Untamed Italians. Janette Kenny

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      None of the office staff should be here yet. In fact there was no reason for any employee to come to work over an hour early. No good reason, that is.

      It must be the security guard making his rounds. Yes, it must be.

      Still, Gemma all but ran the last few meters to the paneled door of her office. She couldn’t get caught by anyone. That would raise questions she wasn’t prepared to answer, and she never had been able to tell a convincing lie.

      She hurried into her small office painted cheery yellow and furnished with an efficient desk and chair, a quartet of padded chairs along the wall for guests, and a table arranged with a lamp and several magazines. Sunlight streamed through the window in a burst of welcome, but pausing to appreciate its beauty would have to wait.

      She pushed into Cesare’s office and flipped the wall switch with a shaking finger. Before the soft light could chase the shadows to the dark corners of the paneled room, she was heading across the maroon and jade carpet toward the wall safe.

      Despite the cool morning, sweat beaded her forehead and dampened her spine and palms. Her silk coral blouse clung to her breasts and her navy blue pencil skirt had ridden up her thighs from her uncharacteristic sprint. But she couldn’t take time to right her clothes, either.

      An unsettling energy hummed in the air, as if a storm was moving in. Or trouble was brewing?

      Please don’t let it be from within Marinetti.

      They’d all been through enough. But she feared that’s just what would happen when Cesare’s son took over.

      From what she’d overheard, Stefano Marinetti was ruthless in business and a lothario outside of it. Having seen him at the funeral, she didn’t doubt that rumor one bit!

      Yes, he was praised for his rapier-quick decisions and ability to make millions. But he was an international playboy.

      He hadn’t taken time to visit his parents in five long years. In her opinion, he could just stay away now.

      Just recalling the latest headline splashed across the tabloids had her pursing her lips. Stefano’s superyacht business had skyrocketed while Marinetti Shipyard struggled from week to week to make payroll of late.

      Cesare’s business rivals called him washed up. She knew the truth, but she couldn’t divulge where the fortune had gone.

      She spun the dial on the safe with trembling fingers, the only sound in the room her pounding heart and the metered tick of the wall clock. Then she heard the heavy outside door snick open, but it was the masculine exchange of, “ciao,” echoing from the hall outside her office that nearly stopped her heart.

      She pawed through the contents of the safe and removed the portfolio she needed with her heart in her throat, clinging to the tiny window of time afforded her as the two men outside lapsed into a rapid staccato of conversation. A quick look inside the dark safe proved the photos were stowed there as well.

      She stuffed the lot of them inside her carryall, closed the wall safe and slipped from Cesare’s office into her own. Footsteps pounded in the hall, coming closer. Heavy, impatient strides.

      Surely not a guard. She doubted he was a worker, either. No, in all likelihood, the man moments from bursting through the door was Cesare’s son.

      Her heart raced as she eased onto her chair and tucked her carryall under her desk. She’d done it. Now all she had to do was don a professional air and appear to be dutifully busy.

      The door swung open and a tall man strode inside, wearing an Armani suit that emphasized the width of his broad shoulders and fitted his long lean body to perfection. He stopped cold and cut her a quick impatient look, much the same expression he’d worn at his mother’s funeral.

      Stefano Marinetti was a younger, more leonine version of Cesare. His wealth of coffee-brown hair had a sexy wave to it and his beautifully sculpted lips curved just enough to keep him from appearing cross.

      Just like he’d done at the funeral, his discerning mocha eyes took their time caressing every inch of her until her skin tingled and her thighs trembled. Men had openly stared at her before, but never like this. Never with this open carnal hunger.

      It was totally inappropriate behavior even for a flirtatious Italian. He wasn’t just undressing her with his hot gaze, he was getting under her skin and stroking her libido.

      With effort, she broke eye contact and struggled to draw air deeply into her too tight lungs. Another mistake, for she inhaled his scent, an erotic spice that sank into her and left her giddy with want.

      She hated this electric attraction to him, yet she was drawn to him all the same. It was maddening. Humiliating. Addictive.

      Her heart rate trebled from the realization she’d have to work for this playboy until Cesare returned. She couldn’t do it. But she couldn’t not do it, either.

      Her promise to Cesare echoed in her mind, but it was the memory of the gamine face of the little girl smiling up at her from her hospital bed that gave Gemma the strength to meet Stefano’s stare dead-on.

      His presence dominated the room so completely she couldn’t have looked away again if she’d tried. She’d heard of imposing forces before, but she’d never been faced with one until now.

      The tabloids had been right. His classic good looks rivaled the Roman gods. Contemplative. Intense. Sexy.

      And impatient.

      That was the unsettling energy she’d sensed before. This man was used to giving orders and having them obeyed immediately without question.

      She could easily picture him as a Roman gladiator brazenly vanquishing his rivals. Or as a god lounging by a pool with a bevy of maidens at his beck and call.

      Yes, his raw masculine beauty paled in comparison to the carnal energy that emanated from him. He was a businessman who oozed sensual charisma and he knew it. He flaunted it. He used it to his advantage, just as he was doing now to throw her totally off track.

      Stefano was a dangerous predator here for one reason—to usurp Cesare. She’d do well to bear that in mind.

      She forced a welcoming smile and struggled for a neutral tone. “Buongiorno, Signor Marinetti. May I personally extend my condolences on your mother’s untimely passing.”

      He gave an impatient nod and scanned her office as if looking for something. “Where is Donna?”

      “She retired nearly a year ago.”

      His brows snapped together and the sculpted bow to his sensual mouth thinned. “When were you hired?”

      “Nearly a year ago.”

      “Interesting.” He treated her to another exacting perusal that left her flushed and feeling vulnerable and inadequate, which shouldn’t surprise her for she certainly wasn’t the type who’d appeal to this arrogant jet-setter. “You are?”

      “Gemma Cardone.”

      One devilishly black brow arched in a universally silent order that she expound on her role here.

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