Pushed beyond
endurance and refusing to rise to the deep laugh from the man on
the couch, or her ridiculous response to it, Bronte thrust her
belongings into her favourite bag. All the while she eyed her
brother and Nico with deep loathing in her heart.
“Neither of you
have any right to find what happened to me tonight funny.”
Her brother’s
eyes flashed green fire. “Trust me, I do not find it funny. I’m
merely sharing past experiences.”
Stung, Bronte
glared at him. “You have no right to ridicule me in front of a
complete stranger.”
Alexander’s
face flushed with annoyance, his eyes warned her to back off.
“He wouldn’t be
a stranger to you if you learned some manners. Nico was there when
we needed him most.”
“You sound like
a broken down budgie. What happened to family?” she flung back and
then remembered that they weren’t family. Not since they’d learned
she was not, after all, a Ludlow. The ache in her heart caught her
throat. “Your good friend scared the life out of me.”
Which was a
downright lie, but Bronte was too far gone to care.
Alexander’s
brows flew into his hairline. “You’re over reacting.”
She blew. “Am
I? Am I really? You sold your heritage to a shark.” Once the dam
broke, Bronte couldn’t stop it. “And I will not take responsibility
for Anthony’s behaviour either. Get off my back. Stop treating me
like an imbecile just because you find it too hard to deal with
...”
Alexander
silenced her with a finger stab. Tears flooded her throat, she
couldn’t cope with this. He refused to listen to her or take her
feelings into account.
Nico Ferranti
coughed and stood. “I feel responsible for your disagreement. I
made a mistake and I apologise.”
Chest heaving,
she couldn’t look at him and kept her burning eyes on
Alexander.
Her brother
merely nodded, looking sad and tired. And she refused to feel
guilty for something that was completely out of her control.
“You weren’t to
know.” Alexander glanced at her face and bit his lip. “Be nice,
Bronte, and shake his hand.”
With a
reluctance that brought a twitch to Nico’s lips and almost made her
snarl, she placed her hand in his. “A pleasure, Miss Ludlow.”
The purr in his
voice as his lips touched her fingers sent an unwanted pulse of
awareness through her system. Bronte had been taught that if she
couldn’t say something nice, say nothing. So she kept her mouth
shut.
She slanted him
a look as he released her hand and caught him appraising her from
top to toe.
His eyes held a
gleam which made her deeply ashamed of almost washing the family’s
dirty linen in public. Those eyes, a cool grey now, settled on her
mouth. The pupils dilated and the reaction immediately brought her
hackles up.
Her baby blonde
hair, slight frame and too big eyes seemed to attract the wrong
type of man. Her looks appeared to send the signal that she had the
intellectual capacity of a turnip. None of it was helped by the
fact that she looked seventeen instead of twenty-six. Her mother
had found it hilarious and used to say Bronte would be thankful
when she was forty; but she’d had to fight extra hard to attain the
success she now enjoyed. Although she had to admit jumping out of a
window and running away like a pathetic coward was hardly the
behaviour of an adult, but she simply couldn’t cope with a horrible
public scene. And look what a great idea that had turned out to be.
The Italian’s lips twitched now as he tried not to laugh and
Bronte’s hand itched to smack him.
When she dealt
with Nico Ferranti, Bronte wanted it to be on her own turf and on
her own terms. Not with her off balance and at a disadvantage.
Deciding she’d
had more than enough of men for one night, she picked up her
belongings and headed for the door.
“I’m
leaving.”
“Hold it.” Her
brother’s tone held an edge. “What did Anthony do to you?”
She turned and
took a steady breath, too aware of Nico’s eyes on her. They were
darker now, and never left her face.
Anthony, ‘call
me Tony’, had assumed Bronte was up for a tumble in one of the
hugely expensive bedrooms. Since, he was happy to inform her, she
hadn’t been laid in a while and he had it on good authority that
she fancied him. She’d soon disabused him of the notion and the
scene had not been pleasant.
“We had a
misunderstanding.”
“And?”
“He’s nursing
his thumb.” She noticed the statement made Alexander frown and
Nico’s mouth tighten. And wondered what they’d do if she told him
she’d been called a bitch of a cock tease.
A knock at the
door brought their attention to a harassed looking young
waitress.
“Sir, sorry to
disturb you, security needs you. We have a young man looking for
Bronte.” She cast a speculative look at Bronte. “He’s had too much
to drink and is making a scene. He’s trying to get into the ladies'
restroom.”
“I’m coming.”
Alexander turned to Bronte and shook his head. “Stay here, I’ll
take you home.”
Could this
evening possibly get any worse or any more embarrassing?
The throaty
cough beside her told her that it could.
“Please, allow
me.” Nico smiled at her brother, before giving Bronte his full
attention. “I am the one who made the mistake. I will take you
home.”
Those dark eyes
held a challenge and an intensity that made her pulse thrum.
Alexander
nodded with a sharp glance at Bronte that promised this was not the
end of the matter, and left to deal with 'call me Tony.'
She shot Nico a
defiant look as he stood over her. His long finger tapped her chin
while his eyes stayed on hers.
“One day
someone will take you up on the invitation of that chin. You should
be careful.”
Who asked for
his opinion?
Her eyes locked
with his in a silent battle of wills.
“Thank you for
those unasked for words of wisdom. I’m perfectly capable of making
my own way home.”
Eyes cold now
and filled with disapproval, Nico pulled on his coat.
“It will be my
pleasure,” he said in a tone that suggested it was anything
but.
Bronte sailed
past him as he held the door open. And ignored his hand at the
small of her back. Sheer willpower prevented her from stepping
away. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.
Nico placed
himself between her and the lounge as Anthony’s voice, raised in
anger, made her cringe with mortification.
Leading the way
to the car park, the tall Italian didn’t say a single word.
The weather had
deteriorated, sleet turning to snow as the temperature and her mood
plummeted. Zipping up her black quilted jacket, she thrust her
hands into her pockets all the while desperately wishing the night
was over.
Her step
hitched when they reached his car.
She might have
known it.
It was wrong of
her Bronte knew, but she couldn’t help it.
Thrilled, she
turned to him.
“Well, well, a
Bentley Continental GT,” she said, contempt dripping from every
word. “Get you, a babe magnet. Very sexy. Very pretty.” She paused
for two beats. “Very you.”
Nico refused to rise to
the bait.
Exhaustion
nibbling at his temper made his tone hard as he opened the
passenger door.
“Get in.”
Bronte ignored
him and purred low in her throat, which did strange things to his
libido. Brushing snow from the bonnet with her fingertips, emerald
eyes sparkled into his with a mix of challenge and ill humour.
“Very shiny.
Very smooth. You have the need for speed in all things, I
hear.”
He wasn’t in
the mood for this. “You were not spanked enough as a child, were
you?”
She merely
raised a brow. “So we’ve moved on from manhandling to physical
violence have we?”
Snow settled on
the shoulders of her jacket and the wind whipped colour into those
smooth cheeks as she shivered.
Nico sent up a
prayer for patience. “Get in.”
Someone
listened, because she slid in without a murmur.
He closed the
door, stalked around to the driver’s side and told himself to keep
calm.
As he clicked
his seatbelt into place Bronte gave a little shimmy of her
shoulders and another deep purr in her throat that had him catch
his breath.
“Hmm, it smells
terribly expensive in here. If you bottled the scent of Bentley
leather, you would make another fortune. Your many businesses must
be doing well.”
He rolled his
tongue over his bottom teeth. “You are trying to make me angry,
Bronte, and I am wondering why.”
She merely
crossed endless legs, making herself comfortable. Nico wondered
what was wrong with him that he found the move incredibly sexy.
“It’s not a
mystery. I don’t like you.”
“You do not
know me.”
“I don’t like
your type.”
“You judged me
before you met me?”
“Not fair, is
it?” she stated, her eyes glittering with temper.
Baffled, he
stared at her. “I have no idea what you are talking about.”
Her nostrils
flared and that chin lifted. “Bronte Ludlow is a spoilt prima donna
who was born with a silver spoon in her mouth. Alexander is worried
sick about her. It is one drama after another.”
At any other
time her droll mimic of his accent might have been highly
entertaining. The conversation was one he’d had with his architect
and good friend on his Blackberry. With a frown, he remembered
ducking into a cavernous loft space at Ludlow Hall to take the call
in private.
Bronte
continued, “I was in a storeroom, packing personal possessions. I
didn’t see you, but I heard every word, Mr Ferranti.”
Nico remembered
Alexander had been beside himself. “I was concerned about your
brother, Bronte.”
She continued
as if he hadn’t spoken. “What particular drama were you referring
to?”
Nico couldn’t
really blame her for being angry, so he made a clean breast of
it.
“You had broken
your engagement.” He frowned into those beautiful eyes, green,
feline and filled to the brim with utter loathing for him.
“Apparently the man was a bastard.”
“Yes, the
world appears to be full of them.”
He received the
message loud and clear, the little witch.
With the flick
of a wrist, he turned on the engine.
“Ooh, it sounds
like a grumpy tiger,” she squealed in a high, girly voice. A low
growl escaped from his throat and she grinned. “Yeah, exactly like
that.”
He closed his
eyes and sent up another prayer.
As the Bentley cruised
out of Ludlow Hall, Nico glanced at her as she stared moodily into
the road ahead, lit by the car’s powerful headlights.
Her behaviour
was a disgrace. Something about him appeared to bring out the bitch
in her. His lips twitched as he observed her frown into the
darkness.
When he’d
lifted her from the window and his hands spanned her waist, he’d
recognised the stirring in his loins for what it was. Lust. God
knew she would be a handful. The thought made him smile. It had
been a long time since a woman had stirred his interest or
presented such a challenge. These days he didn’t need to work very
hard to capture a woman and he wondered if that was why he was in
the middle of a lengthy dry spell.
The windscreen
wipers batted fat snowflakes in a silent rhythm. Clearing his
throat, he gave into temptation and smoothed her glossy pony
tail.
He caught her
eye. “Stop worrying.”
“Excuse
me?”
A sizzle of
awareness warmed his blood. Not many people used that tone with him
and got away with it.
He stroked her
hair again. “You look as if I am going to eat you.”
He loved the
way she narrowed her eyes and flared her nostrils.
Staring
determinedly into the road ahead, she told him, “Self-delusion is a
curse, isn’t it? You are not the centre of the known universe, Mr
Ferranti. In fact, I do my level best not to think of you.”
He laughed;
delighted to see it brought a reluctant twitch to her lips.
“Why have we
never met?” He kept his voice soft and the tone teasing.
She flicked him
a cool look. “Just my good luck, I suppose.”
The girl had
courage, he’d give her that. “The kitten has sharp claws.”
His eyes were
on the road and he swung the car into the entrance of her
property.
“I’m twenty-six
years old, hardly a kitten, Mr Ferranti.” Her arctic tone only
whetted his appetite.
He brought the
car to a halt. Subtle night lights lit the grounds and entrance
porch.
He turned to
her and absently toyed with her ponytail.
It felt all
soft and silky. “You do not look it. Your colouring is quite
different from your brother.”
The look in Nico’s eye
reminded Bronte of a starving cat staring at a mouse hole.
“I take after
my mother.” With a dark look, she flicked her hair out of his hand.
Alexander’s hair was a rich chestnut, although they shared eye
colour and, Bronte thought as a sharp blade pierced her heart, the
same mother. But this was neither the time nor the place to think
of that.
It appeared
Nico Ferranti had a problem with respecting personal space too, she
realised as he leaned towards her, his eyes keen on her face. “Yes,
she was a beautiful woman, almost as beautiful as her
daughter.”
The genuine
regret in his voice brought a lump to Bronte’s throat as he took
her hand. Grief, still horribly fresh, coursed through her. She
closed her eyes tight and fought for control.
“I am sorry,”
Nico said, his thumb stroking her knuckles. “I did not mean to
upset you. I understand you were close.”