by Diana Palmer
“No comment?” he prodded.
“I’m not in the market for a man, Mr. Scarpelli,” she said quietly.
“Nick,” he corrected. “You’ve got to sound the part as well as act it tonight.”
He pulled into the underground garage of an old, elegant apartment building.
“Is this where your mother lives?” she asked to divert him.
“Yes. She and my stepfather have been here for over fifteen years.” He parked the car and led her to the elevator. “My father died when my brothers and I were kids and my mother’s been remarried twice since then.”
“You’re the eldest?”
“Yes. My brother Rick and I jointly own the magazine. He’s in charge of advertising and sales and I handle the general management. My youngest brother, Marc, is the black sheep of the family. He’s trying to make it on his own, but I hope that someday he’ll join us at the magazine.”
“It’s a good publication,” she said with grudging praise. “It’s the only financial magazine I can read.”
“Why do you like it?” he asked, interested, as they rode up on the carpeted, paneled elevator.
“Because I can understand it,” she said honestly. “The stories about the mergers and company failures and renovations are fascinating. They’re very much about people instead of about just facts and figures. And the way they’re written makes them come alive for me.”
“High praise,” he said, hands in his pockets as he looked at her, really looked at her for the first time. “I never liked blondes in white until tonight. That,” he said, gesturing toward her elegant dress, “is sexy as hell. On you,” he emphasized.
Why did her heart have to take that wild leap? Surely he could see the reaction in her widening eyes, her restless movements, but she couldn’t help them. She clutched her purse as the elevator door opened.
“Just getting some practice in,” he said, smiling slightly as he took her arm. “Don’t look so frightened of me.”
“I’m trying. You’re very big, aren’t you?” she asked nervously.
The hand on her arm tightened and she felt him stop, felt his breath in her hair as he towered over her. “Would you like to find out for yourself?” he breathed.
She caught her breath, and he laughed lowly, wickedly. She tried to draw away, but his arm slid around her and riveted her to the muscular length of his side.
“I’m going to enjoy this,” he murmured as they paused in front of one of the apartments. He pushed the button. “How old are you, anyway? Over the age of consent?”
“I’ll never consent, and my age is none of your business,” she answered sharply.
Before she could move, he tipped up her chin and bent, kissing her hard on the mouth. “Now,” he said, watching the reaction darken her eyes, redden her cheeks. “Now you look like my woman.”
The door opened and a tiny, dark woman embraced the big man while Jolana tried to get her breath and her composure back, all at once.
A long, rapid-fire exchange in Italian followed the greeting, and the little woman turned to Jolana and smiled widely.
“I am Nick’s mother,” she said in faintly accented English. “And you are Jolana, yes? Very pretty. You could be Italian, except for that glorious hair.”
“Actually,” Jolana confessed, “my grandmother really was Italian.”
The old woman brightened immediately. “So.” She nodded. “Yes, I could see it in the eyes. So dark and so fiery. Come. Meet my husband and my youngest son.”
She was propelled along by the elegantly dressed and coiffed little woman, while Domenico sauntered in behind them, looking pleased.
“This is Paulo, my husband,” she said, introducing a tall, thin, white-haired man. “And this is my son Marcello... Marc! Come say hello to Nick’s girl!”
Shivers went down her spine at that introduction. Nick’s girl. She smiled wanly at the young man who held out his hand, noticing his astonishing good looks with forced interest. He was about her own age, and charming as well as handsome. But somehow he came off a bad second when compared with Nick.
“Introduce her around, Nick,” his mother said, shooing them away. “I’ll see if the meal is ready.”
“Tyrant,” Nick shot after her, and she grinned.
“They’re very nice, your family,” Jolana said quietly.
“I won’t ask what you were expecting,” he answered. His hand on her arm tightened as they approached a group of people about Nick’s own age, and Jolana saw his expression become grim.
“Nick!” A gorgeous brunette came forward. Her soulful black eyes searched his for a long moment and she smiled faintly as her eyes went to Jolana. “A new girl? She’s...very pretty,” she added, forcing her smile to remain as she turned to Jolana.
Jolana felt sorry for her. She smiled genuinely. “I’m Jolana Shannon,” she said.
“I’m Margery Simon,” the dark-haired woman replied. “This is my husband, Andrew.”
Jolana smiled at the tall, blond man at her side. He nodded his head curtly, glared at Nick and walked away.
Margery looked pained. “Andrew doesn’t like parties, I’m afraid. Excuse me.”
She walked after him, and Jolana noticed the half-full glass in her husband’s hand. Obviously, he wasn’t having his first drink of the day.
She glanced up and found Nick watching with cold, hard eyes as the man and wife went into the next room, where the food was being laid on the table.
“Have they been married a long time?” she asked.
“Ten years,” he said curtly. “I was best man at their wedding.”
“She seems such a nice lady,” she said.
“No sympathy for poor Andrew?” he mused, glancing down at her curiously.
“He looks as if he has enough of his own without borrowing,” she said. She gazed after the other man. “He reminds me of someone I used to know.”
He cocked an eyebrow. “Recently?”
“A hundred years ago,” she corrected.
He didn’t pursue that, but she felt his eyes as he introduced her to three more couples, including the engaged pair. They went into the dining room a minute later, so there was no more opportunity for conversation.
The food was Italian, and delicious. Jolana ate far too much and barely had room for the delicate cannoli they had for dessert. When they retired to the living room for brandy and after-dinner coffee, she found herself sitting with Margery while the men and some of the other women congregated in small groups.
“Have you known Nick long?” Margery asked lightly, but her hand tightly clutched her brandy snifter.
“It seems like forever,” Jolana muttered, glancing toward where he was towering over his stepfather and brother, deep in conversation.
“Yes, I know the feeling,” came the soft reply, and the dark eyes that followed Jolana’s gaze were wistful. “He’s very handsome, our Nick. I’ve known him since I was fifteen, when we moved next door to his parents. He was seventeen, and I had my first date with him.” Her eyes clouded. “How much we’ve changed, since then.”
“Do you and your husband have children?” Jolana asked, changing the subject.
Margery nodded and smiled. “One son. I’d like more but Andrew never wanted any. Now, Nick,” she said, nodding toward him, “would like a houseful.”
“I can see what a flaming rush he’s been in to start a family,” Jolana said, tongue in cheek.
Margery laughed gently. “Yes, I know what you mean. But Nick’s been busy. And I suppose he hasn’t found the right woman, at least not until now. He’d hardly bring you to a family party if you were his usual type, would he?”
Jolana grinned. “You might be surprised.”
“About Nick? Never.” Margery sighed. “I married the wrong man ten years ago. I’ve been living with my mistake ever
since.”
Jolana felt embarrassed, but she could hardly walk away. And changing the subject seemed to be impossible.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to cry on your shoulder,” Margery said impulsively and laid a slender hand on Jolana’s wrist. “Forgive me. Andrew drinks heavily, and he frightens me when he drinks. I’m rambling, but it’s simply nervousness.”
For the first time, Jolana saw the woman’s fear and sadness, and she felt oddly sympathetic.
“Can’t he stop?” she asked softly.
Margery shook her head. “We’ve tried. When he graduated from alcohol to drugs, the damage began. Now he combines them...” Her eyes narrowed as Andrew turned, noticing her, and his face darkened. “Excuse me.”
She got up and went to her husband. There was a quick, sharp exchange. He caught her by the arm so tightly that it would probably leave a bruise, called good-night to their hosts and propelled Margery out the door.
Jolana watched with blazing dark eyes. She was hardly aware of Domenico’s approach.
“What did you say to her?” he asked coldly, jerking her to her feet.
Her eyebrows went straight up. “Mr. Scarpelli, I was listening to her, not talking,” she said, her icy tone matching his.
“Then why did he drag her out like that?” he demanded.
She pulled free of his grasp and glared at him. “I don’t know, frankly. Nor do I know why she tolerated it. I wouldn’t stay with a man who tried to wrestle me around in public like that.”
“Tough lady, huh?” he chided.
“Yes, I’m tough,” she agreed, pursing her lips as she studied his face. “So what?”
He glanced toward the closed door. “With his past record, he’ll probably beat her.”
“You might have stopped him,” she suggested. “From what she told me, she was practically part of your family when the two of you were kids.”
“Yes,” he muttered darkly and sighed. “Damn Andrew,” he growled. “Damn him.”
“She doesn’t have to stay with him, you know,” she returned, moving away. “We’re victims only if we allow ourselves to be. I feel sorry for her, too, but I don’t have a martyr complex.”
He started to say something, and she was frankly glad when they were interrupted. The look in his eyes had been predatory. Why did the woman matter so much to him? She shrugged. Probably he thought of her as a younger sister and felt naturally protective toward her. But she still wondered as she looked around the room which of those women was the one who was after Nick. The only one who seemed wildly flirtatious toward him was his sister-in-law, Deborah. Perhaps that was the woman, after all, she decided at last. He wouldn’t want his newly married brother to be jealous of him and thought Jolana’s presence and its obvious implications might put Deborah off.
With that in mind, she stuck close to him every time he went near his brother and sister-in-law.
But as they left the apartment at last, around midnight, he seemed irritated.
“What was that all about?” he growled, glaring down at her as they got into his car.
“Well, you said I was here to protect you from some woman. Wasn’t it Deborah?” she asked calmly. “She was flirting outrageously with you...”
“You thought...?” He laughed softly as he started the car and pulled it out of the garage. “Deborah is a flirt, all right.”
“Very pretty, too. I liked her. I liked all your family.”
“I’m glad. Because you’re going to see a lot of them in the weeks to come.”
She turned in her seat. “Now just a damned minute...!” she began.
His eyes ran the length of her body and he smiled slowly. “We’ll talk about it when we get to your apartment.”
“No, we won’t! You said tonight. Okay, I came with you, but that’s as far as you’re going to blackmail me. I have a contract with the gallery!”
“Which my lawyers could break in about five minutes flat,” he replied calmly. “Sit back and relax, Miss Shannon. We’ll talk later. Right now—” he punched in a tape of Dvořák’s New World Symphony “—I feel like some music.”
She sat back with an angry sigh. She should have known she couldn’t trust him. But what was he up to?
CHAPTER THREE
HE PARKED THE car in the underground car park and led her by the elbow as if he expected her to try to escape on the way up to her apartment. She might not have disappointed him, either, but he was strong and she wanted her exhibit. Well, she wanted it if it didn’t mean something extreme.
“Stop looking at me as if I’m leading you to your execution,” he remarked as the elevator stopped on her floor. “I just want to talk, all right?”
She sighed. “I don’t seem to have a choice, Mr. Scarpelli, since you deal in such potent blackmail.”
“That show means a hell of a lot to you, doesn’t it, lady?” he asked shrewdly.
She glared up at him with flashing dark eyes. “I’ve worked toward it all my life. I won’t give it up without a fight.”
His dark eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “It isn’t all fluff, is it?” he replied thoughtfully. “There’s a lot of mind under that blond hair.”
“Being blond isn’t a joke,” she said shortly. She opened the door to her apartment and stood aside reluctantly to let him enter.
He stared around him as if he were looking at the expanse of gold and white for the first time. He nodded. “Yes, it tells a story, doesn’t it?” he asked, turning to stare down at her.
She blinked. “I don’t understand.”
“Don’t you?” He gestured toward the white carpet and brass and glass coffee table, with the gold-toned furniture and drapes. “White and gold. Indicating a background that was black and poor?” he asked suddenly, looking down to catch the wild shock that widened her eyes.
She felt as if the floor had dropped out from under her. How did he see so much?
“Would you like something to drink?” she asked nervously.
“Why? Do I look as if I might faint?”
She glared up at him. “You’re very presumptuous.”
“I’m very perceptive. Why do you think I’m so successful?”
She made a rude sound. “You probably make a prosperous business of blackmailing people,” she returned shortly.
He laughed, a deep, soft, rich sound that made tingles run along her spine. He rammed his hands into his pockets, stretching the fabric of his close-fitting trousers and unwillingly drawing her attention. She looked away, embarrassed by her own curiosity.
“I don’t need to blackmail women,” he remarked. “On the contrary. Some of them have tried to blackmail me.”
“Without success, I’m sure,” she said. “Would you like a drink?”
“No. Sit down, please.”
He’d added the “please” when she gave him a hot, belligerent look. He seemed to be oddly amused by her as she took a seat as far away from him as she could get.
His dark eyes went over her slenderness in the white knit dress, and she felt as if he were actually touching her with those dark, long fingers.
“You’re beautiful,” he said after a minute. “Really beautiful. Black eyes, long, thick blond hair, a complexion like the inside of a seashell. Firm breasts, smooth lines... Yes, you’ll wear well. With only a few more lines, you’ll look very like you do now when you reach sixty.”
The personal remarks made her uneasy. She wasn’t used to being discussed this way. Unfortunately, it showed.
He lifted a dark, heavy eyebrow and a corner of his mouth, as he slid his big arm over the back of the sofa and stared at her. “Do I embarrass you, Southern Belle?”
“That’s a telephone company,” she returned coldly.
“You’re damned sensitive about your background, aren’t you?” he asked. “Are you ashamed of it?”
<
br /> “My background is none of your business,” she snapped.
“What did you do, before you came to New York?” he persisted.
“I worked, of course.”
“At what?”
She hated him, she hated his unrelenting interrogation. “I was a prostitute,” she said with a sweet smile. “And on the side, I painted.”
Surprisingly, he shook his head. “No, I don’t think so. What did you do?”
She stared down at her dress. “I waited tables,” she spat, wondering why she’d told him that, when she’d told no one else, not even Tony.
“There’s nothing to be ashamed of in that,” he said quietly. “My God, I was a busboy in half the restaurants in the city before I started up the ladder.”
Her eyes widened. “You?”
“I’m still a little rough around the edges, honey, haven’t you noticed?” he asked with amusement.
“I would have been much too polite to say so,” she admitted.
“Someone taught you the social graces with a vengeance. Who?”
“My mother,” she said, smiling at the memory. “She was a lady. A true lady, in the best sense of the word. I was only ten when she died, but she left a lasting impression.”
“And your father?” he asked, quite naturally.
She closed up. “What did you want to talk about?” she asked.
“Confession time is over, I gather. Too bad. I thought we were getting somewhere.” He leaned back and crossed one long leg over the other. “All right. I want you to spend some time with me.”
She looked up toward the ceiling. “All I want is to show my paintings to the world, and look what you do to me!” she moaned.
“Will it make a difference if I promise there’ll be no blackmail this time?” he asked surprisingly. “You’ll get your show, regardless. I’m presuming on our short but fervent acquaintance to ask a favor.”
He was a puzzle like none she’d ever encountered. “You think I might feel like doing you a favor out of generosity?”