Learning To Trust
A romantic suspense story for Carina Press
Socialite Bellina Mazzanti Forde was the ultimate party girl—until she disappeared with Byron Brantley five years ago. Determined to find his brother, Jonathan Brantley has tracked Lina to a café in Naples and demands answers. Certain she's hiding something, Jonathan vows not to let Lina out of his sight until she agrees to help him, even if it takes all night. Though he doesn't trust her, he can't deny that he wants her—has always wanted her...
Happy in her new, simpler life, Lina didn't want to be found. Now that the past has caught up with her in the form of the sexy tycoon, she's torn between exploring the passion he arouses in her, and facing the secrets that caused her to flee New York.
The tension between them soon leads to a scorching affair, one they both know can't last. But when their search for Byron finds them tangling with the mob, Jon and Lina learn they have no one to trust but each other...
eBook ISBN · 9781426892622
Publisher · Carina Press
Genre · Contemporary Romantic Suspense
Length · Novel
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cover art by Posh Gosh
Excerpt
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“Does anyone here speak English?”
At her boss’s words, Lina automatically turned to face him but immediately spun back when she recognized the man by his side. Heat raced through her body. Not unusual for sultry August in Naples, but this wasn’t because of the weather. The man standing with his back to her reminded her of someone she once knew. From a life she’d left and never wanted to know again.
It couldn’t be Jonathan Brantley; he lived in the States. What would he be doing here?
Her mind went into overdrive. Sweat moistened her palms. He’d come here to find her. She couldn’t think of any other reason he’d come to Italy, when he lived and worked in New York.
The tray in her hands crashed to the floor.
The hum of conversation in the café dropped to almost silence.
Oh shit. She stooped to pick up the shards of pottery and the flatware bouncing over the black-and-white tiled floor.
Of course it wasn’t Jonathan. Just someone who looked like him. Despite her self-reassurances, her hands shook when a pair of expensive men’s running shoes appeared in front of her. She recognized them as the latest model, the ones some people around here would kill for. Who was this idiot, sporting his wealth in this part of Naples, well off the tourist trail?
Taking a deep breath, she lifted her chin. Dizziness overwhelmed her. She blinked to clear the spots in front of her eyes. Putting her hands on the floor, careful to avoid any fragments, she pushed to her feet, avoiding the hand outstretched to help her. She stared at him. Glared at him.
“You know this man?” Franco demanded in the thick Neapolitan patois they spoke here, especially when they didn’t want strangers understanding them.
She took a step back. Franco placed his hands on her shoulders, beefy heaviness weighing her down. “No. I don’t know him.”
“I thought you said you spoke English? I heard you once, didn’t I? If you don’t know him, what’s the problem?”
Lina folded her arms. “My English isn’t too good. I showed tourists around the Coliseum when I lived in Rome. Stuff like that.”
Jonathan stared, his blue, blue eyes roaming over her, stark awareness there. “Bella.”
Before she could censor herself, she responded in English, but remembered to keep it broken, more for Franco and the customers’ ears than Jonathan’s. It was too late to try to fool him. “Lina is my name.” And calling a woman “Bella” was likely to make any Italian burst into uncontrollable laughter. So gauche, a stupid name she’d always hated.
“Bellina Mazzanti Forde.” Bellina was even worse. A diminutive, better suited to a baby than a full-grown woman. She’d been glad to ditch the full version of her name. Now here it was again.
“Angelina Mazzaro,” she corrected him. “I do not know this Bellina Mazzanti Forde. Our names are similar. You must have us mixed up.” She prayed the name wouldn’t jolt any distant memory in Franco’s mind. But he didn’t read the gossip magazines, hardly bothered with the national newspaper.
To her relief, Jonathan shrugged, accepting her statement. “Whatever. I need you, Lina.”
She thought fast, turned to confront Franco, reverting to Neapolitan. “I do not know him. Will he hurt me, rape me? How can I tell?” She forced tears to her eyes—not difficult, since shock still reverberated through her and she knew she still trembled in the aftermath.
Franco responded as she’d hoped. He lifted his hands, palms forward, in a placatory gesture. “Calm down, Lina, I don’t do that. I would never use you in that way.” No, but she’d seen whores using the café as a rendezvous, and knew Franco pretended not to notice, for a good tip. Hell, she’d done it herself, turned a blind eye to the girls chatting up potential clients. The tips had come in handy. “Just talk to this man, okay? He wants something, but my English is bad. I don’t want him hanging around. Look at him—you don’t get those jeans in a discount store. Get rid of him before somebody shakes him down and robs him blind. I don’t want him bringing trouble here.”
That sounded reasonable, or would if Jonathan had been a complete stranger to her. But she knew him, knew he wouldn’t let her go now. Mentally she bade her job goodbye and skimmed over the belongings she’d need to take with her when she left. Maybe she could just disappear for a week, until he went home.She’d tell Franco the truth, or a version of it, and he’d cover for her, tell him that she had gone. Jonathan belonged to her old life, the one she was trying so hard to leave behind. Rich men were part of her life, once, or so she’d tell Franco. He’d understand.
With her plan in place, Lina felt a little better. She turned around once more to face Jonathan. “What you want?” she asked, careful to retain her accent, careful to not reveal just how well she spoke English.
His smile, that arrogant grin she remembered so well, quirked his lips. “I want your help, Lina. I want to find Byron.”
Of all the things he could have said, she hadn’t expected that one. She frowned. “I not see him.”
“At least you don’t deny knowing him.” He glanced around. “Come outside.”
She quelled her streak of panic. This was her neighborhood. People knew her and besides, she could scream in the busy street. Best to tell him what he needed to know and then get rid of him. “Okay.” She shoved a wayward strand of hair behind her ears and glanced at Franco, reverting to Neapolitan. “He wants me to go outside with him and show him where to go. He’s lost here.”
Franco grinned. “About as lost as a tourist can be. Show him. Don’t go far.”
She nodded and threaded her way through the cluster of closely packed tables to the entrance to the café, ignoring the patrons who watched her in curious near silence. As her only concession to ensure he was following, she glanced back, and caught a whiff of his cologne. He hadn’t changed it, then. The scent gave her a sudden, vivid vision of a room full of laughing, chatting people, with loud music throbbing, and a handsome face smiling into hers. A pang of loss followed the vision. She hadn’t thought about the life she’d left behind in ages. Years. Now Jonathan brought it back. She hated him for that.
The bell made its cheerful ding as she and Jonathan went out.
Out in the street, cars drove past at the usual Neapolitan pace—breakneck. The scent of sausages and garlic from the café wove around her, adding to the atmosphere. She leaned against the green-painted barrier between her place and the shoe shop next door, lifting her leg to prop her foot on the paintwork, as she did so often during the course of her day. Especially at this time of year, when the only breeze available was outside.
She lifted her chin. “Well?”
He stood in front of her, legs apart, hands on hips, looking as arrogant as if he owned the place. “Well what? Where’s Byron?”
She hadn’t heard that name for a while and it sent a jolt of sorrow through her. “I don’t know.”
“Don’t fucking lie to me, Bella, or I’ll go in there and tell them who you are.”
She bit her lip, released it, watched the way his gaze followed the movement. “Franco knows most of it.” A lie, but hopefully he wouldn’t call her on it.
The corner of his mouth lifted in a sneer. “How about where you come from, your real name? How about that?” He paused. “Lina.”
She took a deep breath. The name she preferred to use these days sounded different on his lips. “I stopped being Bellina Forde five years ago. Now I’m nobody, nothing. So leave me to my nothing, and go. I can’t tell you anything. I don’t know where Byron is. I haven’t seen him in two years.”
“You expect me to believe you?” He didn’t need to raise his voice for the low menace it held to seep through. “He took the train from Rome to Naples last week. Tell me you don’t know that, either.” He pushed his face forward, close to hers. She wished she hadn’t leaned against the wall now, because she couldn’t retreat.
“I don’t know that.” Questions thronged her mind now, questions she wanted answered before she told him anything else. “So why now, Jonathan? How come you didn’t come looking for him anytime this last five years? Where were you?” Where were any of them when Byron needed them? When she needed them? Strangers had helped her, not her family or her friends.
Jonathan closed his eyes, shielding her from his incisive, powerful stare. He was flaying her alive here, bringing up the past she wanted to forget. Needed to forget. Because if she remembered, she might not survive.
He leaned back and opened his eyes, stared at her. “I did. I looked for him, for you both, until I dropped.” His gaze returned to her, hard once more. “But I didn’t find you, did I? Until now. This time I won’t leave until I know where he is.”
“How did you find me?” What mistake had she made?
He regarded her for a whole thirty seconds in silence. She knew because she counted very slowly, holding her resolve with an effort of will that surprised her. Eventually he sighed. “I never stopped looking."
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