Hunter's Moon & Bedded for Revenge

by Carole Mortimer

  She stared at the thick black hair which once she had had the freedom to run her hands through, and those slanting, aristocratic cheekbones along which she had wonderingly traced a trembling fingertip as if unable to believe that he was real and in her arms. ‘You,’ she said, and was appalled to hear her voice tremble.

  ‘Me,’ he agreed, his eyes glittering with satisfaction as he saw the look of consternation on her face.

  She gripped the back of her seat. ‘Is this some kind of bad joke?’

  ‘If it is then I must have missed the punchline,’ he answered silkily. ‘Am I making you feel weak at the knees, cara? You seem a little unsteady on your feet. Why don’t you sit down?’

  He pulled the chair out for her and she sank into it, too shaky to defy his commanding manner and wondering if she had imagined the feather-light touch of his hand across her bare shoulder. ‘How have you managed to get yourself seated on the top table? And next to me? Did you change the placement?’ she questioned suspiciously.

  He thought how she had grown in confidence over the ensuing years, how the shy young girl had gone for ever, and his blood heated. Oh, yes, this time he would enjoy her without compunction.

  ‘No, I did not change the placement,’ he said softly. ‘Perhaps they felt sorry for you, being on your own. I take it you are on your own, Sorcha?’

  Oh, how she wished that she had managed to sustain some of those random dates she’d had into something approaching a proper relationship. How she would have loved to rub Cesare di Arcangelo’s smug and arrogant face in it if she could have airily produced some unbelievably gorgeous and eligible hunk and said, in that way that women did, I’m-not-trying-to-be-smug-or-anything-but-this-is-my-boyfriend!

  But how could she have done, even if such a figure had really existed? Whoever she lined up—however rich and however eligible—would fade into humdrum insignificance beside the luminous sex appeal of Cesare.

  ‘Yes, I am on my own,’ she said coolly, because she had learnt that being defensive about it only made people probe even more. ‘I don’t need a man to define me.’

  ‘Well, that’s lucky, isn’t it?’ he mocked.

  ‘Why are you bothering to sit next to me if all you want to do is insult me?’ she hissed.

  ‘Oh, but that isn’t all I want to do, cara mia.’ The black eyes roamed over her with breathtaking arrogance, lingering on the lush swell of her breasts, and very deliberately he ran the tip of his tongue around the inside of his mouth. ‘There are plenty of other things I’d like to do to you which are far more appealing.’

  Sorcha turned her head, desperately hoping that someone might come to her rescue, swoop down on her and whisk her away from him. But no one came, and no one was likely to interrupt them—since the don’t disturb us vibes which were shimmering off Cesare’s powerful frame were almost tangible.

  Maybe they needed to have this conversation. She hadn’t seen him since that day when he’d packed his bags and managed—she’d never been quite sure how—to get a helicopter with a stunning woman pilot to land on the front lawn and whisk him away.

  And after today she wasn’t likely to see him again. So maybe this really would help her to move on—to eliminate his legacy of being the man whom no other could possibly live up to. Maybe she needed to accept that by settling for someone who didn’t have his dynamism and sex appeal she would actually be happier in the long run.

  ‘Just say whatever it is you want to say, Cesare.’

  It occurred to him that she might be shocked if he gave her a graphic rundown of just what he would like to be doing to her right then, and he ran one long olive finger around the rim of his wine glass.

  ‘What are you doing these days?’ he questioned.

  Sorcha blinked at him suspiciously, like a person emerging from the darkness into light. ‘You want to hear about my life?’ she asked warily.

  He smiled up at the waitress who was heaping smoked salmon onto his plate and shrugged. ‘We have two choices, Sorcha,’ he said softly. ‘We can talk about the past and our unfulfilled sexual history, which might make us a little…how is it that you say…? Ah, yes. Hot under the collar.’ His gaze drifted to her bare neck. ‘Not that you’re wearing a collar, of course,’ he murmured. ‘And it would be a pity to taint that magnificent chest with unsightly blotches, don’t you think?’

  Sorcha lifted her hands to her cheeks as they began to burn. ‘Stop it,’ she begged, and cursed the debilitating effect of desire which had turned her voice into a whisper.

  ‘You see? It’s happening already. And it’s all your fault for being so damned sexy,’ he chided, but he realised he had made himself a victim of his own teasing, and that his erection was pushing hard against his thigh. He shifted uncomfortably. Only this time the brakes were off. She wasn’t eighteen any more, but a woman—and he was no longer morally obliged to handle her with kid gloves.

  ‘The alternative is that we make polite conversation like every other guest in the room. Safer by far, don’t you think?’

  Sorcha swallowed as she felt the blood-rush slowly drain from her face. Safer? Today he looked about as safe as a killer shark! Had she been blind to his almost tangible sex appeal before—or just naïve enough to think that he would protect her from it?

  And he had, hadn’t he? He had treated her like a piece of delicate porcelain.

  Sorcha bit her lip—because what was the point in remembering that? She didn’t want to feel soft and warm about him—not when his eyes were gleaming dark and intimidating fire at her. But she wasn’t going to let him intimidate her, was she? All she had to do was get through this ordeal without showing any further sign of weakness, then it would be over and Cesare would be gone—and with him all the bittersweet memories he evoked.

  She watched the bubbles in her champagne glass fizzing their way to the surface. ‘So what do you want to know?’

  ‘Where are you living these days?’

  ‘I’m…’ She hesitated. At home made her sound as if she were five years old. ‘Living at the house.’

  ‘Really? Isn’t that a little—’ he shrugged his shoulders ‘—repressive?’

  Now, why did she feel stung into defence? ‘It’s an enormous house—and anyway, I’ve only just moved back. I’ve been living and working in London. I’ve bought a flat up there, actually—but I’m renting it out at the moment.’

  ‘Really?’ he mocked, and his mouth hardened. ‘And what about your career?’

  There was something in his tone which she didn’t like or recognise. Almost as if he were going through the mechanics of asking her questions to which he already knew the answers. Or was she just being paranoid, crediting him with powers he didn’t have simply because his attempts at ‘conversation’ sounded like an interrogation?

  But she was proud of her work—and why shouldn’t he damned well know it? ‘I got a job straight after university for one of the best firms in the city and I worked for them until recently. They offered me promotion to stay, but I…’ What was it about his manner which made her reluctant to tell him? ‘I decided to work for the family firm instead. So here I am.’

  He raised his dark brows. ‘Ah! That explains it.’

  ‘Explains what?’ Sorcha frowned. ‘I don’t have a clue what you’re talking about.’

  ‘You don’t? Forgive me, cara—I should have said nothing.’ He lifted the palms of his hands upwards in an apologetic gesture, although his face didn’t look in the least bit apologetic.

  ‘No,’ said Sorcha coldly. ‘You can’t dangle a carrot like that and then snatch it away.’

  ‘I can do any damned thing I please,’ he retorted. ‘But I will take pity on you.’ He shrugged his broad shoulders, enjoying seeing the convulsive little swallow in her long throat at his deliberate use of the word pity. ‘It’s just that rumours in the business world…well, you know what they can be like.’

  ‘I never listen to rumours,’ she said fiercely. ‘Whittakers has had a few problems, it’s tru
e—but we’re undergoing an upturn and things are looking good!’

  ‘Good?’ Cesare smiled, but it was a hard smile edged with scorn. ‘What a hopeless little liar you are,’ he said softly. ‘Whittakers is going down the pan fast—and if you don’t know that then you aren’t fit to be employed by them.’

  If she had been anywhere else but sitting at the top table at her sister’s wedding, wearing enough aquamarine silk-satin to curtain the entire staterooms of a large cruise-liner, then Sorcha would have stood up and left the table. But apart from the obvious logistics of rapid movement in such a voluminous garment—she had a duty to fulfil. She knew that, and he knew it, too.

  ‘Every company goes through a rough patch from time to time,’ she defended.

  ‘Some do. It’s just that Whittakers seems to be enjoying a permanent rough patch,’ he drawled.

  And suddenly Sorcha wondered why on earth she was tolerating this egotistical man giving her the benefit of his opinion. She hadn’t asked for it, and she didn’t particularly want it.

  She glanced across the room as if he hadn’t spoken, to where the brunette was sitting with an untouched plate of food and an empty wine glass, staring at him like a hungry dog.

  Sorcha gave him a cool smile. ‘Did you really come here today to discuss the fortunes of Whittakers?’ she questioned lightly. ‘I’m sure you could find more interesting things to do than snipe on about profit and loss!’

  He followed the direction of her gaze and smiled. ‘I’m sure I could,’ he murmured. ‘But I’m not looking for a one-night-stand—at least not tonight, and not with her. I’m going to enjoy getting to know my new colleagues instead.’

  There was triumph gleaming from his black eyes, and the smile of pure elation which curved his mouth sent Sorcha’s pulse skittering. But this time it was not desire which was making her feel almost dizzy, but fear—a nebulous, unformed fear which was solidifying by the minute.

  ‘Colleagues? What colleagues?’

  He savoured the moment, knowing that in years to come he’d remember this as the moment when his obsession with her had finally lifted.

  ‘You and I are going to be working together,’ he murmured.

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘Rupert has brought me into the company as troubleshooter.’

  The chatter of the guests receded and then came roaring back again, so loud that Sorcha wanted to clamp her hands over her ears and stare at Cesare in disbelief.

  ‘I don’t believe you. He wouldn’t do that.’ Her shocked words sounded as though she was speaking under water.

  He shrugged his broad shoulders. ‘Why wouldn’t he?’

  ‘Because…because…’ Because he knows the history between us. But that was the trouble. Rupert didn’t. No one did. Not really. They had kept it pretty much hidden, and afterwards she certainly hadn’t confided that there had been a proposal of marriage. She suspected that they would have looked at her as if she was crazy to turn a man like Cesare down.

  So she had locked it away, thinking that the less said, the sooner it would be mended. And in theory it should have worked. A summer squall of a love affair should have just blown over—but Cesare’s legacy had been to leave an unerasable memory of him stubbornly lurking in her mind.

  ‘Rupert wouldn’t have done something like that without asking me first.’

  ‘Are you sure, cara?’ he questioned cynically. ‘I suggest you ask your brother.’

  Sorcha’s throat dried, because there was something in his eyes which told her that he was telling the truth. And she knew then that her instincts had been right after all. He hadn’t just shown up at the wedding to join in the celebrations, hand over an exquisite present and say hi to all his adoring fans. ‘No,’ she whispered.

  ‘Yes,’ he said grimly.

  ‘But why?’

  ‘Is that a serious question?’ he demanded. ‘Surely you must know that if something is not done soon, then Whittakers will cease to exist.’

  Sorcha shook her head. ‘That’s not what I mean, and you know it. I don’t believe you’re operating out of the goodness of your heart. This can’t just be because you’ve seen an ailing company and you want to increase its profitability.’

  ‘Why else could it be?’

  ‘Because…’ She thought of the way he’d been looking at her, the things he’d been saying to her, the sense of something dark and sensual and unfinished between them. ‘Because I think you want to sleep with me.’

  He laughed softly. ‘Oh, Sorcha,’ he murmured. ‘Of course I do. And how refreshing of you to acknowledge it so early on. I’ve heard of performance-related bonuses, but this puts a whole new slant on the subject!’ He started laughing. ‘Tell me, cara—are you offering me what in business terms is known as a golden hello?’

  Her fingers were itching. She would have liked to rake them down his rugged olive cheek or to curl them around a glass of sticky liqueur and hurl it all over his pristine white shirt.

  He glanced down at them. ‘Don’t even think of it,’ he warned quietly. ‘We don’t want a scene at your sister’s wedding, do we? Or do you want to grapple with me in order to get me to kiss you?’

  He rose to his feet and looked down at her with eyes which had suddenly grown hard as jet, and Sorcha stared at him, realising that beneath all the civilised veneer there was nothing but coldness in his face.

  ‘You’re going?’ she questioned, her heart pounding painfully in her chest.

  ‘I’m expecting a call.’

  ‘Don’t you know it isn’t done to just disappear from a wedding breakfast before the toasts?’

  ‘Thanks for the etiquette lesson,’ he said softly. ‘But I’ve squared it with Rupert. Just make sure you’re in the office tomorrow morning first thing. Eight o’clock. I like to start early, so don’t be late.’

  Sorcha wanted to say something cutting and brilliant—to tell him that he had no right to order her around as if she was his subordinate. But he was right—they didn’t want a scene at her sister’s wedding. She was forced to endure the sight of him leaving, while the brunette in yellow made an unseemly scramble to her feet and followed him out of the marquee.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  ‘WHAT do you mean you had no alternative?’ demanded Sorcha, raking her fingers distractedly through her hair, which was already rumpled.

  She turned to face Rupert, the morning sun bright on his face as it flooded into the boardroom which was lined with framed posters advertising the famous Whittaker Sauce. Each one featured an apple-cheeked old lady stirring a steaming pot, a look of satisfaction on her face, and the splash line was: JUST LIKE GRANDMA USED TO MAKE!

  Sorcha’s green eyes sparked accusatory fire at her brother, but inside she was hurting. ‘You mean that someone was holding a gun to your head and telling you that you had no alternative but to hire Cesare di Arcangelo to save the company?’

  ‘No, of course not—’

  ‘Well, why, then?’

  ‘You’ve seen for yourself how bad things are, Sorcha. And Cesare has a reputation for turning things around—look what he did for the Robinsons. Their profits went through the stratosphere! I gave him a call, not really thinking that he’d have the time available, and when he offered to come over straight away I couldn’t believe it.’

  ‘Couldn’t you?’ Sorcha shook her head. How naïve Rupert sounded—but then he just saw Cesare for what he thought he was, without understanding the complexity of the man’s nature or the deviousness of his mind. ‘But I’m here, now, Rupes. I came back here specially, to be Marketing Director. Shouldn’t you at least have discussed it with me first?’

  There was a silence.

  ‘But, Sorcha, you’ve only just started with the company,’ said Rupert gently. ‘What with the wedding and all—I simply haven’t had the chance to tell you before now, that’s all. And there’s nothing really to discuss, is there? You know that Cesare’s reputation is legendary. So who in their right mind would throw up a
n opportunity to have him work for them?’

  Who indeed? Women who’d had their hearts broken didn’t count—or rather, their feelings weren’t up for consideration in the big, brash world of finance.

  She had been caught on the back foot—feeling not only cheated but shocked by her near-lover’s reappearance. But even if she’d known that Cesare was about to dramatically reappear in her life would it have actually changed anything, other than allowing her time to prepare her response to him?

  And would that response have been any different?Could it have been? Even if she had been the greatest actress in the world and pinned the brightest smile to her lips that wouldn’t have changed the uncomfortable cocktail of emotions he had stirred up, would it?

  Rupert sighed. ‘I’m sorry, Sorcha—but, whatever your private opinion of Cesare, nobody can deny the man’s reputation as a sharpshooter.’

  ‘Don’t you mean an egotistical control freak who can’t keep it in his trousers?’ she questioned bitterly.

  ‘Rule one of business,’ drawled a velvety voice from behind her, and Sorcha whirled round to see Cesare walking into the room, a briefcase under his arm and a glint in his black eyes. ‘Never badmouth your colleagues within earshot. Didn’t they teach you that at business school, Sorcha?’ He put the briefcase down on the vast desk. ‘What else is it that you English say? Walls have ears? Ciao, Rupert.’

  Sorcha wanted to scream—feeling as if she’d just been given a walk-on part in someone else’s life. That this couldn’t really be happening. There was nowhere to look but at Cesare, but even if there had been she wondered if she’d be able to keep her eyes off him.

  He was dressed to look as if he meant business, which meant a suit—but something in the way he wore it transformed it from the mere everyday garment which other men wore to work.

  It looked cool enough to be linen and fine enough to be silk, exquisitely cut in the Italian style—loose-fitting and utterly modern, yet hinting at the pure, hard muscle beneath. She found herself searching his face for dark shadows, wondering if he had gone home with the brunette last night, and it bothered her that she should even think about it—that it could make her heart contract with jealousy.