The Fabrizio Bride

Chapter Five

Rafe stepped out of his car onto the circular driveway in front of the Casale home in an area known as Hope Ranch. The scent of nearby lemon trees and roses engulfed him as he tossed the black Ferrari's keys to the valet. The young man's eyes sparkled with excitement at the vintage car, but Rafe couldn't respond in kind. First he'd have to unclench his jaw, and by now, the forbidding line of his mouth felt as if it were permanently etched.

As he made his way up the steps, the car's engine growled behind him. He could relate. His mood had darkened as time had ticked by and Sarika hadn't returned to Ana Lisa's villa before the party. Finally, he'd contacted Santo, who'd told him she was at Berrucci's getting ready. Rafe had hung up, then contemplated calling the police and having the bastard arrested for theft.

Sarika belonged to him.

Knowing the thought was ludicrous, he'd resorted to pounding his fist on his desk like a six-year-old boy. He wished he'd been born in an earlier time so he could have just gutted Berrucci.

So much for getting over her.

Soft music, bursts of laughter, and the clink of glasses brought him back to the present as he entered the old, Spanish-style home through an intricately carved wooden door. The restored, early-twentieth-century casa was stunning, a throwback to grander times with antique furniture, arched ceilings, and breathtaking artwork along the smooth plaster walls—plus all the conveniences of modern life.

A magnificent crystal chandelier hung in the foyer, and he walked beneath it to one of the ballrooms. The sight of expensive jewels, black tuxedos, and colorful dresses in an array of fabrics and styles greeted him. Most of the faces were familiar—old money, new money, politicians and designers, film stars and musicians.

He nodded and spoke briefly to people as he circled the crowd like a shark, never stopping, looking for prey—for one woman in particular and her escort. He didn't know what he would do when he found them...maybe brand himself a fool in front of Santa Barbara's esteemed society.

Or he could turn and walk away. He'd done it before, at Ana Lisa's birthday party last year—refused to look back at Sarika and Berrucci together. And where had that landed him?

In hell.

Unable to sleep or think about anything but long, black hair and wild, green eyes. Wishing the phone would ring, dreading the phone would ring. Listening for her voice, her laugh.

Out of control.

His gaze sharpened, and he stopped abruptly as he saw Berrucci in a corner talking to someone. Rafe couldn't see who it was, but from Berrucci's intimate posture—protective and possessive like a great cat wanting to pounce—it was obviously a woman. A delicate hand lifted to rest on his forearm.

Sarika's?

Rafe tried to head back the way he'd come, but his muscles had locked up. Burning heat rose through his body, causing his teeth to grind so forcefully he thought they might shatter. Deep in his chest, a roar built and rumbled up his throat as he stepped forward.

Then Sarika and another woman came into view on the other side of the ballroom.

Rafe stopped in surprise as they approached Berrucci, who moved back, revealing the woman he'd been talking to. She was tall and willowy, her straight, brown hair sweeping her shoulders. Nothing like the women Berrucci usually dated—women like Sarika, who were dazzling in their appearance. No, this woman possessed a soft beauty that grew on you.

Had Rafe been mistaken when he'd sensed attraction in Berrucci's posture?

Determined to find out, he approached the group. As the man greeted Sarika and her friend with a kiss on each cheek, Rafe breathed deeply to control the beast that longed to lash out and eviscerate Berrucci.