The Amalfitano's Bold Abduction (The Italian Billionaires Collection) Read online

  THE AMALFITANO’S BOLD ABDUCTION

  Dana Marsden’s first mistake is stopping on the fog-shrouded Amalfi Coast road to help clear a traffic jam. Her second is rescuing the valuable cat that appears out of the mist. And the third? Trusting the handsome Italian who comes to her aid when her rental car plunges over a cliff in what may not have been an accident.

  Since the American police officer refuses to believe she’s in danger, Andrea Tonello sees only one option: spirit her away to the safety of his private island.

  But who's going to protect him from one mad, independent lady when Dana discovers what he's done?

  These are works of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogues are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system — except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews — without the written permission of publisher or author, except where permitted by law.

  Cover Art by Amanda Kelsey of Razzle Dazzle Design.

  Copyright © 2013 by Patricia Maxwell

  Published by

  Steel Magnolia Press

  Chapter 1

  It just had to happen.

  Dana Marsden had been expecting to come upon an accident or traffic jam for the past dozen white-knuckle miles. Italy’s Amalfi Coast was breathtaking with its mountain and sea vistas and villages clinging to rocky ledges, but rain and early morning fog turned its winding road into a potential disaster zone.

  Seeing a problem ahead as her small rental car topped a rise and started down gave her no satisfaction. She always hoped people would surprise her.

  She hit the brake, easing the light-weight mini onto the shoulder as much as possible while showing a healthy respect for the rocky cliff that fell away behind the low cream-colored stone guard wall. She didn’t like the steep incline she was on, but what could she do? With the mountain’s solid rock face on one side and a sheer drop to the richly blue Mediterranean on the other, there was literally nowhere else to go.

  Through clapping wipers and the raindrops that spattered her windshield, she assessed the situation ahead. The road narrowed as it rounded a curve. A big Mercedes tourist bus traveling in the same direction she was headed had stopped just inside this curve as it met a white delivery van coming from the opposite direction. There wasn’t enough room for the two vehicles to pass each other in the sharp bend.

  The bus driver would normally have seen the van coming in the traffic mirror on its post and pulled over in the lay-by for it to pass. The rain and drifting fog must have decreased visibility so he was in the curve before he spotted the van. Both drivers had come to a halt.

  The standoff could have been easily remedied except an impatient driver in a Citroen had tried to pass the delivery van on the inside of the curve. He failed to make it, and was now stuck between the van and the stone wall. Another car had piled in behind him, preventing either the Citroen or the van from reversing.

  Meanwhile, two other cars were lined up behind the tourist bus, as well as the silver and black Lamborghini Aventador which idled just ahead of her vehicle. This string of traffic, though not that long, made it impossible for the tourist bus to back up.

  It was an impasse, and several of the drivers were using their horns in a noisy show of their displeasure.

  What was required, Dana saw at once, was a traffic cop, or at least one of the carabinieri in their natty blue uniforms that she’d seen this morning in Naples. No such officials were anywhere in sight.

  She sighed and rested her head on the steering wheel of her rental for an instant. She didn’t need this, not in a foreign country where she spoke not a word of the language. She was on vacation, for Pete’s sake; she’d left duty and too-dumb-to-live drivers behind. She was supposed to be enjoying herself, not clearing her thousandth traffic jam.

  Moaning wasn’t going to get her anywhere, and certainly not on her way to Positano. Dana straightened, set the emergency flashers and hand brake then turned off the engine. She got out and slammed the door, grimacing a little at the tinny sound of the bug of a car. She missed her half-ton truck already, and she’d only picked up the rental a short while ago.

  She stood for an instant with the rain peppering down on her head. It was just what she needed, to get wet. Not that it would be the first time in the line of duty, of course, but it irked her anyway. She liked to be prepared, had almost thrown a slicker and umbrella into her suitcase. But who brought things like that to sunny Italy in August? Suzanne and Caryn had thought the idea was hysterical.

  Her friends left the States three days ago so were probably blissfully relaxed at the house the three of them were renting for the next two weeks. Suzanne called the place a romantic villa, and had been in ecstasy over its grand view of the Mediterranean. Dana figured it would turn out to be just a house, with the only way they’d glimpse the sea being to hang out an upstairs window and squint. As for lying around the community pool catching rays, that wasn’t happening any time soon. The rain was light but steady, and the fog that shifted in cloud-like banks, creeping up from the dark blue surface of the Mediterranean, touched her face with chill fingers.

  It was also getting thicker by the minute, bringing with it a briny smell to go with the surrounding odors of exhaust and wet tarmac. She could barely see the bus up ahead now, and the Lamborghini was an indefinite gray shape in the drifting pall. Her footsteps slowed as she noticed movement, a dark shadow rising within the bank of white.

  A car door slammed with the solid thud that signaled quality construction backed by mega-bucks. The figure of a man appeared, materializing out of the mist. A good five inches taller than her stately five-nine, he was broad shouldered, slim-hipped and carried himself with easy athletic grace. The cream cotton sweater he wore with the sleeves pushed to the elbows, the well-worn jeans and soft leather driving loafers, made him look as if he’d stepped from the pages of a European male fashion magazine. Chiseled, aristocratic features like those seen on antique coins topped off the impression. Fog and rain spangled the dark waves of his hair, and began to appear as damp splotches on the shoulders of his sweater.

  Dana came to a halt while her heartbeat kicked it up a notch. The man faced her, perhaps alerted to her presence by her last grating footstep. The fog-dulled blare of car horns and hum of engines seemed to die away, leaving the quiet whisper of the sea far below where they stood.

  For an endless moment, they watched each other there in the world of swirling white. She studied his straight nose, wide-spaced eyes with a hint of green, sensually molded mouth and square jaw as if she might need to pick him out of a future lineup. She might have stood there for ages if he hadn’t drawn a swift breath, murmuring something that had the soft sibilance of an oath.

  “Well, hi there.”

  It wasn’t the most scintillating greeting she’d ever managed, but was better than staring as if she’d never seen a man before.

  “Buon giorno. Your pardon, but you are English?” His voice was as entrancing as the rest of him, deep and vibrant with a fascinating accent that made her long to hear him say something else.

  “American, born and bred.” Her answer came out with precision as she shook off her unusual bemusement.

  “But naturalmente. Naturally. It will be best if you remain in your car. Wh
o can say when someone may speed over the hill and not see you here on the roadway until it is too late.”

  Dana grinned, she couldn’t help it. This good-looking Italian sounded so serious, so concerned and full of superior masculine knowledge. It was endearing in an annoying sort of way.

  “You are out of your car,” she pointed out.

  “Certo. True. But I will hear them coming and step aside.” His frown was a masterpiece of concern mixed with impatience.

  “So will I, I promise.”

  He moved a step closer. “Perhaps. But there is nothing to be seen anyway. It is not a spectacle, but merely a great stupidity. I will settle the matter in a moment, and then we may be on our way.”

  He had a point, of course, one Dana had impressed on gawking drivers a bazillion times. Still, he was so earnest, so completely unconscious of the condescension in his voice, that she couldn’t help playing along. “Will you now? And how is that?”

  “The white van must be persuaded to reverse. The idiota who blocks progress in the curve should then drive forward and away. And the tourist bus must then advance, leaving the way clear for our progress.”

  Dana gave a decided shake of her head. “That won’t work.”

  “Pardon?”

  “Well, not without the delivery van crushing the car.” It was amazing, the heat in his sage green eyes at the idea she might disagree with him. She loved it. If she had to see it every day, it would probably get old, but the sight jump-started an odd feeling inside her just now that was like euphoria.

  “You are mistaken, I think.”

  She didn’t bother to answer that. “Both the delivery van and the bus need to back up. Well, and the others in front of us here, of course. The man in the Citroen can then remove his vehicle without damage, after which the driver of the van can roll forward into the lay-by there against the rock. When the way is clear, the bus and the rest of us here behind it can get back on the road.”

  He muttered something in his native tongue. She didn’t know what he’d said and didn’t much care, but enjoyed the sound of it anyway.

  “You don’t agree?” she asked with an air of innocence.

  He folded his arms across his chest, a movement that flexed the muscles in his arms beneath the fine knit of his sweater with dramatic, almost breathtaking results. “In the first place, you will have to convince five drivers to reverse instead of two.”

  “You don’t think I can?”

  “You appear to have no Italian.”

  She gave him a crooked smile. “But I’m good at hand signals and some things are universal.”

  “They will pay no attention to you. They are not at fault and they know it.”

  “Are you counting yourself among those reluctant to back up when directed?”

  “It makes no sense.”

  “It makes excellent sense. It’s just that you don’t want to admit it. Would that be because the suggestion comes from a mere female?”

  His gaze drifted from her eyes to her mouth and down to her breasts under a T-shirt that said Police Do It Politely in navy blue lettering on white, then to her pressed jeans and brand new white sneakers. Something hot and more than a little disturbing spread over her from the places where his gaze had lingered.

  “There is nothing “mere” about you.”

  She’d thought for a second he meant to say there was nothing female about her. It snapped her out of the odd trance that held her rooted on the roadside, talking to a strange man in the fog.

  “Fine,” she said, setting her hands on her hips. “And while we’re standing arguing, traffic is piling up behind the van and we’re both getting wet. I should tell you that I work as a traffic cop back in the States. Unsnarling jams like this is how I make my living. Now if you’ll just get back in your fancy car and reverse the thing so the rest of the poor suckers can do the same, we can all get on our way.”

  “You are a policeman,” he said, his voice flat.

  “Policewoman, not that it matters. What counts here is—”

  A yowl, ear-splitting and edged with desperation, came from out of the fog. As Dana swung toward the sound, something incredibly swift and furry hurtled toward her. It sank claws into the heavy denim of her jeans and then swarmed upward. It didn’t stop until it was wrapped around her neck like a cowl.

  The Italian exclaimed and reached for the creature. It hissed and swiped at his hand. He jerked it back, though barely in time to keep from being clawed. He knotted the hand into a fist as he scowled at the cat.

  It was indeed a cat, Dana realized, though that was a little like saying a racing thoroughbred worth millions was a horse. This was an aristocrat among cats, a fluffy, meticulously brushed long-haired Siamese with the brown feet, face, ears and tail tip that marked it as a Seal Point. Tilting her chin to see better, she realized it was wearing a jeweled collar set with what appeared to be topaz stones the pure blue color of its eyes. It also had a smug, extremely self-satisfied expression.

  “Well, aren’t you a beauty,” she crooned in soothing tones, mainly because the seal point was gripping the top of her shoulder in its distress. “And what’s your name?”

  “His name is Guaio. You would say Trouble or, perhaps, Nuisance.” The Italian raised his hands, reaching for the cat. “Here, let me have him.”

  The big feline sank his claws in, refusing to budge. Dana winced and hunched her shoulder, a decent cover for the shiver that ran over her at the electrifying brush of warm, masculine knuckles against her neck.

  “Hold on a second,” she said on a quick intake of breath. “Give him time to settle.”

  “You will be sorry. He could be there until noon.”

  “He’s scared, I think, maybe because he’s outside in a strange place.”

  “He is overjoyed to have escaped my car,” the handsome Italian corrected. “He must have slipped out just now when I left the door open for a moment—I should have known better than to let him ride outside his carrier. Beyond this, he prefers women.”

  Dana gave him a quick glance. “You’re joking.”

  “I wish I were.”

  “He’ll be okay in a minute, and will probably go to you then. Meanwhile I have a job to do, so I’ll just take him along with—”

  “Wait,” he said as she started to walk away. He raked his hand through his curling, rain-wet hair. “Very well. If you will look after Guaio for only a moment, I will instruct the drivers in the maneuver you suggested.”

  “Really?” It was ridiculous to be so gratified that he saw the advantage of her plan, or at least enough that he would carry through with it. She was usually more inclined to crow when a male colleague was forced to admit she was right.

  She’d never been particularly susceptible to a handsome face. To discover she could be now was disturbing.

  “Certo,” he answered, his features grim as he sent a narrow glance up the road behind them and then back toward the stalled traffic. “The sooner we are away from here, the better.”

  ~ ~ ~

  The American woman was correct in her assessment of the situation; Andrea Tonello saw that clearly when he moved close enough for a better view through the fog. No doubt her assessment of the positions of both bus and van had been better from further uphill. He still doubted her ability to have carried out her plan, however. Not, per Dio, because she could not make herself understood but because the drivers of the stalled cars, being male and Italian, would have been too busy looking her over to pay attention to what she was saying.

  He’d had much the same problem at first, this he had to admit. Her hair was so bright and silky-looking on this gray morning that she had to be a natural redhead, and he could hardly look away from her eyes that met his with such frank, shining humor. They were richly brown, yes, but had a gray outer ring that made them seem dark and deep enough that a man could become lost in them. Her features were alluring, her skin amazingly clear and her smile like sunshine on this gray day.

  He was no
t used to a woman who appeared oblivious to the fact that he was male and she was female. No, nor one who stood toe-to-toe with him and refused to back down. He knew many tall women, models and actresses among others, but few who displayed such confidence and strength of mind.

  He could hardly fault Guaio for leaping into her arms and wrapping himself around her. He would like to see for himself if she was as firm and yet womanly as she appeared.

  Yes, and if, as a policewoman, she did it as politely as her shirt proclaimed.

  What an imbecile he was to let such a thought distract him. He needed to be back in his Lamborghini, speeding down the road. The faster he cleared this traffic snarl, the sooner he could be gone.

  Her small car was well out of the way, as she had shown the presence of mind not to venture too close to the stalled vehicles. With the cat Guaio lying across her shoulders, she retreated up the sloping road to stand beside it. Andrea nodded his approval as he slid into his car and reversed to within inches of her vehicle’s front grill.

  Out on the tarmac again, he spoke to the other drivers one by one, waving them back. He watched in amazement as they complied without argument. Scant minutes later, the Citroen that had been trapped against the rock face drove past Andrea with a typically rude gesture from the driver, one he returned with interest.

  The larger delivery van was now free to complete the curve and pull over to make way for the bus. As the bus driver shifted gears, preparing to forge ahead toward Positano, Andrea turned away.

  It was in that moment he saw the black sedan. It appeared at the top of the slope beyond the American’s much smaller car, a dark, fog-shrouded shape that eased to a halt there with its engine thrumming.

  Andrea plunged into a run, his gaze fastened on the woman with Guaio still wrapped around her neck. He shouted a warning, saw her turn toward him with her eyes widening in surprise.

  The sedan rumbled to life and began to move. It gathered speed, heading straight toward the woman. She heard the sudden revving of the engine, for she swung her head in that direction.