The Tuscan's Revenge Wedding(2)

By: Jennifer Blake

Amanda set her shoulder bag on the table in front of her. Turning in her chair, she reached for the jacket of her navy suit that she’d draped over its back.

“Miss Amanda Davies?”

The deep voice which accompanied that courteous inquiry vibrated through her, thrumming along her nerves like distant thunder. She jerked, so her jacket snagged on the chair back and fell from her grasp.

The man beside her reached to catch it. Holding the jacket in one well-formed, brown hand, he stared down at her with intent appraisal while waiting for her answer.

Amanda was so stunned by the approach and rich, dark gaze fixed upon her that it was an effort to force sound from her throat. “Yes?”

“Va bene.” He inclined his head. “Come with me, if you please.”

He spoke with an accent, and the first phrase he used was almost certainly Italian. Incredulity struck her that he had singled her out. Hard on its heels was amazement at his cool assumption she would go with him. Hadn’t she just been thinking that was something she’d never do?

“You can’t be serious.”

“I assure you, I am completely serious.”

“But I have no idea who—”

“I beg your pardon. I am Nicholas de Frenza. It’s true we have not met, but you’ll have been told of my family.”

“No, I can’t say I have.”

“But you must.” Something very like suspicion rose in the black depths of his eyes.

Amanda snatched her jacket from his grasp. Irritation for his doubt made her copy his precise foreign phrasing. “I assure you, I have not.”

“No matter. You must come with me at once.”

“The only place I have to go is back to my office.” She rose to her feet.

She’d thought standing would ease the sensation of being dominated by his superior height and attitude. She was wrong. He still topped her by several inches and was too dynamic, broad of shoulder and intensely masculine for comfort.

He was also too close within her personal space, and made no effort to step away, much less allow her to move past him. The whiff of clean, healthy male and some elusive men’s fragrance that crept around her was so unexpected she stepped away, bumping the table so the dishes rattled upon it.

Controlled impatience came and went across the Italian’s features. He reached inside his jacket, pulled out a thin wallet of supple black leather and flipped it open.

Amanda glanced at the international driver’s license he held out to her. It confirmed his identity, but gave no clue as to why she was supposed to know him. She began to struggle into her suit jacket. “I’m sorry, but you must have the wrong person.”

“I don’t believe so.” He swung her chair out of the way then took her jacket from her hands. Shaking it out, he held it for her.

Amanda studied the hard, determined planes of his face. To refuse the courtesy he offered could lead to a ridiculous tug-of-war, not to mention more delay. She turned to thrust her arms into the jacket sleeves with quick, impatient gestures.

His fingers clasped her shoulders as he eased the jacket into place and then turned her to face him. A lightning bolt of sensation flashed into her chest at that brief touch. It stopped her breath while its heat surged over her nerve endings, settling deep inside her.

Disturbed against her will, she pulled away from him, almost dragging herself from his grasp. “If you don’t mind!”

“I regret accosting you here, Miss Davies,” Nicholas de Frenza said, glancing at the two flight attendants and other customers who watched them with avid interest, “but time is of the essence. I have serious news best discussed in private. I’ve taken a temporary room at a hotel just down the street. If you will—”

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