HANNAH HAD BEEN twitching her curtains for a good half hour before Francesco pulled up outside her house on an enormous motorbike, the engine making enough racket to wake the whole street.
It didn’t surprise her in the least that he waited for her to come out to him. Once Francesco had agreed to a weekend together, he had wasted no time in dismissing her by saying, ‘I will collect you at 7:00 a.m. Have your passport ready.’
He was taking her to Sicily. To his home.
She couldn’t remember the last time she’d been this excited about something. Or as nervous.
Her very essence tingling with anticipation, she stepped out into the early-morning sun, noticing that at least he had taken his helmet off to greet her.
‘Good morning,’ she said, beaming both at him and, with admiration, at the bike. There was something so...manly about the way he straddled it, which, coupled with the cut of his tight leather trousers, sent a shock of warmth right through her. ‘Are we traveling to Sicily on this?’
He eyed her coldly. ‘Only to the airbase. That’s if you still want to come?’ From the tone of his voice, there was no doubting that he hoped she’d changed her mind.
If she was honest, since leaving his office six short hours ago, she’d repeatedly asked herself if she was doing the right thing.
But she hadn’t allowed herself to even consider backing down. Because all she knew for certain was that if she didn’t grab this opportunity with both hands she would regret it for the rest of her life, regardless of the outcome.
‘I still want to come,’ she said, almost laughing to see his lips tighten in disapproval. Couldn’t he see, the more he tried to scare her off, the more she knew she was on the right path, that it proved his integrity?
Francesco desired her.
The feel of his hardness pressed against her had been the most incredible, intoxicating feeling imaginable. She had never dreamed her body capable of such a reaction, had imagined the thickening of the blood and the low pulsations deep inside were from the realms of fiction. It had only served to increase her desire, to confirm she was following the right path.
She’d been his for the taking in his office but he had stepped back, unwilling to take advantage. Again.
Francesco was doing everything in his power to put her off, but she doubted there was anything to be revealed about him that would do that. What, she wondered, had made him so certain he was all bad? Was it because of his blood lineage? Whatever it was, she knew there was good in him—even though he clearly didn’t believe it himself.
Face thunderous, he reached into the side case and pulled out some leathers and a black helmet. ‘Put these on.’
She took them from him. ‘Do you want to come in while I change? Your bike will be perfectly safe—all the local hoodlums are tucked up in bed.’
‘I will wait here.’
‘I have coffee.’
‘I will wait.’
‘Suit yourself.’
‘You have five minutes.’
In her bedroom, Hannah wrestled herself into the tight leather trousers, and then donned the matching jacket, staggering slightly under the weight of it.
When she caught sight of her reflection in the full-length mirror she paused. Whoever said leathers were sexy was sorely mistaken—although she’d admit to feeling very Sandra Dee in the trousers.
Sandra Dee had been a virgin, too.
Hannah was a virgin in all senses of the word.
But, she reminded herself, with Francesco’s help she was going to change that. Just for this one weekend. That was all she wanted. Some memories to share with Beth.
She took a deep breath and studied her reflection one last time. Her stomach felt knotted, but she couldn’t tell if excitement or trepidation prevailed.
She checked the back door was locked one last time before grabbing her small case and heading back out to him.
‘That will not fit,’ Francesco said when he saw her case.
‘You’re the one whisking me away for a romantic overnight stay on a motorbike,’ she pointed out. ‘What do you suggest I do?’
‘Let me make this clear, I am not whisking you away anywhere.’
‘Semantics.’
‘And I never said anything about us going away for one night only. We will return to the UK when I am ready.’
‘As long as you get me back in time for work at nine o’clock Monday morning, that’s fine by me.’
His face was impassive. ‘We will return when my schedule allows it, not yours.’
‘Is this the part when I’m supposed to wave my hands and say, “oh, in that case I can’t possibly come with you?”’
‘Yes.’
‘Bad luck. I’m coming. And you’ll get me back in time for work.’
‘You sound remarkably sure of yourself.’
‘Not at all. I just know you’re not the sort of person to allow a ward full of sick children to suffer from a lack of doctors.’
His features contorted, the chocolate fudge of his eyes hardening. ‘That is a risk you are willing to take?’
‘No.’ She shook her head, a rueful smile playing on her lips. ‘I know there’s no risk.’ At least no risk in the respect of getting her to work on time. And as to Francesco’s other concerns, Hannah knew there was no risk in the respect of her heart, either; her heart hadn’t functioned properly in fifteen years.
More practically, she supposed there were some dangers. She could very well be getting into something way out of her depth, but what was the worst that could happen? Hannah had lived through her own personal hell. The worst thing that could happen had occurred at the age of twelve, and she had survived it. God alone knew how, but she had.
It was only one weekend. One weekend of life before she went back to her patients, the children she hoped with all her semi-functioning heart would grow up to lead full lives of their own.
‘On your head be it,’ said Francesco. ‘Now either find a smaller case for your stuff, put it in a rucksack you can strap to you, or leave it behind.’
Her gaze dropped to her case. She didn’t have either a smaller case or a rucksack....
‘Give me one minute,’ she said, speaking over her shoulder as she hurried back into the house. In record time she’d grabbed an oversized handbag and shoved her passport, phone, purse, clean underwear, toothbrush, and a thin sundress into it. The rest of her stuff, including some research papers she’d been reading through for the past week, she left in the case.
This was an adventure after all. Her first adventure in fifteen years.
‘Is that all you’re taking?’ Francesco asked when she rejoined him, taking the bag from her.
‘You’re the one who said to bring something smaller.’
He made a noise that sounded like a cross between a grunt and a snort.
She grinned. ‘You’ll have to try harder than that to put me off.’
Nostrils flaring, he shoved her bag into the side case then thrust the helmet back into her hands. ‘Put this on.’
‘Put this on...?’ She waited for a please.
‘Now.’
How could anyone be so cheerful first thing in the morning? Francesco wondered. It wasn’t natural.
What would it take to put a chink in that smiley armour?
With great reluctance, he reached over to help her with the helmet straps. Even through the darkened visor he could see her still grinning.
If he had his way, that pretty smile would be dropped from her face before they boarded his plane.
‘Have you ridden on one of these before?’ he asked, tightening the straps enough so they were secure without cutting off her circulation.
She shook her head.
‘Put your arms around me and mimic my actions—lean into the turns.’
Only when he was certain that she was securely seated did Francesco twist the throttle and set off.
* * *
Francesco brought the bike to a halt in the airport’s private car park.
‘That was amazing!’ Hannah said, whipping off her helmet to reveal a head of hair even more tangled than a whole forest of birds’ nests.
If his body wasn’t buzzing from the exhilaration of the ride coupled with the unwanted thrum of desire borne from having her pressed against him for half an hour, he would think she looked endearing.
His original intention had been to take advantage of the clear early-Saturday-morning roads and hit the throttle. What he hadn’t accounted for was the distraction of having Hannah pressed so tightly against him.
And no wonder. Those trousers...
Caro Dio...
Behind that sensible, slightly messy exterior lay a pair of the most fantastic legs he had ever seen. He’d noticed how great they looked the night before, but the ridiculous pink tutu had hidden the best part: the thighs.
Not for a second had he been able to forget she was there, attached to him, trusting him to keep her safe.
Where the hell did she get this misplaced trust from?
In the end, he’d kept his speed strictly controlled, rarely breaching the legal limits. Not at all the white-knuckle ride he’d had in mind.
His guards were already there waiting for him, forbidden from following him when he was riding in the UK. It was different on the Med, especially in Sicily. The only good thing he could say about England was he never felt the need to have an entourage watching his back at all times.
In as ungracious a manner as he could muster, he pulled Hannah’s bag from the side case, handed it to her, then threw the keys of his bike to one of his men.
‘What are you doing?’ he asked, spotting Hannah on her phone. It was one of the latest models. For some reason this surprised him. Maybe it was because she was a virgin who dressed in a basic, functional manner that he’d assumed she’d have a basic, functional phone.
‘Answering my emails,’ she said, peering closely at the screen as she tapped away.
‘From who?’
‘Work.’
‘It is Saturday.’
She peered up at him. She really did look ridiculous, with the heavy jacket clearly weighing her down. Still, those legs... And that bottom...
‘Hospitals don’t close for weekends.’ She flashed him a quick grin. ‘I’ll be done in a sec.’
Francesco had no idea why it irked him to witness Hannah pay attention to her phone. He didn’t want to encourage her into getting any ideas about them but, all the same, he did not appreciate being made to feel second best.
‘All done,’ she said a moment later, dropping the phone back into her bag.
Once the necessary checks were made, they boarded Francesco’s plane.
‘You own this?’ she asked with the same wide-eyed look she’d had when she’d first walked into his club carrying a bunch of flowers for him.
He jerked a nod and took his seat, indicating she should sit opposite him. ‘Before I give the order for us to depart, I need to check your bag.’
‘Why? It’s already been through a scanner.’
‘My plane. My rules.’ He met her gaze, willing her to fight back, to leave, to get off the aircraft and walk away before the dangers of his life tainted her.
He thought he saw a spark of anger. A tiny spark, but a spark all the same.
She shrugged and handed it over to him.
He opened the bag. His hand clenched around her underwear. He should pull it out, let her see him handle her most intimate items. The plane hadn’t taken off. There was still time to change her mind.
But then he met her gaze again. She studied him with unabashed curiosity.
No. He would not humiliate her.
His fingers relaxed their grip, the cotton folding back into place. He pulled out a threadbare black purse.
Resolve filled him. He opened it to find a few notes, a heap of receipts, credit and debit cards, and a photo, which he tugged out.
Hannah fidgeted before him but he paid her no heed.
She wanted him to prove in actions how bad he was for her? This was only the beginning.
He peered closely at a picture of two identical young girls with long flaxen hair, hazel eyes, and the widest, gappiest grins he had ever seen.
‘You are a twin?’ he asked in surprise.
Her answer came after a beat too long. ‘Yes.’
He looked at her. Hannah’s lips were drawn in. Her lightly tanned skin had lost a little of its colour.
‘Why was she not out last night with you, celebrating your other sister’s hen night?’
Her hands fisted into balls before she flexed them and raised her chin. ‘Beth died a long time ago.’
His hand stilled.
‘Please be careful with that. It’s the last picture taken of us together.’ There was a definite hint of anxiety in her voice.
This was another clear-cut opportunity to convince her of his true self. All he had to do was rip the photo into little pieces and he guaranteed she would leave without a backward glance.
But no matter how much he commanded his hands to do the deed, they refused.
Hannah’s voice broke through his conflicted thoughts. ‘Can I have my stuff back now?’ she asked, now speaking in her more familiar droll manner.
Without saying a word, he carefully slotted the photo back in its place, blinking to rid himself of the image of the happy young girls.
The last picture of them together?
His stomach did a full roll and settled with a heavy weight rammed onto it.
Getting abruptly to his feet, he dropped the bag by Hannah’s seat. ‘I need to speak with the crew. Put your seat belt on.’
Hannah expelled all the air from her lungs in one long movement, watching as Francesco disappeared through a door.
There had been a moment when she’d been convinced he was going to crush the photo in his giant hands.
If there was one thing she’d be unable to forgive, it was that.
But he hadn’t. He’d wanted to, but the basic decency within him had won out. And he hadn’t fired a load of questions about Beth at her, either.
It was very rare that she spoke about her twin. Even after fifteen years, it still felt too raw, as if vocalising it turned it back into the real event that had ripped her apart. People treated her differently. As soon as someone learned about it, she just knew that was how they would start referring to her. That’s the girl whose twin sister died. She’d heard those very whispers at school, felt the curious glances and the eyes just waiting for the telltale sign of her suffering. She knew what her schoolmates had been waiting for—they’d been waiting for her to cry.
She’d cried plenty, but always in the privacy of her bedroom—the room she’d shared with Beth.
She’d learned to repel the curiosity with a bright smile, and ignore the whispers by burying herself in her schoolwork. It had been the same with her parents. And Melanie. She’d effectively shut them all out, hiding her despair behind a smile and then locking herself away.
When Francesco reappeared a few minutes later, she fixed that same bright smile on him.
‘We’ll be taking off in five minutes,’ he said. ‘This is your last chance to change your mind.’
‘I’m not changing my mind.’
‘Sicily is my turf. If you come, you will be bound under my directive.’
‘How very formal. I’m still not changing my mind.’
His eyes glittered with menace. ‘As I said earlier—on your head be it.’
* * *
‘Gosh, it’s hot,’ Hannah commented as she followed Francesco off the steps of the plane. She breathed in deeply. Yes, there it was. That lovely scent of the sea. Thousands of miles away, and for a moment she had captured the smell of home. Her real home—on the coast of Devon. Not London. London was where she lived.
‘It’s summer’ came the curt reply.
At least she’d had the foresight to change out of the leathers and into her sundress before they’d landed. Not that Francesco had noticed. Or, if he had, he hadn’t acknowledged it, keeping his head buried so deep into what he was doing on his laptop she wouldn’t have been surprised if he’d disappeared into the screen. The only time he’d moved had been to go into his bedroom—yes, he had a bedroom on a plane!—and changed from his own leathers into a pair of black chinos, an untucked white linen shirt, and a blazer.
A sleek grey car was waiting, the driver opening the passenger door as they approached. Another identical car waited behind, and Francesco’s guards piled into it—except one, who got into the front of their own car.
The doors had barely closed before the guard twisted round and handed a metallic grey object to Francesco.
‘Is that a gun?’ Hannah asked in a tone more squeaky than anything a chipmunk could produce.
He tucked the object into what she assumed was an inside pocket of his blazer. ‘We are in Sicily.’
‘Are guns legal in Sicily?’
He speared her with a look she assumed was supposed to make her quail.
‘I hope for your sake it’s not loaded,’ she said. ‘Especially with you keeping it so close to your heart.’
‘Then it’s just as well I have a doctor travelling with me.’
‘See? I have my uses.’
Despite her flippancy, the gun unnerved her. It unnerved her a lot.
Knowing on an intellectual level that Francesco was dangerous was one thing. Witnessing him handle a gun with the nonchalance of one handling a pen was another.
He’s doing this for effect, she told herself. Remember, this is an adventure.
‘Where are we going?’ she asked after a few minutes of silence had passed.
‘My nightclub.’
It didn’t take long before they pulled up outside an enormous Gothic-looking building with pillars at the doors.
‘This is a nightclub?’
‘That’s where I said we were going.’
In a melee of stocky male bodies, she followed him inside.
The Palermo Calvetti’s was, she estimated, at least four times the size of its English counterpart. Although decorated in the same glitzy silver and deep reds and exuding glamour, it had a more cosmopolitan feel.
A young woman behind the bar, polishing all the hardwood and optics, practically snapped to attention at the sight of them.
‘Due caffè neri nel mio ufficio,’ Francesco called out as he swept past and through a door marked Privato.
Like its English equivalent, his office was spotless. Two of his men entered the room with them—the same two who’d been guarding the English Calvetti’s when she had turned up just five short days ago.
Francesco went straight to a small portrait on the wall and pressed his fingers along the edge of the frame until it popped open as if it were the cover of a book.
‘Another cliché?’ she couldn’t resist asking.
‘Clichés are called clichés for a reason,’ he said with a shrug of a shoulder. ‘Why make it easy for thieves?’
Watching him get into his safe, Hannah decided that it would be easier to break into Fort Knox than into Francesco Calvetti’s empire. The inner safe door swinging open, her eyes widened to see the sheer size of the space inside, so much larger than she would have guessed from the picture covering it.
Her stare grew wider to see the canvas bags he removed from it and she realised that they were filled with money.
Francesco and his two men conversed rapidly, all the while weighing wads of notes on a small set of electronic scales and making notes in a battered-looking A4 book. When the young woman came in with two coffees and a bowl of sugar cubes, Francesco added two lumps into both cups, stirred them vigorously, then passed one over to Hannah, who had perched herself on a windowsill.
‘Thanks,’ she said, ridiculously touched he’d remembered how she liked her coffee.
Not that it would have been hard to remember, she mused, seeing as he took his exactly the same.
The same thought must have run through Francesco’s head because his eyes suddenly met hers, a look of consternation running through them before he jerked his head back to what he was doing.
It amazed her that he would allow her in his inner sanctum when such a large amount of money was, literally, on the table. Then she remembered the gun in his jacket, which he had placed over the back of his captain’s chair.
Peering less than subtly at his henchmen, she thought she detected a slight bulge in the calf of the black trousers one wore.
Unnerved by the massive amounts of money before her and the fact she was alone in an office with three men, two of whom were definitely armed, she reached for her phone to smother her increasing agitation.
Working through her messages, Hannah’s heart sank when she opened an email from an excited Melanie, who had finally, after months of debate, settled on the wedding-breakfast menu. She could only hope the response she fired back sounded suitably enthusiastic, but she couldn’t even bring herself to open the attachment with the menu listed on it, instead opening a work-related email.
It was the most significant event in her little sister’s life and, much as Hannah wanted to be excited for her, all she felt inside when she thought of the forthcoming day was dread.
‘What are you doing?’ Francesco asked a while later, breaking through her concentration.
‘Going through my messages.’
‘Again?’
‘I like to keep abreast of certain patients’ progress,’ she explained, turning her phone off and chucking it back into her bag.
‘Even at weekends?’
‘You’re working,’ she pointed out.
‘This is my business.’
‘And the survival and recovery of my patients is my business.’
She had no idea what was going on behind those chocolate-fudge eyes but, judging by the set of his jaw and the thinning of his lips, she guessed it was something unpleasant.
A few minutes later and it appeared they were done, the two henchmen having placed all the money into a large suitcase.
‘Before you leave for the bank, Mario,’ Francesco said, speaking in deliberate English, ‘I want you to show the good doctor here your hand.’
The guns hadn’t made any overt impression on her, other than what he took to be a healthy shock that he armed himself in his homeland. He felt certain the next minute would change her impression completely.
Mario complied, holding his hand with its disfigured fingers in front of her.
She peered closely before taking it into her own hands and rubbing her fingers over the meaty skin.
A hot stab plunged into Francesco’s chest. He inhaled deeply through his nose, clenching his hands into fists.
She was just examining it like the professional she was, he told himself. All the same, even his mental teeth had gritted together.
‘What do you see?’ he demanded.
‘A hand that’s been broken in a number of places—the fingers have been individually broken, too, as if something heavy was smashed onto them.’
‘An excellent assessment. Now, Mario, I would like you to tell Dr Chapman who broke your hand and smashed your fingers.’
If Mario was capable of showing surprise, he would be displaying it now, his eyes flashing at Francesco, who nodded his go-ahead. This was an incident that hadn’t been discussed or even alluded to in nearly two decades.
‘Signor Calvetti. He did it.’
Hannah looked up at Francesco. ‘Your father?’
Deliberately, he folded his arms across his chest and stretched his legs out. ‘No. Not my father.’
Her eyes widened. ‘You?’
‘Sì. I caught him stealing from my father. Take another look at his hand. That is what we do to thieves in my world.’