The Ultimate Risk. Chantelle Shaw
mass. Perhaps he had noticed her because she was so different from the blonde groupies who always attended the after-race parties, he mused, feeling a flicker of irritation when the young woman at his side, sensing that he was distracted, moved closer and deliberately pressed her nubile body up against him.
The girl was young, he thought with a frown as he glanced at her face, which would be far prettier without the thick layer of make-up. In her thigh-high skirt and ridiculous heels she reminded him of a baby giraffe—all gangly legs and long eyelashes. He doubted she was much over eighteen, but the invitation in her eyes told him he could bed her if he chose to. Once he would have been tempted, he acknowledged. But he was no longer a testosterone-fuelled twenty-year-old; his tastes had become more selective over the years, and he had no interest in girls barely out of high school.
‘Congratulations on winning the race,’ the blonde said breathlessly. ‘I think powerboat racing is so exciting. How fast do you go?’
Lanzo stifled his impatience. ‘The boat can reach a top speed of one hundred miles an hour.’
‘Wow!’ She smiled at him guilelessly. ‘I’d love to go for a ride some time.’
He winced at the idea of giving ‘rides’ in his pride and joy. The Falcon was a million pounds’ worth of superlative marine engineering. ‘Racing boats are not ideal for sightseeing trips because they are built for speed rather than passenger comfort,’ he explained. ‘You would have more fun on a cruiser. I’ll speak to a friend of mine and see if he’ll take you on a trip along the coast,’ he murmured, as he gently but firmly prised the girl’s hand from his arm and moved away from her.
Gina watched the setting sun cast golden rays across the sea and gild the tops of the trees over on Brownsea Island. It was good to be home, she mused. She had spent most of the last ten years living and working in London, and she had forgotten how peaceful it was here on the coast.
But thinking about home, and more specifically her new, ultra-modern flat with its sea views, a little way along the quay, filled her with anxiety rather than pleasure. Since she had lost her job with a local company she had been unable to keep up with the mortgage repayments. The situation was horribly similar to the time when she had struggled to pay the mortgage and bills on the house she and Simon had owned in London, after he had lost his job and she had become the only wage earner.
After she had left him the house had been sold, but because it had been in negative equity she had come away with nothing. She had no savings—hence the reason why she had taken out such a large mortgage to buy the flat. But now it looked increasingly as though her only option was to sell her new home before the bank repossessed it.
Her life wasn’t turning out the way she had planned it, she thought dismally. She had always assumed that a few years spent building her career would be followed by marriage and two children—a boy and a girl called Matthew and Charlotte. Well, she’d had the career, and she’d had the marriage, but she had learned that babies didn’t arrive to order, however much you wanted them, and that marriages didn’t always last, however hard you tried to make them work.
Her hand strayed unconsciously to the long, thin scar that ran down her cheek close to her ear, and continued down her neck, and she gave a little shiver. She had never expected that at twenty-eight she would be divorced, unemployed and seemingly infertile—the last evoked a familiar hollow ache inside her. Her grand life-plan had fallen apart, and now the prospect of losing the flat that she had bought when she had moved back to Poole, in the hope of starting a new life away from the bitter memories of her failed marriage, was the final straw.
Lost in her thoughts, she jumped when a voice sounded close to her ear.
‘How do you think it’s going?’ Alex asked tensely. ‘Do you think there’s enough choice of canapés? I asked the chef to prepare twelve different types, including three vegetarian options.’
‘It’s a great party,’ Gina assured him, pushing her concerns to the back of her mind and smiling at Alex. ‘Stop looking so worried. You’re too young for grey hairs.’
Alex gave a rueful laugh. ‘I reckon I’ve gained a few since I took over as manager here. Lanzo di Cosimo demands the highest standards at all his restaurants, and it’s important that I impress him tonight.’
‘Well, I think you’ve done a brilliant job. Everything is great and the guests seem perfectly happy.’ Gina paused, and then said in a carefully casual tone, ‘I didn’t realise that the head of Di Cosimo Holdings would be here.’
‘Oh, yeah. Lanzo visits Poole two or three times a year. If you had come home more often instead of living it up in London, you would probably have seen him around,’ Alex teased. ‘He comes mainly for the powerboat racing, and a year or so ago he bought a fabulous house on Sandbanks.’ He grinned. ‘It’s amazing to think that a little strip of sand in Dorset is one of the most expensive places in the world to live.’ He suddenly stiffened. ‘Speaking of the devil—here he comes now,’ he muttered below his breath.
Glancing over Alex’s shoulder, Gina felt her stomach lurch when she saw Lanzo striding in their direction. It didn’t matter how firmly she reminded herself that she was a mature adult now, and well and truly over him. Her heart was pounding and she felt as awkward and self-conscious as she had been when she’d had a summer job as a waitress in this very restaurant ten years ago.
His eyes were hypnotic—perhaps because their colour was so unexpected, she thought shakily, her gaze drawn against her will to his face. With his swarthy complexion and jet-black hair, brown eyes would have seemed more likely, but his irises were a startling vivid green, fringed with thick black lashes and set beneath heavy brows.
Time had done the impossible and improved on perfection, Gina decided. At twenty-five, Lanzo had been a sleek, incredibly handsome man who had still retained a boyish air. A decade later he was rugged, sexy, and utterly gorgeous—his face all angles and planes, his slashing cheekbones and square jaw softened by a mouth that was full-lipped and blatantly sensual.
Something stirred inside her—something that went deeper than sexual attraction. Although her physical reaction to him was shockingly intense, she acknowledged, flushing when she saw Lanzo lower his gaze to the outline of her nipples, clearly visible beneath her dress.
A long time ago he had held her in his arms and she had felt certain that he was the only man in the world for her. So many things had happened since then. She had escaped from a violent marriage and knew that she was strong and could look after herself. But for a crazy moment she wished Lanzo would draw her close against his broad chest and make her feel safe and cherished, as he had made her feel all those years ago.
But of course Lanzo had never really cherished her, she reminded herself sharply. It had just been an illusion—part of a silly daydream that he would fall in love with her as she had fallen in love with him. And, like most daydreams, it had turned to dust.
‘The party is superb, Alex.’ Lanzo greeted his restaurant manager, his eyes still focused on the woman at Alex’s side. ‘The food is excellent—as people expect from a Di Cosimo restaurant, of course.’
Alex visibly relaxed. ‘Thank you. I’m glad you approve.’ He suddenly realised that he did not have Lanzo’s full attention, and gestured to Gina. ‘Allow me to introduce a good friend of mine—Ginevra Bailey.’
‘Ginevra—an Italian name,’ Lanzo observed softly. He was intrigued by her obvious reluctance to shake his hand, and the slight tremble of her fingers when she placed them in his palm. Her skin was soft and pale, in stark contrast to his deep tan, and he had a sudden erotic image of her naked—of milky-white limbs entwined with his darker ones. He lifted her hand to his mouth and grazed his lips across her knuckles, feeling an unexpectedly sharp tug of desire in his gut when her eyes widened and darkened.
Gina snatched her hand from Lanzo’s grasp, feeling as though an electrical current had shot along her arm. She swallowed and struggled for composure. ‘My grandmother was Italian, and I was given her name,’ she murmured coolly, thankful that the years she had spent working