Page 1 of Captive in His Castle (The Martinelli Wedding #1)

Chapter One

A pproximately six miles from the small village of Positano on the Amalfi Coast is the even smaller village of Accardiano.

Like Positano, it overlooks the Mediterranean and, from a distance, looks to be cut into towering cliffs.

Unlike Positano, it’s rarely frequented by mortals because Accardiano is a playground exclusively for the fabulously rich.

Of course, mere mortals are free to take a wander along its harbour filled with multi-million-pound yachts or tread its sandy coastline, but the quadruple cost of a normal coffee or ice cream usually has the desired effect of stopping those mortals from wandering up its steep, narrow streets lined with colourful boutiques and cafes.

That and the man-mountains, all clad in black and all not-so-discreetly armed, who like to glower menacingly at anyone who walks within twenty feet of their particular client or their client’s yacht. Or whose face doesn’t fit.

That particular Monday, there were a few more wanderers than normal chancing their luck and their bank accounts for a nose at how the other half lived.

A significant number of those wanderers were paparazzi.

All were staking out the most likely places in Accardiano to spot members of the Martinelli wedding party arriving in the village that day to start the pre-wedding celebrations.

Unfortunately, the closest these star spotters were likely to get to the glamorous and powerful guests was as they were whisked past them in their chauffeured cars.

If those star spotters wanted to get any closer, they needed to check in at The Bianchi, the seven-star hotel the entire wedding party were staying at for the duration.

No reservation meant no admittance onto its grounds, and as Niccolo Martinelli had booked the entire hotel for the wedding party, there was more chance of a holiday to the moon than booking a suite there, so the wanderers might as well trundle back to Positano.

One person who didn’t need to trundle back anywhere, at least not yet, was Dante Coscarelli, best friends with Niccolo since their infant school days and one of Niccolo’s six groomsmen.

Dante had arrived at The Bianchi only an hour earlier and was enjoying early-afternoon cocktails by the main pool with the groom and two of the other groomsmen: Niccolo’s brother Gennaro and his cousin Leonardo, the latter of whom also happened to own The Bianchi.

It had taken four months of planning for Dante to carve out seven whole days (he’d allocated the day after the wedding, too, on account of the expected hangover) from his schedule. The last time he’d taken this many days off in one go, he’d still been in university.

“Let me get this straight,” he said, his words aimed at Niccolo. “You want me to steal away your ex-lover’s sister and keep her hidden until after the wedding?”

Niccolo, features taut with stress only those closest to him would recognise, didn’t blink. “Exactly that. Callie can’t be allowed anywhere near Accardiano. It’s not safe for her or for me or for any of us.”

“You are certain she is coming here?”

“Her flight to Naples took off twenty minutes ago. I’ve had confirmation that she’s on it.”

“Don’t you think it’s a bit extreme, though?” Gennaro asked doubtfully. “She can’t get into the grounds. There is zero chance of the Espositos crossing her path.”

Niccolo grimaced. “She’s a loose cannon.

You’ve seen Georgia’s message. If Callie talks to the press, then God knows what will happen, and I can only thank God she didn’t think of going to the British press first. Siena knows about Georgia – hell, her damned father knows about her.

Neither of them cares, but if Callie spills my affair with Georgia to the world in the run-up to the wedding, then it will humiliate them, and you know how Lorenzo will react to that. ”

Indeed, they all did. Lorenzo Esposito was bigger, uglier and harder than the man-mountains they all employed as personal security, and his only daughter was his princess.

If he got so much as a whiff that someone was trying to wreck his precious princess’s wedding, that someone had better have their last will and testament written.

“Have you met the sister?” Dante asked.

“Once.”

“And?”

“And what?”

“And what was she like? Did she seem stable?” To Dante’s mind, only the unstable would even consider trying to stop Niccolo Martinelli’s wedding to Siena Esposito.

“I was in her company for perhaps five minutes. I didn’t detect any red flags.

” Niccolo gave a tight shrug. “Georgia and I were finished months ago. She always knew the score, and yet for reasons known only to herself, her sister is hell-bent on stopping my wedding and turning my reputation into dirt, and is completely blind to the danger she’s putting us all in.

You’re the only one who can stop her – it has to be you, Dante.

Of the three of you, you’re the only one who can get away with disappearing for the night. ”

That was a fact. Dante and Niccolo might be the closest of the group, but Gennaro and Leonardo were Niccolo’s blood. Sure, Leonardo could lock Callie Thomas away in his on-site apartment, but she’d be on the hotel’s grounds and all the more dangerous for it.

“Plus, you have a castle to keep her in where escape is impossible,” Gennaro pointed out for the second time. “Meet her from the plane, take her to your castle, lock her away and get back here in the morning. If anyone asks, we can say you were called away on a business emergency.”

Dante did have a castle, one that was heavily guarded and far from the nearest town. It was also five hundred kilometres away from Accardiano.

“Okay,” he agreed. “I’ll do it.”

Niccolo exhaled a long breath of relief. “Thank you, my friend.”

“I will need a picture of her.” Dante was no expert on kidnapping women, but he assumed it was best to have a fixed image of what the one he was targeting actually looked like.

“I don’t have one, but she’s on social media.”

A few moments later, Dante had Callie Thomas’s profile on the screen of his phone.

Her settings were private, but her profile photo was a clear headshot.

An intriguing face, he noted. Large pale blue eyes set slightly too far apart and a long, thin nose.

Long, honey blonde hair. Yes, an easy face to spot in a crowd.

He pushed his chair back. “I need to make the arrangements.” And notify his parents and sister, who were settling into their suites, that he would be disappearing for the night. They trusted him enough not to ask questions and would play along with the business emergency line .

Niccolo rose to his feet and embraced him. “I am in your debt.”

Dante grinned and kissed both his cheeks. “Trust me, it’s a debt I will be calling in.”

Callie wheeled her small carry-on suitcase out of the arrivals lounge and into a warmth that felt wonderful after the coldness that had recently blanketed England. At the rate the weather was going at home, spring would be over before the sun ever came out.

Joining the queue for the taxi rank, she fired a quick message to let her sister know she’d landed safely.

Georgia might be furious with her for interfering, but she would still worry about her because that’s what sisters did.

They could infuriate each other like no one else, but always, always, they wanted the other safe and well.

The car at the front of the taxi rank seemed to be turning customers away. When Callie reached the front of the queue, she would have opened the door of the second-ranked car if a loud voice hadn’t made her look up.

The driver of the front car had stepped out and was beckoning her over. Wow, he was tall … and good-looking, good-looking enough that she felt a pang of regret for impulsively dying her hair… thoughts and feelings that barely rose to the surface of her consciousness.

“Are you working?” Realising she was assuming he spoke English, she pretended to drive a steering wheel.

“ Si, si , yes.” He lifted her suitcase into the boot. “I was on important call. All good now. I take you. Where you go, lady?”

“Accardiano.”

He whistled his appreciation of the name and opened the front passenger door for her .

Figuring it must be an Italian thing for taxi passengers to sit up front, she sat down and strapped herself in.

He folded himself in beside her and turned on the engine.

It was shortly after he’d weaved them out of the airport’s carpark that he broke the silence by saying, “You want music on?”

She didn’t. The tension headache that had formed when Georgia had caught her leaving their shared flat that morning had returned with a vengeance. “Only if you do.”

He scrolled through the car’s infotainment system, and then music blasted out. By the time he’d worked out how to turn it down, Callie’s ears were ringing.

“New car?” she asked, even though she was in no mood for conversation.

She’d gone over and over her plan of action during the flight, but her mind refused to settle.

Tracking down Niccolo Martinelli was going to be tough.

He had unimaginable wealth, enough to form a protective barrier around himself.

The one time she’d met him had been when he’d turned up at the flat to collect Georgia.

One of his bodyguards had waited outside the front door, the other waiting in the humongous car illegally parked outside.

That had been the night he’d flown Georgia to Paris for a long weekend.

He’d dropped her back home three days later, and Georgia had never seen him again.

The few times Callie had asked about it, Georgia had shut down and refused to talk about it, which was not at all like her sister. Usually, they shared everything.

“New to me,” the driver agreed with another grin. “You drive?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“No need.”

“You live in London?”