Hunter's Moon & Bedded for Revenge

by Carole Mortimer

  Unexpectedly, he felt his heart twist with pain.

  She had laid her emotions bare for him to see last night—and he had responded with less interest than he might have given to a new business strategy.

  Because strategies were safe, and you knew where you were with them—whereas the way she made him feel was…

  Scary.

  Yet he hadn’t given a thought to how she must be feeling…to what it must have cost her to come out here like that and tell him what he meant to her. She had made a gesture of humility—stripped away all her pride to tell him how much she cared.

  And what had he given her back?

  Nothing.

  Standing on the terrace, looking down at the silver gleam of the olive groves, he saw something bright moving into his line of vision and his heart missed a beat—because it was Sorcha. Walking towards him, barefooted and wearing a dark T-shirt of his, with her bright hair contrasting against it and cascading down her back, like a beautiful waterfall.

  As she grew closer he could see that her eyes were even greener than the lush grass. But they were shadowed with wariness.

  ‘I thought you’d gone,’ he said softly as she approached.

  ‘I was…’What? Wondering whether she was in line for the prize of Idiot of the Year. She bit her lip. ‘Cesare—’

  ‘I thought you’d gone,’ he whispered, and he shook his head like a man who was just emerging into the bright clear day after a subterranean holiday. He reached out and caught her hands in his, turned them over in his palms and looked at them, and then back up at her dazzling emerald eyes.

  ‘I don’t know how to do this, Sorcha,’ he said softly.

  Sorcha’s gaze searched his. ‘What?’

  ‘To tell you about the emotion you stir up in my soul.’ He stared at her, as helpless then as he’d ever felt in his life, and shrugged his shoulders—as if the movement could shift the intolerable weight which lay on them. ‘I don’t know why.’

  She gripped tightly onto his hands, never wanting to let them go. ‘Don’t you, Cesare? Don’t you really?’

  He knew what she was doing. On an intellectual side he could see. She wanted him to confront his demons—to let them out so that they might fly away and torment him no longer. But was it really that simple?

  ‘Tell me,’ she whispered, aware of being on fragile ground. One false move and all would be lost.

  ‘People used to pity Maceo and envy me,’ he said slowly. ‘Because he had come from the slums while I was brought home to a mansion—but you know, Maceo needed nobody’s pity. The home he grew up in was a real home. With a mother who was there and a father who came home.’

  ‘And you didn’t have that?’

  He shook his head. ‘My father was rich beyond most men’s wildest dreams—but it never seemed to be enough. It was as though he needed to go out and earn more and more, to fill some kind of hole that could never be filled.’

  And Cesare had done the same, Sorcha recognised. History had repeated itself, as it always did. ‘And your mother?’

  ‘Oh, she was very beautiful—and restless. She did not want a world dominated by a baby when her husband was flying all round the globe chasing achievements. She wanted her taste of the high-life, too…’

  His voice tailed off and she saw the furrows which deepened his brow. Sorcha drew in a deep breath. It was as if Cesare had drawn the outline of a picture, and now he needed her help to colour it in. And if they were to be a couple, then that was what couples did, wasn’t it? They helped one another. They were there for one another. They laid feelings on the line because those feelings mattered—they didn’t pussyfoot around or worry about how it might look, or whether they would be hurt.

  ‘She wasn’t there for you?’ she said.

  He nodded, sensing that it was not censure he heard in her voice, but a fair evaluation of the facts. And in confronting those facts he found they somehow assumed less dominance, less power to hurt. ‘No, she wasn’t there. There were other people to care for me, but it wasn’t the same.’ He drew in a deep, shuddering breath as he did the unthinkable and confronted his past head-on. ‘Maybe that’s why it isn’t easy for me to show…love,’ he said shakily, and gave her a look like a lost little boy. ‘Because I haven’t had much practice.’

  Sorcha stilled. ‘Cesare?’ she said breathlessly.

  He stared down at her. ‘I really thought you’d gone when I woke up this morning.’

  Her eyes were still wary. She looked into his face—but she wasn’t a mind-reader, and she wasn’t going to second-guess him for the rest of her life.

  ‘Do you want me to go?’

  ‘Go?’ He lifted her hand to his mouth and kissed each fingertip in turn, his eyes never leaving her face. ‘I never want you to go away again, cara mia, because I think I love you, too. And I really must kiss you now.’

  It was the first time he had kissed her in his native land, and it was quite unlike any other kiss they’d ever had—for it was a declaration and a seal, a farewell to past misunderstandings and a celebration of all that lay ahead of them.

  When it was over, Sorcha bit back the tears which were shimmering in her eyes as she saw all the possible obstacles in their way. ‘But how will we work it, Cesare? How can we be together?’

  ‘Somehow,’ he promised. ‘We can live here—or in England. We could live apart, but I don’t want that.’

  ‘Me neither.’

  His arms tightened around her, and for the first time Sorcha felt the shimmerings of true physical intimacy.

  ‘Now that I’ve got you, I never want to let you go,’ he whispered. ‘The logistics are just details. The important thing is us.’

  Us.

  Such a tiny word, and yet such a big one—the most important word in any vocabulary—English or Italian.

  EPILOGUE

  A LOOK of pride made his black eyes gleam, and Cesare smiled. ‘You look beautiful,’ he murmured.

  ‘But you can’t see me properly!’ Sorcha whispered back with a smile. ‘Now, shhh—here’s the priest.’

  Ivory tulle hung over her face like a creamy waterfall, and the bouquet she carried was of pale pink and frilly roses—the closest match Sorcha could get to those which grew around the Villa Pindaro, where she had found her heart’s desire on a clear morning after a mountain storm.

  Behind her stood Emma as matron of honour. Her sister was newly pregnant and glowing like a lightbulb, and holding her hand was little Gino who, at the age of four, was deemed old enough to be a pageboy. He was behaving wonderfully—apart from the occasional lapse into solemn thumb-sucking.

  Sorcha and Cesare hadn’t rushed into marriage—they hadn’t felt the need to—and they had made so many big life-changes in order to be together that they wanted to enjoy their wedding in a peaceful state of mind. And you couldn’t rush peace of mind.

  Sorcha had left England and gone to live in Italy—but it had been no great wrench nor an agonising decision. The world had shrunk and travel was easy, and it had felt like the place she both needed and wanted to be—the place she’d decided they would bring up their children, if they were lucky and blessed enough to have them.

  Sorcha had jettisoned her career with the family firm—‘Been there, done that, and wasn’t particularly brilliant at it,’ as she’d said to Maceo. The corporate rat-race no longer held any appeal. Sometimes you just had to do something in order to get it out of your system.

  Instead she had set about becoming competent in the business of running an Italian estate. She had learned about the harvesting of the precious olives and the making of di Arcangelo wine. She’d taken lessons in Italian and grown fluent, and had just started giving English classes to the children in a nearby village.

  And Cesare had wound down his corporate life, too. He found that he no longer wanted to restlessly travel the globe, making more money than he would ever need. His life was with Sorcha, and she had built for him the first real home he had ever known. She had shown him
how to love, and he had discovered—as with every other thing in his life—that he happened to be exceptionally good at it!

  He turned now and smiled tenderly at the woman who would soon be his wife. So far so good. The only flies in the ointment were the banks of paparazzi camped outside the church—but he had only himself to blame for asking Maceo to be his best man!

  The Whittaker house was ready for another wedding reception and looking glorious—everything was just about as perfect as it was possible to be. For the first time in his life Cesare was looking forward to the rest of it.

  ‘I love you, Sorcha,’ Cesare whispered, just before the priest began to speak.

  And Sorcha was glad this wasn’t a fairytale, because it would now be ending.

  Instead of just beginning.

  * * * * *

  ISBN: 978-1-408-94137-9

  BEDDED FOR REVENGE

  © 2006 Sharon Kendrick

  Published in Great Britain 2006

  by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

  All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

  By payment of the required fees, you are granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right and licence to download and install this e-book on your personal computer, tablet computer, smart phone or other electronic reading device only (each a “Licensed Device”) and to access, display and read the text of this e-book on-screen on your Licensed Device. Except to the extent any of these acts shall be permitted pursuant to any mandatory provision of applicable law but no further, no part of this e-book or its text or images may be reproduced, transmitted, distributed, translated, converted or adapted for use on another file format, communicated to the public, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of publisher.

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  CAROLE MORTIMER,

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  THE LAST DI SIONE CLAIMS HIS PRIZE

  by Maisey Yates

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  THE BILLIONAIRE’S LEGACY

  CHAPTER ONE

  IT WAS RUMORED that Alessandro Di Sione had once fired an employee for bringing his coffee back two minutes later than commanded and five degrees cooler than ordered. It was rumored that he had once released a long-term mistress with a wave of his hand and an order to collect a parting gift from his assistant in the following weeks.

  There were also rumors that he breathed fire, slept in a dungeon and derived sustenance from the souls of the damned.

  So, when his shiny new temporary assistant scurried into the room with red cheeks and an apologetic expression on the heels of his grandfather—who appeared neither red-cheeked nor sorry for anything—it was no surprise that she looked as though she was headed for the gallows.

  Of course, no one denied Giovanni Di Sione entry to any place he wished to inhabit. No personal assistant, no matter how formidable, would have been able to keep his grandfather out. Age and severely reduced health notwithstanding.

  But as his typical assistant was on maternity leave and her replacement had only been here for a couple of weeks, she didn’t know that. She was, of course, afraid that Giovanni was an intruder and that she would be punished for the breach of security.

  He saw no point in disabusing her of that notion. It was entirely possible she would spend the rest of the day deconstructing the meaning to his every glance in her direction. Likely, in the retelling she would talk about the blackness of his eyes being a reflection of his soul, or some other such nonsense. And so, his reputation would darken even more, without him lifting a finger.

  “I’m very sorry, Mr. Di Sione,” she said, clearly out of breath, one palm pressed tightly over her rather unimpressive breasts.

  He made a low, disapproving sound and raised one dark brow.

  She was trembling now. Like a very small dog. “Should I go back to work, sir?” she asked, nervous eyes darting toward the door.

  He waved his hand and she scurried back out much the same as she had scurried in.

  “I see you’re up and moving around,” Alex said, not descending into sentimentality because his relationship with Giovanni didn’t allow for that. With each returned Lost Mistress, Giovanni’s health had recovered bit by bit.

  “It’s been a while since my last treatment, so I’m feeling better.”

  “Good to hear it.”

  “The way you acted toward your assistant was not overly kind, Alessandro,” his grandfather said, taking the seat in front of Alex’s desk somewhat shakily.

  “You say that as though you believe I have a concern about being perceived as kind. We both know I do not.”

  “Yes, but I also know you’re not as terrible as you pretend to be.” Giovanni leaned back in his chair, both hands planted on his knees. He was getting on in years and after seventeen years in remission his leukemia had returned. At ninety-eight, Giovanni likely didn’t have many years left on the earth regardless of his health, but this had certainly added a bit of urgency to the timeline.

  The goal being to recover each and every one of Giovanni’s Lost Mistresses. Stories of these treasures were woven into Alex’s consciousness. His grandfather had been spinning tales about them from the time Alessandro was a boy. And now, he had tasked each of his grandchildren with finding one of those lost treasures.

  Except for Alex.

  He had been expecting this. Waiting for quite some time to hear about what part he might play in this quest.

  “Maybe not,” Alex said, leaning back in his chair, unconsciously mimicking his grandfather’s position.

  “At least you do not dare to behave terribly in my presence.”

  “What can I say, Nonno? You are perhaps the only man on earth more formidable than I.”

  Giovanni waved his hand as if dismissing Alex’s words. “Flattery is not the way with me, Alessandro, as you well know.”

  He did know. His grandfather was a man of business. A man who had built a life out of nothing upon his arrival to America, he was a man who understood commerce. He had instilled that in Alex. It was how they connected. Where their minds met.

  “Don’t tell me you’re feeling bored so you wanted to get your hands back into the shipping business?”

  “Not at all. But I do have a job for you.”

  Alex nodded slowly. “Is it my time to take a mistress?”

  “I have saved the last one for you, Alessandro. The painting.”

  “Painting?” Alex lifted a paperweight from his desk and moved it, tapping the glass with his index finger. “Don’t tell me you were a great collector of clowns on velvet or some such.”

  Giovanni chuckled. “No. Noth
ing of the kind. I’m looking for The Lost Love.”

  Alex frowned. “My art history is a little bit faint at my advanced age, but the name does sound familiar.”

  “It should. What do you know about the disgraced royal family of Isolo D’Oro?”

  “Had I known there would be a test, I would have studied before your arrival.”

  “You were given a very expensive education at a very high-end boarding school. I would hate to think my money was wasted.”

  Alex shifted, his hands still curled around the paperweight. “A school filled with teenage boys halfway across the world from their parents and very near a school filled entirely with teenage girls in the same situation. What is it you think we were studying?”

  “This subject would have been related to your particular field of study. The Lost Love is a very scandalous piece of royal history. Though it was only a rumor. No one has ever seen it.”

  “Except for you, I take it.”

  “I am one of the few who can confirm its existence.”

  “You are ever a man of unfathomable depths.”

  Giovanni chuckled, inclining his head. “I am, it’s true. But then, that should be a perk of living a life as long as mine. You ought to have depths and secret scandalous paintings in your past, don’t you think?”

  “I wouldn’t know. My life primarily consists of long hours in the office.”

  “A waste of youth and virility in my opinion.”

  It was Alex’s turn to laugh. “Right. Because you did not spend your thirties deeply entrenched in building your fortune.”

  “It is a privilege of the elderly to see things in hindsight no one can see in the present and attempt to educate the young with that hindsight.”

  “I imagine it’s the privilege of the young to ignore that advice?”

  “Perhaps. But in this, you will listen to me. I want that painting. It is my last Lost Mistress. My lost love.”