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an
envelope from his pocket placing it on the table between them.
    Bronte didn’t
even glance at it.
    “What is your
problem?” she demanded.
    Rising, she
walked to a magnificent stone mantelpiece and placed her palms on
it.
    “This is my
home. These bricks are rooted deep into the soil.” She turned to
him with a determined look in her vivid eyes. “This house anchors
me to a land my family have lived in for generations. It’s all I
have left of them.” She rubbed her head in a sad, tired gesture
that he found curiously moving.
    Nico was aware
of a click in the region of his heart and an emotion he didn’t want
to identify. He frowned into his coffee.
    “Do you always
get what you want, Mr Ferranti?” she asked him in a soft voice.
    He stared at
her. To answer yes would be the simple truth. But he had the
feeling it would upset her further and he found, surprisingly, he
didn’t want to do that.
    So he shrugged
and spread his hands.
    Bronte’s eyes
narrowed into slits and she folded her arms.
    “Last night you
threatened me. Today you’ve come into my home uninvited. You refuse
to take no for an answer. Who the hell do you think you are, the
Cosa Nostra?”
    The remark was
targeted to insult and she hit the bull’s eye. He was Italian. The
words were more than a slap in the face. They offended his
integrity, his honour and his hard won reputation.
    Unwelcome heat
surged into his face. She knew nothing of his father, his brother
or the extended family he refused to acknowledge. No one did. His
past was carefully buried in Italy. How could Bronte have
discovered it?
    Suspicion
narrowed his eyes as Nico observed alarm flare in those stunning
green eyes. He read no guile or hidden agenda. Relief warred with
dismay that he’d been provoked so easily by a rank amateur. He’d
made enemies; a man in his position didn’t rise to the top without
stepping on a few toes. But none of them had managed to get under
his skin or under his guard the way Bronte did.
    Taking great
care, Nico placed the delicate cup and saucer on the table.
    With a firm
grip on a temper that appeared to be too close to the surface, his
eyes lasered into hers. Colour drained from her cheeks leaving her
too pale. Hands not quite steady, she placed her cup on the
table.
    Good, at last
he had managed to get through to her.
    He stood.
    Pain, the
memory of old hurts, old sufferings, swam through his system as he
slung on his jacket. His eyes never left hers. Nico realised he’d
alarmed her and couldn’t be sorry for it. She had crossed a line
with him. Bronte Ludlow needed her bottom paddled for her rudeness.
That soft mouth trembled as the hectic pulse in her neck matched
his.
    The need to
devour those lips, to take, both thrilled and appalled him. But
Nico was honest enough to admit that his anger came as much from
his physical and emotional response to Bronte as the words she’d
used to insult him. No one spoke to him in that tone or challenged
him in that way. She’d thrown him off balance. He could not cope
with the sensation mixed with the mad desire to haul her into his
arms and kiss her senseless.
    Therefore he
took refuge in stiff formality.
    Nico didn’t
attempt to hide the bite to his tone or keep the anger from his
voice.
    “I have asked
you twice before to use my name. I will not ask you a third time.”
He gave a quick bow of his head. “I apologise for disturbing you,
Bronte.”
    Without a
backward glance, he walked out.
     
     

CHAPTER SIX
    Bronte stared at the door.
    Why did she
feel as if she was in the wrong? She’d seen vulnerability in his
eyes, quickly hidden, but it had been there. And she’d upset,
angered him, and why should that make her feel small? He was the
one who’d come into her home - uninvited by the way. He was the one
who’d used that tone and attitude with her. She had every right to
defend herself. He was an adult. He’d get over it. If it meant that
he’d forget all about the Dower House then it was