IT HAD BEEN a perfect day. Warm and cloudless, so that the late afternoon sun filtered through the windows of her home, bathing it in a timeless golden light. But as the evening had drawn around her, the sky had clouded over and the air had begun to smell different, a portent of summer rain.
The first day of school holidays had been everything Amelia could have hoped. She’d slept late, read a book from start to finish, walked into the village for a cider at the local pub, and now she was home, making a fish pie with episodes of The Crown playing in the background. She’d seen the whole show already, but she loved to have the television on for company—and who better to keep company with than the Queen?
She scooped some flour from the canister in her fingertips and added it to the roux she was stirring, thickening it and breathing in the aroma gratefully—she always made a roux with garlic and saffron, and the fragrance caused her stomach to give a little groan.
Yes, the first day of school holidays had been deliciously perfect, Amelia told herself, ignoring the little pang of emptiness that pushed into her mind. It was only that a month and a half was a very long time to have off work, particularly when work was the purpose for one’s life.
Teaching wasn’t necessarily a calling for everyone, but it was for Amelia, and the idea of having seven whole weeks out of the classroom wasn’t a prospect she entirely relished.
She’d been invited to Egypt with some of the faculty, but she’d declined. She’d done enough travelling to last a lifetime—a childhood that had seen her dragged from pillar to post depending on where her mother’s latest assignment or lover had taken them, Amelia preferred to stay right where she was, in this charming village in the middle of England.
Her bluebell-shaded eyes drifted around the cottage, and a rueful half-smile touched her pink lips. It was pretty safe to say that Bumblebee Cottage was as far from the life she’d experienced as a child as possible. Her first twelve years had been spent mostly in five-star hotels, sometimes for months at a time. School had been a luxury her mother hadn’t seen the necessity of, and it was only Amelia’s keen desire for knowledge and the never-ending string of questions which Penny had no patience for that had led to the hiring of a tutor for Amelia.
But then Penny had died, and twelve-year-old Amelia, already so like her supermodel mother, had been shunted into another life completely. As rarefied and glamorous, but so much more public. In the wake of the supermodel’s drugs-related death, Amelia had been followed everywhere she went, and her father—a man she hadn’t even known about—simply hadn’t been able to comprehend what life had been like for the young Amelia.
Talk about going from the frying pan and into the fire! If being the daughter of a woman like Penny Hamilton made Amelia a magnet for paparazzi, then becoming a diSalvo made her even more so.
And she’d been raised, from that moment, as a diSalvo. Loved, adored, cherished, but she couldn’t outgrow the feeling that she didn’t really belong.
She hadn’t belonged anywhere until she’d moved to this tiny village and taken up a teaching position at Hedgecliff Academy. Unbidden, her eyes drifted to the fridge and the artwork that covered it. ‘Thank you’ pictures from the students she’d taught, colourful drawings with their childish swirls and squiggles—happy pictures that almost always made Amelia smile.
Fish pie finished, Amelia slipped the dish into the old Aga—it had come with the cottage and she couldn’t bear to modernise the thing when it worked perfectly—and then stared around the room for a few moments. It was ridiculous to feel so lonely already.
The summer holidays had just begun. Only the day before she’d been surrounded by twenty-seven happy, curious eight-year-olds. Besides, she was the one who’d turned down invitations for the summer break. She had elected to stay at home.
So what good was it to dwell on the gaping void of people and company in her solitary existence? She’d chosen this life.
She’d turned her back on her father, her half-brother and the world they inhabited.
And she wouldn’t have it any other way. Would she?
* * *
The cottage could not have been quainter if it had been brought to life from between the pages of a Beatrix Potter storybook. Stone, painted a pale cream, roses in the front garden, wisteria scrambling over an arch that led to the front steps and a thatched roof that showed the house to be two-storey, with little dormer windows shaped into the roof. Lights were on inside, making the cottage glow with a warmth that did something strange to Antonio’s chest.
He studied it for a moment, a frown on his face as, for a brief and uncharacteristic moment, he rethought the necessity of this.
He had already bought his way into—through shell companies and entities—many of Carlo diSalvo’s businesses, giving him if not a controlling interest in their operation, enough of a stake to be difficult and a nuisance to the man he had been raised to hate.
But this was different. He would gladly let the rest go if he could only get this one company under his control. And if Amelia diSalvo proved difficult, if appealing to her sense of decency didn’t win her over, then he’d show her what he’d been doing and how close he was to ruining her brother.
He crossed his arms over his chest as the first drop of rain began to fall, quickly followed by another. It was a summer storm that brought with it the smell of sun-warmed grass and the threat of lightning. Inside the cottage a shape moved and he narrowed his gaze, homing in on its location.
Amelia.
He held his breath unconsciously as, with blonde hair scraped into a bun, she moved into his vision. Her face was pale; at this distance it was hard to tell, but he would say she wore no make-up. She stared out of the window for several moments and then turned away.
Certainty fired in his gut.
She was a diSalvo.
That made her fair game.
It had been less than a month since he’d buried his father and in that moment Antonio’s only regret was that Javier had not lived to see this final, deeply personal revenge be enacted.
With renewed determination, his stride long and confident, he walked up the winding path. Gravel crunched underfoot and the moon peeked out from behind a storm cloud for a moment, casting him in an eerie sort of silver light. Foreboding, some might have called it, but not Antonio.
Bumblebee Cottage, a brass sign near the door proclaimed, and he ignored the image it created—of sweetness and tranquillity. Amelia diSalvo might be playing at this life, but she was the daughter of a supermodel and the most ruthless bastard on earth. And she was also the piece of the puzzle he needed—victory was within reach.
* * *
As if her loneliness had conjured a companion, the doorbell rang. Olivia wasn’t so maudlin and self-indulgent to forget all common sense. It was almost nine o’clock at night—who could be calling at this hour?
She’d bought Bumblebee Cottage because of its isolation. No prying neighbours, no passing motorists—it sat nestled into a cul-de-sac of little interest to anyone but her and the farm that bordered the cottage on one side. It was a perfect, secluded bolthole. Just what she’d needed when she’d run from the life she’d found herself living.
She adored it for its seclusion but a frisson of something like alarm spread goosebumps over her flesh. She grabbed a meat cleaver, of all things, from the kitchen bench then moved to the door.
‘Who is it?’
A man’s voice answered, deep and gravelled, tinged with a European accent. ‘Can you open up?’
‘I