The Ultimate Risk. Chantelle Shaw

close that her pelvis had almost brushed against his.

      Tearing her gaze from him, she saw that the waitress was trying to gather up the shards of glass with her hands. ‘I’ll get a broom,’ she muttered, and hurried across the restaurant, grateful for the chance to escape Lanzo’s intent stare.

      He watched her walk away from him, feeling himself harden as he studied the gentle sway of her bottom beneath its covering of tight navy silk.

      Oh, Gina! What a transformation time had wrought, he mused, for he had suddenly solved the puzzle of why she seemed familiar. He remembered her now—although she looked very different from the shy waitress who had followed him around with puppy-dog devotion and been so sweetly anxious to please him that summer he had spent in England.

      He had not known that her proper name was Ginevra. It suited the sophisticated woman she had become. And really it was not surprising that he had initially failed to recognise her, he assured himself, because this elegant woman, with her toned figure and her mane of glossy chestnut hair, bore scant resemblance to the slightly plump, awkward girl who had delighted him with her unexpectedly passionate nature when she had been his lover for a few weeks one summer, a long time ago.

      Was the grown-up Gina still the sensual, uniquely generous lover who had appeared in his dreams for several months after he had returned to Italy? Lanzo brooded. Events in his life had taught him to live for the present and never revisit the past. But he was prepared to make an exception in this instance, he mused, watching her until she disappeared into the kitchens with a determined gleam in his eyes that would have worried her had she seen it.

      CHAPTER TWO

      IT STILL wasn’t completely dark, even though it was almost eleven o’clock, Gina noted when she emerged from the restaurant and glanced up at the indigo sky which was studded with a few faint stars. The water in the harbour was flat and calm, and the salt tang carried on the breeze was a welcome contrast to the stifling atmosphere of the restaurant.

      She loved the long days and balmy evenings of June, and she paused for a moment, enjoying the fresh air which was cool but did not require her to slip on her jacket, before she turned and began to stroll along the quay.

      ‘I did not realise that you still lived in Poole.’ A tall figure stepped out of the shadows, and Gina’s heart skittered when Lanzo fell in step beside her. ‘I visit several times a year and I’m surprised I haven’t seen you around.’

      Gina gave him a startled glance, her heart thudding with the realisation that he had finally recognised her. The expression in his eyes made her pulse quicken. It was the intense, predatory look of a panther stalking its prey, she thought, and then gave herself a mental shake. He was just a man, she reminded herself irritably. But the soft night air carried the spicy drift of his aftershave, and as her senses quivered she ruefully acknowledged that Lanzo would never be ‘just’ anything.

      ‘Perhaps you did see me on one of your previous visits, but you didn’t remember me,’ she said tartly, still feeling faintly chagrined that he had not realised her identity back at the restaurant.

      ‘Oh, I remember you, Gina,’ he said softly. ‘Although I admit I did not immediately recognise you tonight. You’ve changed a lot since I knew you.’

      He wanted to run his fingers through her long silky hair, but he had noticed how she had tensed the moment she had seen him outside the restaurant. The flash of awareness in her deep blue eyes when she had first spotted him had told him that she was as conscious of the fierce sexual chemistry between them as he, but for some reason she seemed determined to ignore it.

      ‘Your hair especially is different from the style you wore ten years ago,’ he commented.

      ‘Don’t remind me,’ Gina groaned, utterly mortified by the memory of the curly perm she had believed would make her look older and more sophisticated than the ponytail she’d had since she was six. The perm had been a disaster, which had transformed her hair into an untameable bush with the texture of wire wool, and rather than looking sexy and sophisticated she had resembled a chubby poodle. As if the perm hadn’t been bad enough, she had been a few pounds overweight, she remembered grimly. ‘I can’t imagine why you ever noticed me,’ she muttered.

      In all honesty he had not taken much notice of her when he had first arrived in Poole to oversee the launch of the Di Cosimo restaurant here all those years ago, Lanzo remembered. Gina had simply been one of the staff—a part-time waitress who helped out with the washing up on nights when the restaurant was especially busy.

      She had been a shy, mousy girl, with an annoying habit of looking at the floor whenever he spoke to her—until on one occasion he had been so irritated by her studious inspection of the carpet that he had cupped her chin in his hand and tilted her face upwards and had found himself staring into the bluest eyes he had ever seen.

      The unremarkable waitress was not so ordinary after all, he had been amazed to discover, as he had studied her flawless peaches-and-cream complexion and her wide, surprisingly kissable mouth. He could not remember their conversation—it had probably been something inconsequential, like asking her to fill the salt-cellars—but after that he had noticed her more often, and had invariably found her watching him. Although she had blushed scarlet and hastily looked away whenever he had met her gaze.

      That summer ten years ago had been a dark period in his life, Lanzo reflected grimly. Alfredo had died in the spring, and he had been struggling to come to terms with the loss of the man he had regarded as a second father—the man who would have been his father-in-law had it not been for the devastating fire that had swept through the di Cosimo family home and taken the lives of Lanzo’s parents and his fiancée five years before that.

      Cristina’s face was a distant memory now—like a slightly out of focus photograph—and the pain of her loss no longer felt like a knife being thrust through his heart. But he remembered her; he would always remember the gentle girl he had fallen in love with all those years ago.

      Widower Alfredo and Lanzo’s parents had been delighted when he had announced that Cristina had agreed to be his wife. But a week before the wedding tragedy had struck.

      The familiar feeling of guilt made Lanzo’s gut clench, and he stared out across the harbour to where the darkening sky met the sea, lost in black memories. He should not have gone on that business trip to Sweden. Cristina had begged him not to, saying that they needed to talk. But he had been shocked by her revelation that she was pregnant—so unprepared for the prospect of having a child when they had both decided that they would wait at least five years before they started a family.

      He had been so young—only twenty—and determined to make his father proud of him as he took on more responsibilities at Di Cosimo Holdings. But that was no excuse, he thought grimly. He’d known Cristina had been hurt by his lack of enthusiasm for the baby. He hadn’t wanted to talk about it, and instead had insisted on going on the business trip when he had known full well that he could have sent one of his staff in his place. But he had wanted time alone, to get his head around the idea of being a father, and so he had ignored Cristina’s tears and flown to Sweden.

      Within twenty-four hours he had realised that he had behaved like an idiot. He loved Cristina, and of course he would love their child. He had been impatient to get home and convince her that he was delighted about the baby, but his meeting had overrun, meaning that he had missed his flight, and he’d had to spend another night away. The following morning he had arrived in Italy and been met by Alfredo, who had broken the devastating news that his parents and Cristina had all died in the fire that had destroyed the di Cosimo villa.

      Lanzo’s jaw tightened as he remembered the agony of that moment—the feeling that his heart had been ripped from his chest. He had not told Alfredo that Cristina had been a few weeks pregnant. The older man had been utterly distraught at the loss of his only daughter and there had seemed little point in making his grief worse. But the bitter truth was that he could not bear anyone to know how he had failed his fiancée and his unborn child, Lanzo acknowledged. He should never have gone away. Cristina had died believing that he did not want their child, and