Too Devious to Tame (The Giovanni Clan) Read online

  Somehow she didn't think that would be an option again. The man who had come to claim his wife—his wife—didn't sound as though he would take no for an answer. Again he stated his intention to take her home, and her heart rolled over in her chest. She forced herself to open her eyes and bit her tongue to stop herself from gasping out loud. The man who claimed to be her husband sat perched on the side of her bed, his back to her, as he talked to the dottore.

  His broad shoulders strained the light summer jacket off his tailored suit, and his powerful thighs flexed slightly as he shifted on the bed. His dark hair curled over the collar of his shirt, and when he raised a hand to run it through his hair in an almost absentminded gesture she caught a glimpse of strong, tanned wrists. The large hand he placed on the bed next to her leg held a dusting of black hair, and this time she couldn't hold back her gasp, as a memory surged to her forefront. That same hand on her pale flesh kneading, pinching, just the right side of pain, as he surged inside her, pinning her in place with his superior bulk, as she screamed his name.

  "Giorgio?" Her voice was a mere whisper, but the room stilled, and she held her breath when he turned around and looked at her. One thick eyebrow raised, he ran his gaze over her form, his eyes silver gray orbs of steel pinning her in place. Every line of his powerful body screamed his arrogance and his wealth. From the devastatingly handsome roman features, with the straight nose, high cheekbones, and angular jaw, covered in the first shadow of his appearing stubble—to the full lips, now curled in a sardonic smile that didn't reach his eyes—over the suit that only accentuated the muscled and honed physique—to the Rolex on his wrist and the polished Italian shoes on his feet.

  Her mouth went dry, and her toes curled. She couldn't be married to him?

  "So, you remember my name, Jemima? I thought you had amnesia?" The tone of his voice raised gooseflesh on her arms, and she swallowed nervously. His eyes followed the frantic movement of her throat, and if possible his gaze grew frostier. He ran his hand through his hair again and swore softly in Italian.

  "Signor Giovanni, it's to be expected that your wife would recall the people closest to her." The doctor's words broke his intense perusal of her, and Jemima drew an unsteady breath into her lungs.

  Jemima, is that my name? It didn't ring any immediate bells. In fact it did nothing, not a flicker of recognition. How could that be? How could she not know her own name, yet remember his? How could she be swamped with such spine-tingling awareness of him, mixed in with an overwhelming sense of loss, regret, and guilt? What had she done to this man that he would look at her with such disdain in his cold eyes?

  "I would believe that if my wife and I were close, dottore. As it stands I find it extremely hard to believe that Jemima here would only recall my name. She certainly never cared about her marriage vows enough to evoke any sort of emotion from her before."

  The ice cold voice settled in her heart like lead, and she blinked the tears away.

  "Then why are you here insisting on taking me away?" From somewhere she found her voice. A thready and weak impression of one, but as she had no clue what she normally sounded like, it would have to do. Heck, for all she knew this might be her normal cadence.

  "I'm not going anywhere with you. You could be an axe-murderer for all I know. If we're married, where's the proof? I'm not wearing a ring."

  She glanced down on her ring-less left hand, a flicker of unease invading her senses as another memory probed. There had been a ring; she was sure of it. For a moment, emotion overwhelmed her, love, yes, definitely love. She risked a peek at the man watching her quietly, his eyes like hard steel, his face an unreadable mask, arms crossed over his chest. The expression in his eyes stirred another emotion so strong and so confusing that she lowered her own eyes, hugging her knees to her chest. Guilt, shame, and heartbreak. What had she done to him?

  His cold voice made her look up.

  "You are coming with me, cara, make no mistake. You belong to me, and you can't stay here. It's not safe for starters."

  "Safe?"

  "How do you think you ended up in this state in the first place? Had it not been for the dog walkers, you would have been left to die in that ditch."

  "I … I can't remember. Are you saying whatever happened to me wasn't an accident?"

  He swore softly in Italian, before gesturing to the dottore to leave.

  "You really don't remember, do you?"

  He perched himself on the side of the bed, grimacing at her involuntary flinch at his closeness. Taking one of her hands, he carefully uncurled her clenched fingers and dropped a kiss on her palm.

  "You were run off the road deliberately. It was a clear stretch of road, and there were no skid marks. They didn't even try to brake, cara. It's a miracle you're alive. And as soon as they find out you are, they will try again. I promised your sister to keep you safe, so you're coming with me, if I have to drag you out of here, kicking and screaming. Trust me. No one will dare stop me!"

  She tamped down the fresh wave of terror washing over her. She remembered the car hurtling towards her with sudden, sickening clarity, and another whimper escaped before she could stop it. What on earth have I done to deserve this? And she couldn't shake the nauseating feeling that she had deserved it. She had done something awful. She could feel it in her bones, the chilling knowledge invading every pore of her, filling her with self-loathing, and acute regret at what might have been.

  "I have a sister?" she finally asked.

  The man in front of her sighed. His harsh features softened temporarily, until he looked at her with another frown.

  "Yes, you do, and for reasons best known to her, she worries over you. Though why she should, after what you did to her and my cousin is beyond me."

  Oh no!

  "What did I do? Was it something awful?"

  The harsh, cold laugh chilled her even more. Who was this man, who claimed to be her husband, yet seemed so harsh and unaffected by her?

  "My dear, awful is your specialty. Though this time, you've bitten off more than you can chew. The folks you pissed off, they mean business. And if that wasn't bad enough … a hit on our territory, when you're under my protection … well, you may just have caused a war."

  Terror filled her anew at the quietly spoken words.

  "Who … who are you?"

  "Giorgio Giovanni, your husband, Jemima, and that's all you need to know. The rest, you'll figure out soon enough."

  He stood up abruptly, and the coldness of his gaze caused a renewed wave of gooseflesh to break out on her exposed skin.

  "Now, get yourself dressed. You've got five minutes, or you're coming with me in that fetching hospital gown."

  He threw a bag of clothes at her and turned on his heel, slamming the door behind him with enough force to rattle the picture frames on the wall.

  Oh Hell! He had called her Jemima. She rolled the name round her tongue, saying it out loud waiting for a glimmer of recognition, anything that would confirm that this was indeed her name, but nothing came. Nothing, but overwhelming fear and the certain knowledge that she was in imminent danger. Maybe not from him, but certainly from whoever was after her. A hit, he had called it, but that would mean…

  She scrambled out of bed and stumbled toward the bathroom, clutching that bundle of clothes. The frightened eyes she encountered in the mirror were those of a stranger, huge and bloodshot, with deep shadows under them. Ugly bruises covered most of her body, and her ribs hurt like hell, now that she was standing up. Well, what do you expect? You've been run off the road by a car, you ninny.

  She grimaced at the flimsy underwear the bag revealed, before hastily flinging it on. She pulled the sun-dress over her head, pushed her feet into the sandals she had found, and ran one hand through her disheveled hair.

  It was now or never. Her blood roared in her ears. Her heart hammered against her chest, as she slowly opened the door and looked up and down the empty corridor. She had to get away; she had to keep running, away f
rom him, from all of them. It was the only way.

  Slowly she inched along the wall. Sweat trickled down her spine. Her breath came in short, agonized puffs, and her injured ribs screamed at every step she took. She could see the stairs in front of her, almost there, almost.

  The harsh, deep voice froze her to the spot.

  "Where do you think you're going, cara?"

  Chapter Three

  Giorgio crunched another set of gears, and the engine of his sports car screamed its protest at the rough handling.

  "Dio Santo!"

  The growled curse made the woman in the seat next to him jump, and Giorgio forced himself to slow down. All the fight seemed to have gone out of her when he'd cornered her in the hospital corridor. She'd simply frozen and refused to move, so he'd had to take the only option left to him and scooped her up, carrying her out of the hospital and to his car. She'd shrunk in on herself, and he'd been shocked to the core at how light and fragile she really was. It had brought out his long forgotten protective instincts and made him mad as hell.

  How was he supposed to get his revenge, when she looked like a frightened doe? He needed her mad and spitting fire, challenging him at every turn, rousing his temper and his libido, driving him insane with the need to either spank her or take her. That was the Jemima he remembered. That was the Jemima he could deal with. This frightened, quiet, shrinking carbon copy of her, he did not know what to do with.

  Dannazioni, what had happened to her? And why the hell did he care? She deserved everything, and more. The heartache she'd caused, the wounds she had left. Another barely controlled whimper made him glance across at her. She'd shrunk further in her seat. Her brown eyes showed her terror. Her gaze darted around the interior of his car, never settling on anything, and her white knuckled grip on the leather seat made him curse again.

  "Stop the car. Stop. Now, please."

  The barely audible whisper carried such devastating pain and urgency that he slammed on the brakes. The car spun around several times before it came to rest on the dusty side of the road. Hell, that had been way too close. Jemima all but jumped from the car the minute it stopped, and by the time he'd managed to extricate his long frame, the sounds of desperate retching reached him.

  She was bent over double, her slight frame trembling with the powerful tremors that shook her like a rag doll. Giorgio covered the distance with two long strides. He lifted her hair off her face. One arm round her waist supported her, and he waited for the storm to pass. He couldn't remember the last time he had been this furious. Whoever did this to her was so going to pay. He gentled his hold on her at her renewed whimper. The expression in her haunted eyes broke through his defenses like a hot knife through butter.

  "I … I'm sorry. I'm okay now. You can let go of me."

  "You're far from okay, cara." He grimaced at the roughness of his voice. "Let's get you home, where I can look after you."

  "Home?" Tear-stained eyes sought his, and Giorgio made a disgusted sound in the back of his throat. What the hell was wrong with him? He was acting like a lovesick puppy, instead of a fully grown man. She can't be trusted, remember?

  By the time they finally pulled into his vineyard he was barely holding onto his temper. Her childlike enthusiasm at seeing her surroundings just darkened his mood further. Her eyes as wide as saucers, her voice was full of wonder and excitement.

  "I remember this place, I do! Giorgio, I remember."

  She clapped her hands, bouncing on her seat like an excited, small child, and when they pulled up outside the main house, she ran up the drive, and hugged his startled housekeeper.

  "Ciao, Clara, I remember you, too."

  He shrugged his shoulders ruefully at Clara and bit back his reprimand when she murmured something under her breath about bad pennies returning. He sent her off to prepare some food instead. After all, the woman had a point. He would do well to remember that himself.

  Jemima, in the meantime, ran around the house like an overeager puppy. She explored every room with a huge smile until she stopped outside his bedroom, suddenly appearing unsure again.

  "Is this … I mean." Her voice faltered. Heat rose in her cheeks, and she didn't look at him. She hugged herself with her arms, while her gaze seemed rooted to the picture on the wall. All the color had drained out of her face again. He had to grab hold of her to stop her from falling. That was the only reason, he told himself later, why he'd held on to her. His arms went 'round her waist, pulling her into his frame, and her unique scent filled his lungs. He groaned and buried his face in her hair.

  Dio santo, if anything, she trembled even more, and sank against him.

  "That picture, why do I know it?" she asked.

  "You painted it, cara, remember?"

  Her sharp intake of breath branded him all the way down to his toes, and he reluctantly let her go, when she struggled in his arms.

  "I … I painted this? I can paint?"

  She stood transfixed studying the painting of the vineyard. Her trembling fingers followed the bold brush strokes with a look of sheer wonder on her face. The smile she bestowed on him lit up her face when his hands guided hers to her scrawled signature in the corner.

  "See, you even signed it."

  His voice was rougher then he intended it to be, as memories swamped him once again.

  They had been so happy the day she'd painted that picture. At least he'd thought they were, lovesick fool that he had been. He had proposed to her that night, with his mother's engagement ring, only for her to throw it all back in his face less than a month later.

  Si, remember that. She is still Jemima. A leopard doesn't change its spots.

  She might look frail enough for him to snap her in half, but he knew better, didn't he? Besides, Clara's cooking would soon remedy that. And the sooner the better before he made a complete fool of himself, and he acted on his impulse to kiss the haunted look right out of her eyes.

  He listened to her talking to her sister on the phone now. She was crying. Happy tears, as far as he could tell. Elise had certainly been ecstatic when he'd phoned her.

  Now, there was a woman who deserved to be happy. His cousin was one lucky son of a gun.

  He stopped in the doorway, watching Jemima on the phone, hardening his heart against the tear-stained look of gratitude she threw in his direction. He had a phone call of his own to make, a few favors to call in, and he couldn't afford to show any weakness. Thanks to Jemima they were in one hell of a mess.

  ****

  "Is Giorgio looking after you? If he isn't, I'll be over there like a shot and sort him out."

  Jemima smiled through her tears, her sister's voice a soothing balm to her frayed nerves. She'd been relieved to realize that she remembered Elise the minute she'd started talking. She couldn't remember the details, but the feeling of warmth and security that invaded her at the sound of Elise's voice had been all the confirmation needed.

  The uneasy feeling was still there at the back of her consciousness. Guilt was pricking at her, but Elise had cut off her mumbled excuses.

  "Never mind, Jem. I'm just so glad that you're safe. You have no idea how much I've worried. Giorgio said you've lost your memory. Can you remember anything?"

  "Not much, but I remember the vineyard. I must have been very happy here. Giorgio said I paint. Do I, Elise? Am I an artist? I can't remember, but I think I must be."

  There was a slight pause on the other end of the line, just long enough for her heart to clench painfully and the fear to claim a hold on her again.

  Elise's soft, hesitant answer made her grab the phone in an iron grip.

  "Urm, you majored in Art, Jem, but I wasn't aware that you'd turned it into a career. You talked about it often though, so maybe you did."

  "You don't know?"

  Why did her sister not know this?

  "Jem, you weren't all that forthcoming with information. You resented any interference from me, so I never pried."

  "I see. I'm sorry."


  "Oh, Jem, you don't know what you're apologizing for, do you? Just get well, please, and keep safe. We can discuss all this when you memory comes back."

  "But what if it doesn't? Elise, I'm so frightened. I can't even remember being engaged to Giorgio, let alone married, and how on earth could I forget a man like him?"

  The strangled cough in her ear brought a renewed stab of pure fear.

  "You're married to Giorgio?"

  "He says I am. Are you saying I'm not? Oh my God, is he lying? Is he one of them?" Elise winced down the line as Jemima's voice rose so high it was a marvel the glass vase holding a beautiful bouquet of summer flowers didn't shatter.

  A man's voice could be heard in the back ground, talking to Elise, and Jemima's fear levels increased again. Who was that? Blood roared in her ears, and her heart slammed painfully against her chest bone.

  "Elise? Are you there? Elise?" Why was she not answering her?

  "Yes, I'm here, sorry. Giorgio is there to protect you. He wouldn't hurt you. You're family. Look, I've got to go. I'll ring you tomorrow, okay? Stay safe, Jem, and listen to him. You're safe with him. Just don't do anything stupid."

  She sank down to the floor, fear once again threatening to overwhelm her. Giorgio… She had to find him. Cradled in his arms had been the only time she'd felt safe since she'd woken up in this nightmare.

  On instinct she found her way to his office. The huge oak door was slightly ajar. He was on the phone, talking rapidly in Italian, his voice agitated.

  Her eyes grew huge, when comprehension of what she was hearing dawned on her.

  "Si, va bene. If all else fails, she has to die."

  Chapter Four

  Jemima ran until her lungs felt like they were going to burst. Every muscle in her body screamed at her. Her poor, abused ribs sent shockwaves of pain through her with every step. She had to get away. She had to run. She was not safe here. God, I'm not safe anywhere.

  Vines slapped in her face, grapes crushed under her feet, yet she kept on running. Oblivious to the beauty of her surroundings, bone-shattering fear held her in its thrall, adrenaline pushing her on ruthlessly.