Scarlett looked a little dazed. “We haven’t decided anything for sure...”
“Mrs. Stone,” Vin interrupted, “I appreciate your loyalty and kindness to Scarlett. Should you ever want to switch jobs, please let us know.”
Handing her a card, he took Scarlett by the hand and led her out of the chalet as the bodyguards followed with her shockingly small amount of luggage: a purse and a single duffel bag. He watched as they packed it into the back of the glossy SUV. An unwelcome image floated through Vin’s mind of his own meager belongings when he’d left Italy at fifteen, after his mother’s devastating revelation and death, to go live in New York with an uncle he barely knew. He’d felt so alone. So hollow.
He pushed the memory away angrily. He wasn’t that boy anymore. He would never feel so vulnerable again—and neither would any child of his.
Vin opened the passenger door of the red sports car, then turned to Scarlett coldly. “Get in.”
“You’re driving us? Yourself?”
“The bodyguards will follow in the SUV. Like you said—” he gave a hard smile “—it’s a beautiful day for a drive.”
Once they were buckled in, he stepped on the gas, driving swiftly out of the gate and down the mountain, to the paved road that led through the expensive village of Gstaad, with its charming Alpine architecture, exclusive designer boutiques and chalets with shutters and flower boxes. The midmorning sun glowed in the blue sky above craggy forested mountains as they looped onto the Gstaadstrasse, heading west.
Vin glanced at Scarlett out of the corner of his eye. She was dressed very casually, an unbuttoned jacket over an oversize shirt, loose khaki pants and fur-lined booties. But for all that, his eyes hungrily drank in the sight of her. Her flame-red hair fell in thick curls down her shoulders. Her lustrous eyes were green as an Alpine forest. He could remember how it had felt to have those full, pink lips move against his skin, gasping in ecstasy...
He shuddered.
Why did Scarlett have such power over him?
For the last two weeks, since she’d left him standing on Madison Avenue with a stunned look on his face, he’d thought of nothing else. All of his considerable resources had been dedicated to one task: finding her.
She was in his blood. He hadn’t been able to forget her. Not from the first moment he’d seen her in that bar. From the moment he’d first taken her in his arms. From the moment she’d disappeared from his bed after the best sex of his life.
From the moment she’d violently crashed his wedding and told him she was pregnant with his baby.
Scarlett Ravenwood was half angel, half demon. There was a reason he hadn’t seduced any other woman for over eight months—an eternity for a man like Vin. He’d been haunted by Scarlett, haunted body and soul, driven half mad by memories of her naked in his arms.
Scarlett was the woman for him. The one he wanted. And he intended to have her.
“How did you find me in Switzerland?” she asked him quietly now.
Lifting his eyebrow, Vin focused on the road ahead. “It was a mistake for you to mail my wallet from a small Italian village. I still have connections in that country. It was easy to track down the postino who’d helped you. He remembered seeing your car with Swiss plates.”
“He noticed my car?”
He smiled grimly. “There are surprisingly few Swiss registrations of a 1970 Plymouth Hemi Cuda convertible in pale green. The postino kissed his lips when he described it. ‘Bella macchina.’ He remembered you, too, a pregnant redheaded woman, very beautiful but a tragic driver. He thought the car deserved better.”
“I chose that car from the chalet’s garage because I thought it was the oldest,” she said, sounding dazed, “so figured it was the cheapest.”
“They’re rare and often sell for two or three million dollars.”
“Oh,” she said faintly. “So if I’d taken the brand-new sedan...”
“I wouldn’t have found you.” Gripping the steering wheel, he looked at her. “You keep wondering if I’m trustworthy. I could wonder the same about you, except I’ve seen the answer. You’ve lied to my face, stolen my wallet. Kidnapped my child—”