Chapter Two
ASTRID SLAMMED THE door of the horrendous taxi behind her and hoisted her petite overnight bag onto her shoulder, gripping her briefcase in the other hand.
While the flight from London to Milan had been relatively straightforward and pleasant, everything since her arrival had been utter chaos.
A baggage handler strike had caused massive queues, with her private chauffeur having a breakdown and no replacement being available for hours, so she’d eventually capitulated and booked a taxi, thinking, how bad could it be?
Pretty bad, it had turned out. The man had had her clinging to the door handle as he’d careened around every back road from the city out to the picturesque little lakeside town where the Accardi family brand had been born, a town that was currently in the peak of the summer tourist season.
All of that, only to make it to the gates of the address Tristan had provided to find a crowd of photographers and a trio of bullish security guards preventing her entry.
She’d shown her PR credentials, and they’d eventually cleared her entry on their ear pieces, but her taxi was not allowed in, so she’d been forced to haul her small overnight bag and briefcase up the mile-long gravelled drive—in five-inch heels, no less.
Her chest heaved with a mixture of exertion and outrage as she rounded a cherub-filled fountain and looked up at the facade of an impressive lakefront villa that she was pretty sure she had seen before in a movie.
It was no secret that Elite One racing drivers had wealth, but the sprawling Lombardy estate seemed to be on a whole other level of ostentation. She found herself letting out a little, ‘Woo,’ as a butler opened the arched double front-door and descended the steps to greet her, white gloves and all.
‘Come in, quickly,’ the elderly man said, his melodic voice completely at odds with the deep scowl that dominated his face.
Astrid frowned as she was hurried inside to a grand hall with marble and gold gilt everywhere she looked.
She didn’t have much of a chance to take it all in, however, as a trio of beautiful women dressed in black descended the grand staircase at the end of the hall in a fit of giggles.
She recognised one of them as a model she had managed for an Elite One clothing campaign a number of years before, and tipped her head in brief greeting.
The women’s heels clicked along the tiles, smiles fading as they caught sight of her and the butler, who was evidently even less amused by their appearance than he had been at Astrid’s.
‘Scusate, guests may only exit by water taxi.’ The butler gestured wildly with a thoroughly Italian hand gesture. ‘One moment, signorina.’
‘Apollo is expecting me,’ she lied confidently, adjusting the strap on her briefcase with an air of impatience. ‘If you can just point me in his direction.’
The man hesitated a moment, but Astrid raised one delicate brow and waited. To her relief, he sighed and rattled off brief directions before guiding the other women through a set of double doors, leaving her alone.
Either the old man’s directions were off or the hallways in the grand villa were moving of their own accord, because Astrid quickly found herself in another identical hall with no clue where she was.
The sound of loud music floated from somewhere in the house like a ghostly siren’s call.
A look inside the first open doorway showed a scene of utter chaos with a small crowd of people apparently sleeping upon floor cushions and sofas, whilst almost every available surface was covered in champagne bottles and glasses.
‘Is he hosting a funeral or a bachelor party?’ Astrid muttered to herself as she stepped round a trail of clothing and what appeared to be confetti strewn along the next hallway.
More evidence of heavy partying emerged through a long glass window that looked out onto a modern indoor pool and cabana area filled with even more bottles of expensive alcohol.
One man lay asleep on a lounging chair, completely nude except for a swathe of white faux fur around his shoulders.
From a PR point of view, this was an utter disaster for a man who was being accused of celebrating the death of his famous grandfather.
Still, not the worst party aftermath she’d been subjected to in her career.
This might explain Apollo’s impulsive decision to break his contract; wealthy drivers often let loose during breaks in their gruelling training regimes.
This industry was a pressure cooker of sorts.
But Apollo had been raised in this world, in a powerful family where appearances were everything.
He should know better—a harsh truth she planned to inform him of immediately before they got to work cleaning up this mess.
The music grew louder as she reached a new wing of the house and she followed, finding herself on a mezzanine level that looked down upon a second indoor swimming pool.
This one was Olympic length and ran alongside a fully fitted, glass-walled commercial gym.
A curved staircase led her down to the ground floor of the bright space, the source of the pounding rock music now undeniable.
A man emerged from the far end of the pool and Astrid jumped, realising she was looking at the broad expanse of Apollo Accardi’s famously muscular back.
Not that she had memorised his body; it was just hard not to recognise him with the rather distinctive tapestry of swirling tattoos that decorated his rich brown skin.
The music drowned out any hope of him hearing her, so she was forced to pursue him through a series of rooms filled with high-tech training equipment, her breath heaving in her lungs.
She passed through, noting an expensive electronic simulation racing set-up was paused, the screen showing the new track layout for the next race, one month away in Monaco.
So typical of an Elite One driver to throw a raging party in the wake of a family funeral, but still spend the next day training harder than any other athlete.
But all thoughts swiftly left her mind when she entered the next room to find the man himself braced over a large steel bath tub, muscles rippling in the midday light that streamed in from the glass-domed roof above.
Mouth dry, Astrid cleared her throat to announce herself and fought not to squirm when dark eyes pinned her in place.
She knew the ice bath he was slowly lowering himself into was to reduce muscle pain after heavy training and competitions.
She knew this because racing drivers were her speciality, but Apollo…
. She never could figure him out. Even now, with his eyes raking up her body in a slow assessment, she felt her skin prickle with awareness and had to resist the urge to cover her chest…
just in case her treacherous breasts gave her away through the secure padding of her bra.
‘Astrid.’ His husky voice was a low growl as he submerged himself fully into the icy water without so much as a shiver. Still not breaking eye contact, he steeled his jaw. ‘If you’re here to babysit me some more, I’m afraid you’ve travelled for nothing.’
‘Babysitting is not an option, now you’ve already made your mess. I’m here to clean it up.’ She spoke in a deliberately neutral tone, setting her briefcase and overnight bag down gently on the tiled floor before crossing her arms. ‘I understand you are grieving.’
‘I’m not grieving. I’m done,’ Apollo said calmly, his eyes closed, and head tilted back in a way that put the impossibly thick expanse of his neck on full display. She mentally shook herself, standing up to her full height.
‘Your cousins are already trying to use your grandfather’s passing to smear your name. Your behaviour is not helping matters.’
The few times she’d met him, he’d usually smiled at her and flirted, but not today.
Today, he just seemed exhausted. Grief did that to people, she supposed, and felt a pang of guilt at what she was here to try and make him do.
She realised how strange it must have been, going from winning an Elite One Premio to burying the man who had helped forge his career in the space of a few days.
Maybe that was what she needed to appeal to: the memory of the man he’d lost, and to ensuring Enzo’s name wasn’t tarnished.
She took a seat on a nearby bench, crossing her legs as demurely as she could manage in her knee-length skirt.
‘Look, I know that you and your grandfather had been estranged for a number of years, and I understand his death must have come as a shock.’
‘The man thrived on coffee and cigarettes, not to mention he never took a damned day off in fifty years. It was a shock he lived this long.’ He paused, meeting her eyes.
‘Did I tell you that he called me? The morning of his heart attack. He asked if we could talk. I’d heard he had been in poor health over the past year…
Still, I said no. I didn’t realise it was this serious. ’
Astrid blinked at the emotionless delivery of his words. Brown eyes met hers and for a split second she saw under the facade. This man wasn’t just exhausted and grieving… . he was also furious.
‘Give me an hour,’ she cajoled softly. ‘We can talk through the situation over lunch and, if you’re still sure of your decision, I’ll go.’
‘Ever the professional, Ms Lewis,’ he growled. ‘I don’t need or want Falco Roux stepping into my family conflict. As I’m sure you’re aware, I’m no longer your concern.’
‘Like it or not, your actions have made this my concern. I’ve had to fly here on my day off so, if you have decided to suddenly give up your chance at winning the driver’s championship, then you have plenty of time to get up out of your little bath and help me fix it.’
Apollo closed his eyes, stretching muscular arms up over his head. ‘I’m rather busy at present.’