Awakening His Innocent Cinderella

CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER THIRTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER FOURTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

Extract (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER ONE (#ua6333a36-0c23-5549-ba9e-9da7a1fa2a1f)

BRUSHING BACK A lock of hair, Gracie James entered the last three digits into the discreet keypad and paused expectantly. An electronic beep sounded and the heavy iron gates smoothly swung back. She wheeled her bike through the opening and leaned it against the nearest of the tall trees that formed a guard of honour the length of the driveway. She walked the rest of the way, making the most of her opportunity to see one of Lake Como’s luxury hideaways and cooling down from her ride at the same time. The grounds were stunning enough, but she still gasped when the building came into view.

Oh...yes.

In the gorgeous Italian village of Bellezzo, where she’d been living for the last four months, Gracie had thought she’d become immune to the stunning architecture Italy had to offer. So wrong. Villa Rosetta was an eighteenth-century masterpiece of symmetry and style with its precisely spaced archways, three floors of warm-coloured stone with large, gleaming windows and that perfectly placed turret on top. The luxury looked all the more magical thanks to the golden hue from the setting sun.

‘Amazing,’ she whispered as she walked to the edge of the marble patio to get a better look. ‘Amazing, amazing, amazing.’

The villa had long been an exclusive holiday home for wealthy families seeking privacy and luxury during the Italian summer, but for the last month it had been closed. Apparently the new owner had undertaken refurbishment work—upsetting the locals by shutting off access and shipping in city contractors.

No one in Bellezzo knew what he had planned now the work had been completed. But Gracie had heard whispers that he might not lease it out any more, which worried the villagers—the spending power of the beautiful people was of huge benefit to the community. Now, according to one gossip, Rafael Vitale, billionaire broker and reckless playboy, planned to have orgies there. Gracie inwardly giggled at the ridiculous thought—though the villa was certainly armed with all the privacy required for decadence and sinful delight.

Not that she knew much about either. But it didn’t seem right to her that just one person would enjoy this. She’d feel like a peanut rattling around in a shoebox if she lived here alone. So, yes, bring on the nymphs and satyrs.

She glanced along the villa’s private beach and saw the narrow hidden channel behind the wall through which boats could reach the lavish boat shed. She turned to the gardens—the reason for her visit. On the first terrace a swimming pool and a spa were set into crisply manicured lawns, with a half-dozen sun loungers evenly placed along the side. The azure water was another temptation—no one would ever know if she had a quick, secret dip. She glanced at her watch and reluctantly walked past to that springy, lush lawn.

Hidden beyond the trimmed hedges up on the next terrace was the famous tangled rose garden—dozens of heirloom roses planted in a deceptively ‘careless’ manner that formed a sweet-scented lover’s knot—entrancing and romantic and utterly gorgeous. No wonder her elderly neighbour Alex Peterson had been desperate for her to check on them.

She’d met the widower on her first day in Bellezzo. He lived on the ground floor of the small apartment building in which she’d rented a small unit. She’d stopped to enjoy the roses growing in the container garden by the gate. They’d started talking—in English—a heavenly treat given her appalling Italian.

Like her, Alex was an import. He’d married an Italian woman and had lived lakeside with her for fifty years until her death eleven months ago. His son lived in Milan, while his daughter and grandchildren lived in London. His life now was all about his hybrid roses as he aimed to create delicately scented flowers with masses of petals, while at the same time avoiding the matchmaking attempts of half the village.

It had become Gracie’s habit to bring him a pastry in her afternoon break from the café where she worked—Bar Pasticceria Zullo. But he’d been knocked down with the flu in the height of summer, which was unfair, and given his age she was worried. In turn, he was overly agitated about the precious flowers that he’d been tending for decades.

Despite the villa’s sale, Alex had refused to relinquish responsibility for the rose garden. Seeing it in full bloom now, she wasn’t surprised. With the amount of work that he’d put in, she knew he wanted them perfect for the new owner. He’d been desperate for her to ensure they weren’t wilting in the intense heat. Even now, at nightfall, the temperature was a touch too hot.

Tucking that loose strand of hair back again, Gracie fossicked for the hose and spent five minutes figuring out how to attach the thing to the tap. Natural gardener she was not. But finally she got it sorted. Then she phoned her friend because she’d already taken longer than planned.

‘Alex, it’s me, Gracie. I’m at the villa. The roses are beautiful. I’ll just water them and come back.’

‘How are they looking?’

‘Amazing. I’ll take a picture for you.’

‘Don’t worry about bringing me a picture. You just go into the village.’

She smiled at his bossiness. ‘I’m not leaving you alone for any longer than necessary. You’re not well.’

‘I’m not alone. Sofia arrived ten minutes ago with six pints of minestrone and won’t leave until I’ve eaten it all. I don’t know why she’s fussing. I’m not that sick.’

Sofia was the cousin of Francesca, Gracie’s boss at the pasticceria, and she was formidable. ‘Hide some in the roses.’ Gracie laughed.

Her stomach rumbled in outrage, reminding her she’d not eaten since grabbing a small roll before the rush had begun. Six pints of Sofia’s minestrone sounded fantastic to her.

‘Are you crazy?’ Alex muttered.

Gracie laughed again. ‘I’ll still—’

‘Go into the village,’ he interrupted. ‘Enjoy the festival. It’s your first. The fireworks are good.’

Gracie hesitated. She would like to go to the festival, especially seeing she’d spent all day baking a million pastries to be sold at the pasticceria’s stall, and Francesca had insisted she not work the evening shift in return. But Gracie was conscious of how horrible it was to be alone—especially when sick. ‘Are you sure?’

‘Of course I’m sure.’ He sighed. ‘Sofia has settled in. I won’t get rid of her for ages.’

‘Well, I’ll check on you in the morning.’

‘Not too early,’ he said gruffly. ‘You get up even earlier than I do.’

Gracie winced. Such were the perils of working both the early morning and the evening shifts at Bar Pasticceria Zullo, but working this hard to gain respect and a foothold was worth it, and she was happier than she’d ever been. ‘I’ll see you after my first shift, then.’

‘I look forward to it. Thank you, Gracie.’

‘My pleasure, Alex.’

Happy that he sounded so much better, she quickly snapped a picture to show him in the morning anyway. As soon as she got to the village she would be visiting the pasticceria for some sustenance. Tonight was Bellezzo’s annual festival—featuring lanterns on the lake, music and dancing. Fireworks. Food. Families. Fun. All the things she’d never experienced.

There’d be tourists, of course, plenty of tourists, but Gracie refused to consider herself one. She was a local with a home and she was determined to remain. After a childhood of upheaval and constantly having to rebuild, her spirits soared at the pleasure of now having a place to call hers. And while she might not have family here, she had a friend who needed her. She loved that.

Finally she flicked on the hose. The power of it caught her unawares. With a laugh she gripped it more tightly, giving each rose bush a big drink.

A hand suddenly slammed on her shoulder from behind—hard and heavy and so unexpected she screamed and whirled, brandishing the hose like a machine gun. All she could make out in the blurry spray was a massively large masculine frame and that simply made her aim all the more accurate.

‘What are you doing?’ she shrieked at him.

‘What are you doing?’ he shouted back—matching her English—but his accent had an American tang.

He wrenched the hose from her but it twisted as he grabbed it, spraying a shockingly cold streak across her stomach before he flung it to the ground, the water gushing harmlessly across the lawn. Gasping, Gracie stared at her assailant.

He was stunning. Wet. Angry. Soaked to the skin, the tuxedo he was wearing was now ruined. Tuxedo. Her stunned feeble brain attempted some computations.

‘Why the water cannon?’ He wiped one hand over his face, the other down his front. Droplets of water splattered from his fingers.

That tux was saturated and this was no intruder. Instinctively—unthinkingly—she reached out to help sweep the streaming rivers of water from his suit. She brushed frantically, her hands sopping, until she realised that he was no longer attempting to do the same thing. He was standing utterly still. She froze too, mortification finally sinking in.