CHAPTER SEVEN

Three weeks later

A S THE L ANDRY chopper settled onto the lawn of the lavish belle époque villa hotel on the banks of Lake Como, Cade could feel the fury and frustration he had been holding in check for weeks start to choke him.

The hotel’s staff rushed to meet him. Not surprising, given Landry Construction had spent a small fortune booking out every single room. Alongside the staff was the detective he’d hired—when Charlotte Courtney had hurled him into the middle of a social media tornado, then blocked his calls and disappeared.

As soon as the detective had contacted his PA with her whereabouts, he’d taken the company jet to Italy—more than ready to give her one hell of a nasty surprise.

‘Clear to disembark,’ the pilot announced.

After ripping off his headphones, Cade strode from the big black bird to be greeted by the young female investigator.

‘Where is she?’ he shouted above the thunder from slowing the blades.

‘I can take you to her, signor . She is at a silk factory fifteen minutes’ drive from this location.’

‘No.’ The last thing he needed was for them to get caught in public having a catfight.

Because he had no doubt Charlotte was not going to agree to what had to happen next without an argument. Her outspoken behaviour had captivated him in San Francisco. All it did now was infuriate him.

The prickle of awareness at the thought of seeing her again—and forcing her to return to the US with him—called him a liar. He dismissed it, because his libido and their combustible chemistry were not the driving force behind this situation any more.

The woman was a reckless, impulsive nightmare. But she’d left him with no choice. They were going to have to be a couple for the rest of the summer if he was going to win Helberg—a direct result of her decision to post those damn photos without asking him first.

The helicopter lifted into the sky and disappeared across the lake.

The approaching twilight gave the water a golden glow. The four-storey Italianate villa nestled into terraced botanical gardens which now housed a five-star hotel and spa couldn’t have looked more romantic.

Cade frowned. How damned ironic.

But the estate was also situated at the end of a private road. After spending a day moving the guests out at his request, the management had been more than willing to accommodate his meeting with Charlotte in complete privacy.

There would be no photographers, no press, and no members of the public to interrupt them—or witness any temper tantrums—while he explained to her in words of one syllable the consequences of her actions.

She’d got her pound of flesh—using his image to push her business. Now she was going to have to deal with the fallout—just like he’d been dealing with it for three solid weeks.

‘She’s going to be here tonight?’ he asked as they headed across the manicured lawn. ‘And she doesn’t know I’ll be here?’

The detective nodded. ‘Yes, her driver and the agriturismo where she has been staying have been generously compensated for their cooperation.’

Cade nodded. It had been a major operation—and cost a small fortune—but no way was he giving her the chance to run out on him again.

The hotel manager arrived to greet them both as Cade and the detective walked into the hotel’s grandiose foyer.

‘We have la terrazza privata ready for your evening meal, Signor Landry, as soon as your guest arrives,’ the hotel’s executive manager said with a confident smile. ‘It is bellissima in the sunset, perfect for un appuntamento romantico .’

A romantic date, my ass.

Cade’s Italian didn’t have to be fluent for him to guess even the middle-aged Italian hotel boss had probably heard of the media furore surrounding his ‘romance’ with Charlotte—which had only started to calm down in the last week.

Great.

The inconvenient prickle of awareness became a definite hum as he headed up to the penthouse suite and showered off the twelve-hour flight.

The fury and frustration which had been driving him for weeks—every time he got doorstepped by another celebrity hack, every time his team hit another dead end while trying to locate Charlotte, every time he relived the moment when he had woken up alone in his Embarcadero apartment and found her damn kiss-off note—finally began to ease. In its place, anticipation and something which felt a lot like exhilaration surged. As the sun sank towards the lake, he imagined the not so romantico date he had planned for this evening’s entertainment, once he finally had Charlotte back where he wanted her.

‘ Carlo, dov’é questo ?’ Charley asked the local driver she’d hired as the cab wound down the poplar-flanked driveway of an extremely expensive lakeside estate.

Carlo had told her—from what she could gather with her rusty Italian—that Signor Chiesa, the farmer she’d been staying with for two weeks, had arranged alternative accommodation for her tonight because of a broken something at his farm. But this couldn’t be right? It looked way outside her budget.

‘ Non posso pagare ,’ she added, trying to explain she couldn’t pay for this place.

‘ Si, si, é tutto pagato ,’ Carlo replied.

It was all paid for... Really ?

Her eyes widened as the cab drove out of the trees and a magnificent villa appeared, situated in palatial gardens on the edge of the lake. The historic structure’s ornate plasterwork and lavish design were a testament to a bygone era of nineteenth-century grandeur. It looked more like a royal palace than a hotel, despite the discreet sign announcing it as La Bella Grande Villa Hotel.

Charley was still staring at the luxurious building as she stepped out of the car.

She asked again—in her broken Italian—if Carlo was sure this was the right place.

But he simply smiled and nodded, then handed her the precious case full of samples she’d spent the day collecting before firing off some fatherly advice about getting a good night’s rest. She was still standing there, dwarfed by the magnificent hotel, as she watched Carlo and his cab disappear back down the driveway.

She took a deep, steadying breath. The stunning Italianate villa’s plasterwork was bathed in an amber glow from the sunset.

Well...if Carlo says it’s the right place, it must be.

She didn’t know how Signor Chiesa had managed to find her a place this classy for her last night in Italy at no extra cost. It seemed pretty deserted. Perhaps they didn’t have that many bookings?

She tightened her fingers on the handle of her briefcase and yawned, her frown lifting—and a weary smile forming. Why not enjoy it? After all, she’d earned a bit of extra luxury.

The last three weeks had been incredible. And utterly exhausting.

After several days in Venice negotiating with a family-run supplier who had been making luxury velvet since the seventeen hundreds, she’d headed to Tuscany and Puglia to source the most incredible wool and cotton blends. And for the last two weeks, she’d travelled throughout Lombardy, finishing at the silk weavers today—where she had commissioned some unique embroidered silks at a very reasonable price.

Of course, in the back of her mind the whole time had been the social media storm she’d caused in the US. Italy was far enough removed from the whole debacle she hadn’t been dragged into it. But in a weird way, that had actually made her start to feel a little guilty—once her knee-jerk fury with Cade and his stupid bet had faded.

He’d been a total jerk. But she had been a bit of one, too.

She’d deleted the photos last week, but the damage had already been done. Not correcting the journalists she’d spoken to before leaving London about the state of their relationship, or rather non-relationship—just to annoy him—had also been a tad immature. She’d seen a huge increase in traffic to her website, so she didn’t feel that bad. But now her buying trip was over, she would need to extricate herself from their fake relationship.

She walked up the steps into an enormous marble entrance hall—which was also surprisingly quiet. Where were the other guests? Was the place even open?

Who cares, frankly?

Tonight she needed a warm bath and then a long night’s sleep in the lap of luxury.

Her energy levels had been on zero for days—a low-grade nausea making it hard for her to focus. And even though she’d loved the little agriturismo farm she’d used as her base in Lombardy, it would be quite nice not to have to make small talk in Italian over dinner with Signor Chiesa and his wife.

She rang the silver-plated bell on the mahogany reception desk nestled next to a lavish sweeping staircase. A young, smartly dressed woman appeared, wearing a tag which said Alessia, Reception , accompanied by a bellboy in full livery.

Wow, this place is seriously plush.

Charley struggled to control her grin. She was going to have to send Signor Chiesa a thank-you message for arranging this.

‘Signora Courtney, Aldo will take your items to your room,’ the efficient young woman said in perfect English as the bellboy bowed and took Charley’s briefcase, then disappeared. ‘We have already put the rest of your luggage in the Como Suite.’

She had a whole suite in this beautiful place? Seriously? Charley felt the weariness ease a little more.

But before she could thank the manager, the woman was already leading her through a huge—and completely deserted—dining salon.

‘Let me show you to the lakeside terrazza ,’ she announced. ‘Where we have your evening meal waiting.’

‘But I didn’t order anything,’ Charley said hastily, a little less pleased as she calculated the cost of a meal in a place like this.

The woman glanced over her shoulder and smiled. ‘The meal is included in your accommodation, Signora Courtney.’ And, because she was clearly a mind-reader, added, ‘There is no extra to pay.’

‘Oh, okay, grazie ,’ she said, not wanting to seem ungrateful—even though she wasn’t sure she wanted a meal. She’d been queasy all day and had hardly eaten. But maybe the lack of food was precisely why she felt so depleted? And the menu here was bound to be amazing. Perhaps it would tempt her appetite out of hiding?

Charley followed the woman past the empty dining tables. They walked through a pair of elegantly appointed glass doors. The view was even more breathtaking on the wide terrace which wrapped around the building, the red-and-orange glow of the sunset casting a redolent light over Lake Como and the centuries-old poplar trees, the water lapping gently against a private dock.

Charley sighed. The relaxed, perfectly appointed elegance of La Bella Grande was straight out of a luxury tourist brochure. The super-efficient receptionist led her to a single table, draped in white linen and laid with fine china and crystal stemware...for two people.

Charley frowned again as Alessia excused herself.

How odd. Was another one of the hotel’s guests going to join her?

Her exhausted brain was still trying to process the table setting when she heard footsteps. A tall figure appeared, silhouetted in the dying sunshine, at the far end of the terrace and strode towards her. She blinked.

Was she hallucinating? Because he moved just like...

Then the light from the dining room illuminated dramatic features—and a deep husky voice sent shock waves through her fatigued body.

‘Hello, Charlotte. About damn time you showed up.’