The Forbidden Ferrara. Sarah Morgan

trust.

      ‘I need to speak to your grandfather. Tell me where he is.’

      So that was why he was here. Another round of fruitless negotiations that would lead the same way as the others. Thanks goodness he’d made this visit at night, she thought numbly. No matter what happened, she had to ensure he didn’t return during the day. ‘You must have a death wish. You know how he feels about you.’

      Those eyes were hooded as he watched her. ‘And does he know how you feel about me?’

      His oblique reference to that night shocked her because it was something that had never been mentioned before.

      Was he threatening her? Was he about to expose her?

      Relief had been replaced by sick panic as various avenues of horror opened up before her. Was that why he’d done it? To have a hold over her in the future? ‘My grandfather is old and unwell. If you have something to say you can say it to me. If you want to talk business, then you’ll talk to me. I run the restaurant.’

      ‘But the land is his.’ His soft voice was a million times more disturbing than an explosion of temper and that control of his worried her because she felt none where he was concerned. She thought about what she’d read—about Santo Ferrara more than filling his brother’s large shoes in his running of their global corporation. And suddenly she realised how foolish she’d been to think that the Beach Club was too insignificant to be of interest to the big boss. It was precisely because it was too insignificant that it had caught his attention. He wanted to expand the Beach Club, and to do that he needed—

      ‘You want our land?’

      ‘It was once our land,’ he said with lethal emphasis, ‘until one of your unscrupulous relatives, of which there have been all too many, chose to use blackmail to extract half the beach from my great-grandfather. Unlike him, I am willing to propose a fair deal and pay you a generous price to regain that which should never have left my family.’

      And it was all about money, of course. The Ferraras thought everything could be bought.

      Which was what frightened her.

      The initial feeling of relief that had flooded her had been replaced by trepidation. If he were intent on developing the land then she’d never be safe.

      ‘My grandfather will never, ever sell to you so if that is what this visit is about you’re wasting your time. You might as well go back to New York or Rome or wherever it is you live these days. Pick another project.’

      ‘I live here.’ His lip curled. ‘And I am giving this project my personal attention.’

      It was the worst news she could have had. ‘He hasn’t been well. I won’t let you upset him.’

      ‘Your grandfather is tough as boots. I doubt he is in need of your protection.’ A few layers of ‘civilized’ had melted away and the dangerous edge to his tone told her that he meant business. ‘Does he know that you’re deliberately attracting my customers away from the hotel to your restaurant?’

      He was six foot three of prime masculinity, the force of his nature barely leashed beneath that outward appearance of sophistication. And Fia knew just how much heat bubbled under the cool surface. She’d been burned by that heat.

      His passion has shocked her, but nowhere near as much as her own.

      ‘If by “deliberately” you mean that I’m cooking them good food in great surroundings, then I’m guilty as charged.’

      ‘Those “great surroundings” are exactly the reason I’m here.’

      So that was what had brought him back. Not the night they’d shared. Not concern for her welfare or anything that was personal.

      Just business.

      If she weren’t so relieved that there wasn’t a deeper reason, she would have been appalled by his insensitivity. Whatever else had happened, a death lay between them. Blood had been shed.

      But one inconvenient death wouldn’t be enough to stand in the way of a Ferrara on the path to acquisition, she thought numbly. It was all about empire building. ‘This conversation is over. I need to cook. I’m in the middle of service.’ The truth was she’d all but finished, but she’d wanted him out of here.

      But of course he didn’t leave because a Ferrara only ever did what a Ferrara wanted to do.

      Instead of walking away he lounged against the door frame, sleek and confident, those eyes fixed on her. ‘You feel so threatened by me you have to have a knife in your hand while we talk?’

      ‘I’m not threatened. I’m working.’

      ‘I could disarm you in under five seconds.’

      ‘I could cut you to the bone in less.’ It was bravado, of course, because not for one moment did she underestimate his strength.

      ‘If this is the welcome you give your customers I’m surprised you have anyone here at all. Not exactly warm, is it?’ The fringe of thick lashes made his eyes seem darker. Or maybe the darkness was something they created together. She knew that the addition of just one ingredient could alter flavour. In this case it was the forbidden. They’d done the unforgivable. The unexplainable. The inexcusable.

      ‘You’re not a customer, Santo.’

      ‘So feed me and then I will be. Cook me dinner.’

      Cook me dinner. Just for a moment her hands shook.

      He’d walked away without once glancing back. That, she could handle because, apart from one night of reckless sex, they’d shared nothing. The fact that he’d played a much bigger role in her dreams wasn’t his fault. But for him to walk back in here and order her to cook him dinner, as if his return was something to celebrate …

      The audacity of it took her breath away. ‘Sorry. Fatted calf isn’t on the menu tonight. Now get the hell out of my kitchen, Santo. Gina manages the bookings and tonight we’re full. And tomorrow night. And any other night you wish to eat in my restaurant.’

      ‘Gina is the pretty blonde? I noticed her on the way in.’

      Of course he would have noticed her. Santo Ferrara not noticing a blonde, curvy woman would be like a lion not noticing a cute impala. That didn’t surprise her. What surprised her was the ache in her chest. She didn’t want to care who this man took to his bed. She’d never wanted to care and the fact that she did terrified her more than anything. She’d grown up witnessing that caring meant pain.

      Never love a Sicilian man had been the last words her mother had flung at her eight-year-old daughter before she’d walked out of the door for ever.

      Afraid of her own feelings, Fia turned her back and finished chopping garlic, but they were the ragged, uneven cuts of an amateur, not a professional.

      ‘It’s dangerous to handle a knife when your hands are shaking.’ Suddenly he was right behind her, too close for comfort, and she felt her pulse sprint because even though he wasn’t touching her she could feel the warmth of him, the power of him and feel her answering response. It was immediate and visceral and she almost screamed with frustration because it made no sense. It was like salivating over a food that she knew would make her ill.

      ‘I’m not shaking.’

      ‘No?’ A strong, bronzed hand covered hers and immediately she was back in the darkness of that night, his mouth burning against hers, his skilled fingers showing her no mercy as he drove her wild. ‘Do you think about it?’

      She didn’t need to ask what he meant.

      Did she think about it? Oh, God, he had no idea. She’d tried everything, everything, to wipe the memory of that night from her mind but it was always with her. A sensual scar that was never going to heal. ‘Take your hand off mine right now.’

      His hand tightened, the strength in those