She saw his mouth tighten. ‘But we are in Europe now, and you are Donna Francesca—as Viscari so kindly pointed out to me.’
Fran’s eyes flashed. ‘Well, that’s what Vito knows me as! His step-cousin married Cesare—the man I turned down!’
‘Ah, yes.’ Nic’s voice was tightly vicious, but the target was himself, for having once written off one of the leaders of Italian high society as a
rustic farm boy. ‘His Excellency the Count of Mantegna, no less!’
‘Yes, and what of it?’ she demanded. ‘He’s a family friend. I’ve known him since I was a child!’
Nic’s eyes hardened. Of course the illustrious Count was a family friend. And a childhood one at that. What else should he be? They all knew each other, these aristos—knew each other and stuck together, protecting their privileges, protecting each other.
Memory daggered him. Just as the likes of Vito Viscari all protected their privileges—privileges they hadn’t had to work for, had had handed to them on a plate. Effortlessly taking it as nothing more than their due, their God-given right. Not caring if it shut out those who’d actually had to work for everything they’d achieved.
Well, he wanted nothing to do with such people. Nothing to do with a woman who turned out to be part of all that.
She’s not the woman I thought she was.
The knowledge seared across him like a burning brand.
‘Donna Francesca, your family and your friends are no concern of mine!’ he ground out. Savage anger was still scything across his brain, rage at himself, at her...
Something contorted in her face. ‘Nic, don’t be like this!’
Her hand reached towards him, as if to touch him as she had touched him so often in their time together. But now it faltered, unsure, uncertain. He was holding her at bay. Repelling and repudiating her. And all that they had once been to each other—
Memory scythed across her mind of how they had stood together in an elevator that evening after the Sunset Drive and she had wondered whether he would kiss her, whether she would kiss him back. That had been the very start of their time together, their coming together in shared desire, becoming friends, then lovers.
How could this stone-faced, harsh-featured man holding her so coldly at bay be that same man?
She almost cried out with the anguish of it, of the clash of worlds between then and now.
He wasn’t answering her impassioned plea, was shutting her out. His face was shuttered and closed. Blanking her. The elevator had stopped, had reached the lobby, and the doors were starting to open. He was ignoring her, turning towards them to exit the lift.
She would not chase him across the hotel. Before he moved she impulsively jabbed at the control buttons and the doors juddered shut again, the lift soaring upwards once more.
Nic gave what seemed to be a snarl of anger at her high-handedness. He turned on her. He wanted an end to this. Emotions were knifing through him, out of his control.
‘Enough!’
A hand slashed into the air and suddenly, as Fran stared at him, consternation at what was happening, why it was happening, filling her, she saw him change. She had known right from the first moment of their encounter that he was tough, but it had been a toughness that had never been directed at her. Now, suddenly, it was.
And it was a toughness that went way beyond that required of a guy who worked in security at a luxury casino hotel.
A hard, arctic gaze pinioned her. Suddenly this was not Nic Rossi the man she knew, the man she had spent such an easy-going, passionate, unforgettable time with. It was Nicolo Falcone, billionaire owner of a global hotel chain, with thousands of staff at his command, a property portfolio that stretched around the world, revenues that dwarfed anything her father possessed. Nicolo Falcone, who’d made his immense fortune by his own efforts, starting from nothing, clawing his way to wealth by strength of will.
And men like that were ruthless, single-minded and not to be messed with.
Nor was he.
His hand lowered to the control panel, pressing the halt button, staying the elevator where it was. Then he spoke.
‘Donna Francesca,’ he began, with an icy formality that chilled her to the quick as she stood staring at him, skewered by the arctic gaze of this man who was nothing like the man she’d thought she knew. ‘You will oblige me by not attempting to delay my departure. You will also oblige me—’ his mouth hardened even more as he issued not a request but an order, a warning ‘—by not attempting any further contact with me.’
The hand at the control panel pressed another button and the doors slid open on an intermediate floor.
‘Goodnight, Donna Francesca.’
He stood, pointedly waiting for her to step out. She was staring at him, her face pinched. Defeated. Emotion bit in him, like acid, but he blanked it. Then, with a sudden sweep of her skirts, she walked out, holding herself as stiffly as if she were made of marble.