The Tuscan's Revenge Wedding (Italian Billionaires #1)(30)
“Maybe she can, maybe things aren’t as strict these days. You can’t tell me wealthy Italians never marry super models, starlets or even shop girls because I’ve seen stories in the papers.”
“I’m not talking about your normal millionaires. Nico is the Conte de Frenza, you know, from centuries-old aristocracy. Guys like him may keep a working class mistress now and then, but they marry their own kind.”
“Are you trying to say I should watch out for him?” Her voice was light and half-amused, though it was an effort to keep it that way. So Nico was a count. She hadn’t realized, though the crest above the entrance to the Villa de Frenza should probably have been a clue.
“You’ve got it.”
She reached to touch Jonathan’s cheek, brushing her fingertips over the soft stubble that shadowed his cheeks. “You don’t have to worry, love. I’m not about to become any man’s mistress.”
His face cleared a little. “Good to know. Because I wouldn’t put it past Nico to be plotting a nice little vendetta to make me pay for what happened.”
“Oh, please.”
“Yeah, I know, too Machiavellian. But he could figure it’s divine justice. You’ll be on your guard, just in case?”
She had no time to answer as the nurse reappeared, pushing equipment ahead of her for checking his vital signs after his jaunt down the hall. Not long afterward, her brother’s eyes closed in the middle of a sentence. His features grew lax, the strain easing until he looked almost boyish in his sleep.
Amanda stood holding his hand, smoothing her thumb over the back of it. He had always tried to warn her about boys with an agenda. That he was still doing it meant little except as a sign of his concern. It warmed her heart, regardless.
Neither of them had mentioned the baby Carita carried. The subject was too painful to speak of with ease when she could yet lose it. That it might happen made Amanda ache inside for Jonathan.
Nico had said her brother would have to marry Carita, though nothing could be settled until she regained consciousness. Yet what kind of marriage did he envision if his sister was not to be allowed to travel to Atlanta with her new husband? Did he expect a legal ceremony only, after which Jonathan would be shuffled out of their lives?
If that was his idea, he was underestimating her brother.
But no. Family was of supreme importance in Italy. Surely the De Frenzas would not attempt to prevent Jonathan from having a place in the life of his child?
Where would that leave her if they did, Amanda wondered? Carita’s child would be her niece or nephew, the only close family member she had other than Jonathan. She would hate it if she was never allowed to see or know the small mite.
When Nico tapped on the door a short time later, she was ready to go. They took the same older corridors and half-hidden side exit they had used before. Silently, they emerged from it and started across the small courtyard which led to the street.
Camera flashes went off in blinding profusion. Television lights came on in a white hot blaze as cameras swung in their direction and news anchors, smoothing their hair, ran toward them. Within seconds, they were surrounded.
Nico exclaimed in staccato Italian and flung an arm around Amanda’s shoulders, pulling her firmly against his side. Thrusting one arm out before him, he set his face in hard lines and shoved through the shouting mob. At the parking garage, he snatched open the driver-side door of the Ferrari and hefted Amanda inside with more strength than finesse. As she scrabbled across the console and fell into the passenger seat, he slammed inside and set the powerful vehicle in motion. They peeled away with the shriek of rubber while paparazzi dove for safety on either side.
Amanda, fastening her seatbelt with shaking hands, glanced behind them. “They’re coming after us,” she said, her voice so sharp it scraped her throat.
Nico’s only reply was to floorboard the accelerator. They whipped out of the parking garage, screeched onto a busy street to a blast of car horns and squealing brakes, then sped away into the sun-bright afternoon. Driving like a demon, he took out his cell phone, punched in a call and spoke in terse phrases. Pressing the phone off, he tossed it aside. Then he put both hands on the wheel and set the Ferrari flying.
Amanda soon lost track of the turns they made or streets they took while staying ahead of a comet’s tail of following cars and vans. They traversed an old section of the city, circled one piazza after another, ran alongside the river and then left it behind. Diving into the commercial section moments later, they slide into a side street. Ahead of them was a parking garage with its door wide open. Nico headed for it without slackening his speed. The door began to descend.
Amanda screamed and threw up her arms to protect her face. They flashed inside just as the door rattled down, crashing shut behind them. Nico braked so hard and fast that the seatbelts engaged, and Amanda jerked to a stop against its unyielding constriction. She gave a soft grunt as she fell back against the seat, then sat still while quiet descended around them.
When she lowered her arms and opened her eyes, they were surrounded by dust-filled dimness that smelled of old oil and warm metal. She moistened her lips, swallowed with a quick movement of her dry throat.
“Where did they — did we lose them?” she asked in somewhat less than complete coherence.
“Wait.”
She heard it then, the sound of vehicles roaring past on the street beyond the small cul-de-sac. It seemed there were hundreds, though it might have been no more than a couple of dozen.