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With good reason.

Chapter Two

GABRIEL RINALDI COULD spot a camera lens at a thousand paces.

Sunrise was spectacular on the Amalfi Coast and from the steep steps on the cliff of Sant Lavia the view was panoramic with the sun rising over the mountains ahead of him, casting a golden-pink hue on the pretty towns below as the Tyrrhenian Sea briefly seemed to forget it would later be painted azure and for now shone silver.

Gabe was not here for the view. He would, by far, rather be home in Milan, pounding the treadmill at six a.m. in his penthouse apartment or, all too often, his office. At least they were air-conditioned. Then a quick shower and before most people were hitting snooze on their alarms Gabe was immersed in financial charts and hard at work.

Sant Lavia in August was a rather more brutal run—the air was muggy, his top bunched in his hand, his lungs burning, but it was the dark memories all around that choked.

Determined to do the right thing by his grandfather, for once Rinaldi Finanziaria would come second, and he’d handed things over to his hand-picked and highly skilled team. Not completely, of course—he would keep an eye and there would be plenty of calls and naturally he would suit up for frequent online meetings, but he would not be leaving Sant Lavia until…

He flicked that thought away.

From this height he could, if he so chose, pause a moment to take in the dramatic coastal roads and the Amalfi Drive with its hairpin bends and sheer drops. He chose not to. Instead, he ran with his eyes fixed ahead, preferring to focus on his breathing as he negotiated a final set of stone steps and the palazzo came into full view…

Here was supposed to be home.

Gabe loathed it though.

Somewhere there might be happy memories, but his mind refused to let them in. All he could visualise on that sheer cliff face was a car dangling precariously, with himself and his family in it. Thanks to the hungry press, not only had he lived through the accident that had claimed his parents and tiny sister, but had listened to the running commentary.

Bizarrely, the car radio had stayed on throughout. As the rescuers had fought to get to them, a ten-year-old Gabe had listened as the broadcasters discussed his parents…questioning reasons for the accident, if his father was having an affair, or if his mother might have been depressed after having a baby…

No.

Afterwards, there had been endless news coverage too. Twenty-five years on, they still played the footage at times—on the anniversary of the accident, or if the press were speculating again about his latest date, wondering if Gabriel Rinaldi would return permanently when the Count of Sant Lavia, his grandfather, died.

Gabe could think of nothing worse than returning to live here. He had always done, and would continue to do, the right thing by his grandfather. It was hell being here, though.

Not for much longer now, Gabe told himself as he ran. Soon, he would never have to return. Once his grandfather was gone, he would sell the palazzo and be done with the place. He didn’t want the damned title, nor the vast residence. He already had a fleet of staff lined up to deal with the estate…

On this hot August morning Gabe insisted that his heart remain cold to the beauty of this land.

Then he saw it—past the lemon orchard, near the helipad where he had landed last week, there was a glint, though not from the morning sun—he recognised it immediately as the flash of a camera lens.

Word must have got out that his grandfather was dying and now the black crows were gathering, the scavengers were already here.

‘Hey!’ he shouted.

Already running, he propelled into a sprint easily and took long angry strides, making light work of the distance, prepared to seize the camera and toss it, if it meant his grandfather would have peace.

* * *

He was stunning.

Kneeling down, trying to capture a clear shot of the vast palazzo, Stella saw him first through her viewfinder, annoyed that someone had got into her shot.

But what a view!

She lowered her camera and could only admire the incredible male form—long legs, long arms and toned body. He wore nothing other than running shorts, his black hair was straight, and somehow neat. The black hair on his chest, the elegance of his frame… She tried picking up her camera, concentrating on the palazzo again, nervous suddenly but in an unfamiliar way.

But then her camera disobeyed her order to focus on the palazzo and found him.

Oh, and she dared not magnify his beauty. Her breathing was suddenly rapid and shallow as he broke stride for a second, then, picking up speed, he was heading her way. From his shout and from his stride, Stella realised she’d been spotted.

Oh, Sir Charles had said there would be security everywhere, and Pino, her driver, had warned her to be careful when he’d taken her as far up as he could go before they came to a private road.