Chapter 2

CHAPTER TWO

H ER ANKLE HURT LIKE the devil itself. Getting back to the youth hostel before the storm hit had been unlikely beforehand, but with an undoubtedly sprained, if not broken, ankle, it was questionable whether she'd even make it by the next day.

Cursing her stupidity and stubbornness in insisting on retrieving the scarf, and in ignoring his suggestion of help, she tilted her chin and took another step, propping herself on a tree for balance and yelping as her ankle gave yet another throb of pain. She'd been walking for over an hour, and had probably only covered a little more than a kilometer. She didn't know exactly how far she'd walked from town, but given that she'd been out since the morning, she guessed she'd covered a fair distance. Pulling her phone from her pocket, she checked the reception again—still nothing. Though, there was never strictly no reception. Emergency services were always available. If she absolutely needed to, she'd just have to phone the Italian equivalent to triple zero and beg for someone to come to her .

She groaned to herself and felt the threat of tears she wouldn't allow to fall.

This was a pickle, but she'd been in pickles before and managed to find a way out of them. She looked around, desperately hoping for a solution, and when none came, she decided to sit a moment. The rain was pouring down, her hair was plastered to her face, her clothes were soaked through, and she was bitterly cold, but there was nothing to be gained from pushing on regardless. She needed to think, and to trust that somehow she'd work out a way not to freeze to death. If only to avoid giving that arrogant man the satisfaction of being proved right about her.

Dante listened to the phone call with a grim expression. "You are saying the road has been cut off all afternoon?"

"Power lines came down earlier in the day. There was a strong wind, you might have noticed?—,"

Out of nowhere, he saw the red scarf flying through the sky, and then the glimpse of a pony tail, on a similar trajectory, at a ninety degree angle from the woman to whom it was attached. The warmth flooded him again, reminding him what it had been like to feel her body against his.

He closed his eyes. "No cars have been able to use the road?"

"No. And with the storm, it'll be a few days before it's operational. Do you have enough by way of provisions?"

Dante didn't answer. His mind was now on the woman and the certainty he had that she hadn't driven to his property at all.

She'd walked .

Walked, he thought scathingly. Of course she had. That was just exactly the kind of foolhardy thing she would have done. Walked and walked until she'd found herself in the middle of the woods on the edge of a cliff with a once in a hundred year storm brewing.

"Dante?"

"Yes, yes, I've got provisions." He disconnected the call without a word of thanks and, as with that morning, stalked from his house with intent, eyes scanning the forest for a hint of red, temper blazing in a way he knew he needed to control.

She wasn't going to cry.

She wasn't.

Only…she stared at her cell phone, smashed on the ground, her last hope of help fading as the sky turned black, and night grew perilously close. Beyond the tree trunks, she knew civilization was out there, but there were no visible lights of any towns. She felt utterly isolated and totally alone, and for the first time since leaving Australia, Georgia craved the familiarity of home. She missed the boys, their small apartment, she even missed their crotchety downstairs neighbour.

She shoved the treacherous phone into her pocket, and took another step, but her ankle was now like a migraine localized in her foot. She squeezed her eyes shut, forced herself to move forward, and then she heard it. A curse. Was it her imagination? A hypothermic apparition?

"You have the worst judgement of anyone I've ever met," the man ground out, and lightning flashed at that moment, so his face was illuminated, casting it in pure shadow, showing the harshness and strength of those features, so she trembled. She wasn't afraid, but she was very close to the end of her emotional equilibrium.

"What are you doing here?" She asked, crossing her arms over her chest then crying out because it forced her foot to bear weight and she couldn't. She pushed one arm back to the tree she'd been holding for support.

"Why didn't you tell me you'd walked?"

"Why would I have?"

"You've sprained your ankle," he pointed out. "Do you really think you should have left the safety of my home?"

"You were pretty clear about wanting me off your property."

"I do want you off my property," he said sharply. "But I also don't want your death on my conscience."

"Then allow me to absolve you of any guilt there. I have my own free will, and I made my own decisions. Whether they were good decisions or not doesn't matter. It has nothing to do with you."

"Okay, fine," he held up his hands in the air in an obvious gesture of frustration. "Would you like me to go back?"

She shivered. His hair was also plastered to his face but where she suspected she looked like a drowning rat, he just looked even more handsome, if that was possible. It seemed to highlight his bone structure, and she hated him for that.

"Yes," she said, internally berating herself for being so stupid.

"You are unbelievable."

She tilted her chin, digging in. "Go. Leave me alone."

"And what? How do you propose getting back to wherever it is you came from?"

"For your information, Mr High-Handed, I was just about to call emergency services for help. "

"Good luck with that," he said.

"I don't need luck," she lied.

"Go on then, I'll wait."

She sniffed. "There's no need. I can manage on my own."

"I saw your phone drop onto that rock. Is it broken?"

Her lips parted and she wanted to deny it. Having been caught out in the lie, her cheeks flushed with heat.

"Not only can you not make the call, even if you were able, and believe me, I would hand you my cell phone if I thought it would make a difference, there is no way anyone can get to you tonight. The road has been cut off by fallen power lines, and besides this, there will be dozens of calls tonight. I am your best chance. So stop being so damned proud and let me help you."

"I'd be more inclined to let you help me if you'd stop being such a know-it-all jerk."

His eyes sparked to hers. "In this instance, I do know it all. And I am a jerk; I make no apologies for it. Fortunately for both of us, I'm not asking you to marry me, I'm telling you that unless you want to die of hypothermia or starvation, you'll come to my house until the storm passes."

Her lips parted and she stared at him as though he'd just suggested they take hands and jump off the cliff.

"No." It was an intuitive response. Something about this man, his villa, threatened her, and she'd learned to listen to her instincts.

"Fine, have it your way," he muttered. "I'm done trying to save you." He turned and began to stalk away, so her pulse accelerated and she knew that her best chance of rescue was disappearing. She thought longingly of being somewhere warm and dry, with a warm drink and maybe even a crackling fire. Of being able to put her ankle up and rest it for a while.

"Okay, okay," she shouted out. But he kept walking, his back ramrod straight, so she wondered if he hadn't heard her above the howling wind. "I said okay! " She shouted, louder.

He spun around, fury conveyed by the tense lines of his body. "Okay, what?"

"Okay, you can help me."

"How magnanimous of you," he replied, sarcasm in his voice, but to Georgia's relief, he began to walk back towards her, his jaw set firmly, his eyes sparking with hers, so she shivered. She waited for him to come to her side and put an arm around her for support as she walked but instead, he picked her up and cradled her against his chest as though she weighed nothing. And she supposed, comparatively, she didn't, for she was naturally short and slight and he was the opposite—tall, and broad chested, strong and athletic in a very different way to her. She hadn't been joking about his gladiatorial presence.

"I can walk," she felt compelled to say, but he only ground his teeth and kept striding onwards, covering uneven ground as though it were a perfectly stable footpath.

"Would you please slow down," she said after a few minutes. "Or you'll sprain an ankle too and then where will be?" He didn't say anything. "Unless your plan is actually to drop me over the cliff after all," she said, moments later. "But then, I guess you could have done that earlier. And why would you?"

She was babbling because she could tell it annoyed him and for a reason Georgia couldn't fathom, she enjoyed pressing his buttons. It was childish and rude, given that he was inconveniencing himself to save her, but it was a small piece of brightness in an afternoon that had quickly gone south.

"To stop you making inane conversation?" He said, sometime later, so she'd half-forgotten what he was even replying to.

To Georgia's surprise, it brought a smile to her lips; she quickly flattened it.

But when they were both silent, something inside Georgia shifted. She stopped being aware of his size academically and became aware of it in a far more visceral way. She could feel his strength and breadth and command, she could feel his overpowering masculinity, and two opposing sensations arose in direct contradiction of each other.

She wanted to stop time and stay exactly where she was. Being held by a pair of strong arms was something she'd never known. Not like this. As a little girl, when she'd fallen asleep in the car, her father had carried her inside, and she'd always felt loved and protected by the gesture. But this was different. This wasn't a reassuring feeling, it was terrifying, because she was aware of this man in every cell of her body. And in contradiction of a desire to stay pressed to his chest for as long as she could, she wanted him to put her down so she could run, sprained ankle be damned, as far away from him as possible. It was terrifying to feel like this, out of nowhere, and for someone she didn't even know. She had no idea what his name was, for goodness' sake.

"You can put me down, if you need to rest," she felt compelled to offer, after ten minutes of fast walking.

He paused, tilting a look at her. "I've carried heavier grocery bags."

At that, she laughed. "What are you buying? Concrete?"

"You weigh nothing," he responded. "I'm fine."

A shiver ran down her spine, and though it was an internal feeling, Georgia was sure that somehow, he'd felt it anyway, because he shot her a look that was ninety percent warning and ten percent curious. It was the latter that was her undoing. She jerked her gaze away, breath hitching in her throat, as now she was aware of every single step he took, and her body jiggled in response, shifting against him, her skin covered in goosebumps that made her so much more sensitive to his nearness.

Ten minutes later, lights came into view and she expelled a long, soft breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding. She'd never been happier to see a home in her life.

Only, this was no ordinary home.

She knew that Lake Como was a ritzy area, and she'd passed some beautiful villas on the walk today, but this was something else. "Stop a second," she said, her voice mesmerized and commanding, so the man did stop, allowing Georgia to take in the view with eyes that were wide like saucers.

"You actually live here?"

It wasn't just the size of the place that had her gasping, but the beauty. Historic and grand, with at least five stories, little terraces from all of the windows with wrought iron balustrades, a delightfully manicured garden that was at odds with the wildness of the forest from which they'd just emerged, it looked like a five-star hotel rather than a home.

"No."

She jerked her gaze to his face. "I thought you said this is your land."

He began to walk again, cutting through the very formal garden with miniature box hedges. "It is my land, but I do not live here. "

"Then this is, what? Like a holiday home?"

A muscle throbbed at the base of his jaw. "I wouldn't call it that."

"But you own it?"

"Yes."

He shouldered in the door, careful not to bang her head, before striding down the wide corridor with high ceilings and very old brass light fittings. They were both soaking wet and left puddles of water behind them. He didn't seem to notice or care. He took the steps, still carrying her easily, then finally, deposited Georgia in a leather armchair, turning his back and leaving without a backwards glance.

She stared after him, consternation making her heart race and her mouth dry.

Gingerly, she turned her attention to her ankle, dreading the removal of her shoes and the vision she feared awaited her.

However, whether she dreaded it or not, Dante was back and he was determined to liberate her feet from her boots. It was a strange thing to be self-conscious of in that moment, but as he crouched down and began to undo her laces, she hoped and prayed that her feet didn't smell.

"Ouch!" She almost swore when his fingers brushed against her swollen ankle.

"You have made it a thousand times worse by walking on it."

"I was ordered off your land, remember?"

He tossed her a cynical look. "To drive , not walk."

She opened her mouth to say something and then closed it again. She didn't want to argue with him right now. In truth, she felt close to tears, which for Georgia was a remarkable surprise in and of itself.

She became aware of the sound of the shower running.

"Can you stand with my support?"

"Yes," she said with a confidence she was far from feeling.

"Good." He nodded his approval and that little nod did something strange to her, like it was stitching her back together somehow. "Show me." He held out an arm and she maneuvered herself to the end of the sofa, shivering as she did so. He grimaced.

"Forget about it," he replied, and before she could guess his intention, he had lifted her up once more, placing her against his chest and carrying her down the corridor and through a doorway that housed the most exquisitely sumptuous bathroom she'd ever seen. The shower was running, and he'd placed a plastic chair in it.

"I'm not—I don't need to shower."

"You need to warm up," he contradicted. "Your clothes are soaking."

She blanched. "Really, I'm fine?—,"

"Listen to me—," he frowned. "What is your name?"

She swallowed, wondering why it felt so intimate to give him her name? "Georgia," she said, her voice hoarse.

He nodded once, as though that too was something he approved of. "Georgia, we do not need to argue over every small detail. You are dangerously cold. Your ankle is swollen. We need to take care of both of these things, and in that order. So you will sit, and have a quick shower to warm up, and then I will place you on a sofa and evaluate the damage. Okay?"

She wanted to tell him that of course it wasn't okay, but how could she?

"Okay, okay," she snapped, annoyed at how churlish she sounded. "Thank you," she muttered, tacked on as an obvious afterthought .

"That just kills you to say, doesn't it?"

She looked away from him, her pulse blazing. "I am trying to be conciliatory."

"You're not great at it."

She almost laughed. "Would you leave me alone so I can get undressed?"

Silence crackled between them. "No. But I will turn my back until you assure me you are done."

She opened her mouth to object but he spoke again. "I won't have you fall and crack open your skull in my bathroom." His eyes bore into hers. "I will not look." And with that, he turned his broad, strong, fascinating, warm back and crossed his arms over his chest.

Georgia ground her teeth together. "You really have a God complex, don't you?" She murmured, unzipping her jacket and dropping it to the ground, her hip propped against the vanity counter for support. Her shirt was far trickier as it was stuck to her body courtesy of how wet it was. With a few noises of effort, she eventually managed, dropping it with a splashy thud to her feet. She stopped short of removing her bra. She could shower in that, deal with it afterwards. Next, came her jeans, but while she could unfasten the button and zipper, pushing them over her hips required a strength and balance she didn't have while her foot was in such dire pain.

"Damn it," she muttered, closer to tears than she'd been in a long time.

"A problem?" And even though his tone was innocuous, she suspected she heard triumph in it and wanted to thump him.

"You're enjoying this, aren't you?"

"Believe me when I tell you, I am absolutely not."

"Fine. Would you help me?"

"Would I help you?" He repeated, and she grimaced, well aware of what he was asking because she'd employed a similar technique with the boys, when she'd first become their guardian.

"Please," she tacked on, sounding as though it were the last thing she wanted to say.

He turned, and any hope she had of this being a quick, clinical removal of her jeans died a fiery death when their eyes clashed and held. Her body seemed to jerk to life. To physically exalt in his proximity and her near-nakedness. Thanking the heavens he was still dressed, she stood her ground, trying to act as though her heart wasn't racing and her pulse was rushing like a waterfall. But damn it, her nipples were tingling almost painfully and when his eyes dropped to her breasts, she knew he must have seen it through the flimsy cotton of her simple, white bra. She closed her eyes, digging her teeth into her lower lip, massaging it to will her body not to respond, but to Georgia's absolute disgust, heat slicked between her legs and it was all she could do not to put her fingers there and give her body what it was suddenly so sure it wanted.

"My jeans," she said, clearing her throat. Her voice wobbled with ambivalence.

" Si ." His own was hoarse. He stepped forward, and for the first time, she realized how big his hands were, when they gripped her hips, stayed there a moment, seeming to take up so much of the real estate of her body. She forced herself to look at the ancient marble wall across from them.

He smelled so good. It was his cologne, but it was also him; she tried not to breathe in out of self-preservation.

"They're stuck to me," she explained unnecessarily, because his hands moved lower, to the fabric, and he could feel for himself how tightly the fabric adhered to her flesh.

She held her breath as he pulled them lower, but she wasn't embarrassed. Other emotions were at the fore, challenging her, confronting her, making her want to give in to an impulse she didn't even understand.

His hands went slowly. Because the jeans were difficult to remove, or because he was as transfixed by the intimacy and familiarity of this as she was. After all, they barely knew one another. She didn't know his name, his age, his profession, anything.

But that didn't matter. All of those things felt superficial compared to the hum of desire threading around them, to the way he touched her, the warmth of his breath against her skin as he concentrated on removed her jeans without hurting her ankle, until finally, she was freed of the restrictive fabric and half hoped she'd never have to drag them on again. He straightened, his eyes not quite meeting hers.

"All done."

"Yes," she agreed, teeth chattering.

He nodded to the shower, his jaw set, and his mood cross.

"Would you like me to wait here?"

She shook her head swiftly. She couldn't think of anything worse.

He nodded once, relief in his features. He reached for a towel, placing it on the counter, beside the stack of clothes he'd set out of her. "Call when you're ready to get out. I'll be just outside this door."