Defying Her Billionaire Protector. Angela Bissell

that giving entry to a stranger off the street showed a dreadful disregard for security.

      ‘I’m on the ground floor,’ she said, deciding to leave that subject well enough alone, and wheeled her chair around.

      Silent, his big body radiating tension like ripples of heat from a furnace, Nico followed her through the lobby, across the quiet interior courtyard with its great pots of manicured topiaries and into a small vestibule housing the front doors of her apartment and one other. As soon as they stopped his hand appeared, palm up, in front of her face.

      ‘Key.’

      For a second—just a second—Marietta contemplated ignoring his curt command, but this, she acknowledged, was not the time for bravado. Her stalker might have been in her home.

      Her stalker might still be in her home.

      Her stomach gave a sharp, sickening twist and she promptly handed over the key and watched, heart thumping, as Nico unlocked the door.

      ‘Stay here,’ he ordered, and she nodded, her mouth suddenly far too dry to protest. He went in, leaving the door an inch ajar behind him.

      Marietta clutched her handbag in her lap and waited. Endless minutes ticked by, followed by more endless minutes. When Nico still hadn’t reappeared and she could no longer stand the suspense, she nudged the door open, inched forward and hovered on the threshold.

      ‘Nico?’ she called out, her voice echoing off the parquet wood flooring in the entry hall.

      Nothing.

      ‘Nico!’ she tried again, louder this time.

      Still nothing.

      This was ridiculous. She wheeled down the hallway, a hot mix of impatience and adrenaline spurring her on.

      ‘I told you to stay put.’

      Nico’s deep voice slammed into her from behind. She turned her chair around and blinked, her brain instantly grappling to interpret what her eyes were seeing. The sight of Nico standing in her bedroom doorway—which, in her haste, she’d sailed straight by—was easy enough to compute. The rest—the blue latex gloves sheathing his large hands, something red and lacy dangling from his fingers—was enough to send her senses into a floor-tilting spin.

      She stared at the bizarre image before her a moment longer, until her breathing resumed some kind of normal rhythm, then gripped the hand rims of her chair and started forward—only to have Nico plant his feet firmly in the doorway and block her path.

      She hiked up her chin, wishing there was a way to plough through that imposing wall of muscle. ‘Let me in,’ she demanded, and reached for the scrap of red lace.

      He jerked it out of reach. ‘Marietta—’

      ‘No. This is my home, Nico. Whatever he’s done, whatever he’s left for me, I want to see.’

      It took every shred of determination she possessed not to back down under the full force of Nico’s reprimanding stare. Finally, just as she began to think he wouldn’t budge, his rigid stance loosened.

      He pointed a latex-clad finger at her. ‘Do not touch anything. There could be DNA and prints to lift.’ Then he stepped aside, allowing her to enter.

      Marietta’s gaze went straight to the bed. To the crimson box lying open on her cream cotton coverlet and the items of luxury lingerie spilling haphazardly from between layers of soft white tissue. Scattered around the box and all across her bed were dozens upon dozens of red and white rose petals.

      She moved closer, made out a red satin and black lace chemise, a sheer negligee and a pair of skimpy scarlet knickers. She closed her eyes, turned away, fighting a sudden stab of nausea. When she opened them again, her gaze landed on the item in Nico’s hand. A bra, she registered now. A lacy, see-through concoction designed to be sexy and revealing as opposed to any kind of practical.

      Her gaze jerked up, collided with Nico’s, and for a fleeting moment it seemed as though something arced in the air between them. Something hot and bright and electric.

      Which just went to prove how easily stress could affect the mind—because surely she had imagined that strange ripple of energy in the room that had felt almost like... What? Sexual awareness?

      Heat flooded her face. Si, she was definitely stressed—not to mention embarrassed and horrified.

      She yanked her gaze away from Nico’s and took one last look at her bed. Did her stalker think he would one day share it with her? Thick bile coated her throat and the heat drained from her face, leaving her cold and clammy.

      ‘Was there a card?’ she managed to ask.

      Nico turned away from her to lay the bra on the bed. ‘No,’ he said, snapping the gloves off his hands. He turned back to look at her, his blue eyes dark and unreadable. ‘You’re pale, Marietta. Do you have anything to drink?’

      She nodded. Si, a drink...something to wash the bile out of her throat, shave the edge off her nerves. She wheeled out of the room. She wouldn’t be able to sleep here tonight. Perhaps she could stay at Leo’s penthouse for the weekend? He’d be travelling to Tuscany this evening, back to Helena and their adorable baby boy Riccardo. Leo’s apartment building—a stunning renovated historic structure in the heart of the old city—wasn’t as wheelchair-friendly as this one, but there was an elevator at least. Or perhaps she could telephone a girlfriend?

      Her mind spun in jerky circles until she reached her lounge and paused. She looked around the cosy, light-filled room. Had her stalker been in here, too? Had he snooped through every inch of her beloved home? Had he touched her things?

      Angry and sickened, she dumped her handbag on her plum-coloured sofa and headed for the solid oak sideboard. The cabinet housed a small selection of spirits—brandy, limoncello, and a bottle of whisky for her brother when he visited.

      She grabbed two cut-glass tumblers and, hearing footsteps on the hardwood floor behind her, twisted her chin round to look at Nico. ‘What will you have?’

      He shrugged, the movement accentuating the breadth of his shoulders under his black open-necked shirt. ‘Whatever you’re having.’

      She chose the brandy, unscrewed the cap and started to pour. But her hands shook and the liquid sloshed out too fast, hit the rim of the glass and splashed onto the sideboard. She cursed, the mishap pushing her to the verge of ridiculous tears, and then Nico’s hand was closing over hers. Without a word, he removed the bottle from her grip and poured a generous measure into each tumbler.

      Feeling foolish, she took the glass he handed her and tried to ignore the lingering effect of his touch. It was the same hot, static-like sensation she’d experienced at the gallery, when he’d crouched in front of her and taken her hand in his. Except his touch then had lasted longer, she recalled, and his thumb had rubbed gentle, delicious circles on the back of her hand, setting off a chain reaction of tiny sparks under her skin.

      She took a gulp of brandy and welcomed its distracting burn. ‘I don’t understand,’ she blurted when the heat had abated. ‘Why me?’ It was a question with no logical answer, she knew. She threw up a hand in helpless frustration. ‘Your company provides protection services to public figures,’ she said. ‘You must know something about this sort of thing. Why would he go to such lengths to get my attention and yet keep his identity a secret?’

      Nico stood with one hand wrapped around his glass, the other shoved in his trouser pocket. He paused, as if carefully weighing his response. ‘In his mind, he’s courting you, and he wants total control over this stage of his fantasy,’ he said finally. ‘The longer he remains anonymous, the more time he has to build the perfect relationship with you in his head and avoid the risk of real-life rejection.’

      Marietta grimaced. ‘That is totally twisted.’

      Nico knocked back his brandy in a single swallow that made the muscles in his strong throat visibly work. ‘I agree,’ he said, then put the glass down and pulled his mobile phone from his pocket.