And it was so unfair—even though she knew life was unfair. Life didn’t owe her anything. Which was why she had worked so hard for everything she had: her job at the gallery, which provided a steady income, the loft she’d bought and turned into a nice little earner by converting it into an art studio and hiring out the space to working artists, and her own art career—which, with a few exhibitions of her paintings and some lucrative commissions under her belt, was finally taking off.
Admittedly she’d accepted some help from Leo in the early days, but she’d repaid him every euro she’d borrowed—despite his vociferous protests. While her dear brother had never understood his little sister’s need to assert her independence, he had finally accepted it.
She looked around at her apartment, filled with strangers. For years she’d prided herself on her strength and resilience, but she didn’t feel at all strong and resilient today. She felt helpless and afraid and she hated it. Her gaze travelled across the room to where her brother and Nico stood by the window, deep in conversation, their dark heads bowed. Leo had already swooped in like a man possessed, bent on taking control. How long before he tried to smother her in a suffocating blanket of protectiveness?
And then there was Nico. A man so commanding, so authoritative, she imagined the world would stop on its axis if he so ordered it.
As though sensing her scrutiny, the men stopped talking and looked up, two sets of eyes—one midnight-dark, the other a startling blue—settling on her. At once unease bubbled up inside her. She didn’t like the looks on their faces. Didn’t like the determined set of Nico’s jaw or the hint of something too much like apology in Leo’s eyes.
Marietta lifted the brandy she’d poured without spilling a drop this time and took a large, fortifying gulp.
Those expressions told her the men had decided something—and she wasn’t going to like it.
* * *
Nico had lied. First to Marietta and then, by omission, to her brother. Her stalker had left a note, and it was now in the hands of the forensic technician who was under strict orders to keep it out of sight. Leo already looked white-lipped and murderous. If he saw the sexually explicit language in the card he would undoubtedly lose the tight rein he held on his temper.
And Marietta—well, she’d already seen more than Nico had intended her to, thanks to a stubborn streak as wide as the Atlantic. Why she couldn’t have simply obeyed him and stayed put, he couldn’t fathom. Most of the time women were eager to please him, not defy him, and yet Marietta seemed to have a unique talent for the latter.
He handed his friend a double shot of whisky and Leo tossed the liquid down his throat, then glared at the empty glass as if he’d like nothing more than to smash it against a wall.
‘How the hell did he get in?’
Guilt sliced through Nico’s gut like a jagged knife. He’d failed to anticipate this turn of events. Failed to predict accurately the threat to Marietta’s safety. Not least of all, he’d failed his friend.
And Nico didn’t do failure—not on any scale. He had tasted that bitter elixir ten years ago and his failure then had cost him his wife’s life.
He jammed his fists in his pockets. Focused his thoughts with the same ruthless discipline that had seen him survive that brutal plunge into darkness and come out the other side—eventually.
‘The windows don’t appear to have been tampered with.’ He gestured with his chin to the secured latch on the window by which they stood. ‘My guess is he took an old-fashioned approach and picked the lock on the front door.’
‘And the building?’ Leo’s scowl darkened. ‘It should be secure twenty-four-seven.’
‘He could have talked his way in.’ Tension bit deep into Nico’s shoulders. He had gained access the same way; it had been appallingly easy. ‘Or waited and slipped in behind someone.’
‘Dio.’ Anger billowed from Leo in palpable waves. ‘This is insane. What did the polizia say?’
Nico balled his hands more tightly in his pockets. The attitude of the two plain-clothes officers who had turned up at the apartment had reeked of apathy. ‘They’ll file a report, but don’t expect too much action from that quarter,’ he warned. ‘They’re viewing it as a romantic prank, at worst.’
Nico hadn’t missed their exchange of lascivious grins over the lingerie and he’d wanted to knock the officers’ heads together, plant his boot firmly in the seats of their pants. Just as he’d wanted to kick himself earlier, when he and Marietta had been in her bedroom and his thoughts had gone to a dark, carnal place they’d had no right to go. Not with Marietta. She was a victim, he’d had to remind himself, a woman who needed his help—and wondering how her ample breasts would look encased in that barely there bra had been wrong on too many levels to count.
Leo swore now—a vicious expletive that drew not so much as a blink from Nico. Five years in the French Foreign Legion as a young man, followed by several stints as a private military contractor, working alongside war-hardened ex-soldiers, had broadened his vocabulary to include every filthy word and crude expression known to man in half a dozen languages.
‘Find him, Nico,’ Leo grated, his expression fierce. ‘Do whatever you have to to keep her safe.’
Do whatever you have to.
Those five words seemed to strike Nico in the gut one by one, like the consecutive blows of a steel mallet, and they left him savagely winded. He’d heard those same words before, ten years ago, from his former father-in-law’s mouth.
Do whatever you have to.
And Nico had.
He’d utilised every resource within his power. Called in every favour owed him. Employed every conceivable tactic within the law—and beyond—to get Senator Jack Lewisham’s daughter back.
But it wasn’t enough. It all went belly up. And Nico committed one critical, unforgivable sin: he underestimated the men who had taken her.
He failed. Failed to bring the senator’s daughter home. Failed to save his wife’s life.
Her father, who’d only grudgingly accepted Nico as a son-in-law in the first place, was inconsolable—a man irreparably broken by the loss of his only daughter.
He had not spoken to Nico since.
Do whatever you have to.
He glanced over at Marietta, nursing her brandy in her hand, quietly studying them. She was pale, but beautiful, those dark, intelligent eyes sizing him up. No doubt she was a little annoyed that she was not privy to his and Leo’s conversation. She was a woman of undeniable strength, yet the pallor of her skin, the obvious tension around her eyes and mouth, belied her show of composure. He could see it in the rigid set of her shoulders, her too-tight grip on the glass, the unblinking wideness of her eyes.
Marietta wasn’t afraid.
She was petrified.
Nico turned back to Leo, an idea seeding, taking shape in his mind. An extreme idea, perhaps, for it would mean sacrificing the sanctity of his personal space for a time, but extreme circumstances called for extreme measures. He clamped a hand over his friend’s shoulder. ‘Do you trust me, mon ami?’
Leo looked him in the eye. ‘Of course,’ he said at once, his voice gruff. ‘You do not need to ask me that, Nicolas.’
Nico nodded. It was the answer he’d hoped for. ‘Très bien,’ he said. ‘I have a suggestion.’