The old man shouted something, his voice thin and sharp. She didn’t understand, but one word did stand out. Polizia. Was he threatening to call the police? She wasn’t surprised if he was. It’s what she’d do if someone just abandoned a six-month-old infant to her care. Numb and heartsick, she kept her focus on the water taxi tethered in the canal. The driver was watching her and she waved, signaling that she was ready to go.
Seconds later, a hand seized her upper arm. The fingers gripped her tightly, the hold painful. “Ouch!” Rachel winced at the painful hold. “Let go.”
“Stop running,” the deep male voice ground out, the voice as hard as the punishing grip, his English perfect with just the slightest accent.
She turned around, the persistent wind having loosened dark strands from her ponytail, making it hard to see him through the tangle of hair. “I’m not running,” she said fiercely, trying to free herself, but he stood close, his grip unrelenting. “Can you give me some space, please?”
“Not a chance, Miss Bern.”
She knew then who this tall man was, and a shiver raced through her as she pushed long strands of hair behind her ears. Giovanni Marcello wasn’t just tall, he was impressively broad through the shoulders, with thick black hair, light eyes and high cheekbones above a firm, unsmiling mouth. She’d seen pictures of him on the internet. There weren’t many, as he didn’t attend a lot of social events like his brother Antonio had, but in every photo he was elegantly dressed, impeccably groomed. Polished. Gleaming. Hard.
He looked even harder in person. His light eyes—an icy blue—glittered down at her and his strong, chiseled features were set. Grim.
She felt a flutter of fear. It crossed her mind that beneath the groomed exterior was something dark and brooding, something that struck her as not entirely civilized.
Rachel took a step back, needing her distance even more now.
“You said you weren’t running,” he growled.
“I’m not going anywhere, and there’s no need for you to be on top of me.”
“Are you unwell, Miss Bern? Are you having a breakdown?”
“Why would you ask that?”
“Because you’ve just abandoned a child on my doorstep.”
“He’s not being abandoned. You’re his uncle.”
“I strongly suggest you retrieve the child before the police arrive.”
“Let the police come. At least then the world will know the truth.”
He arched a black brow. “So you are unwell.”
“I’m perfectly well. In fact, I couldn’t be better. You have no idea how difficult it has been to locate you. Months of investigation, not to mention money I couldn’t afford to spend on a private investigator, but at least we are here now, face-to-face, ready to discuss new responsibilities.”
“The only thing I have to say to you is collect the child—”
“Your nephew.”
“And return home before this becomes unpleasant for everybody.”
“It’s already unpleasant for me. Your help is desperately needed.”
“You, and he, are not my problem.”
“Michael is a Marcello. He’s your late brother’s only child, and he should be protected and provided for by his family.”
“That is not going to happen.”
“I think it will.”
His eyes narrowed, the icy blue irises partially hidden by dense black lashes. “You are deliberately trying to provoke me.”
“And why not? You’ve done nothing but irritate and provoke me for the past few months. You had many opportunities to reply to my emails and phone calls, but you couldn’t be bothered to reach out, so now I’m returning to you what is yours.” Which wasn’t actually true—she wasn’t leaving Michael here, but she didn’t have to let him know that.
“You’re definitely not sound if you’re abandoning your sister’s son—”
“And Antonio’s,” she interrupted tautly. “If you recall your lessons in biology, conception requires a sperm and an egg, and in this instance it’s Juliet’s and Antonio’s—” She paused, grinding down to hold back the rest of the hot painful words, words that ached and kept her from sleeping and eating. Juliet had always been foolish and impractical, her dreams littered with hearts, flowers, expensive sports cars and wealthy boyfriends. “The DNA paperwork is inside his diaper bag,” she continued. “You’ll find his medical records and everything you need to know about his routine in there, too. I’ve done my part. Now it’s your turn.” She gave him a brittle nod and turned away, grateful for the water taxi that still waited for her.
He caught her once more, this time by the nape, warm fingers sliding beneath her ponytail to wrap around her neck. “You’re going nowhere, Miss Bern, at least not without that child.” His voice had dropped, deepening, and she shuddered at the sensation burning through her.
His grip was in no way painful but her skin tingled from head to toe. It was almost as if he’d plugged her into an electric socket. As he turned her to face him, goose bumps covered her arms, and every part of her felt unbearably sensitive.
She looked up into his cool blue eyes and went hot, then cold, feeling a frisson of awareness streak through her. She wasn’t afraid, but the sensation was too sharp, too intense to be pleasurable. “And you really must stop manhandling me, Signor Marcello,” she answered faintly, her heart thudding violently.
“Why is that, Miss Bern?”
She stared up into his face, her gaze locking with his. There was nothing icy about his eyes now. No, they glowed with intelligence and heat and power. There was a physicality about him that stole her breath, knocking her off balance. She tried to gather her thoughts but his energy was so strong she felt it hum through her, lighting her up, making her feel as if he’d somehow stripped her bare.
Gulping for air, she looked down at his strong straight nose and the brackets on either side of his mouth. His face was not a boy’s but a man’s, with creases and lines, and if she didn’t dislike him so much, she would have found the creases beautiful. “You are giving the paparazzi quite a show, you know,” she whispered.
His strong black brows pulled.
“All the manhandling won’t look well in tomorrow’s papers. I’m afraid there are too many incriminating photos.”
“Incriminating photos—” He broke off abruptly, understanding dawning.
His hand dropped even as his gaze scanned the wide canal and the narrow pavement fronting the water and old buildings. She saw the moment he spotted the first of the cameras, and then others. His dark head turned, his gaze raking her, the blue fire blistering her. “What have you done?”
His voice was deep and rough, his accent more pronounced. Her pulse drummed and her insides churned. She’d scored her first hit, and it scared her. She wasn’t accustomed to battling anyone, much less a powerful man. In her work, she assisted, providing support and information. She didn’t challenge or contradict.
“I did what needed to be done,” she said hoarsely. “You refused to acknowledge your nephew. Your family falls in step with whatever you say, and so I’ve pressed the issue. Now the whole world knows that your brother’s son has been returned to your family.”
* * *
Giovanni Marcello drew a slow deep breath and then another. He was shocked as well as livid. He’d been played. Played. By a manipulative, money-hungry American no less. He despised gold diggers. Greedy, selfish, soulless. “You contacted the media,