‘I’ve got to go.’
He spun round.
Stacey. She was standing up, looking awful.
Damn, he had this to take care of first.
‘What are you talking about? You can’t go anywhere until you’ve got your things.’
‘Look—you’ve got stuff to do... I’ve got stuff to do.’ Her words were as sharp as ever but her voice was woozy when she spoke. ‘Just give me my dress and I’ll get going.’
This was all he needed.
‘No. Not yet. I’ll work it out. I’ve got to change my plans—I’ve got to be on the road early, but there’s no question of you not staying with me tonight. It’s just a matter of logistics. I’ve got a meeting I can’t miss in Montauk. That’s all.’
‘Yeah, I heard.’
She lifted the water to her lips, sipped at it and then passed it back to him.
‘I’d have thought you were done with that place.’
Done with that place? He’d never be done with it. Not until things were back the way they were supposed to be.
‘Thanks for—everything. I appreciate it. But now I’d appreciate if you’d turn off the electric fence and call me a cab. Like I said, I’ve got...stuff to do.’
‘What stuff?’ he asked, only half listening. He was thinking about Preston. He was thinking about the house. He was thinking about all that he’d had and all that he’d lost. He was remembering the day they’d carried him out and imagining the day he’d walk back in.
And it was close now—so close.
‘Oh, just stuff...’
Marco turned.
Stacey smiled.
Then she shook her head, as if to say, Never mind and he watched as her knees buckled, her head sank and she dropped to the ground like a stone.
CHAPTER FOUR
SENSATIONS OF SWIMMING in a dense current, floating up and then down, darkness and deep, heavy dreams. Being lifted. Laid.
Stacey came to in bed, Marco right beside her. She heard his voice first, urgent. He was saying her name. She was shaking, being shaken. She opened her eyes and saw his face.
‘Honey,’ he said, sitting back. He stroked her cheek with his knuckles. ‘You gave me such a fright, but it’s okay. The paramedics are on their way.’
She closed her eyes again as images began to sharpen in her mind. What had happened? She’d been trying to leave. Marco had been on the phone—talking about going back to Montauk, taking her with him. She’d wanted to get to New York, not Montauk. She still hadn’t been to her apartment. She had no money, no job. Debts and worries had appeared like sinkholes in the road ahead of her.
She opened her eyes fully and the light pierced right into her brain. She put her hand up and twisted away. Marco had gone. There were noises in the hallway. In came people in green, with strong arms and cheerful faces. Eugh. She turned her head away.
‘Hey, there, Stacey. You’ve had a bit of a fall. What day is it?’
‘It’s the day before the loan payment is due.’
There was a pause. Then Marco’s voice.
‘Stacey, answer the question.’
She kept her eyes closed.
‘It’s Wednesday. The payment’s due Thursday.’
‘How many fingers am I holding up?’
‘Is that a serious question?’ She sniggered into the pillow.
‘She can be like this,’ she heard him say. ‘She doesn’t mean anything by it.’
She twisted her head round, screwed up her face, held her hand up to shield her eyes from the light.
‘Would you stop talking about me as if I’m not here? He’s holding up three fingers. Okay?’
‘She seems okay. We’ll give her a check-over, but I’d say it’s just been the heat and the shock—as you said.’
They were still talking over her head. She screwed her hands into fists and lay back on the pillow, eyes scrunched closed.
But there was no point in being awkward with the medics. She let them check her vitals and answered their questions and waited as patiently as she could for them to go so she could get up on her feet and on with her life.
‘Stacey, take a look at these and pick out anything you’d like.’
Ten seconds after the medics had left she put down the glass of water, which was as much as her nauseated stomach would allow, and stared curiously at the next double act to enter the room—two of the best-groomed young men she had ever seen, pushing rails of neatly ordered clothes. They stood before her and eyed her like co-conspirators.
‘What’s going on?’ she asked.
‘You’ve been given carte blanche, girlfriend,’ said one of them with a wink. ‘A new wardrobe with clothes for every occasion. Nothing cut to the nipple or the ass is our only instruction so maybe it’s easier to tell us what you don’t want.’
‘What occasion? What are you talking about?’
She lay back down on the pillow to the sound of chuckles. The painkillers were working. Everything was woozy. She longed to sleep.
‘The lady needs a dress for dinner. Let’s see what you got.’
Marco. Back in the room. She opened her eyes. She tried to sit up. The boys were holding up two dresses—one blue, one green. He was weighing each one up. They were preening like peacocks.
‘Am I losing my mind? I do not want any man to choose me a dress. Look at what happened the last time!’
She flung back the sheet and swung out her legs. The bruise on her thigh was darker and the pain in her head sharpened to a piercing throb right across her temples. But she stood. She was done with lying down to this.
Marco eyed her with one brow hitched.
‘Thanks, guys. We’ll take the lot.’
‘Including the lingerie, sir?’
‘The lot. I’ll see you out.’
She folded her arms over her body and waited until Marco came back in the room. He was out of his suit and dressed in loose light jeans and a plain white tee.
‘We need to talk.’
‘Sure, let’s talk—but I’d prefer if you were sitting down,’ he said.
‘You don’t get to make any more decisions for me.’
‘You’ve been making a great job of doing that yourself!’
‘Right until the moment you mowed me down I was.’
‘I see. Are you including the loan payment due tomorrow? And the fact that you’re on the wrong side of a guy who tried to clear out your apartment? And who’s saying that you owe him money. And a dress.’
Stacey blanched. ‘How did you find all that out?’
‘Getting information’s cheap, Stacey. Getting out of trouble can be a little more difficult. But not impossible.’
‘Yeah, well, I sort out my own trouble. And I’d prefer if you didn’t go snooping about in my life.’
‘You lost that right when your “friend” started snooping about in mine.’
She frowned. He was looking stern. Calm, but stern.
‘Let’s just say that I’ve sorted the matter and leave it at that.’
‘Leave what at that? What are you talking about? What’s happened? Tell me—I have a right to know, goddammit!’
‘Okay,’ he said, clearly swallowing down his exasperation. ‘Sit.’
He picked up a club chair as if it was a silk cushion and placed it beside her. Then he put his hand on her back and eased her down into it—gently. He pulled another one over and sat opposite her, elbows on his knees.
‘From the top. I made a call to find out your address and get your things picked up and I got back a little more information than I bargained for. So I dug a little deeper and learned of your debt. That’s no big deal—lots of people owe money...more than you. But those people aren’t working round the clock to pay it off the way you have been. And working for crooks.’
She swallowed. She’d had no choice. She had to make ends meet and she couldn’t let her mother down. But it was nobody’s business but hers. She’d told no one. So how did he know about the debt?
&n
bsp; She stared at him.
‘You called my mother, didn’t you?’
He nodded. ‘I had to. You’d been in an accident and you’d collapsed. She had a right to know as next of kin, if nothing else.’
Stacey wrung her hands.
‘You called my mother. I’ve spent years trying to get her to stop worrying and you blow the whole thing wide open.’
She looked off to the side—couldn’t look at that big, handsome face, the concern all over his eyes—without wanting to slap him.
‘Your mother trusts me. And knowing you’re in my care probably makes her less worried about you than she’s been in years.’
Her anger pushed her to her feet.
‘You called my mother!’
She could hardly believe her own ears. She operated strict filters on what her mother learned about her life. Everything was fine and nobody was anything other than adorable. The world was filled with candyfloss and cake. What possible reason was there for telling her the ugly truth? Hadn’t she had enough of her own dramas to deal with for years?
Stacey looked at him. He had no idea what he’d done. ‘What else did you do?’
Marco sat back in the chair, as if he was going to light a cigar and tell an interesting anecdote.
‘I paid off your debt. I collected your wages. I packaged up your things. They’re in the car, all ready to go.’
‘Is there any area of my life that you didn’t get your greasy fingers all over?’
He shrugged. Smirked.
‘I have no information about your love-life. That remains your own guilty secret.’
She tossed her head back, felt a twinge in her neck. It didn’t hurt. But the pain of him stamping all over her life was immeasurable.
‘Of course. You’re quite prepared to bulldoze your way through my career, my relationship with my mother, my health, my finances—but admitting an interest in my love-life? That would be a step too far, wouldn’t it? Because that would take you into an area that’s a little too close to home—where once upon a time you had an interest of your own. Until all that money began to get in the way.’
He frowned at her. ‘Don’t be stupid. You’re not even making sense. I don’t know anything about your love-life because it’s not my business and I didn’t ask.’
‘Liar. It’s because you’re frightened of what you’d find out. You wanted me back then, Marco, and you still do. You just haven’t got the balls to admit it.’
‘I see what you’re trying to do here, Stacey. You’re just trying to cause another fight so I’ll back off. But it won’t work.’
‘What I’m “trying to do”? All I’ve been “trying to do” since you ran me over was get the hell away from you. But everywhere I go, everything I do, you’re all over it. Even down to the colour of my panties!’
She threw her arm out to the room to show him the twin rails of clothes and the boxes of lingerie that sat beside them. Marco didn’t move. Merely sat there as if he was patiently waiting for a toddler to finish their tantrum.
‘I can categorically guarantee that your love-life is your business alone. I want no part in it. But I have made an undertaking to see you safely to Montauk. Your mother is on her way back there. Or at least she will be in a few days. You didn’t know she was in Toronto, did you? She met a guy online. He lives there.’
‘Is there any end to this?’ she asked, cradling her head in her hands. How dared he scour her life and her mother’s life for facts she didn’t even want to know herself?
‘An end? You can work that out with your mother. My part is over in three days, when I make sure you are safely back home, and by that I mean your own home. The twenty grand—we can work something out. I’m not going to miss it anytime soon, if I can put it that way.’
‘You can put it any way you want, but the truth is that you are bribing me.’
At that he rose to his feet. ‘Bribing you? You call acting responsibly, doing my duty, taking care of you bribing you?’
They were toe to toe now. She could see how pronounced his stubble was, she could smell his spicy scent, could feel his maleness.
‘Yes. And I don’t know what you think you’re getting out of it other than playing the hero the way you’ve done your whole life.’
‘Is that right?’ he said.
‘Yes,’ she hissed. ‘Everyone’s hero. Except mine.’
She stepped even closer. She felt stronger and stronger with every second. She felt blood returning to places that had been parched. She was invigorated, and she was not going to roll over and play ball just because of some deal that had been cooked up between Marco Borsatto and her mother.
‘You think you’ll ride back into town with another feather in your cap because you’ve got me in tow—beholden to you. Tamed. Is that what this is all about?’
‘You’re reading far too much into this, Stacey. This is a simple matter of following through on my duty to you after the accident and to your mother for being a good person.’
He was eyeballing her now. She eyeballed him back, then let her eyes drift to his mouth. His lips were slightly parted.
‘You’re so amazing, Marco. Always doing the right thing. Every time. Marco Borsatto. What a guy! But I remember the real you. I remember the bad boy you wanted to be.’
‘Is that right?’
He was so close now she couldn’t slip a breath between them without it being felt.
She saw his nostrils flare as his eyes dropped to her mouth. She saw the pulse in his neck, sure and strong. She saw dark chest hair peeping above the hooped collar of his white T-shirt and the cotton stretched across the firm muscles of his chest. She saw the veins on his biceps stand proud. She felt herself drawn to touch them.
‘I’m the forbidden fruit, though, Marco. One bite of me and you’ll lose it all.’
She flashed him her sultriest smile. And waited.
He reached forward—one hand. Breath died in her throat.
‘One bite?’
He pushed his fingers through her hair, grabbed the back of her head and tugged her forward. He gently cupped her jaw, then ran his thumb over each lip, tugging her mouth to the side. He dragged his fingers over her cheeks, never lifting his eyes.
He caressed her neck, trailed his finger along her collarbone.
As if a river had burst its banks her body flooded with life. She pushed herself forward, longing for more of his touch, waiting.
He shook his head. ‘Not hungry.’
He dropped his hand. A phone rang. She stood frozen in the moment. He pulled it from his pocket, flicked his eyes to the screen and answered it.
‘Mrs Jackson. No, you’re not disturbing anything. Yes, she’s here. She’s looking much better. Of course you can talk to her. Only don’t keep her too long—we have to hit the road in an hour. See you Sunday. Sure—take your time. It’s no problem at all. Glad to help—you know that.’
He cocked her an eyebrow. She mouthed the worst curse she could think of. He smiled the biggest smile—all teeth and crinkled eyes. Then winked and passed her the phone.
‘Stacey, it’s your mom. She wants a word.’
She took the phone, drew her eyes from him and turned on her heel.
* * *
He watched as she walked away, feet slapping on the floor, her normally strident tones quiet and mellow. He heard her reassuring her mother over and over as she walked. He heard her telling her that it was nothing at all—a tiny bruise you could hardly see. That Marco was making a fuss and, yes, it was incredible that of all the cars in the whole of Atlantic City she should trip up next to his. Who’d have believed it?
He heard her say that he had a lovely house—just lovely. And that he had fitted it out so nicely. The curtains were beautiful and he had such a big, bright kitchen. She’d absolutely love it.
He heard her walk out onto the terrace, pausing every now and then to listen to another question and answering in the low and slow tones that even as a teenager she had used to s
oothe her mother’s anxieties.
And as he listened he felt something slide into place inside him. Something that made Sant’Angelo’s even more than an object of desire. Because he realised that it wasn’t just the bricks and mortar he was fighting for—it was his whole childhood. It was Montauk. The Jacksons were Montauk-born-and-raised. They were its fields and its beaches, its harbour and its seas. They were What can I give? instead of What can I take? They were it. Heart and soul.
And if a town could produce even one more Stacey Jackson then it was a hell of a place.
CHAPTER FIVE
STACEY PULLED AT the seatbelt that was cleverly extending itself towards her and buckled it across her lap. She settled herself into the seat and stretched out her legs, looking down at the navy leather leggings and silk tunic she’d chosen to travel in. They were the last word in luxury—and the other items she’d packed in the luggage that Marco was now stashing in the boot were admittedly gorgeous too. Tasteful, elegant and totally unlike the dress that she’d been wearing the last time she’d sat in this seat, which should be winging its way to a charity shop with a clear health warning.
So she’d rolled over? She’d accepted his ‘offer’? What else could she do under the circumstances? Her mother was beyond happy that she’d even ‘bumped into’ Marco, let alone was being chaperoned by him. She adored him! Like everyone else from End of the World, Long Island, she’d been in thrall to the town hero since—for ever.
Yes, he’d played the juiciest ace in the deck and she was powerless. For now.
She flicked down the visor and caught movement—Marco, pacing back and forth behind the car, phone to his ear, hand in the air. Such an Italian gesture. That part of him he’d always tried to play down. She’d never pressed him on it because she’d always known how fiercely he guarded his privacy—and that whatever it was that his father had done sat heavy in his heart. But he couldn’t stifle what was in him. Directing, dominating, deciding.
Thinking he could make decisions for people without so much as a Mother, may I? He didn’t need to ask for permission. A guy like him was so busy doing ‘the right thing’, and everybody was so busy fainting at his feet, that nobody noticed he wasn’t as sorted and happy as he made himself out to be.
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