Every line in Gio’s face stood out in stark relief. ‘I told you last night, Valentina, I give you full permission to despise me. And believe me, I have every intention of making you despise me over and over again.’

He reached out with two hands and pulled her in to him before she could take a breath and then his mouth was fusing to hers. The kiss was desperate and brutal but electrifying. Anger and pain and remorse all clawed up within Valentina, seeking release. Desperately she clutched at his head, holding him to her, allowing no escape. Gio stopped, breathing harshly, his forehead resting on Valentina’s. She was dizzy with the sudden overwhelming surge of need mixed with adrenaline.

‘Hate me, Valentina … not yourself. This thing … it’s out of our control.’

About the Author

ABBY GREEN deferred doing a Social Anthropology degree to work freelance as an Assistant Director in the film & TV industry—which is a social study in itself! Since then it’s been early starts, long hours, mucky fields, ugly car parks and wet weather gear—especially working in Ireland. She has no bona fide qualifications, but could probably help negotiate a peace agreement between two warring countries after years of dealing with recalcitrant actors. Since discovering a guide to writing romance one day, she decided to capitalise on her long-time love for Mills & Boon® romances and attempt to follow in the footsteps of such authors as Kate Walker and Penny Jordan. She’s enjoying the excuse to be paid to sit inside, away from the elements. She lives in Dublin and hopes that you will enjoy her stories. You can e-mail her at: abbygreen3@yahoo.co.uk

A Shadow of Guilt
Abby Green

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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This is for my fellow Corretti Continuity Comrades. Thanks for the cyber help and support, it was lovely exploring and inhabiting the Corretti world with you all x

CHAPTER ONE

HE SHOULD BE in that coffin, and not his irrepressible best friend.

Giacomo Corretti stood in the shadow of the tall pine tree and watched as the coffin was lowered into the ground just a few feet away from where he was effectively hidden. The tight ball of ice firmly lodged in his gut was slowly spreading out to every extremity. He welcomed this even as he castigated himself for being a coward.

The small group of people around the coffin started to move, the priest’s final words of blessing lingering on the warm spring air along with the pungent scent of incense. It shouldn’t be warm, Gio suddenly realised, it shouldn’t be spring. The sea shouldn’t be twinkling benignly under a cerulean sky. He desperately wanted apocalyptic clouds to roll in off stormy waters, for everything to darken and for thunder and lightning to lash this place. To lash him to pieces.

He could hear the heartbreaking sound of Mario’s mother sobbing as she leant on her aged husband. The sound cut him in two. Gio would never have merited this outpouring of grief. The realisation was stark but brought with it no sense of self-pity.

In contrast, beside them with a stoically straight back stood their tall and narrow-shouldered daughter, Valentina. Her long chestnut hair was tied back in a plait and on her head was a black scarf. The ill-fitting black jacket and skirt she wore hinted at the coltish seventeen-year-old body underneath.

She didn’t have to look around for Gio to know every line on her face with instant recall. Pale olive skin as soft as a rose petal. The lush curve of her mouth and lips which more than hinted at a burgeoning womanly sensuality. She had the most extraordinarily coloured eyes, golden brown like amber.

Tiger’s eyes.

He could picture them flashing now with mock anger and a little bit of very real anger and fear whenever she’d caught her beloved older brother and Gio flirting with the danger they had loved so much.

As if the intensity of his gaze and thoughts had touched her, Valentina Ferranti turned around and pinpointed the exact spot where Gio stood, those almond-shaped eyes narrowing on him.

It was too late, he couldn’t run. She turned fully and looked at him for a long moment. She was pale and her beautiful face was puffy from crying. Her eyes were shadowed and grief-stricken in a way that no one should ever have to deal with before their time. He had done that to her. He had caused this irreparable damage.

His careless words came back to him from that night: ‘Don’t worry, I’ll have him back to his books before midnight just like Cinderella….’

Valentina’s desolation reached out to touch Gio and mock him. And then she was stalking towards him with long slim legs; her hands were curled to fists much like his, by her sides. Her face was contorted with the mad anger of grief.

She stopped just inches away. So close that he could smell her sweet fresh scent. It was incongruous in the midst of such misery.

‘You are not welcome here, Corretti.’ Her voice was rough and husky from crying and Gio’s insides contracted so much he wondered how he stayed conscious when he couldn’t breathe. But he was breathing and he marvelled at the human body’s instinct to survive, no matter what.

He took a breath. ‘I …’ He stopped when the familiar tightening of his vocal chords warned of humiliation to come but he ignored it. ‘I … know.’

The fact that he hadn’t stumbled over those completely ineffectual words came as small comfort. Mario, her brother and his friend, had been the one who had patiently helped Gio to overcome his chronic stutter which had lasted well into his early teens.

At twenty-two now, the sting of years of humiliation was still like a scar branding his skin. And yet in this moment, he longed to feel that humiliation again. So that he could be subjected to Valentina’s cruel laugh and ridicule. Except … she wouldn’t do that, she had never done that. She’d always been sweet and shy, and when he had stuttered in front of her she’d never used it as a tool to hurt, as almost everyone else had. Especially his family.

Suddenly Valentina lashed out, taking him by surprise. Her small fist connected with Gio’s chest with enough force to send him staggering backwards. Her voice throbbed with pain, ‘He was everything to us and thanks to you he’s gone. He was going to graduate from university next year and be a success, and you …?’

Valentina’s voice was sneering now. ‘What can you do for us now? Nothing. Get out of here, Corretti. You taint this place with your presence.’

Brokenly she added, ‘If you hadn’t encouraged him to go out that night—’ She stopped and bit her lip fiercely.

The blood drained from Gio’s face completely. ‘I’m sorry … so sorry,’ he said faintly.

Valentina gathered herself once more, eyes dead. ‘It’s your fault. I hate you, Corretti—I’ll hate you for ever because you’re alive and he’s not.’

Her words fell like splinters of glass all over Gio’s skin. She was looking at him now as if she would push him all the way off the nearby cliff and happily watch him crash to pieces on the rocks below.

‘Come, Valentina, it’s time to go.’

They were both startled from the dark taut energy surrounding them when Valentina’s father materialised to take her arm. His voice was thin and weary. ‘This is not the time or place.’

Valentina seemed to crumple visibly and without looking at Gio again she allowed her father to turn her and lead her away. After a couple of metres though Mario’s father stopped. He looked back to Gio with impossibly mournful eyes and just shook his head sadly. The man had aged ten years in the space of just a few days. It was worse than if he’d spat at Gio’s feet or even punched him as Valentina had.

The truth was stark—if Gio hadn’t had the unlikeliest of friendships with Mario in the first place, if he hadn’t cajoled and pleaded with him to come out that night, this never would have happened.

In that moment Gio wanted to die more than anything else in the world. So badly he could taste it. Everything and anyone he’d ever loved was gone now. For ever. Everything good and promising and hopeful was broken and destroyed.

But, he knew with a bitter taste in his mouth that suicide would be too easy. Far easier than living with this pain every day. Living with the pain of knowing he had decimated an entire family and reduced them to this aching loss. This was his inheritance and he would live with it for the rest of his life.

Seven years later …

It was the wedding of the decade. Two of the most powerful families in Sicily uniting in holy matrimony. Valentina’s mouth thinned into a cynical line. Except everyone knew it wasn’t a love match between Alessandro Corretti and Alessia Battaglia. It was a bid for the ultimate power play, a way for the Corretti family to go on undefeated into the future for generations to come. If merging with their one-time bitter rivals was what it took, then so be it.

Valentina stopped what she was doing for a moment and put a hand to her chest. Even just thinking of the name Corretti made her feel slightly bilious. Not to mention the fact that she was at this very moment working at their behest.

Much as she would have loved to have been able to tell Carmela Corretti—the mother of the groom—where she could shove her job offer, Valentina didn’t have that luxury. She was the owner of a tiny struggling catering company and she’d sweated blood and tears to start it up and try to keep it afloat with her minimal staff. It was the only thing supporting her aged and ailing parents.

Carmela had a reputation, despite the vast Corretti wealth, of being very tight with money, and Valentina knew that part of the reason she’d been lucky enough to get the job had been due to her very reasonable prices. Read: ridiculously cheap. But it was the kudos of being hired for something as exclusive as this that would count in the long run, and the payment, in spite of not charging as much as her competitors.

As Valentina put the finishing touches to some beluga caviar canapés she couldn’t help recalling Carmela’s overly made-up and expressionless face when she’d looked down her patrician nose at Valentina a few weeks previously. ‘This has to be the most sophisticated event of the decade—the budget for the food itself will of course be limitless. If you mess this up, Ms Ferranti, you do know you won’t ever work on this island again, don’t you?’

Valentina had struggled not to look as panic-stricken as she’d felt. The very prospect of having to go to the mainland and leave her parents behind was not an option. Carmela was right though; if Valentina failed at this she would be lucky to get work as a part-time waitress in a pizza joint in Naples.

So she’d stifled the panic and said meekly, ‘Of course, Mrs Corretti, I know how important this is.’

And now she and her staff were being paid a pittance to create the most expensive caviar hors d’oeuvres in the world. Carmela had presided over a tasting of the sample menu Valentina had devised and that hour had been the most nerve-racking of Valentina’s career so far. And then she’d approved the menu with a mere dismissive flick of her impeccably manicured hand. Valentina had stood there in shock for a long moment before the older woman had spat out, ‘Well? What are you waiting for? You have work to do.’

On being given the go-ahead, regal salmon caviar had been flown all the way from Scotland, along with smoked salmon. The beef for the main luncheon had come from Ireland. The beluga caviar had naturally come straight from Russia. The champagne reserved for the head table alone was from the year 1907, salvaged from an infamous shipwreck, its price too astronomical for Valentina to get her head around. The rest of the champagne was merely Bollinger.

No, money was no object when making sure people saw and tasted the Corretti wealth, they just didn’t mind scrimping on the labour behind it.

Valentina blew an errant hair out of her hot face and stood back. Her own two personal staff came by her side and Franco said in awestruck tones at the array of trays of hors d’oeuvres, ‘They’re like works of art. Val, you’ve outdone yourself this time.’

Valentina smiled ruefully. ‘As much as we need to create the effect, we want them to be eaten.’

She had to admit then that the regal salmon caviar with its distinctive orange colour, wrapped in smoked salmon and in a toasted bread cup, did look enticing. Her stomach rumbled and she looked up at the clock and let out a squeak, tearing off her apron as she did. She fired off commands as she looked for her suit bag which contained her uniform for the day. ‘Franco, make sure the chefs are on schedule for the main meal, and, Sara, make sure the serving staff are dressed and ready to take these trays up. We should take the rest of the canapés out of the fridges now. And get Tomasso to check that all the champagne bottles are in the ice buckets upstairs—tell him to replace the frozen rose ice if it’s melting.’

Valentina left her staff buzzing around following instructions. Thankfully as the reception was being held in the sumptuous flagship Corretti Hotel—which was right across a verdant square from the beautiful medieval basilica where the wedding was being celebrated—she had full access to their facilities, house chefs and staff. The eponymous restaurant here was Michelin-starred, so she couldn’t have asked for more. She merely had to oversee everything but was ultimately responsible for the entire menu.

Valentina found the changing area and struggled out of her jeans and T-shirt and changed into her one smart black suit and white shirt. She surmised grimly that Carmela was far too canny to have things go wrong in the Corretti name. Far better to be able to blame an outside caterer. Valentina told herself that it was still the opportunity of a lifetime and all she had to do was make sure nothing went wrong. Simple!

After a couple of minutes she stood in her stocking feet and looked at herself in the mirror. She made a face at her flushed cheeks and the shadows under her eyes and scrabbled for her make-up bag, hands trembling from the excess adrenalin as she did her best to counteract the ravages of several sleepless nights.

She’d had nightmares of people choking on a canapé, or epidemic levels of food poisoning after the wedding lunch. The thought of felling the entire Corretti and Battaglia clans was enough to make her an insomniac for years to come! Grimacing at her far too vivid imagination, Valentina wound up her hair into a high bun at the back of her head and gave herself a quick cursory once-over. No jewellery, minimal make-up. All designed to fade as much into the background as possible. Then she gathered up her things and slipped on a pair of mid-height black court shoes.

It was only as she walking back out to the preparation area that the rogue thought slipped into her mind like a sly traitor waiting in the wings. What if he’s here? He won’t be, Valentina assured herself with something bordering uncomfortably on panic. Why would he be here when it was common knowledge he’d left home at sixteen and become completely independent of his family? The fact that he’d since carved out a stupendously successful career breeding and training thoroughbred horses had served to further that estrangement from his own family business and legacy.

He won’t be here, Valentina assured herself again. Because if he was … Her mind froze as a yawning chasm of grief and pain and anger washed through her, along with something much more disturbing and hard to define.

He wouldn’t be. He couldn’t be. She was far too vulnerable today to deal with seeing Giacomo Corretti.

If there was any mercy in this world, Valentina told herself fervently, he would be kept away by the sheer psychic force of her anger and hatred. And yet, her heart beat a little faster as she went about her business.

Gio put his fingers between his bow-tied shirt and neck, trying in vain to ease the constriction he felt. He gave up with a muffled curse, leaving his white bow tie slightly askew. The problem was that the constriction was in his chest, and had nothing to do with his tie. He cursed again and wished he was on the other side of the island in his habitual uniform of T-shirt, jeans and boots, with his horses.

He could see people milling about outside the hotel and in the lush landscaped square that was between the huge imposing church and the Corretti Hotel. Clearly the wedding had ended but the luncheon hadn’t started yet.

Damn. He’d almost hoped he’d be too late entirely. The only reason he’d come at all had been because his mother had pleaded with him. ‘Gio, you never see your brothers, or anyone else. You can’t go on isolating yourself like this. Please come.’

He’d had to bite back the frustration—the urge to lash out and say something like, Why the hell should I? But he hadn’t, he’d been immediately disgusted by his own pathetic self-pity and his relationship with his mother was tenuous at the best of times.

As a young boy he’d been witness to his parents’ volatile relationship and had watched as his mother had become more and more insecure and self-loathing as she’d tried in vain to keep the attention of her straying husband, Gio’s deceased father. Unfortunately her growing instability and self-absorption had coincided with a particularly vulnerable time in Gio’s life, and so while affection for her was there … Gio couldn’t force an intimacy that had been long ago irreparably eroded.

But he was an adult now and took responsibility for his own actions; it was futile to dwell on the past. He forced his mind back to his mother: if she had some fantasy notion of bringing all of her sons under one roof for their cousin’s wedding then would it really be so hard to at least put in an appearance?

So now he was here, hovering on the edge of the square. He smiled grimly at the imagery. He’d been hovering on the edges of his family for as long as he could remember. The youngest male in the Corretti dynasty. The youngest in his own family. Dominated by two older brothers who’d vied for supremacy, and a father who had been mercilessly exacting of all of his sons, not least his quietest one. The one who had disappointed him on every possible level with frailties that were unacceptable in a Corretti male.

Gio ruthlessly pushed aside the memories that threatened to rise and choke him. That way lay madness and even worse memories. Drawing on the icy veneer he’d surrounded himself with for years now, Gio pushed an impatient hand through his unruly hair. He was aware that he wasn’t perhaps as clean shaven as he could be, but he just cursed softly again and strode forward and towards the towering Corretti edifice.

Valentina looked blankly at the ladder in her tights. She’d come by way of a ladder in her tights when she’d been all but knocked down by Alessandro Corretti, the groom. Instead of greeting a triumphant married couple after their wedding ceremony, it had been just the groom who had burst into the main reception room like an exploding tornado. She, and a tray of delicate hors d’oeuvres had gone flying, and with Alessandro blissfully unaware of the carnage left in his wake, he’d barrelled on.

As she’d scrabbled around on the ground picking up the detritus before anyone else saw it, her assistant Sara had appeared and bent down to help, hissing sotto voce as she did, ‘The wedding is off—the bride just jilted the groom, right there in the church.’

Valentina had looked at her—a sick feeling blooming in her belly. And then she’d heard the sudden flurry of approaching hissed whispers. The stunned and shocked guests were obviously making their way to the reception.

Before she’d had time to figure out what this all meant, Carmela Corretti had swept into the reception hot on the heels of her son, with a face like thunder. She’d spotted Valentina and roughly hauled her up with a hand under her arm. ‘The wedding might be off, but you will proceed with this reception for whoever turns up, do you hear me?’

She’d let Valentina go then and looked down that elegant nose. ‘As you’ll be looking after less than a full guest count, I won’t be paying you for services not rendered.’

It had taken a second for her meaning to sink in and then Valentina had gasped out loud. ‘But … that’s …’

Carmela had cut in ruthlessly. ‘I will not discuss this further. Now instruct your staff to tend to the guests who do arrive. I won’t have anyone say that we turned them away.’

In shock, Valentina had done as instructed, far too mindful of Carmela Corretti’s influence should she defy her. And as she’d watched the staff rushing around serving amongst the arriving shell-shocked guests, as if nothing had just happened, Valentina had felt incredibly shaky with reaction.

She couldn’t afford to spill champagne on a haute couture gown or drop a tray into someone’s lap so she’d retreated to a quiet corner for a moment to try and steady her nerves and process this information. And the fact that Carmela wasn’t going to pay her! The ladder in her tights was the least of her worries … who on earth would now touch the caterer associated with the wedding scandal of the year?

Gio took another full glass of champagne from a passing waiter’s tray. He’d lost count of how many he’d had but the alcohol was having a nicely numbing effect on his brain. He’d walked straight into the debacle of the century. Expecting to find his cousin’s family jubilant and gloating with their new merger of power, he’d instead found small huddles of guests in the sumptuously decorated reception room, all whispering excitedly of the runaway bride.

The unfolding scandal was so unexpected that it defused much of his simmering anger at the thought of having to play nice with his family. He had caught a glimpse of his older half-sister, Lia, but he’d instinctively shied away from talking to her, never quite knowing what to say to the tall serious woman who’d been brought up in his grandparents’ house after her mother, their father’s first wife, had died.

Thinking that surely he couldn’t be expected to stay here now, Gio decided that he’d more than done his duty and slugged back the champagne before putting the empty glass down. He made his way out of the main function room into the corridor and passed by an anteroom where the wedding band were setting up and doing a sound check. Gio shook his head in disbelief—clearly the word hadn’t reached this far yet, or perhaps his formidable aunt Carmela wasn’t going to let a runaway bride stop her guests from dancing the night away?

Something suddenly caught Gio’s peripheral vision. He stopped in his tracks. He was passing another room now, a store room. He could see that it was the figure of a woman sitting on a chair in the empty room, surrounded by boxes and other chairs piled high. Her head was down-bent, glossy chestnut hair caught up in a bun. Shapely legs under a black skirt. A white shirt and jacket. Slim pale hands clasped on her lap.

As if she could feel the weight of his gaze on her, her head started to come up. Déjà vu was so immediate and strong, Gio nearly staggered back from it. No, he thought, it couldn’t be her. Not here, not now. Not ever. She was only in his dreams and nightmares. Cursing him. Along with the ghost of her brother.

But now her head was up fully and those glorious tiger eyes were widening. It was her. The knowledge exploded something open, deep inside him. Something that had been frozen in time for seven years. He saw colour leach from her cheeks. So much more angular now that her teenage plumpness had disappeared. So much more beautiful. He could see her throat work, swallowing.

She stood up with a slightly jerky move. She was taller than he remembered, slimmer and yet with very womanly curves. The promise of the burgeoning beauty that he remembered had been truly fulfilled. So many things were impacting Gio at once that he had to shut them all down deep inside him.

He had alternately dreaded and anticipated the possibility of this day for a long time. He couldn’t crumble now in front of her. He wouldn’t allow himself the luxury.

He walked to the entrance of the room and totally redundantly he said, ‘Valentina.’ And then after a pause, ‘It’s good to see you.’

Valentina was in shock. More shock heaped on top of shock. Without even realising she was speaking out loud she said, ‘You’re not meant to be here.’ The sheer force of my will should have kept you away. But she didn’t say that.

Gio’s mouth turned up on one corner in a tiny movement that wasn’t quite a smile, ‘Well, my cousin is, was, the groom so I have some right to be here.’ He frowned slightly. ‘What are you doing here?’

Valentina’s brain wasn’t working properly. She answered almost absently, ‘I’m the caterer.’

Gio was so much taller and broader than she remembered. Any hint of boyishness was gone. He was all stark angles and sinuous muscle and power. The suit hugged his muscular frame like a second skin. The white shirt and white bow tie made him look even darker.

His hair was still messy though, giving him a familiar devil-may-care look that rang bells somewhere dimly in Valentina’s consciousness. His eyes were a light brown and a wicked voice whispered that she knew very well they could look green in certain lights.

She used to watch him and her brother for hours as they’d egged each other on in a series of daredevil stunts, either on horseback or on the mud bikes Gio had had first on his father’s property, and then later, on his own property. But by then they’d been proper adult motorbikes and he and her brother had relished their death-defying races. She remembered the way Gio would tip his head back and laugh; he’d looked so vitally masculine, his teeth gleaming whitely in his face.

She remembered turning fifteen and seeing him again for the first time in about four years, because he’d been living abroad in France, building up his equine business. He’d returned home a conquering hero, a self-made millionaire, with a bevy of champion thoroughbred horses. But that had had nothing to do with how she’d instantly had an altogether different awareness of him. Her belly would twist when she saw him, and then there were the butterflies, so violent it was like feeling sick. Her gaze had been shamefully captivated by his tall rangy body.

Much to her everlasting mortification she’d tagged along on her brother’s visits to Gio in his new home near Syracuse whenever he’d been home from college, during his long summers off. Gio had bought a palatial castello complete with a farm, where he’d installed a state-of-the-art stud and gallops. He’d been in the process of doing up a nearby run-down racetrack which by today had become the famed Corretti racetrack where the eponymous internationally renowned annual Corretti Cup race was held.

Gio had caught her staring once and she’d been so mortified she’d been red for a week. She hadn’t been able to get out of her head how he’d held her gaze for a long moment, a slow smile turning up his mouth, as if something illicit and secret had passed between them. Something that scared her as much as it had exhilarated her.

He had a beautiful face, sculpted lips. High cheekbones and a hard slashing line of a nose. A strong chin. But something in his demeanour took away any prettiness. A dark brooding energy surrounded him like a force-field.

Gio lifted a hand to point to her hair and said, ‘You have something … just there.’ It shattered her memories and brought her back to the present. He was pointing above her right ear and Valentina reached up and felt something wet and sticky and took her hand down to see a lump of viscous orange salmon caviar.

And then it was as if the deep baritone reality of his voice made the bells ring loud and clear in her head. He looked devil-may-care because that’s what he was, and that attitude had led directly to her brother’s death. For the past few moments she’d been protecting herself from the reality that he was here, in front of her, and now that protection was ripped away.

She remembered. And with that knowledge came the pain. The memories. That lonely grave in the graveyard. Seven years of an ache that didn’t seem to get any better, only fade slightly. Until it caught you unawares and the wound was reopened all over again. Like right now.

How dared he stand there and talk to her as if nothing had happened? As if civility could hide the ugly past. Anger and something much darker bubbled up inside Valentina. A kind of guilt, for having remembered another time for a moment; disgusted with herself she strode out of the room and straight up to Gio. She clenched the hand that held the remnants of the once-perfect canapé and looked up at him, focusing on the blazing incinerating anger of grief, and not something much more dangerous in her belly when she realised how tall he was. ‘Get out of my way, Corretti.’

Gio flinched minutely as if she’d slapped him. He could remember in vivid recall how it had felt that day when she’d punched him in the chest. And he welcomed it now. For a few seconds when she’d looked stunned and not angry, he’d thought that perhaps, with time, a mellowing had taken place. But then he mocked himself—the pain of losing Mario still as fresh as it had been on the night he died. And the shock to cushion that blow had long gone. Now there was just the excoriating and ever-present guilt.

Valentina was looking up at him, her eyes glowing gold and spitting. She hated him. It was in every taut and tense line of her body.

She gritted out, ‘I said get out of my way, Corretti.’

CHAPTER TWO

GIO STEPPED BACK, his voice was stiff. ‘I’m not in your way, Valentina.’

Valentina didn’t move though. She was vibrating all over with anger. It was like a tangible thing.

‘You need to go. You need to leave this place.’

A small flare of anger which he had no right to feel raced up Gio’s spine. His mouth tightened. ‘As this is my cousin’s wedding I think I have a right to stay.’ He didn’t bother to mention he’d been about to leave.

‘The wedding is off, or hadn’t you heard?’ Valentina supplied with a measure of satisfaction.

Something Gio didn’t understand made him bullishly stand his ground. ‘The reception is still on, or hadn’t you heard?’

He saw her face pale and instinctively put out a hand to touch her but she flinched backwards, disgust etched all over her. ‘Don’t touch me. And yes, I know the reception is still on—half a reception, that is, which your aunt expects me to cater for without handing over one euro in payment. Your whole family are poison, Corretti, right to the core.’

Gio wanted to say, Stop calling me that, but instead he frowned and said, ‘What do you mean? She’s not paying you?’

‘No,’ Valentina spat out, hating that she’d blurted that out, or that she was still even in a conversation with Giacomo Corretti.

‘But that’s ridiculous, you should to get paid regardless.’

Valentina laughed harshly and forced herself to look at Gio. ‘Yes, call me old-fashioned but it is customary to be paid for services rendered. However, your aunt seems to feel that in light of the unfortunate turn of events, she’s absolved of the duty of payment.’

‘That’s crazy …’ Gio raked a hand through his hair, fire entering his belly. He was fixing on something, anything, he could do by way of helping Valentina and he knew it. The anger at his aunt’s heavy-handed and bullying tactics was a very easy target to focus on.

He started to stride back towards the main function room and then he heard behind him, ‘Wait! Where do you think you’re going?’

Gio turned around. The sight of Valentina standing just feet away with a stray lock of glossy silky hair caressing one hot cheek sent something molten right into his gut. He was shocked all over again that it was her, here, and he was captivated, momentarily forgetting everything.

He felt as if he’d been existing in a fog and had suddenly been plunged into an icy pool. Everything was bright and piercingly clear, the sound check of the band nearby almost painful in its intensity.

And something was happening in his body. After five years of strict sensory denial, it, too, was surging to life. Blood was rushing to every vein and artery. Becoming hard.

Valentina was oblivious to this cataclysm going on in Gio’s body. She pointed a finger at him. ‘I asked you where you think you’re going?’

Gio sucked in a breath and felt dizzy—as if someone had just spiked the air around him with a mind-altering drug. He struggled to focus on what she’d asked and not on the lush curve of her mouth, the perfect bow of its shape. He hadn’t even been noticing women for so long and now this—it was like an overload on his senses.

‘My aunt …’ he managed finally, focusing carefully on the words. ‘My aunt, I’ll tell her she can’t do this to you.’

He turned again, as much to put some distance between himself and Valentina as anything else but wasn’t prepared for when a hand gripped his arm, pulling him around. She was suddenly too close. Gio all but reeled back and Valentina dropped her hand and looked him up and down scathingly. ‘You’re drunk.’

He could have laughed. He knew very well that after the shock of seeing this woman again he was no more drunk than she was.

Gio forced control on his wayward body, but he was tingling all over. He still felt the touch of her hand like a brand.

‘I’ll go to my aunt and tell her she—’

‘No, you won’t,’ Valentina interjected hotly. ‘You’ll do no such thing. I do not need you to fight my battles for me, Corretti.’

Something snapped inside Gio and he gritted his jaw. ‘It’s Gio, or have you forgotten you once called me that?’

Valentina’s face was carved from stone. ‘No, I haven’t forgotten, but apparently you’ve forgotten why I’d never call you that again.’

The cruelty of that statement nearly felled Gio but he stayed standing. ‘No,’ he said faintly, ‘I haven’t forgotten.’

Their eyes were locked, amber with hazel. For a moment there was nothing but simmering emotion between them, so strong and tangible that when one of the band members started to walk out of the room they’d been rehearsing in, he took one look at the couple locked in silent combat and retreated back inside, closing the door softly.

‘I’ll pay you—I’ll cover whatever my aunt should be paying you.’

Valentina reared back, her hands curled into tiny fists, two spots of hectic colour on her white cheeks. ‘You?’

Gio steeled himself.

‘I wouldn’t take your filthy money if it was offered to me on a silver platter.’

Of course, he conceded bitterly, she would have nothing to do with him, or his money, no matter how hard he’d worked for it.

Valentina pointed a finger at her chest then and Gio swallowed hard and fought not to let his eyes drop to those provocative swells underneath the plain white shirt. ‘I am a professional and I’ve been hired to do a job and that’s what I’m going to do. I will not let your aunt jeopardise my reputation by running out now. And I will not take your guilt money, Corretti.’

Guilt money. The words fell on him hard. This time Gio didn’t correct her use of his name. For the first time he saw the bright sheen of tears in her eyes and something inside him broke apart. The memory of her stoic back that day by the graveside was vivid. But he couldn’t move or say a thing. She wouldn’t welcome it.

Suddenly the doors to the main function room opened and a young girl appeared with a worried face beside them. ‘Val, there you are. We need you inside, now. Mrs Corretti is looking for you.’

Valentina’s chin came up but she looked at Gio. ‘Thanks, Sara, I’ll be in in a second.’

She waited until the girl had left and then she said to Gio with icy emphasis, ‘I think the least you can do is leave. And I sincerely hope never to have to see you again.’

And then she walked by him, giving him a wide berth as if afraid to even come close to touching him. Gio heard the doors open and close behind him. Her scent lingered on the air, light and musky. Her.

I think the least you can do is leave. Gio hadn’t needed much of an excuse before. And he certainly didn’t need one now. The past seven years had just fallen away like the flimsiest of sets on a stage to expose all of the ugliness and pain that was still there.

As much as Valentina never wanted to see him again, he echoed that sentiment right at that moment. He didn’t think he could survive another encounter with her.

A week later …

‘Who did you say?’ Gio’s voice rang with incredulity. Was he hearing things? He shook his head and focused again on his PA, a comfortably middle-aged woman called Agata.

She spoke again slowly, enunciating every word carefully. ‘Val-en-tina Ferr-anti. She’s outside right now, she wants to see you. And she looks determined.’

Gio turned his back on Agata for a moment and spiked two hands through his already messy hair, his whole body knotting with tension and something much hotter, darker. Already he could feel blood pooling southwards. His mouth tightened. So it hadn’t been an aberration. It was her, uniquely her, who was having this effect on him.

Perfetto. His body and libido were being awoken by the only woman in the world he could never have. Or more accurately who would never have him.

He turned around again, hiding his tumultuous thoughts behind an impassive expression. Valentina would not affect him today. She’d obviously just come to hurl a few more spiked arrows in his direction and he would withstand it if it killed him. It was his due.

‘Send her in.’

Valentina’s hands were clammy, and she smoothed them again on her worn jeans. She resolutely pushed down the memory of the words she’d hurled at Gio Corretti just days ago: I wouldn’t take your filthy money if it was offered to me on a silver platter. Her cheeks got hot with guilt.

What was taking his assistant so long? Perhaps she should have dressed up more? Instead of these old jeans, sneakers and a T-shirt that had definitely seen better days. Too late now. And anyway, it wasn’t as if she was trying to impress Giacomo Corretti. She was only here because he was literally the only person on the island of Sicily outside the sphere of his aunt’s influence.

Even though Valentina knew that Gio had built up a successful business, she’d been surprised when she’d come to his offices at his racetrack in Syracuse—to find everything so pristine and gleaming. She wasn’t sure what she’d expected, some level of obvious debauchery?

For a couple of years after Mario’s death, Gio Corretti became the most hedonistic playboy in Europe. Always a lover of extreme sports, he’d seemed to relish doing as many dangerous things as possible. He’d been pictured jumping out of planes, rock climbing with his bare hands, scaling the highest mountains in the world.

He’d also been pictured on yachts in the south of France, in the casinos of Monte Carlo and in the winners’ enclosures at Epsom and Longchamp, where he’d regularly won and lost millions of euros in the space of hours. And in each place a stunning woman on his arm, clinging to him with besotted adoration and euro signs in her eyes.

But contrary to that feckless image, his racetrack was a veritable hive of industry with smartly turned-out grooms wearing black T-shirts emblazoned with the Corretti Racetrack logo, leading sleek-looking thoroughbreds through the grounds, and gardeners tending the lushly flowering borders.

The most impressive part of the location was the racetrack which overlooked the Mediterranean Sea, giving it a vista unlike any other in the world. This wasn’t where Mario had died—Valentina didn’t think she could have come here today if it was. Mario had died on the smaller training gallops at Gio’s castello, because this racetrack hadn’t yet been ready.

Valentina heard the low hum of voices in Gio’s office where the friendly middle-aged lady had disappeared moments before and her belly knotted. Anger at seeing Gio again had been her impetus through this horrific week and the spectacular implosion of her career—anger is what had impelled her here because one Corretti had ruined her but only another Corretti could save her—but what if he was telling his assistant that he didn’t want to see her?

Just then she heard a sound like the door handle jiggling and she flinched and stood up, her heart thumping at the thought of seeing Gio again. What had she been thinking? She couldn’t do this. She was in the act of turning to leave when she heard a calm mellifluous voice announce, ‘Sorry to keep you waiting, Ms Ferranti, he’ll see you now.’

Gio’s body was locked tight as he waited for Valentina to appear in the doorway and when she did, in jeans and a T-shirt, with her hair loose over her shoulders in chestnut waves, a whole new tension came into his body.

Her T-shirt was moulded over the firm globes of her breasts. Gio felt like he couldn’t breathe and dragged his gaze back up to those feline amber eyes. The same eyes that had been haunting him all week.

He put out a hand and said stiffly, ‘Please, won’t you sit down?’

Valentina hovered uncertainly just inside the door, which Agata had closed behind her on her way out. She shook her head. ‘No, I’d prefer to stand.’

Gio inclined his head and stayed behind his desk, as if that could offer some protection.

Valentina crossed her arms then, inadvertently pushing her breasts together and up, and Gio nearly groaned out loud. He cursed himself—he was acting like a hormonal teenager.

More tersely than he intended, he rapped out, ‘You’ll have to forgive me for being a little surprised to see you. After all, it was hardly your intention the last time we met.’

Valentina found herself floundering, badly. Seeing Gio again last week, her response then had been visceral and a reflex to years-old grief and anger. After all, she hadn’t seen him since the funeral. But now that raw emotion was stripped away somewhat and left in its place was something much more ambiguous. And a physical awareness of the man which was very disturbing.

A huge window behind him looked out over the racing ground and stands, the sea beyond. But Valentina could only see him in a dark polo shirt which was stretched across a hard muscled chest, and long, long legs clad in lovingly worn jeans. Without even looking properly she could imagine his thighs—like powerful columns of sheer muscle.

When he and Mario had been on horseback they’d been a sight to behold, but Gio even more so. He’d moved with such fluid grace that it had been hard to tell where he ended and the horse began. Her brother hadn’t had such an innate ability…. Valentina gulped. She couldn’t think of that now.

She struggled to recall his words, something about her not wanting to see him again. Her throat felt scratchy. ‘No … it wasn’t my intention.’

One of Gio’s black brows arched. ‘And it is now?’

Valentina cursed herself for ever thinking of this as a plan of action and tried desperately to articulate herself. ‘Yes. Well, it’s just that … things have happened in the past week.’

Gio came around his desk then and perched on the corner, legs outstretched before him. His scent tantalised Valentina’s nostrils and just like that she was flung back in time to when she’d turned seventeen, weeks before Mario’s death. She’d taken her moped to Gio’s castello to look for Mario for their father, who’d needed him to do chores. In those days Valentina hadn’t needed any excuse to go to Gio’s castello or the track.

She’d gone to the stables looking for Mario and had seen no one, aware that she was disappointed not to see Gio either. And then a horse had appeared out of nowhere behind her. A huge beast. Valentina had jumped back, startled, ashamed of how intimidated she was around horses.

Someone had come up behind her and before she knew what was happening she’d been lifted effortlessly onto the horse’s bare back, and Gio had been swinging himself up behind her, an arm snug around her waist, thighs hard around hers. She’d been so shocked to find herself that high off the ground and with Gio in such close proximity that she’d struggled for breath as terror and excitement had constricted her lungs.

He’d said in her ear, ‘You’ll never get comfortable with horses if you don’t get used to riding them.’

He’d put the reins in her hands with his hands over hers and for about half an hour they’d walked around his sandy gallops with Gio murmuring words of encouragement and tuition in her ears. Terror had turned to exhilaration as she’d allowed herself to relax into Gio’s protective embrace and when her brother had still failed to materialise Gio had told her that he’d left before she’d arrived, borrowing one of Gio’s collection of motorbikes to get home.

Valentina had all but slithered off the horse and on very shaky legs had fled home herself. Mortified to think they’d been entirely alone for all that time. She’d been unable to look at Gio for weeks afterwards without blushing, achingly aware of how her whole body had tingled next to his, and how hot she’d felt between her legs.

‘What things?’

Valentina looked blankly at Gio now, her mind still dazed from the memory.

‘You said things have happened?’

Valentina came crashing back to earth. Why on earth was she remembering such traitorous memories when only one was important? The memory of when she and her parents had rushed into that hospital in Palermo only to be stopped by a doctor and told that their son was dead.

Valentina focused on that now and crossed her arms even tighter across her chest. This man owed her. Owed her parents. Owed her brother. ‘Your aunt refused to pay me for the catering at the wedding.’

Gio frowned. ‘Did you tell her you wouldn’t accept non-payment?’

Valentina flushed. She’d been so angry and emotional after seeing Gio that when she’d come face to face with Carmela Corretti and the woman had still refused to pay her even though people were sitting down to the six-course meal, despite the shambles of the wedding, that she’d threatened legal action.

Even now Valentina could almost laugh at the folly of her naivety! As if a mere mortal like her could take on a Corretti. Carmela had looked at her and her face had gone white and then red with anger at this impudence.

‘You dare to threaten me with legal action.’

Hands on hips, gone too far to back down now, Valentina had fumed. ‘Yes, I do. You don’t scare me, you know.’

Carmela had just smiled and said as if she were remarking on the weather, ‘You can consider yourself not only not paid, Ms Ferranti, you can also consider yourself blacklisted from every catering job on this island. I did warn you, did I not?’

Valentina had gasped at the unfairness of this attack. ‘But there’s nothing wrong with the menu or the catering service.’

‘No,’ agreed Carmela almost cheerfully. ‘But, there is everything wrong with you and your attitude, young lady.’

That had been too much for Valentina, to be spoken to so patronisingly by a Corretti. She’d seen an ice bucket nearby full of water and her hands had itched to pour it over the woman’s head. But she’d been saved from that impetuous action when the abandoned groom had reappeared and suddenly Carmela had pushed Valentina out of the way to go to him.

Gio said nothing for a long moment and then, ‘I think I would have paid to see my aunt with a full ice bucket over her head.’

Valentina snuck a look at Gio’s expression. And then as she watched, his eyes sparkled and his mouth twitched. It was so unexpected to see this, that to her horror, Valentina could feel a lightness bubbling up inside herself too. No! her brain screamed. Do not let him close, do not let him charm you.

Fighting the lightness down with an iron will Valentina suddenly realised that she’d been totally and utterly wrong to come here. Had she come because seeing Gio last week had precipitated a dangerous need to see him again? The very thought of such a susceptibility made her feel nauseous.

Without even thinking about it, she’d whirled around to the door and had her hand on the handle before she felt a much larger hand around her upper arm, tugging her back. That touch sent tremors of sensation and wanting into her blood. She had to leave now.

She pulled her arm free and looked up at Gio, who was too close. ‘I made a mistake coming here.’

All lightness was gone from Gio now; his eyes were flashing green, his mouth was tight. ‘You hardly came all the way here from Palermo for nothing, Valentina.’

She shook her head, feeling sick. Memories were coming up too thick and fast, jumbling everything up, when she had to remember why she hated this man. ‘I shouldn’t have come. I thought you could help me with something but I forgot—I don’t want … need your help.’

And then she yanked the door open and ran all the way out of his building and didn’t stop till she got to her rusty old car.

Gio slammed the door shut after Valentina left and put his two hands against it and dropped his head. ‘Damn, damn, damn.’

That evening when Valentina got home from checking on her parents she paced the floor of her tiny spartan apartment. Things were not good. Her father hadn’t looked well at all, pasty and slightly sweaty, but he’d brushed aside her concerns. Worry knotted Valentina’s insides. She hadn’t told them yet of the debacle of her career which had effectively been ruined by Carmela Corretti. Between her parents—with her father’s ominous chest pains and her mother’s arthritis and only access to the most basic health care—it was a serious worry.

She stopped pacing and put a weary hand to her head. She had to work. But thanks to Carmela she’d be lucky to get a job as a chambermaid in a three-star hotel in Messina. And that wasn’t all—her two staff were also unemployed thanks to her impetuous actions.

Valentina sat down on a rickety chair and cursed herself soundly. Why did she have to get so emotional and react to Carmela like that?

Gio. Because seeing him had pushed her over the edge. Had made her reckless and had brought up all the simmering anger at the Correttis in general for their lavish and effortlessly powerful ways. The way they didn’t have to think of anyone but themselves.

But Valentina’s conscience smote her—Gio hadn’t always been like the others. He’d been shy and quiet. Withdrawn. Her father had worked doing odd jobs and maintenance for the Corretti palazzo near Palermo all his life and her mother had done their laundry. They’d lived in a tiny humble house nearby.

At first Gio and Mario hadn’t been friends—they’d circled each other for a long time like two suspicious animals. Valentina had witnessed how their friendship had bonded after a particularly nasty fight. She’d been just five and had been trailing her beloved father and brother as she usually did, in awe of the palazzo and its extensive grounds. Mario had been goading Gio with fists raised. ‘Come on, say something, why don’t you? Don’t you have a tongue?’

From her hiding place, Valentina had seen how Gio had launched himself at Mario with a feral grunt. Her father had found them and taken both boys by the scruffs of their necks and ordered them to apologise to each other.

She’d watched as Gio had struggled to get the words out, his face smeared with dirt and dust. It had been excruciating to watch. ‘I … I … I’m … s-s-s-s …’ He’d stopped and then tried again, eventually saying ‘sorry’ in a rush.

She could remember the look on his face, as if he’d been waiting for Mario to laugh or make fun of him. He had a stutter. That’s why he never spoke. Even though she’d only been five, Valentina had been aware of her ten-year-old brother’s sheer maturity and grace when he’d ignored Gio’s debilitating stutter and had held out his hand and said, ‘I’m sorry too.’

Since that day they’d been inseparable. Valentina fought against this memory, much as she’d fought against the ones earlier—she didn’t want to remember Gio like that.

Her hands clenched to fists. If Mario hadn’t been so in thrall to Gio, he would never have put aside his studies that night and gone to Gio’s castello to race horses with him. She could remember the conversation when Gio had turned up on his motorbike to entice Mario away. Mario had protested. ‘I really should be studying for my exams.’

Gio had made a face. ‘That’s the lamest excuse I ever heard, Ferranti.’

Mario had chuckled and then said teasingly, ‘Well, at least some of us want to get an education!’

Gio had growled at that and had launched himself at Mario and the two had mock fought for a few minutes. Valentina had been watching all of this surreptitiously from behind the door, her eyes glued in fascination to Gio’s lean muscular form. Then they’d stopped and Mario had stood back breathing heavily, a dangerous glint in his eye that Valentina recognised all too well. ‘I’ll come if you let me ride Black Star.’

Immediately Valentina had tensed and looked at Gio, who was scowling. ‘No way, Mario … you know I won’t let you near him—he’s too dangerous.’

Mario had taunted, ‘You’re saying you’re the only one who can handle him?’

Gio had flushed and Valentina had leapt out of her hiding place to stand between the young men, looking at Gio. ‘Don’t let him near that horse, Gio. I swear to God—’

Her brother had taken her shoulders and gently moved her out of the way, saying, ‘This is none of your concern, Val.’

But Valentina had implored Gio with her eyes. She’d seen Black Star in action on his gallops. He was a mythically huge thoroughbred that Gio had bought recently in France. He was very controversial because while he had the potential to be a great champion, he’d already run a few races and in each one had unseated his jockey. In one tragic instance, the jockey had been killed.

The authorities in Europe had wanted to put the horse down but Gio had stepped in to buy him, claiming that he could tame him into acquiescence, putting forward the argument that the horse shouldn’t be punished for the failure of the trainers. But when Gio had shown the horse off to Mario and her when he’d returned home, she’d seen a madness in his eyes that had terrified her. So far, the only one who’d been able to get near him was Gio. And now her brother wanted a go?

There’d been a stand-off between the two men. Mario had cajoled, ‘Gio … come on.’

Gio had just looked at Mario for a long moment and then shrugged lightly and said, ‘We’ll see.’

Mario had grinned in triumph and clapped his friend on the shoulder, saying, ‘Wait here, I’ll just change.’

He’d left and Gio had looked at Valentina, causing that inevitable self-conscious flush to rise up through her whole body. She ignored it. ‘Gio … you can’t let him near that horse … something will happen to him. You know he’s not as good as you.’

Gio had come close and touched his finger to Valentina’s chin, tipping it up slightly, making her heart beat fast and her body ache with a peculiar restlessness.

‘Don’t worry, piccolina, I won’t let anything happen to him.’

Indignant fire had raced up Valentina’s spine and she’d jerked her chin free. ‘Don’t call me that, I’m not little.’

Gio had said nothing for a long moment, just looked at her so intensely that she’d felt breathless, and then in a slightly rougher tone of voice, ‘I know you’re not … and don’t worry. I’ll have him back to his boring books before midnight, just like Cinderella.’

Mario had reappeared and gave Valentina a hug and walked out the door, Gio had followed with a quick glance backwards. ‘Ciao, bellissima.’

And that had been the last time she’d seen Mario. When she’d seen Gio in the hospital later that night she’d run to him, distraught, hysterical. ‘You let him go on that horse, didn’t you, didn’t you?’

Gio had just stood there, white-faced, and said, ‘I’m so sorry.’

Her mother and father had been so proud of Mario. Everything, all of their hopes and fears, had rested on him. Valentina had resigned herself to the fact that she wouldn’t have the same opportunities. She was genuinely happy for her brother to succeed and he’d often told her, ‘Val, when I become a lawyer and I’m making lots of money, I’ll send you to a cordon bleu school in France….’

Tears pricked her eyes, but just then a knock came on Valentina’s apartment door, wrenching her back to the present. Surprised, because she wasn’t used to visitors, she dashed away the dampness on her cheeks and stood up. When she opened the door and saw who it was she sucked in a breath. ‘You.’

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