Capelli's Captive Virgin

By: Sarah Morgan


‘SIGNOR CAPELLI doesn’t have an opening in his diary for five months.’ The stunning blonde receptionist spoke faultless English and was clearly experienced in providing an impenetrable shield between her sexy billionaire boss and the public. ‘You wouldn’t believe the demand for divorce lawyers of his calibre. And anyway, his personal clients are all men.’

Lindsay dug her nails into her palms. ‘I don’t need a divorce lawyer. That isn’t why I want to see him.’

And she knew his clients were men.

She knew everything about him. She knew that when a man instructed Alessio Capelli to handle his divorce, the wife in question might as well give up. The ruthless Sicilian lawyer had apparently made it his life’s mission to ensure that women gained as little as possible from the end of a relationship. She also knew that his various business interests had made him a billionaire in his early thirties, which meant that he now worked purely for entertainment value.

And what sort of man found entertainment in crushing people’s fragile marriages?

The girl tapped a perfectly manicured nail on the glass desk. ‘I could call one of his team?’

‘I need to speak to him.’ Eaten up by worry, Lindsay tried to think clearly. She hadn’t slept for three nights, the adrenaline was surging round her body and she felt physically sick as she contemplated what was unfolding before her. ‘Please—I’ve flown to Rome specially—it’s a personal matter. Something between myself and Signor Capelli.’ A vision of her sister’s pale face tormented her, but Lindsay had no intention of revealing her family secrets to this glacial beauty.

It was an unnerving experience—trying to gain access to the last man in the world she wanted to see. A bit like stepping towards the edge of a very sheer, crumbling cliff face, knowing that there could be only one outcome.

She was going to fall—

The receptionist raised her beautifully shaped eyebrows and it was obvious from her disbelieving gaze that she found it unlikely that someone like Lindsay would ever share anything personal with Alessio Capelli. ‘Did he give you his mobile number?’

‘No, but—’

‘Then clearly he doesn’t want you to contact him. Women who have a special relationship—’ the receptionist paused for emphasis and gave a faintly patronising smile ‘—always have that number.’

Lindsay wanted to tell her that her taste in men didn’t run to arrogant, heartless marriage wreckers, but she sensed that she wouldn’t be believed.

Alessio Capelli was a magnet for women. His profession should have acted as a deterrent but instead it seemed to increase his appeal—as if every woman on the planet wanted to prove that they could win over this notorious cynic.

She stepped aside as another beautiful girl sauntered up to the bold curve of glass that formed the ultra-modern reception desk. ‘The boss is in the gym, taking out his frustrations on a punchbag. If that file he is waiting for ever arrives, send it straight up to him on the sixteenth floor.’

As she listened in to the conversation Lindsay’s gaze slid towards the bank of elevators at the back of the foyer. Could she? Her heart skipped a beat at the shear audacity of the idea. No, she couldn’t possibly. She didn’t break rules—

But somehow her feet were walking—quickly.

Waiting to feel a hand on her shoulder at any moment, Lindsay shot through the open doors and slammed her shaking hand onto the button that said sixteen.

As the doors closed she felt nothing but relief and then realised that her respite was only temporary.

She still had to get to Alessio Capelli.

Her heart was pumping, her palms were clammy and she fumbled with the lock of her bag as she searched frantically through the work she’d brought to do on the plane. Work she’d been too worried to touch. Exactly what sort of file was Alessio Capelli waiting for? Something buff-coloured and formal? Thick? Thin? Something in a sealed envelope? Hands shaking, she pulled out a file and tucked it under her arm. It didn’t look particularly official, but it would have to do.

Sick with nerves, she checked her appearance in the mirrored wall. Looking back at her was a serious young woman dressed in a crisp white shirt and a straight black skirt that stopped just above the knee. Her pale blonde hair was twisted into a severe knot at the back of her head and her make-up was discreet and professional. She looked—businesslike.

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