The Passionate Italian
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Passion wasn’t high on Rose’s agenda growing up in poverty: survival was, independence was, but not the crazy, elemental passion that she’d found with Giovanni Visconti. But, after a year together, the passion had twisted into jealousy and control and Rose had disappeared—seemingly unable to deal with her husband’s passionate nature.
But, two years later, Giovanni tracks Rose down. He’s discovered something that makes him realize that there was more to Rose’s departure than he’d first thought, and he’s determined to control his jealous passions in order to prove to his wife that she can trust him. But Rose is keeping secrets from him—secrets with the potential to destroy more than just their relationship...
Italian Romance
- The Italian’s Perfect Lover
- Seduced by the Italian
- The Passionate Italian
- An Accidental Christmas
Excerpt
What the hell was going on?
Rose stared at the email once more in disbelief.
It seemed her sleeping business partner had woken up and sold their company—hers, in all but name. But it was the last sentence that had her really worried.
He’d also sold her services for six months as part of the deal.
Stunned, she pushed the laptop away and stared, unseeing, at the waves breaking onto the beach to the rear of her cottage.
How could she have been so stupid? She should have paid her partner off by now but she’d thought having someone else’s name on the paperwork made her untraceable.
Ha! That was a joke.
She grabbed a wrap that lay over the back of her ancient couch and flung open the rickety French windows that led directly to the beach. Her wild, curly hair lifted and whirled in the fresh wind as she scrunched through heavy sand towards the shore. She scanned the horizon but failed to find the sense of peace the beautiful, white-flecked bay usually gave her.
Here in New Zealand, half a world away from her old life, she’d felt hidden, unfindable. But someone had just bought her company for much more than it was worth. This wasn’t business; this was personal.
She turned to look at the lone cottage, nestled in the native bush between cliff and sea that had been her world—her business and her home—for the past two years, but no more.
She would have to leave.
There could only be one person persistent enough and with enough reason to seek her out. There was only one person who wanted her enough.
Giovanni Visconti—her husband.
She closed her eyes and tried to block out the memories, concentrating on the sting of the sand as it hit her bare legs, on the clatter of the New Zealand flax, alive in the fresh northerly and on the damp of the fine mist that rose from the pounding waves.
A shiver coursed through her body that had nothing to do with the chill breeze and everything to do with her husband.
Giovanni. Just the feel of his name upon her lips recalled the heat of his mouth upon hers and memories she needed to forget.
She crouched down, head in hands, and tried to control the panic that threatened to overwhelm her.
There had been many reasons to leave him—his jealousy for one, her need for independence for another—but it had been neither of these things. Giovanni had never known the catalyst for her leaving. And, if she had her way, he never would. Her secret could destroy him. And she couldn’t do that to the man she loved.
She jumped up and looked at her watch. She didn’t have much time. She had to move on. She couldn’t risk seeing him because she didn’t know if she’d have the strength to leave him again.
She entered the rear of the cottage and scanned the room, mentally calculating what she’d need to take with her. Not much. She’d come with nothing. She could start again with nothing.
Computer of course; the few photos of her family that her mother had managed to retain; and—
Her eyes rested on the front door, just visible in the shadows on the far side of the open-plan cottage. It was open.
She froze. She’d left it closed. It was always closed. Her life was private. She always used the back door.
She held her breath, listening intently, but all she could hear and see were the flapping of papers pinned to her wall, pages turning on an open book on her table and the fine silk of the curtains curling and snapping back in the constant breeze. But still she felt a clammy chill crawl up her spine before settling at her neck.
Someone was here.
She turned to close the French windows, cursing under her breath as the old wooden doors, swollen with sea air, squeaked stiffly together before banging shut.
“Ah, my English Rose, still with the common touch.” His voice was ice-cold.
She closed her eyes as shock fired through every fiber, every nerve ending in her body. Even as her brain recoiled, knowing well all the arguments why they should be apart, her body responded at its own base, animal level, aroused by the proximity to her mate.
“Giovanni!”
She spun around to face him, barely able to hold back the shudder of wanting.
“I’m surprised you remember.”
The flames of desire his presence sparked were doused by the chill of his tone. She needed to be in control as he so obviously was.
“What do you want?” Her voice sounded hoarse and breathless.
“I want what I paid for. Come closer, I wish to see you.”
She stayed where she was.
“It was you, wasn’t it? You bought out Guy.”
“If that is the name of your lover who has more interest in money than loyalty then that is correct.”
He walked slowly towards her.
She stepped back instinctively.
“He is not my lover.” She bit her lip, angry with herself for the explanation that sprung automatically to her lips. She’d thought the days when she needed to defend herself from his jealous accusations were long gone.
He continued to advance towards her, but this time she didn’t move. There was nowhere to go.
He was as stunning as ever: a killer mix of elegance, sensuality and intensity. Elegance in his Italian style: from the finely-cut clothes that flattered his tall, rangy frame to his dark hair, sharply cut, but long enough to graze his collar.
And his mouth: beautifully shaped, the lips were pressed firm as if for control. But she knew the magic they could perform.
Then she forced herself to meet his gaze: intense and unnerving. The white New Zealand light drained his eyes of their warmth, robbing them of color, leaving nothing but the darkening grey of the sky reflected back at her. Framed by the dark shadows of sleeplessness and straight, black brows, there was no sign of his restless intelligence now—only cold anger. She’d never seen him so remote, so unfeeling. Not to her anyway.
He crossed his arms and casually leaned against the wall, away from her, coolly observing her reactions but displaying none of his own. She was thankful for the slight increase in distance between them.
“I have no interest in your lovers. I have simply come to claim what’s mine.”
***
