Bruno turned up, with a thin middle-aged man he introduced as a private forensic specialist, and, surreal though it all seemed, her lovely peaceful home began to resemble an official crime scene.

      Marietta reached again for the brandy bottle and refilled her glass. She’d suffered through countless indignities during the painstaking months of rehabilitation and therapy after her accident, but this was a violation beyond her experience—beyond anything she’d equipped herself to deal with.

      And it was so unfair—even though she knew life was unfair. Life didn’t owe her anything. Which was why she had worked so hard for everything she had: her job at the gallery, which provided a steady income, the loft she’d bought and turned into a nice little earner by converting it into an art studio and hiring out the space to working artists, and her own art career—which, with a few exhibitions of her paintings and some lucrative commissions under her belt, was finally taking off.

      Admittedly she’d accepted some help from Leo in the early days, but she’d repaid him every euro she’d borrowed—despite his vociferous protests. While her dear brother had never understood his little sister’s need to assert her independence, he had finally accepted it.

      She looked around at her apartment, filled with strangers. For years she’d prided herself on her strength and resilience, but she didn’t feel at all strong and resilient today. She felt helpless and afraid and she hated it. Her gaze travelled across the room to where her brother and Nico stood by the window, deep in conversation, their dark heads bowed. Leo had already swooped in like a man possessed, bent on taking control. How long before he tried to smother her in a suffocating blanket of protectiveness?

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