The Italian's Passion

By Joanne Walsh

Wealthy, incredibly sexy Italian entrepreneur Danilo Spinozzi zooms into Lucy Luxton’s life on a motorcycle one quiet afternoon, and she can’t keep her mind or eyes off him. The people of Ravello, a small town on the Amalfi Coast where she is studying jewelry design, warn her that he is the town’s bad boy and a ruthless womanizer, but how can Lucy keep her distance when he is the one man who looks beyond her shy, plump exterior and sees the sensuous and creative woman about to bloom?

Devastated by the one woman in his life who should have loved and protected him, Danillo Spinozzi has had good reason to avoid long-term commitment. But after he takes one look at Lucy and basks in her kindness and unassuming, voluptuous beauty, he needs to make her his for more than a handful of nights. She’s a girl who deserves to be treated right, a tall order when he’s left a trail of broken female hearts behind. He’s going to have to do something he’s never done before—stay and woo her.

Even though Lucy knows she’s due to return home to England at the end of August and that Danilo will move on to his next conquest, she can’t resist him… Or has Danilo really changed his ways for good?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tule Publishing
• Release date: Sep 17, 2015
• ISBN: 9781943963171

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Dedication

To Denise and Terri, the other two angles of the T.W. Triangle, and my two dear critique partners.

Thanks for all your support and friendship.

Dear Reader,

Can you resist a bad boy—tough, wild, alpha-masculine on the outside, but probably hiding a sensitive heart on the inside, after fighting to escape his past and his demons?

I loved writing about Danilo Spinozzi, now a successful entrepreneur, but a former tearaway whose reputation for badness still dogs him, and shy girl Lucy Luxton who also struggled to fit in during her teenage years; both former outsiders, they’ve got more in common than they think—and the physical attraction between them is hot! But Lucy hesitates about getting involved with Danilo. What will happen at the end of the summer—surely he’ll walk away to make his next conquest? Maybe she’s just got to take a risk and start believing in herself before she can tame him...

I hope you enjoy taking the journey to love with Lucy and Danilo on the beautiful Amalfi coast of southern Italy.

Arrivederci!

Joanne Walsh

Chapter One

Danilo Spinozzi sat astride the motorbike, easing up the zip of his close-fitting black leather jacket. He was well pleased with the model he had hired: a Triumph Bonneville Newchurch—a classic British bike with an 865cc parallel twin engine, and one he’d wanted to try out for quite a while. Now he was here in England, with a free weekend sandwiched between two intense weeks of business meetings; this was a perfect opportunity to do just that, and take in some of the local countryside at the same time.

He checked the sleek metallic-and-chrome machine was in neutral, then kick-started it with the heel of his boot. As it roared into life, he pushed down the visor of his crash helmet, eased out onto the road and, seeing that it was empty, shifted the gears higher, letting out the clutch and releasing the throttle. The thrust of the bike was exhilarating and the vibration between his legs was gratifyingly fierce. As speed and power claimed him, he felt the tension of his busy week dissipate and his head begin to clear.

As soon as he could, he turned onto a lane, shaded by budding trees and dappled by April sunlight. At first it was narrow, hilly, with a number of bends; he relished flexing his prowess at negotiating the twists and turns. Then it straightened out a little, became less wooded, and he could coast a little, listen to the smooth purr of the bike’s powerful engine, and take in the green verges filled with wild yellow daffodils. It was verdant and pretty here, different from the rugged, more dramatic landscape of his Italian home. In half an hour or so, he might look for a village pub—somewhere old and quaint that served hearty English food; he fancied a traditional Sunday lunch of roast beef and Yorkshire pudding.

His mind wandered to the previous week of meetings he’d had with British clients interested in acting as retailers for his new Casa Spinozzi range of luxury goods. They had gone well and he already had a good, solid set of prospects here in the UK to add to the European-wide launch of Casa Spinozzi the following September. Caterina was doing a great job of marketing and PR for him.

Caterina. His gut tightened at a memory of ducking as the fiery brunette had screamed, ‘Bastardo!’ and hurled her stiletto-heeled shoe at him in Milan when he’d ended their brief affair last fall. She’d been utterly furious then, even though she’d led him to understand at the start that she was as happy as he to indulge in a fling; she’d come on to him, had said she was in the process of getting divorced and not looking for anything serious. But as last summer had turned to autumn and his passion for her had cooled, she’d sensed his withdrawal and started to cling and demand his attention. And when he’d finally told her that the sex couldn’t go on, and that they must go forward just as professional partners, focused only on the Casa Spinozzi account, she’d gone up in smoke. He’d been walking on hot coals with her ever since. However, he couldn’t entirely blame her for her reaction; it had been foolish of him to get casually involved with his close colleague, especially when so much was at stake. He had let her beauty and the promise of passion without strings cloud his judgement. He felt a twinge of guilt, as he knew he’d hurt her.

Feeling his shoulders stiffen again, he saw a passing place in the lane and pulled over for a while, to let the bike and his thoughts idle a while and try to recapture his relaxed mood. He pulled off his helmet and ran a frustrated hand through his raven-black, wavy hair, letting warm, grassy spring air fill his nostrils. His brain would not leave him alone. Caterina had been right: he could be a bastardo when it came to women, though only in his habit of never staying the course with any of them. While he was with his girlfriends, he made a point of enjoying them and treating them right; it was just that he didn’t stick around. A psychologist might say that his bad start in life, with a mother who’d been cold, calculating and rejecting, and an adolescence where he’d lost his way and become the baddest boy in Ravello, had cemented the foundations of his devil-may-care attitude and inability to hold down a steady relationship. He sighed to himself. His wild reputation still stalked him even now back home, some of the townsfolk being unwilling to let the past lie—even though he had long since turned himself around—or not gossip about his track record with the female sex. His girlfriends were inevitably bold, beautiful and sexy, wanting to tame him, some attracted by his prosperity too. His father said that when his son met the right kind of girl, one who was decent and sincere, loyal and loving—just as Primo Spinozzi himself had done when he’d met Felicita after parting from his first wife, Danilo’s mother—everything would fall into place.

It was a nice thought. At thirty-two, Danilo knew time wasn’t waiting on him and, deep down, there was a part of him that would like to meet a woman he could trust, could rely on, and maybe have a family of his own with them. But his scepticism was ingrained too. As far as he could see, the ‘right girl’ didn’t exist, and even if she were to miraculously appear he wasn’t sure of his staying power. All he’d done so far was to leave a trail of broken hearts behind him. He had long since reasoned that, perhaps, he just couldn’t do love because he hadn’t entirely known it himself.

He donned his helmet again. Enough of the brooding. It would get him nowhere, and he’d learned not to dwell but to keep moving. He had a free day to do what he wanted. So he’d seek out that pub, the roast lunch, and perhaps a half of what the British called ‘shandy’: beer mixed with lemonade. He smiled to himself: lemons; it always came back to lemons. He pulled out into the lane again and watched the bike’s speedometer rise as he accelerated and felt the rush of the wind; it didn’t get much better than this.

About a mile later, he saw a large house up ahead, sitting on another hill and surrounded by manicured, hedged gardens. He gently slowed to take the bend before it. Around the other side, he suddenly was confronted by a fat, silvery-grey creature, trotting across the road with something in its mouth. On hearing the bike, the animal froze in the centre of the tarmac, looking at him with wide, frightened, shining eyes, his prey still in his mouth. Danilo had no choice but to slam on his brakes and swerve, or the cat would be road kill. But the camber of the road was slippery and he was unable to stop the unfamiliar bike skidding. The machine keeled over, taking him down, and he landed in a side ditch...

Chapter Two

The throaty, insistent sound of a powerful motorbike approaching at high speed urged Lucy to run faster across the lawn covered in fallen blossoms, in pursuit of Benji, her mother’s Siamese cat. If Benji got out into the lane, he might be run over. Thank goodness she had on her ballerina flats, rather than the high heels her mother had been so keen for her to wear today, which would have had her sinking into the damp grass. But though his fat, furry tummy swung from side to side as he moved, and he had a large cooked chicken breast clamped between his jaws, Benji was able to waddle on at a smart pace and she couldn’t quite catch up with him. He squeezed through a small, low gap in the garden hedge, while the increasing roar of the motorbike indicated that it was just yards away. Panting, Lucy tore open the garden gate, just as she heard the screeching of brakes and then a dull thud, followed by silence.

All she could see was a large tyre spinning above the edge of the ditch on the other side of the lane. Then she heard angry muttering in a foreign language—was it Italian? The bike wheel shifted and a helmeted head appeared, followed by the body to which it was attached, tall and powerful in supple black bike leathers. Gloved hands rose to remove the helmet and reveal a tousled dark-haired head, the face of which took her breath away with its mixture of rugged beauty and stubble-chinned masculinity. His eyes rounded on her, flaming with annoyance.

"Dio! Was that your damned cat? It nearly killed me!" The leather-clad god spoke English fluently, and very angrily, in a deep melodic voice and with a delicious accent. He began sweeping off clods of mud and pieces of vegetation from his long limbs.

Lucy tore her gaze away from him and looked around anxiously for Benji, but there was no sign. Yes. You ... you d-didn’t hit him, did you?

The man took in a deep breath that grated with irritation and surveyed her coldly. Do you mean the cat? No, he replied through gritted teeth, I did not. I tried to avoid him, and this is what happened. He gestured to the bike lying upended in the ditch. I do not think I am hurt, and the bike seems to be okay too. But thank you for asking, he finished with more than a touch of sarcasm, giving her a glare.

Oh ... ah ... Lucy stumbled, feeling her throat constrict and her speech falter. Why did it have to let her down right now? I am so, so s-sorry. Are you sure you’re alright? she pushed out.

The god sighed impatiently. Yes, I am good. He removed his gloves, flung them down on the lane’s grassy verge and patted his leather jacket as if searching for something. For a moment, Lucy forgot herself as she couldn’t help watching his movements, feeling herself mesmerised as his large, bronzed hands skimmed over his sleek, muscular torso and then pulled down a zip.

But this is not, he pronounced, returning her to the present. Looking at the slim, slightly bent phone he’d pulled out of an inner pocket, he demanded crisply, Do you have a phone I could use to call someone to get the bike out of this hole?

At that moment, Lucy’s father and David, her sister Caroline’s fiancé, arrived on the scene and took charge. Dr Luxton insisted on shepherding the motorbike rider into the house where he could check him over, while David went to haul the large and obviously heavy machine out of the ditch.

Lucy retrieved the rider’s discarded gloves and heard a shrill miaow behind her: there was Benji, clearly unhurt and triumphantly licking his lips after his chicken dinner. She let out a small sigh of relief. You fur-monster! she admonished, but the seal point just surveyed her with insolent blue eyes. Oh, come on then, she ordered, relenting. Together they crossed the lane and went back into the garden, before following the path bordered by blooming narcissi, bluebells and primroses up to the house, to find out what had happened to the stranger who had skidded into their midst.

When she reached the back door, which opened into her parents’ spacious modern kitchen, Lucy found only Nana Morag seated at the centre island, chopping salad greens. Morag’s blue eyes twinkled in her rosy-cheeked face as she said in her soft Scottish burr, Your mother’s getting her knickers in a twist again. We’ve got an extra, unexpected guest for lunch and she’s already one chicken breast down.

Right on cue, Fiona Luxton rushed in from the hallway, car keys and shopping bag in hand, looking frazzled and sounding breathless. I’ve got to nip back to the supermarket ... get some more chicken ... otherwise lunch is ruined! Have you seen my handbag? I can’t find it ...

It’s here, Mum, Lucy said patiently, where you left it last night when you got back from grocery shopping. She handed it to Fiona who, she noticed, was looking unlike her usual impeccably groomed self, instead strained and tired, her shoulder-length blonde bob tousled, despite sessions with her hairdresser and beautician yesterday. Lucy loved her mother and admired her drive, but sometimes she wished that Fiona wasn’t such a perfectionist and always trying to impress.

Do you actually need any more chicken, Fiona? Morag queried. You’ve laid on a grand spread, with plenty of different dishes. No one will notice.

Oh, Mummy, Fiona replied dramatically, of course I need more! David’s father is a high court judge!

Lucy and Morag’s eyes met briefly. Och, I’m sure he won’t have you jailed for a smaller helping of chicken, peach and feta cheese salad, Morag said wryly.

But Fiona was not in the mood for humour. "This is