The Italian's Vengeful Seduction

by Bella Frances

  ‘So, how is your mother? Did she remarry?’

  He lifted her cup and turned away to the coffee machine. A few minutes making coffee and talking about Montauk ought to do the trick.

  ‘No, thankfully she made a lucky escape. But there are so many assholes in the world. I’m sure you know what I mean.’

  He smiled and refilled her coffee cup, put it down in front of her, noting the way she shifted in her chair. She couldn’t resist.

  ‘She’s still in Montauk, right?’

  ‘Yes, still there. Same house. New curtains.’

  He frowned. ‘Sorry—what?’

  ‘Doesn’t matter. What about you?’ she said, changing the subject with another forced smile. ‘Is the old gang all back in touch now that you’ve got all that bullion to sell? Or buy? Or whatever it is you do nowadays?’

  He nodded. ‘Something like that.’

  He could go into it—tell her about his years spent in penury following the humiliation of being tossed out on his ass, the journey south, then east, bumming across Europe, then India, until he landed his first break exporting gold. Then his time in Italy, picking up what he could about winemaking from his extended family. Finally thinking that there might be a way back home.

  But—no. There would be nothing to gain in sharing any of that. He’d drawn a line.

  He drained the last of his coffee. So much caffeine, so much adrenaline. So much stress...

  Maybe he should go easy for the rest of the day. There was a lot still to do.

  ‘So, been here long?’

  She was looking round the kitchen, her eyes landing quickly on different things and then dancing on and moving back to his face. With that smirk.

  ‘A while. A year.’

  ‘Really?’ She nodded contemplatively. ‘Don’t you hang out here much, then?’

  ‘Not sure what you’re getting at, Stacey...’

  ‘Your villa. It’s pretty vanilla—almost as sterile as that hospital. No offence. Just not how I remember the Meadows at all.’

  He lifted the two cups and walked to the dishwasher.

  The Meadows. It had been years since he had heard his home called that. It was the name the locals had given it and it harked back to the first white settlers who’d come from England. But it had been Sant’Angelo’s since the Borsattos had taken up residence there. And it would be Sant’Angelo’s again soon.

  ‘None taken. As I said—the spare bedroom is down the hall.’

  She took the hint and stood up.

  ‘I’m sure I’ll find it,’ she replied. ‘And, hey, thanks again for the jacket.’

  She patted it and—dammit—his eyes landed there again.

  ‘And the trip to the hospital. I—appreciate it.’

  She smiled softly and for the first time it looked genuine.

  ‘As I said...least I could do.’

  She nodded and picked up her purse, then started to make her way down the hallway. Her long brown hair sank down over the nape of her neck in a silken sweep, landing an inch above where the straps of the dress slashed across her back and a good six inches above where her perfect backside sashayed. He found himself watching, mesmerised. Hypnotised. It was as flawless as he remembered.

  As a kid, every single thing about Stacey Jackson had caused some kind of chain reaction in him from brain to body. The way she’d walked into a room, the way she’d swung her eyes round to look at people, or more often to ignore them completely. The way she’d give nothing away to the world, but had somehow made people feel as if they knew all about her and wanted to know more.

  Thank the Lord he was immune to everything now—apart from the primordial reaction in his brain telling him he still found her attractive. He was a man...she was made the way she was. It was just a mental process firing off. So she still made him hard? So what. It didn’t mean he had to act on it.

  She was halfway down the hall now—taking her time, taking up his time.

  She stopped. The prints on the wall there were huge, brightly coloured inks that represented the Southern Hemisphere sky that he’d stared up at for all those months on the road. Months when all he’d had was his health and his will to survive.

  Stacey swung her head over her shoulder and eyed him with that profile that packed as much punch as any Hollywood starlet.

  ‘Now, these are interesting,’ she said. She stared at the prints, moved her head this way and that. Made a little face. Cut him a glance. ‘Original. A little more flavoursome.’ She licked her lips.

  He looked away. Anything but be faced by the curve of almost completely bare breast that he could now see so clearly as she lifted her arm up to touch the frame. He had to get her the hell out of his sight.

  ‘Thanks. We’ll eat at seven. I suggest you shower and make a few calls. Or walk about quietly. Or something. And do me a favour—don’t lie down and fall asleep. I don’t want to add to the drama.’

  She opened her mouth to give him another smart remark but he put his hand up, turned his head to the side.

  ‘And another favour? Get some damn clothes on. It’s three in the afternoon, for God’s sake. The time for putting it all out on display is well past.’

  Her face, already tense and tearstained, turned away. Silence fell around the bitter words he’d just thrown. From the glass roof above daylight flooded in, landing around her outline for all the world as if she was an angel in a chapel.

  A woman less like an angel he had never met, but in that moment he felt angry—with himself. And as she stood there, regarding him, she almost looked ephemeral. It stopped him dead in his thoughts. Stacey Jackson was the one who’d got away. She was the one who’d shaped his view of women for ever. She was both his adolescent fantasy and the rock it had perished on. And he was damned if he would fall under her spell again.

  He took the few steps up the corridor past her, shaking his head.

  ‘I’m going to be busy for the next hour or so. Just try—try not to get into any trouble. Okay?’

  He made it to his study, shut the door and breathed.

  Three paces across the room and he turned on the huge monitor. Instantly his emails appeared. He scanned them, looking for the one he knew was on its way. And there it was. From the realtor representing Chisholm Financial Management.

  Marco leaned down on the desk and grabbed at the mouse, sliding it quickly to bring it to life. He clicked on it. Words appeared.

  The door sounded across the hall. Good—she was inside, out of sight and out of mind. He skimmed the email. Yep, the offer had been acknowledged. And everything was in order. It was all coming together perfectly.

  There was the sound of the shower starting up. Great. That would keep her busy for a while. Give him time to fully digest this. Adrenaline was flooding his body. He was closer than he’d ever thought possible.

  Instantly his mood lifted. Instantly he could see blue skies again. He’d been coiled like a spring all day. And there had been no need. Preston Chisholm Junior was going to deliver it all back—just as his father had taken it all away.

  Well, well, well. Preston Chisholm. How life turned around. It seemed like only yesterday that he’d been sitting opposite to him in Betty’s, watching him as he watched Stacey wait on tables. The look in his eyes had been predatory. A look that had wound up with him landing a punch on the guy.

  Nobody had liked Preston Chisholm back then. And fewer liked him now. Still, as CEO of the bank that both bankrolled and mortgaged half the properties in town, people were cautious in showing it.

  Not someone like Stacey, though. She’d still give it to him both barrels. Just like that day when she’d found out that he’d punched Preston because of what he’d said about her. She’d been furious. The same afternoon Preston had practically salivated all over his polo shirt, he’d dragged him by its pristine collar out back and sunk his fist into his stomach.

  A great noise had gone up, raising the dust in the car park, and then out had come Stacey in that little yellow
dress and white apron the girls wore at Betty’s. Preston had been curled up like a shrimp, bawling like a baby. He had been standing over his handiwork and Stacey had completely overreacted.

  Who did he think he was? She could defend her own name, thank you very much. He could mind his own business or go and play the hero for someone else.

  Marco smiled at the memory. For about the tenth time today. For all she’d made his stress levels rocket, she’d made him laugh too. All that personality in one perfect package.

  He listened to the noises she was making across the hallway. Normally he hated the intrusion of a woman in his home. God knew he’d tried, but he couldn’t get used to it. Moving his stuff, asking for closet space, filling the air with nonsensical chatter. The first day it was fine. It was okay. After a week he’d be finding problems with his offshore businesses that he had to solve personally. After two weeks he’d quit making excuses and get the jewellers on speed dial.

  Was he going insane, or was he smiling at the cute little noises Stacey was making?

  He might be smiling now, but five seconds together and their sparks would be flying right into a fireworks display that could light up the entire eastern seaboard.

  * * *

  What a Fortune 500 per cent bore Marco had turned out to be, thought Stacey as she wound her hair in a towel and rubbed some fancy cream into her puffy pink face. She would never have pegged him as vanilla, but that was the only flavour she could scent from him now. His safe suit, his ‘right’ car, his hair trimmed just along his shirt collar line. He probably used shoe trees.

  She stepped into the guest bedroom and looked around. Pale walls, wood floors, dark rugs. She’d choke to death in a place like this. It was as sterile as St Bart’s. Nothing with any character except for the prints in the hallway. And her outrageous dress draped across the bed.

  She could hardly put that back on.

  Not after his strict instruction to cover up.

  She wasn’t imagining the chemistry—was she? He was looking. She’d caught him looking a thousand times. But he sure wasn’t acting on it. That was the biggest change of all. He’d never let his class or his money guide his actions before. He’d played it straight down the line. He’d even played it over the line. Defending her honour from the creepy Preston Chisholm. She’d laid into Marco for sticking his nose in, but secretly she’d loved it. He’d been ridiculously overprotective—right in front of the whole crowd. And she’d relished their shock and awe at their poster boy being gallant for white trash Stacey.

  But he was playing with a different deck now. He couldn’t have been clearer that he was finding her a turn-off rather than a turn-on. But she was smarter than that. It wasn’t about biology—it was all about class. Turned out he was exactly the same as the Montauk snobs after all.

  She couldn’t wait to get out of here and away from every memory of that place.

  Meantime she’d better find something to wear.

  She started to look in the drawers, pulling each one open and rifling through them. Shirts in shiny cellophane wrapping paper. White vests in boxes. Black socks in little unworn balls. Coils and coils of leather belts in various shades of boring brown.

  An old college baseball shirt.

  She pulled it out and put it on, then slammed the drawers closed and sat cross-legged on the floor, staring at herself in the mirror. French doors opened off to her left and the day was as beautiful as it had been when it started. She stood up, yanked the towel from her hair and ran her fingers through it. It would dry in big waves unless she got at it.

  Maybe she should go and ask him for a hairdryer.

  She looked in the mirror again—bare legs covered by a ribbon of shirt. Maybe she shouldn’t...

  She pulled open the French doors instead and went out onto the terrace. The sun was glorious on her pale skin, but she would burn in a heartbeat if she stayed out in it. She looked along the white-walled, clean-tiled terrace. Regulation ferns in regulation terracotta pots. She’d bet there was a regulation pool round the corner. Probably usually had the regulation blonde in it too.

  She walked along, her feet slapping on the marble a little too forcefully. But spite did that. Spite got you by the throat and choked all the fun out of your day. Left you sitting in your own little pool of misery. But sometimes it was worth it. Sometimes it felt better to lie in the sewer than to be constantly fighting your way out of it.

  Stacey turned the corner and prepared herself for an image of Marco—maybe with his shirtsleeves rolled up daringly past his wrists, his hands free, sipping water or dictating a memo to buy, buy, buy or sell, sell, sell. Or to order more leather belts in a shade of sludge—no, make that mud.

  But he wasn’t there.

  * * *

  He was standing in his office watching her through the one-way glass. What the hell was she wearing now? How was it possible that his ugly old college shirt could make her look even more appealing than the full-on ‘do me’ dress she’d been wearing?

  He downed the double espresso he knew he shouldn’t be drinking in one gulp and it burned his throat. Good. Pain. Maybe if he sat with his hand in the fire he could cause blisters in his brain and finally get that damned woman out of his head.

  He hadn’t even trusted himself to send an email back to Chisholm. He’d composed it, deleted it and repeated that action three times before he’d finally pressed ‘send’. He’d paced the room and checked the markets. He could probably launch himself into space with the adrenaline coursing through his bloodstream.

  He checked his watch. Three hours until seven. He could probably make her to go to bed at nine. And if he checked in on her at midnight then she’d be up and away at six or seven. He’d make her a decent breakfast. He’d run her to the bus station or wherever she wanted to go—within reason. And he supposed he should be arranging to get her things collected now. Surely she would have other clothes that were a bit more—ordinary.

  He walked to the kitchen for another coffee, reached for a cup and pulled out two. He’d take her a coffee and get her to tell him the address.

  He went back to her room and knocked. Nothing. Maybe she was still out on the terrace. He moved through with the cups and out onto the bright wide stones. No sign. He walked round the corner to the pool. Nothing. He walked to the ledge and looked over onto the sheer drop to the road below.

  Where the hell was she?

  And then he saw her—she’d dragged a lounger right into the shadiest corner and was lying on it. Her head was turned to the side, her hair hanging over her face, eyes closed in sleep. Her legs were satiny pale and bare. She wore his shirt and one arm dangled loose, pink fingernails trailing on the ground.

  ‘Didn’t I tell you not to lie down?’ he hissed to himself as he walked towards her. ‘Stacey, get up—wake up!’

  He walked towards her.

  ‘Stacey!’

  He put the coffee cups down on the ground. The liquid splashed his hand. He said her name and bent over her. He scooped his hands under her shoulders and heaved her up. Her head lolled back.

  ‘Stacey!’ he said.

  ‘Hmm...?’ she croaked out.

  Emotions rolled through his mind...lust rolled through his body.

  He looked at that sweet, beautiful face. Her eyes were heavy with sleep, lids half closed. Her mouth was moist and open, her cheeks flushed with the heat of the sun and her hair was in a tumble all around her face. She was soft and warm and she needed so much protection.

  ‘Stacey,’ he said again, pulling her closer.

  And this time her eyes flickered.

  ‘Marco?’ she whispered.

  He jerked back, still holding her, and watched as her half-glazed eyes fluttered open. She stared at him, then pulled out of his grasp, leaned back on her elbows.

  He stood up. Stepped away. Ran his hand through his hair.

  ‘Are you okay? I thought you’d—you know...’

  She sat up on the lounger—feet on the floor, elbows on h
er knees—and leaned her head down. She moaned.

  ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘I’m fine. I’m—my head hurts.’

  ‘Let me get you some water. Wait there.’

  He raced back to the kitchen. What the hell had just happened? He’d wanted to kiss her. He nearly had kissed her! That was not supposed to happen. He’d made a conscious decision not to go there. His conscious decisions were what he lived by—they were irrefutable acts of will that he never, ever deviated from.

  He poured water and took it back to where she still sat with her head in her hands.

  ‘I’m calling a paramedic. I want to get you checked out again. You weren’t supposed to sleep.’

  ‘I’ll be fine. Just give me a minute.’

  She sat with her head bowed. He reached into his pocket for his phone. It rang before he’d even pressed a digit.

  The name on the screen flashed up.

  Preston Chisholm.

  Financier. Owner of Sant’Angelo’s. Keeper of dreams. All-round piece of trash.

  ‘Borsatto,’ he said, his mind whirring with where this might be going.

  ‘Marco! I got your offer. Can’t say it came as much of a surprise.’ His voice was lazy. Patronising.

  ‘Hey. I’m glad you called. How are you?’

  ‘I’m happy to talk. But I think a deal like this should be dealt with in person. Since we go so far back I owe it to you. It would have to be tomorrow morning. First thing. In Montauk. Short notice, I know, but it’s the only window I have for—oh, weeks now.’

  Every bit of Marco’s body tensed. There was no way Chisholm was going to weasel out of this deal. He wanted to meet face to face? Nothing would stop him. Nothing.

  ‘Absolutely fine. I have a suite at the Polo Club. We can breakfast at eight.’

  ‘I’ll see you then.’

  He clicked off the call and stood holding his phone like a grenade. The offer had barely been acknowledged. Legal should be all over it. What was Chisholm playing at? He couldn’t have called this wrong, could he? Chisholm had no axe to grind—no need to play games. This was purely a financial deal to him. The emotion...? That was all Marco’s.