The Ruthless Italian's Inexperienced Wife. Christina Hollis

Cheryl out of her seat. The electric lightbulb dimmed and went out. It hardly mattered. Flickering flashes of blue-white light flooded the room, bursting through the window shutters. Cheryl dashed over to them and peered between their slats, squinting against the glare. The gale had torn up one of the great trees lining the Villa Monteolio’s rutted drive. Its branches were bouncing on a power line, and sparks arced into the darkness, lighting up the driving rain.

      She grabbed her phone. When the caretaker and his wife had been forced to leave, Cheryl had asked them for a telephone directory and programmed in every emergency number she could find, just in case. Good job I did, she thought, though it still took what seemed like for ever to get through to the electricity company. Half the area was in trouble tonight. The call operator promised to send someone out to the Villa Monteolio as soon as they could, but didn’t know how long it would take.

      A small voice croaked from the other side of the room.

      Dropping her phone, Cheryl ran straight over to the bed.

      ‘Vettor, it’s me—Cheryl. You remember? Your new nanny?’

      The three-year-old’s eyes glittered with fever.

      Cheryl peeled the compress off his forehead, freshening it in a bowl of water before she spoke again.

      ‘I’m here, Vettor. We’re at your uncle Marco’s house. I’ve been trying to get hold of him, so he can come and see you,’ she said brightly, silently thinking of all the unanswered messages she had left with his uncle’s secretary.

      There was no reply from her patient. Taking a fresh glass of cold water and the wet flannel back to his bedside, she wiped his face and hands, then gave him a drink.

      ‘He’ll be busy.’ the little boy said sadly. ‘He’s always busy.’

      The words came straight from his heart. They saddened Cheryl so much she couldn’t look at him.

      ‘Signor Rossi is a very hard-working man.’ Cheryl stopped herself using the most obvious word, workaholic.

      She sighed, thinking of the procession of personal assistants she had dealt with since answering that advert in The Lady. Half a dozen different professionals had interviewed her, but never the man himself. They were equally polished, but every one of them was doing a job, not living a life. What sort of man took on a nanny for his orphaned nephew without checking her out for himself? A man who could ignore all Cheryl’s most urgent calls today, that was who. Someone whose staff had told her they were afraid of him.

      She tugged at Vettor’s bedsheet again, smoothing it over his restless little body. ‘At midnight, the radio said all the roads for miles around were closed. It’s because of this bad weather. Your uncle must be held up somewhere.’

      Luckily, her little charge drifted back into feverish sleep. She did not have to dodge any more difficult questions. All I must do is survive until someone gets here, she told herself, jumping like a kitten as a door banged somewhere, far off.

      It would be light in a few hours’ time. Things would feel better in daylight. Wouldn’t they?

      As Cheryl tried to reassure herself, another great gust exploded against the house. Every window in the building shook. Her hand flew to her mouth, stifling a scream. Whatever happened, she mustn’t scare little Vettor.

      Biting the side of her thumb in terror, she braced herself for another blast. But when her next shock came, the gale wasn’t responsible. A very human sound burst through the storm’s racket, flinging Cheryl from her chair again. Someone was hammering at the front door.

      She exhaled, feeling as though she’d been holding her breath for hours. It must be the electricians. What a relief! She was desperate to get the power back on again, for Vettor’s sake. She checked her little charge and then grabbed a torch. Groping her way through the gloomy old building, she was glad to reach the great entrance hall without getting lost.

      The arcing power lines bounced huge shadows crazily around the vast space. At any other time Cheryl would have been alarmed, but she was beyond that tonight. She didn’t give herself time to think. Sprinting across to the imposing studded oak door, she pulled it open, sobbing with relief.

      ‘Oh, thank God you’re here!’ she screamed at the large silhouette.

      Then thunder crashed, right overhead. Cheryl jumped like a frog, dropped the torch—and fell straight into the stranger’s arms.

      He caught her, and held her close. Wind screamed around them in a fury of torn twigs and leaves, but Cheryl didn’t care. Instinctively, she knew she was safe. The new arrival was sheltering her with his body, shielding her from harm. As his cheek pressed hard against the side of her head, he murmured quiet reassurance.

      ‘Shh…lei è sicuro con me,’ he whispered into her hair.

      His voice was so reassuring all Cheryl’s old fears were soothed away, along with her current terror.

      But gradually fingers of reality fastened onto her again. What was she thinking? She stiffened, and tried to draw back from him.

      ‘I’m sorry. My Italian is very basic…’

      ‘Then I shall speak English. Is that better?’

      Cheryl relaxed instantly. A voice speaking her own language was exactly what she wanted to hear so far from home.

      ‘It’s more than better, it’s wonderful!’ she said with real feeling. She’d been in Italy for less than a day, but her head was already throbbing. Trying to memorise new words while leafing through a phrasebook was hard enough at the best of times, but Cheryl had also been busy meeting new workmates—familiarising herself with a different workplace and dealing with a case of scarlet fever at the same time.

      ‘Oh…I’m so sorry for that outburst, signor…you must think I’m a complete idiot. The boss here wanted to employ an English person, and as everyone else is apparently scared to death of him…’

      The dark outline of the stranger’s head dipped, and she heard a soft sound that might have been laughter.

      ‘Don’t worry. There’s no need to apologise. This is the worst storm I’ve ever seen.’ His voice bubbled with amusement. ‘Isn’t there a caretaker on duty?’

      ‘He’s had to go to hospital—’ Cheryl began, but the wind swirled around them again. She shivered instinctively, sensing a hint of autumn in the air.

      Instead of letting her go, the stranger tightened his grip. His bulky shape was an irresistible force, hustling her backwards into the building. She was more than willing to let him direct her into the darkened hall. As long as she didn’t have to go on facing this storm on her own in this echoing old barn of a house she could stifle her usual feelings of panic in the presence of such overpowering masculinity.

      There was a crash as the front door slammed shut. Her rescuer was still holding her securely against his powerful body, so Cheryl barely flinched. With the sounds of wind and torrents of water muffled, rational thought became easier for her. She supposed he must have kicked the door shut. She couldn’t be certain, because she couldn’t see past him. His vice-like hands were holding her so tightly she could barely move of her own accord. He was drenched, and dripping with rain, but Cheryl hung on. It was madness, but she couldn’t let go. She was in the grip of a man and she didn’t care. This must be a once in a lifetime storm.

      Her legs gave way with the relief of it all, but the stranger held her up. Changing his hold to encircle her with only one of his strong arms, he supported her weight. Hugging her to his body, he comforted her with a voice that was lyrical, with a low, slow accent.

      ‘There, there…it’s all right now…’

      Turning her in towards his body, he started patting her back softly.

      Cheryl trembled with fear, but it wasn’t only the storm terrifying her. Memories from the past, of Nick, came flooding back. Her mind did its best. It tried to keep