Married For Revenge. Lynne Graham

onto the terrace. He moved with the silent grace of a panther on the prowl, broad shoulders, narrow hips and long elegant legs defined by his beautifully tailored grey designer suit. She found it difficult to remove her attention from him. He was one of those men who had only to enter a room to command it. Even in a crowd he would have stood out a mile with his exceptional height, assurance and innate sophistication.

      ‘The garden should complement the house with plenty of outside space for entertaining,’ he told her.

      ‘I see there’s a pool,’ she remarked, glancing at the feature that was at least fifty years old and marooned like an ugly centrepiece in the lank, overgrown grass.

      ‘Site a replacement somewhere where it will not be the main attraction.’

      Zara tried not to pull a face at the news that that landscaper’s bête noire, the swimming pool, was to feature in the design. After all, every job had its pitfalls and there was plenty of space in which to provide a well-screened pool area. ‘I have to ask you—is this going to be your home? Will a family be living here?’

      ‘Aim at giving the garden universal appeal,’ he advised, his face uninformative.

      Zara felt slightly foolish. Of course if the villa was to be sold which was the most likely objective for a property developer, he would have no idea who the eventual owner would be. As she began to walk down the worn steps her heel skittered off the edge of one and his hands cupped her elbow to steady her. The faint scent of a citrus-based cologne flared her nostrils in the hot still air. When she reached level ground again he removed his hand without fanfare but she remained extraordinarily aware of his proximity, the height and strength of his long, lean frame, not to mention the unmistakeable aura of raw masculinity.

      She needed measurements for the garden, all sorts of details, but Vitale Roccanti did not look like the patient type, happy to stand around and wait while she took notes. She would have to contain her eagerness to start work until her next visit. The garden ran right up to the edges of woodland and merged with the dark shade cast by the trees. But the open view to the south was nothing short of breathtaking.

      Vitale watched her face light up as she caught the view of the hills with the sun starting to go down, bathing the trees in a golden russet light. Her habitually wary expression was transformed into one of open enjoyment. She was not at all what he had expected, being neither flirtatious nor giggly nor even high maintenance if that plain outfit was the norm for her. No make-up that he could see either, which was an even more unusual sight for a man accustomed to decorative women, who preferred to present a highly polished image for his benefit.

      As Zara turned back to him her unusual lavender eyes were shining at the prospect of the challenge before her. In such beautiful surroundings this was truly her dream job. ‘How much land does this place have?’

      The purity of her heart-shaped face, lit up with the unhidden enthusiasm of a child’s, made the man watching her stare. Per amor di Dio, Vitale reflected involuntarily, what a piece of perfection she was! The unfamiliar thought jolted him and his hard bone structure tautened and shadowed.

      ‘The land as far as you can see belongs to the house. It was once a substantial agricultural estate,’ he explained. ‘You’ll be able to come back here to explore tomorrow. A vehicle will be placed at your disposal.’

      Zara encountered stunning dark golden eyes with the shrewd watchful penetration of gold-tipped arrows. Dark-hued, deep-set, very sexy eyes surrounded by inky black lashes and blessed with extraordinary impact. Goose bumps erupted on Zara’s arms. Her mouth ran dry, her tummy executing a sudden somersault that made her tense and dizzy. ‘Thanks, that will be very helpful,’ she responded, striving to overcome the way she was feeling by making herself remember Julian and the pain and humiliation that he had inflicted on her.

      ‘Prego!’ Vitale answered lightly, showing her back indoors and escorting her back through the silent house.

      In the hall she bent down to lift her weekend bag.

      ‘I have it,’ Vitale said, reaching the bag a split second in advance of her.

      She followed him outside and hovered while he paused to lock up. He opened the door of the black Lamborghini outside, stowed her bag and stepped back for her to get in.

      ‘Where will I be staying?’ she asked as she climbed into the passenger seat, nervous fingers smoothing down her skirt as it rose a little too high above her knees.

      ‘With me. I have a farmhouse just down the hill. It will be a convenient base for you.’ His attention inescapably on those dainty knees and pale slim thighs, Vitale was thinking solely of parting them and he caught himself on that X-rated image with a frown.

      What the hell was the matter with him? Anyone could have been forgiven for thinking that he was sex-starved, which couldn’t be further from the truth. Vitale scheduled sex into his itinerary as efficiently as business appointments. He had lovers in more than one European city, discreet, sophisticated women who knew better than to expect a lasting commitment from him. There were no emotional scenes or misunderstandings in Vitale’s well-ordered life and that was how he liked it. He had not rebuilt his life from the ground up by allowing weakness to exist in his character. He had no expectations of people and he certainly didn’t trust them. If there were no expectations there was less chance of disappointment. He had learned not to care about women, especially not to love them. Life had taught him that those you cared about moved on, died or betrayed you. In the aftermath of such experiences being alone hurt even more but it was safer not to feel anything for anyone. That credo had served him well, taking him from extreme poverty and deprivation to the comfortable cultured life of a multimillionaire, who seemed to make more money with every passing year.

       CHAPTER TWO

      THE farmhouse sat a good distance from the mountain road, accessed by a track that stretched almost a kilometre into dense woods. Built of soft ochre-coloured stone and roofed in terracotta, the property was surrounded by a grove of olive trees with silvery foliage that seemed to shimmer in the fading light.

      ‘Very picturesque,’ Zara pronounced breathlessly, belatedly registering that she had allowed herself to be brought to an isolated place in the countryside by a man whom she knew almost nothing about! She mentally chastised herself for her lack of caution.

      As her lips parted to suggest that she would prefer a hotel—at her own expense—a plump little woman in an apron appeared at the front door and smiled widely.

      ‘My housekeeper, Guiseppina, has come out to welcome you. Be warned, she will try to fatten you up,’ Vitale remarked teasingly as he swung out of the car.

      The appearance of another woman relieved much of Zara’s concern, although a stubborn thought at the back of her mind was already leafing through various murders in which the killers had enjoyed female companionship and support in which to commit their crimes. Her colourful imagination had often been considered one of her biggest flaws by her teachers. ‘I think I would prefer to be in a hotel—I’ll settle my own bills,’ she muttered tautly.

      In considerable surprise, for he was accustomed to women seizing on every opportunity to enjoy his full attention, Vitale recognised her apprehension and murmured, ‘If you would be more comfortable staying in this house alone I will use my city apartment while you are here. It is not a problem.’

      Flushing in embarrassment, afraid that she might have sounded a little hysterical while also being soothed by his offer, Zara hastened to recant. ‘No, that’s really not necessary. I think it’s the fact I know virtually nothing about you except that you’re a property developer—’

      ‘But I’m not … a property developer,’ Vitale confided in a ludicrous tone of apology.

      Zara studied his lean bronzed features with a bemused frown. ‘You’re … not?’ A helpless laugh bubbled out of her throat because there was something very amusing about the way in which he had broken that news.

      ‘I’m