Love Capri Style

by Reynolds, Lynn

  Damn him and her father and all spoiled rich men. Waving their money around and dazzling women with their designer wardrobes and their perfect teeth. She’d show both of them that Amanda Jackson was someone to be taken seriously.

  “Miss Dakota!” She shouted, as she stepped right into their path. “I have it on good authority that your mother will be coming to your show on opening night. Is it true she’s also bringing Artemisia Nash, so that you and Mr. Greyford can start planning your wedding?”

  A frenzy erupted among the paparazzi, all of them rushing forward to snap photos of Stacey Dakota’s stricken expression, thrusting microphones into her face and demanding that she comment. Eric snatched off his sunglasses. His sharp glare cut like a knife and Amanda backed away.

  Afterward, as they made their way to their car, Zeke gazed at Amanda with something like awe.

  “Jackson, I’m impressed,” he said. “I’m a pretty top-notch photojournalist, if I do say so myself. Got my ear to the ground, et cetera et cetera. How’d you hear about that tidbit before me?”

  Amanda wasn’t about to tell him Dan had simply handed her the story out of some sense of pity. She shrugged nonchalantly. “I have a source.”

  “Yeah? Well, good work,” Zeke grumbled. “You might make it in this biz, after all.”

  Some days, Amanda truly hated her job.

  ***

  “That nasty little blonde had to be making that up!” Stacey fumed as she stomped back and forth in the library of Franco’s villa. “She looked at me like she hates me!”

  “She doesn’t hate you.” Absently, Eric pressed a thumb to his lips and chewed on it.

  “She sure acted like it. Looked very smug, didn’t she? I can’t believe my mother’s going to show up here and ruin my show!”

  “She’s only going to ruin the show if you let her,” Eric reassured his friend. “Refuse to see her until after the closing night of the festival.”

  “Yeah, that’ll be easy!” Stacey glared at him.

  “Yes, it will. You are a legal adult now. If you don’t want her around, you can have her arrested if she bothers you.”

  “I might do that.” Stacey threw herself across a large, overstuffed divan.

  “Have you considered that you should fire your parents and get new managers?” Franco said. He’d hovered on the sidelines in silence, both aboard his yacht and here at the villa.

  “I’ve suggested that to her.” Eric joined his friend in front of the huge marble fireplace at the south end of the room.

  “Do you think she’s bringing a wedding planner to meet us?”

  “You know her better than I do.” Eric shook his head. He’d look so much more responsible to the board if they heard he was planning to marry Stacey Dakota, of all people. And then, if the two of them denied the rumors, they’d be portrayed in the media as lying phonies, or as fickle and promiscuous and unable to commit. Either image would be unfavorable in the eyes of Greyford stockholders.

  Had Amanda made up the rumor in order to get a good story? Eric knew reporters who would do exactly that, but he couldn’t imagine Amanda being one of them.

  “Stupid, rude blonde bimbo,” Stacey muttered. “Getting in my face like that.”

  Eric wheeled around and pointed a finger at her. “She’s not a bimbo. And I warned you what would happen if you went up there, didn’t I?”

  Beside him, Franco lifted one eyebrow and tilted his head.

  “What?”

  “Would I be correct in guessing that was your beautiful friend from Fame?”

  Eric inhaled sharply. He hated the amusement in Franco’s voice.

  “I should have known from the eyes. They were quite lovely. I take it your evening with her did not go as planned?”

  Stacey sat up on the couch. “Wait, wait. What’s he talking about?”

  “I had a date with that blonde last night. It didn’t go well. You’re not the one she’s out to get.”

  “Gee, thanks, Eric!” Stacey groused. “I thought you were supposed to be my protector, keep the angry hordes of the media off my back, not get them deliberately ticked off at me.”

  “Stacey, I’m your friend, not your bloody bodyguard. I am sick of this charade, and I for one cannot wait for the big break-up scene after this damned festival!”

  Eric strode out of the room at a brisk pace and slammed the door behind him. He didn’t stop walking until he got to the terrace overlooking the sea, where he dropped onto a stone bench.

  “That was uncalled for.”

  Eric turned to see Franco standing behind him.

  “I know. I’ll apologize to her later.”

  “That would be advisable. But I think she understands. I am not sure I do, though.” Franco sat down on the bench beside him, careful not to look his friend in the eye. “Is the blond why you are in such a bad mood today?”

  “Yes. No. Perhaps.”

  “And this is because?”

  Eric looked into Franco’s perplexed face. “Women are nothing but a game to you, are they?”

  “You have always been a bigger player in that particular game than I.”

  Eric shook his head and looked away. “It’s nothing. She’s a nice girl, that’s all. It was wrong of Stacey to call her a bimbo.”

  “You know the Americans and their love of colorful slang. She means nothing by it. She’s upset about her mother coming to the festival.”

  Eric massaged his temples and groaned. “Those two mix like gasoline and a match. I do wish she would stand up to her parents and hire new managers.”

  “I think she fears she would have no relationship with them at all if she did that.”

  “She’d be better off,” Eric observed.

  “Ah, yes, but many of us would be better off not trying to mold ourselves to our family’s expectations, don’t you agree?”

  His friend’s implication was obvious but exasperating. Eric rose from the bench and walked over to the stone railing. Leaning against it, he turned to face Franco. “I do care about the company for myself as well, Franco. I didn’t become COO solely to please my father and my dead brother, you know.”

  Franco shrugged. “I couldn’t tell.”

  “I like the notion of the power. I could do a great deal with it, if the company were mine to control. I could take Greyford in a whole new direction, do something meaningful with it. Not publish the same staid European newspapers and a few second-rate tabloids.”

  “What would you do?”

  “What does it matter?” Eric smacked his palms against the railing. “The board would never go along with my ideas, and they hold the real power. There’s only one way to fix that.”

  Franco snapped to his feet and eyed Eric with concern. “You aren’t entertaining that idea again?”

  “I am. I could use the money my grandfather left me to buy back all the stock. I’d be the majority stockholder then. I could dissolve the board, ultimately even take the company private.”

  Franco shook his head and folded his arms over his chest. “That is a risky move. If you fail, you don’t just lose a company, you lose—”

  “Everything I have. I know. And then my father would be devastated. But it’s that or let Peter Tate persuade enough board members to vote me out of my position next week at the meeting. He’s managed to coax several members to his side.”

  “Selling out to him would be far less risky,” Franco counseled.

  As if Eric had ever been a man who balked at a little risk. He remembered Amanda’s words on the edge of the cliff. She’d practically called him a coward. A little voice reared up, trying to tell him that wasn’t what she’d meant. Only he accused himself of being weak. Only he would think himself a failure if he walked away from Greyford Publishing and handed the keys to Peter Tate.

  He looked to Franco, who still regarded him with an expression of deep concern.

  “Someone told me I’m full of fear since Antony’s death. What do you think?”

  Franco sho
ok his head and waved a hand in a classic Italian gesture of refusal.

  “No, tell me.”

  Franco sighed. “I think you have had a huge shock to the system and it will take some time to adjust.”

  “Time I don’t have,” Eric retorted. “Time Peter Tate has used to make inroads into Greyford Publishing. The abominable greed of the man. We’re no threat to him. His company is four times the size of Greyford.”

  “Ah, but he is the sort of man who must conquer everything in his path. Also, you do have considerably more holdings in Great Britain and Europe than he does. If he can gain control of Greyford Publishing, he truly will be Tate Global, eh?”

  Eric pushed away from the rail. “Not as long as I have a say in the matter. That man and everything to do with him are utterly hateful to me.”

  ***

  He deserved it. Amanda kept telling herself that as she wore an indelible path into the carpet of her hotel room. He had to know about the imminent arrival of his own wedding planner, for Pete’s sake. Didn’t he? The image of Stacey’s open-mouthed expression passed through Amanda’s mind. She’d looked pretty stunned, even—horrified?

  Hang on. She hadn’t told Eric. The little minx was hoping to back him into a wedding. She’d been planning to surprise him with a double-barreled ambush from this planner and her own barracuda of a mother. No wonder Eric was trying to cheat on her, if she played sneaky games like that with the poor guy. But of course, he was a master of his own sneaky games, luring her up to those woods, then telling her he respected her decision not to have sex—and turning around and grabbing her and planting that last kiss on her.

  That last kiss. So full of desperation and longing. She’d sensed his need and longed to respond to it. Ached to do so, in fact.

  Her instincts about backing away from him had been correct, though. If a wedding were imminent, she’d have wound up like her own mother. Although her mother had never seemed to resent Peter Tate’s absence from their lives, Amanda had borne that grudge for her. And if Amanda had slept with Eric Greyford—well, she’d have had another bitter disappointment to live with for the rest of her life. At least that hadn’t happened. She should be rejoicing at scooping everyone else on the Artemisia Nash tip, but the victory rang quite hollow.

  SEVEN

  Franco Battali’s villa stood in the foothills beneath Monte Solaro, the island’s tallest point. Outside the gates, on a level plateau, workmen were putting the finishing touches on the big stage where Stacey Dakota and dozens of other artists would perform in the ensuing week. As they milled around the fringes of the stage, Amanda watched a British pop group rehearse for its performance, scheduled to precede Stacey’s on the following night. In an unusual move for a headlining artist, Stacey would perform on the first night of the festival and then close it the following Saturday. Her appearance on that first night—or failure to do so—would set the tone for the entire event. That seemed like a risky move, considering her history of late arrivals and occasional last-minute cancellations. Amanda hoped Eric wouldn’t be disappointed by the behavior of his soon-to-be bride.

  She hunkered down in a seat near the front of the amphitheatre, along with a cluster of other reporters and photographers covering the rehearsals. She’d interviewed the members of the British band before they’d begun to practice. Now she, like everyone else in the press corps, was hoping to see Stacey rehearse. But the British band plodded on, starting and stopping each song three and four times as stagehands adjusted lighting and sound.

  “Watching this is exhausting,” Amanda grumbled.

  “Yeah,” Zeke agreed. He barely glanced at her as he spoke. He’d leapt up from his seat and was darting around again, no doubt spotting some compelling image in the glint of sunlight on a bass guitar—or who knew what? Amanda could never tell what Zeke saw at any given moment, although she did have to admit his award-winning photos were always impressive.

  Restless, she stood and turned to face the back of the amphitheatre, stretching as she did so.

  “I’m going to the little girls’ room,” said an equally bored Australian reporter beside her.

  “Yeah, I guess I will too.” Amanda followed the Aussie girl out into the center aisle and headed towards the back, where bathrooms and water fountains had been set up behind a low privacy wall.

  Leaning against the wall were Eric and his Italian friend. Amanda stopped in her tracks.

  “You coming?” her Aussie colleague asked.

  Amanda hesitated, but then scolded herself. She’d done her job in asking them about the wedding plans. Not her problem if Eric had looked at her like she’d stolen his puppy. A lot of nerve he’d had looking hurt anyway. He was the one who’d strung her along on that hillside when his alleged “arrangement” with Stacey involved marriage. And no, she didn’t want to hear any contemporary nonsense from him about an open marriage. What was she supposed to do, not go near the bathroom because he was back there? Hah.

  “Yeah, I’m on my way.” Amanda hurried to catch up to the other woman.

  ***

  Eric squinted behind his dark glasses. Even with them, the glare off the bass player’s instrument at high noon was blinding. Eric usually liked the band onstage and had imagined it would be fun to watch them practice, but now he was thinking he should have stayed at the hotel and listened to their latest CD instead. This sound check and rehearsal had been dragging on all morning and showed no signs of speeding up. If anything, it would run even further behind once Stacey came out to do her rehearsal. The British band merely stood behind their instruments and played, but Stacey brought an entire squadron of dancers and a light show and—Eric shuddered to think what else might be involved. Sword swallowers and lion tamers, perhaps. At any rate, he’d told the stage manager to move things along. Stacey needed to get in adequate rehearsal time, and then they’d all need time to prepare for the party at Franco’s house tonight.

  As he scanned the performance venue, Franco nudged his shoulder. “Straighten your collar. Your reporter is coming this way.”

  Eric pushed away from the wall and automatically tugged at the neck of his polo shirt. “There’s nothing wrong with my collar.” He looked into his friend’s laughing face with a dawning suspicion.

  “No.” Franco chuckled. “I just wanted to see you jump for her.”

  Eric glowered at his so-called friend.

  “I think I’m going to go investigate the backstage area. Have a nice chat.” Franco winked and strolled towards the center aisle. Once there, he paused to exchange pleasantries with both female reporters. The man was an incurable flirt.

  Amanda and the other woman walked past Eric, chattering and giggling. For a second, he didn’t think they’d seen him. Then, after they’d passed, Amanda glanced back over her shoulder for a split second. Through the sunglasses, his gaze met hers, and she turned away again. Eric regarded her voluptuous body with indolent appreciation. She’d worn trousers for a change and flat sandals. Although the combination prevented him from admiring those stupendous legs, it did a more than adequate job of emphasizing the exquisite roundness of her bottom.

  He could ask her where she’d gotten the tip about the wedding planner. That would give him an excuse to talk to her. Besides, he genuinely wanted to know. Had she made it up to spite him for their bad date? If not, where had a silly story like that originated? Yes, he would definitely ask her when she emerged from the bathroom. He inched farther down the wall, to where it curved around the back. As he did so, he nearly knocked over the Australian reporter, who burst through the bathroom door in a great hurry, cell phone glued to her ear.

  Eric cursed under his breath. This was unbelievably pathetic. Amanda Jackson had teased him and refused him not once but twice. She’d ambushed him with a news story that should have been discussed privately with Stacey and himself. She had no interest in him and no real liking for him. He could have any woman he wanted and most wouldn’t hesitate to accept any offer he made. As he stepped back fro
m the door, it opened, putting Amanda directly in his path. She glared up at him.

  “There are better ways of meeting girls on Capri, Eric.”

  “Are there? I’ll have to give them a try. Perhaps I could hire one to break into my hotel room and surprise me.”

  She narrowed her eyes.

  “Considering you’re getting married, you might want to skip that approach too.”

  Eric leaned down close to her, catching that clean Ivory soap smell and drinking it in for a few seconds. Then he spoke to her in a harsh whisper.

  “I am not getting married and well you know it. You made that up out of spite.”

  Amanda reared back. Her mouth fell open in amazement. “If you believe that, you must have an ego the size of your Italian friend’s villa. As if I’ve got nothing better to do than concoct revenge fantasies because you left me all tense and sexually frustrated.”

  She sailed past him and headed back towards the center aisle. Eric squared his shoulders and thought about what the sensible reaction would be. Then he did the opposite and followed her, crowding close to her as she walked. She bent her head down and clenched her hands at her sides.

  “I left you sexually frustrated?” he hissed under his breath. “I spent the rest of the bloody night taking cold showers and you think you were frustrated?”

  She stopped short and he crashed into her from behind. She spun into his arms, her chest heaving and face flushed. Dear God, she was so beautiful, it hurt him to look at her sometimes.