Francesca was led into the main area of the jet, which was as luxurious as she’d imagined but before she had a chance to take it all in, she was startled to find a man sat on one of the plush leather chairs, a laptop open on the foldaway desk that covered what she could see were enormously long legs.
She stopped in her tracks.
Not expecting to be travelling with anyone, she glanced from the stewardess, who showed no surprise at his presence, back to the stranger before her.
The darkest brown eyes set in the most handsome face she had ever seen stared back.
Her breath caught in her throat.
It seemed as if an age passed before he spoke. ‘You must be Francesca.’
The English was spoken with a heavy accent and from firm, generous lips that didn’t even hint at a smile.
She blinked herself back to the present, realising she’d been staring at him. ‘And you are?’
‘Felipe Lorenzi.’
‘You’re Felipe?’
When Matteo and Daniele had spoken of the ex-special forces man she’d formed a mental image of a thuggish squat man with a shaven head and a body crammed with tattoos who wore nothing but grubby khaki trousers and black T-shirts.
This man was something else entirely. This man had a headful of thick hair that was darker even than his eyes and touched the collar of his crisp white shirt, which he wore with an immaculate and obviously expensive light grey suit with matching waistcoat and thin green checked tie.
He raised a brow. ‘Were you expecting someone else?’
Unsettled for reasons she couldn’t begin to decipher, Francesca took the seat opposite him, fighting her eyes’ desire to stare and stare and stare some more.
‘I wasn’t expecting anyone.’ She pulled the seat belt across her lap, doing her utmost to sound together and confident and unaffected by his presence. ‘I was told I’d be meeting one of your men in Caballeros.’
Daniele and Matteo had made the arrangements, working their phones like a whirlwind throughout the wake to ensure there would be protection for her when she arrived on the island. She’d hadn’t been told to expect company on her flight. If she had she’d have made an effort with her appearance, not thrown on the first clothes that had come to hand. She hadn’t had time for a shower or even to moisturise her face.
The face that stared back didn’t moisturise, she thought, feeling rather dizzy. This face was intensely, masculinely beautiful. But battle-hardened. This was a face that had seen sights the horrors of which were etched in the lines around his eyes and mouth, in the bump on the bridge of his strong nose and in the white flecks in the thick untamed beard that covered his jaw. This man had an aura of danger about him that sent thrills she couldn’t understand racing through her bloodstream.
‘Caballeros isn’t stable. It isn’t wise to go there without protection.’ Especially not for a woman such as this, Felipe thought. He would have risen to shake her hand but her appearance had thrown him.
Both the Pellegrini brothers were handsome so it was to be expected that their younger sister would be good looking too. He hadn’t expected her to be so truculently sexy, in tight ripped jeans, a billowing white blouse, and glittery thongs on her small, pretty feet.
‘I didn’t know it would be you personally,’ she explained warily. ‘I was under the impression you supplied the men to undertake the protection.’
‘That is the case but there are times, such as this, when I undertake it myself.’
In the years he’d provided protection for Pieta on his philanthropic missions he’d got to know the man well. Throughout his career Felipe had dealt with death and loss many times; had almost become inured to it. The shock of Pieta’s death had hit him harder than he would have expected. He’d been an exceptional man, intelligent and for all his daring, naturally cautious. He’d known how to handle situations.
Felipe had been propped at a hotel bar in the Middle East drinking the malt whiskey Pieta had liked in his memory when both Daniele and Matteo had called to say Pieta’s little sister was travelling to Caballeros, a country quickly descending into anarchy, first thing in the morning, and that nothing they said would deter or delay her. He’d known immediately that he owed it to the great man to protect his sister himself and had set into action. Within ten hours he was in Pisa, showered, changed and sat on Pieta’s jet. The only thing he hadn’t had time for was a shave.
Francesca removed her shades and folded them into her handbag. When she looked at him, he experienced another, more powerful jolt.
Her height was the only thing average about her. Everything else about her was extraordinary, from the sheet of glossy black hair that hung the length of her back to the wide, kissable lips and clear olive skin. The only flaw on her features were her eyes, which were so red raw and puffy it was hard to distinguish the light brown colour of her pupils.
She’d buried her brother only the day before.
He recalled Daniele’s warning about her state of mind. This was a woman on the edge.
‘I was very sorry to hear about Pieta’s death,’ he said quietly.
‘Not sorry enough to attend his funeral,’ she replied archly although there was the slightest tremor in her hoarse voice. Hoarse from crying, he suspected.
‘Work comes first. He would have understood.’ On his next visit to Europe he intended to visit Pieta’s grave and lay a wreath for him.
‘You were able to juggle your work commitments to be here now.’
‘I did,’ he agreed. He’d had to pull a senior member of his staff away from his holiday to take over the job he’d been overseeing to make it to Pisa on time for the flight. ‘Caballeros is a dangerous place.’
‘Just so we’re clear, you work for me,’ she said in the impeccable English all the Pellegrinis spoke. ‘My sister-in-law has given me written authority to represent her as Pieta’s next of kin on this project.’
Felipe contemplated her through narrowed eyes. There had been a definite challenge in that husky tone.
‘How old are you?’ At thirty-six he was a year older than Pieta, the eldest of the three Pellegrini siblings. He recalled Francesca once being referred to as the ‘happy accident’.
‘I’m twenty-three.’ She raised her chin, daring him to make something of her youth.
‘Almost an old woman,’ he mocked. He hadn’t realised she was that young and now he did know he was doubly glad he’d disrupted his schedule to be there as her protection. He would have guessed at mid-twenties. Sure, only a few years older than her actual age but those years were often the most formative of an adult’s life. His had been. They’d been the best of his life, right until the hostage situation that had culminated in the loss of his best friend and a bullet in his leg that had seen him medically discharged from the job he loved at only twenty-six.
She glared at him. ‘I might be young but I am not stupid. You don’t need to patronise me.’
‘Age isn’t linked to intelligence,’ he conceded. ‘What countries have you travelled to?’
‘I’ve been to many countries.’
‘With your family on holiday?’ Francesca’s father, Fabio Pellegrini, had been a descendant of the old Italian royal family. The Pellegrinis had long eschewed their royal titles but still owned a sprawling Tuscan estate near Pisa and had immense wealth. Vanessa Pellegrini, the matriarch, also came from old money. None of Vanessa or Fabio’s children