Like all men with his wealth and power, Dante had enemies. The question he asked himself was if it was one of those enemies hiding behind this door plotting against him or just a cold vagrant chancing his luck.
He nodded at his men one more time and pushed the door open.
His first thought as he entered the empty bedroom was that he was too late and the intruder had escaped. There was no second thought, for a figure suddenly burst through from the en suite bathroom and charged at him, screaming, with what looked like a showerhead in hand.
It took a long beat before his brain recognised the screeching figure for what it was—a woman.
Before the showerhead in her hand could connect with Dante’s head, Lino, the quicker of his men, grabbed hold of the woman and engulfed her in his meaty arms.
Immediately she started kicking out, hurling a string of obscenities in what sounded like English, but with a strong accent he had trouble placing.
Dante stared with amazement at this struggling intruder dressed only in a thick maroon robe.
Her eyes fell on him. There was a wild terror in the returning stare.
‘Let her go,’ he ordered.
Lino removed the showerhead from her hand and released her.
As soon as she was free from his hold, she backed away from them, her eyes going from Dante, to Lino, to Vincenzo and back to Dante, the terror still there.
He quite understood her fear. Dante was tall and physically imposing. Lino and Vincenzo were mountains.
‘Leave,’ he barked at his men. ‘Wait downstairs for me.’
Her eyes settled on him.
This woman might be an intruder, her reasons for being there to be revealed but, unless she had a gun hiding beneath that robe, which she would have already used if she’d had one, she posed no danger.
His men were too well trained to argue and left the room. Stealth no longer being needed, they thumped down the stairs like a herd of wildebeest.
Now that he was alone with her, Dante’s senses became more attuned. A wonderful scent filled the room, a soft floral smell that clung around the intruder, who had backed herself into the corner of the room. The only sound to be heard was her ragged breathing.
He stepped slowly towards her.
She pressed herself more tightly into the corner of the room and hugged her arms across her seemingly ample chest, strikingly angled eyes ringing with fear at him. If she hadn’t broken into his property and made herself at home, he could feel sorry for her.
He guessed her to be in her early twenties, petite yet curvy, snub nose, plump lips, freckles covering a face that was either naturally pale or white from fright. The colour of her long, wet hair was impossible to judge. Whatever the colour, nothing could detract from the fact that this was one beautiful woman.
Under any other circumstance he would be tempted to let a whistle escape his lips.
Her long, swanlike neck moved but she didn’t speak. Those strange eyes did not leave his face.
He stopped a foot away from her and asked in English, ‘Who are you?’
Her lips tightened and she hugged herself even harder, giving a quick shake of her head.
‘Why are you here?’
But still she didn’t speak. If he hadn’t caught the obscenities she’d screeched when she’d exploded out of the bathroom, he could believe she was mute.
If she hadn’t broken into his property, he would feel bad for her obvious fright.
‘You know this is private property? Sì?’ he tried again, speaking slowly. Dante’s English was fluent but his accent thick. ‘This cottage is empty but it belongs to me.’
The strange yet beautiful eyes suddenly narrowed and in that slight movement he realised fear wasn’t the primary emotion being thrown at him, it was loathing.
‘My backside does it belong to you.’ She straightened. Her strong accent registered in his brain as Irish. ‘This cottage is part of your father’s estate and should be shared with your sister.’