Love Islands…The Collection. Jane PorterЧитать онлайн книгу.

       Prologue

      RAFFAELE PETRI POCKETED his credit card and left the waterfront restaurant. Ignoring the stares, he nodded his thanks to the waiter. The service had been excellent, attentive but not fawning, the tip well-earned.

      Raffaele hadn’t forgotten how it felt to depend on the goodwill of rich foreigners.

      He paused, his eyes adjusting to the sunshine. The sea glittered as it slapped the whiter-than-white yachts. The salt tang was strong on the air and he breathed deep, relishing it after the overpowering perfume of the women who’d tried to catch his attention from the next table.

      He sauntered past huge yachts and motor cruisers. The Marmaris waterfront was packed with ostentatious displays of wealth. Just the place to invest, if his research was right, which it always was. This trip to Turkey would be profitable and—

      A bray of laughter froze his footsteps. The hoarse, distinctive sound ran up his spine like dancing skeletal fingers, pinching his skin.

      Raffaele’s breath rushed in like the snap of a spinnaker in a stiff breeze. The laugh came again, yanking his attention to a towering multistorey cruiser. Sunlight polished the chestnut hair of the man leaning from the upper deck, shouting encouragement at two women on the promenade.

      The ground beneath Raffaele’s feet seemed to heave and buckle, mirroring the tumble of his constricting gut. His hands rolled tight as he stared at the florid man waving a champagne glass at the women.

      ‘Come on up. The bubbly’s on ice.’

       Raffaele knew that voice.

       Even after twenty-one years he recognised it.

      That smug tone, that hoarse laugh, had crept through his nightmares since he was twelve.

      He’d given up hope of finding him. He’d never known the man’s name and the slimy villain had disappeared from Genoa faster than a rat leaving a scuttled ship. No one had listened to a skinny twelve-year-old who’d insisted the foreigner with hair the colour of castagne was to blame for Gabriella’s death.

       Gabriella...

      Fury ignited. The wrath of thwarted retribution, of loathing and grief.

      The blast of emotion stunned him.

      He’d spent his life perfecting the art of not feeling, not caring for anyone, not trusting, since Gabriella. But now... It took everything he had merely to stand still and take in the scene.

      Keenly he catalogued everything, from the guy’s features, grown pudgy with age and self-indulgence, to the name of the cruiser and the fact his staff, neat in white shorts and shirts, spoke English as only natives could. One of them offered to help the women aboard.

      Girls, Raffaele amended, not women. Both blonde, both in their teens, though one was made up to look ten years older. Raffa was an expert on make-up and on women.

      The Englishman’s tastes hadn’t changed. He still liked them young and blonde.

      Bile rose. Raffa’s heart thrashed with the need to climb aboard and deliver justice for Gabriella with his fists. There was no doubt this was the same man.

      But Raffa was no longer an impulsive, grieving kid.

      Now he had the power to do more than beat the man to a bloody pulp. That thought alone held him back. Even so, it was a battle to rein in his need for instant vengeance.

      ‘Ciao, bella.’ He strolled forward, curling his mouth in a half smile the camera, and millions of women the world over, loved. Not for a second did he lift his gaze to the middle-aged man above them.

      ‘Lucy—’ The taller one nudged her companion. ‘Quick. Turn around. He looks like... He couldn’t be...could he?’

      Two pairs of eyes widened as he approached. Twin gasps of excitement. The one who’d spoken smiled wide while her companion looked dazed.

      Raffa was used to dealing with besotted fans. But instead of a nod of acknowledgement before moving on, he increased the wattage of his smile in an invitation that had never once failed.

      The taller girl stepped closer, pulling her friend along, the boat and its owner forgotten. They didn’t even blink as the man above them called agitated instructions for them to come aboard.

      ‘You look just like Raffaele Petri. I suppose people say that all the time.’ Her voice was breathless and young. Too young for the man on the boat. Or for Raffa. The difference was that with him she’d be safe.

      ‘That’s because I am Raffaele Petri.’

      Twin gasps met the announcement and the smaller girl looked as if she might faint.

      ‘Are you all right?’

      She nodded, goggle-eyed, while her friend dragged out her phone. ‘Do you mind?’

      ‘Of course not.’ The world was full of amateur photos of him. ‘I was going to get a coffee.’ He gestured to a street leading away from the waterfront. ‘Care to join me?’

      The girls were so busy chattering as they walked that only Raffa heard the Englishman’s abusive yells. He’d been deprived of his afternoon’s amusement.

       Soon he’d be deprived of everything that mattered to him.

      The Englishman wouldn’t escape again. Justice would be sweet.

      This time Raffa’s smile was genuine.