The Italian's Vengeful Seduction

by Bella Frances

  He smoothed her cheek. Pressed another kiss to her lips.

  She closed her eyes. ‘I need a job, Marco.’

  ‘You’ll get a job. No problem.’

  ‘I need a job and I need to start paying you back. I’m grateful for what you did, but I would have no self-respect if I let it ride. You understand that, right?’

  From the kitchen came the sounds of crockery crashing on the tiled floor. Shouts rang out in Italian. Swing doors banged open and closed. Someone hurried along the passageway, his voice urging quiet and calm.

  ‘Sure. I understand. And I’m sorry you’ve had it so tough.’

  ‘I don’t want your sympathy, Marco—that’s the last thing I want.’

  ‘I don’t deal in sympathy. That’s not my style. But I do know how to make money. And it just so happens I’m hiring. Come on,’ he said, and he closed his fingers over hers. ‘Let’s eat while I tell you the Ts and Cs.’

  CHAPTER SIX

  THREE MILES OFF, the Montauk Point lighthouse stood proud against the pastel-hued dawn sky. Marco pounded the surf, heels catching in the incoming tide, saltwater splashing at his legs and his shorts. The cool spring wind whipped his face and chilled his lungs with each panting breath. He should be exhausted—he’d run three miles at a sprint already—but he was going to reach the Point and then turn back and do it all over again. Physical effort was the only thing that was going to keep him sane now.

  Physical effort and nailing Chisholm down so tight there wouldn’t be room for him to twitch so much as an eyelid. He had to sell it to him—had to. There was no other way. He’d offer him double what the place was worth—and double that again if he had to. And again.

  It should be the simplest, sweetest deal. But nothing would surprise him in this life. That was why he had left nothing to chance. Nothing except having Stacey Jackson as third wheel, of course.

  There was nothing he could do about that. He’d never shirk his responsibilities.

  Yeah, and he never crossed his own boundaries.

  Except last night. He’d crossed them so far he could barely see them in the distance.

  But it had felt right at the time. It had felt entirely natural to subdue her like that. He knew he had been rough—he’d been wild with a need for her—and she’d loved it. He’d never known a woman like Stacey. She left the others standing. They were like a damp day before her brilliant sunshine. Hot and steamy—a tropical storm. And who knew what kind of weather would accompany that?

  Who knew? He did! Of course he knew—she’d been that high pressure hurtling across his life once before, and she would be again if he let her. Women like Stacey were few and far between but they were high-maintenance. He’d have done anything for Stacey back then—back when he was a kid. But he’d been around the block a few times since, and he knew if he let himself slip back into that obsession just where it would end.

  That said, he was going to see this through. There was always going to be a ‘them’. Once upon a time he’d sworn it was going to be a long-term thing. But a one-night deal was good too. Call it his just deserts. That was what he was calling it now. It was the only way to get back on track. It was inevitable they were going to get it together. But it would be under his conditions. He would be calling the shots—the time and place.

  And the time and place would be after the deal. When the whole thing was stitched up, nailed down, ticked off. That was when he’d know he was truly back on track. Beholden to nobody. And that was when he would let loose his Stacey Jackson obsession. She was the prize he’d wanted back then and it seemed pretty damn apposite that he should collect now.

  Ahead, the Polo Club came into view. He slowed his pace and checked his watch—still early. Not even seven. He looked over to the stable block, where a few cars were out front. People came early to ride their horses before work. He’d get in a ride later. Maybe Stacey would like to join him.

  Stacey. His mind kept drifting back there.

  He’d made sure she was comfortable in her room before he’d said a curt goodnight, and before he’d slipped out this morning he’d stood at the door and listened for the steady in and out of her breathing. It was still less than twenty-four hours since the accident and she had another seventy-two under his watch. Her mother should be back in town by then anyway, and if she chose to take up the offer of a job here at the club then she’d be under his watch for even longer.

  He checked his watch again, worked out his pace. That had been a good run. He should be pleased. But his gut was so tense with what was ahead that he couldn’t think of anything other than getting in the shower and working out his angle if Chisholm attempted to throw him any curve balls.

  He took the steps three at a time and paused on the portico as the glass doors slid open.

  At the end of the day all Chisholm could do was say yes or no. And if he said no he had to be hanging out for more money, right? What other reason could there be for not selling? Marco hadn’t been stupid enough to offer up more than the market value in his initial bid, but he had more than enough reserves to blast any reluctance out of his path. So, yeah—it was all going to be fine. The champagne could go on the ice—no sweat.

  ‘Morning, hottie.’

  Stacey. In Lycra. Hair in a ponytail and with a fresh-scrubbed shiny face. She looked incredible.

  ‘Well, hi—where are you off to? Yoga?’

  She smiled and waved a yoga mat under his nose.

  ‘Wow, you’re good. Solved any other mysteries this morning?’

  ‘I happen to have solved the mystery of who could be your boss and manage you without having an aneurysm.’

  Her eyes widened and her smile brightened. ‘You have? You’ve got a job for me? You know what I said last night—I don’t want your charity, Marco—it had better be a real job. Not just terms and conditions.’

  ‘It is a real job. And if you’ll give me a couple of hours I’ll tell you all about it.’

  She opened her mouth and closed it again. Then slid him that sly lopsided smile—the one she kept very well hidden. The one he really enjoyed seeing.

  ‘But first I’ve gotta get it together. Meeting Preston at eight and you’ve got to find the yoga studio, which will be—’ he pointed off down the hallway ‘—along there and past the pool. Keep going,’ he shouted after her, ‘until you’ve rebalanced all your chakras!’

  Stacey waved her rolled up mat in the air and sauntered off. He folded his arms and watched that perfect backside, perfectly outlined in clingy leggings, her long perfect legs and that don’t-give-a-damn walk. Was he mad to give her employment here?

  He frowned.

  He damn well hoped not. This place was too precious to him. It wasn’t just any old polo club—it was a dream-come-true for him and his best friend Dante.

  He walked through the lounge. Short, squat club chairs in dark blues and purples were arranged in groups around long, low coffee tables. Later they’d be full of people lounging about, eating sandwiches, drinking beer and coffee, gazing out to the ocean or the polo fields beyond. He was fond of this room—fond of the whole place. He and Dante had spent a lot of time planning it all out before they’d opened the doors a year ago. Every detail was important. Including the staff. Especially the staff.

  Marco reached the end of the west wing and pushed open the doors of his suite. He and Dante had one each, on either side of the main building. And soon he’d be adding the most important real estate of all to his portfolio. Yes, in less than an hour now he’d be breakfasting on coffee and eggs and a feeling of immense satisfaction as this ten-year obsession was finally put to rest.

  * * *

  As soon as she entered the yoga studio Stacey knew it had been a bad idea. Despite it being only seven-thirty in the morning the place was packed out, and there was only one space left at the front. She padded across the floor, rolled out her mat and sat down. A little bell rang and she looked up to smile at the teacher. And there in the mirror, eyes on stalks, were two o
r maybe three faces she’d hoped never to see again.

  Stacey down-dogged and table-topped and made like a mountain. She did all the poses as best she could. But with every out-breath she could feel the interest along the row. It was just like school. Exactly like school.

  Stopping for water, they gathered like little drones and there it was again—the background buzz that had been the soundtrack to her childhood. She heard her name. She saw them turn, a little group of two or three. Whispers, then stares, then whispers again.

  What was she going to do about it? What could she do about it? Nothing. She wasn’t going to let a bunch of gossips get her down. So she was ‘that Jackson girl’. So what? She did nobody any harm. As long as they minded their business, she would mind hers.

  The class ended and Stacey rolled up her mat, sauntered back through the room, her chin up, eyes front, shaking out her hair from its clip and letting the world know with every pore of her being that they meant nothing to her. Nothing.

  Behind her she could still hear the buzz.

  ‘Is that really her? What is she even doing back here?’

  ‘Do you think Marco knows she’s here?’

  ‘Omigod—do you think she’s going to try to seduce him all over again?’

  ‘Shut up! Marco wouldn’t go near her now.’

  Laughter.

  On she went, through the club, past the swimming pool and its water aerobics class with women bobbing about to a disco beat, their coach in white shorts and white polo shirt, flirting and flattering.

  On she walked as her heart rattled out its angry beat, steadying slowly with each passing step. How many times had she been in that situation before? People talking about her as if she couldn’t hear them. Judging her with rules they made up as they went along.

  Back out into the foyer, she saw to the left the restaurant, with its fat chairs full of fat cats having their breakfast. To the right the bar and lounges, and access to the private suite where she’d spent the night. Marco would be neck-deep in his deal with Chisholm now. He had enough on his mind. The last thing he needed was her storming in to the middle of it.

  But she should talk to him. Really she should.

  Every part of her wanted to cut and run. Just when she’d thought she might find something nice about Montauk after all she’d rolled over a stone and that lot crawled out from under it. There was no way she was going to get caught up in it again.

  He’d understand. He’d get it.

  Wouldn’t he?

  ‘Well, well, well. If I hadn’t heard the news I wouldn’t have believed it to be true. But here she is—Stacey Jackson. All grown up.’

  Something about the tone made the hairs on her neck stand up, and she stopped in her tracks with her hand on the door.

  ‘Aren’t you going to say hello?’

  She turned. Here we go again, she thought.

  ‘Preston.’

  He stood there—bigger, broader, hair a bit lighter, smile a bit straighter. But the eyes were as narrow and cold as ever before. Eyes that he let drift over her whole body, as if he was dragging his fingertips over her, smearing her with his own particular brand of grease.

  She folded her arms defensively.

  ‘I must say you are a sight for sore eyes, Stacey. Always were.’ He whistled and smiled and drew his eyes all over her again. ‘Won’t you join me for a coffee?’

  She hugged her arms tighter and stuck her chin higher.

  ‘No. Thanks. I won’t keep you.’

  ‘Oh, you’re not keeping me at all. I’m done.’

  Stacey looked at him. Then she looked past him. Where was Marco?

  ‘Yes, nothing keeping me here. Unless you’d like to join me?’

  Stacey had opened her mouth to tell him to take a hike, the way she always had in the past, when Marco appeared around the corner.

  His face was utterly, rigidly neutral, but she knew. Oh, yes, she knew. He was buttoning it down tight—way too tight.

  ‘Everything okay, Stacey?’ he said, his mouth a grim slash. ‘Just head back to the suite and I’ll catch you up about the other stuff later.’

  ‘You never told me Stacey was your guest here, Marco. That puts a whole new slant on things. I may stick around a little longer. What do you say, Stacey? Care to join me for lunch? Or dinner?’

  ‘I don’t think so. I’m going to be busy sticking needles in my eyes.’

  He threw his head back and laughed.

  ‘You always had the best lines, Stacey.’

  ‘And you always had the worst. Excuse me.’

  She brushed through the middle of them. Red rage blinded her—who the hell did he think he was? The same smug face, the same supercilious tone. He had no grace, no manners, no charm at all. Yet another one of the privileged who’d decided his money bought him a right to judge.

  ‘That’s a shame,’ he called after her. ‘We could have talked over the good old days.’

  Stacey kept walking. ‘That wouldn’t take long.’

  Yes, he and those perfect yoga bods back there—they’d all had their turn...all of them. Mocking her and making up lies about her. And Preston had always been hanging around in the background—always watching, always waiting.

  ‘Or we could talk over the future—Marco wants to make me an offer for the Meadows. You could persuade me to sell it to him.’

  ‘I’ve already made you an offer, Preston. A damned good one.’

  Stacey heard the calm in Marco’s voice and stopped. Preston Chisholm was a slimy piece of trash. Worst of all the sewer rats. But Marco wasn’t. Marco had been good to her. All he wanted was to get back what was his. And all that was standing in the way was this loser.

  She turned.

  ‘Maybe I will.’ She nodded to Marco, who was watching the scene with utter detachment. He frowned his answer to her.

  ‘Keep out of my business,’ he said, with a slant of his eyes.

  She ignored him. ‘On condition it’s a table for three.’

  Preston shrugged his shoulders. ‘As long as Marco picks up the tab,’ he said, sniggering at his own stupid joke. ‘Let’s eat at Betty’s. Seven?’

  ‘We’ll eat here. Eight o’clock,’ said Marco.

  He nodded curtly to Preston and then grabbed Stacey by the elbow.

  ‘Let’s you and I have a word,’ he said, leading her off.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  ‘WHAT THE HELL do you think you’re doing?’ he asked, swinging her round by the hand as they entered the suite. ‘This is nothing to do with you, Stacey. He’s a sleazy piece of crap and no number of dinners is going to change that.’

  ‘You told me on the way here that this was the deal of your life. Either it is or it isn’t—and if it is then why would you have a problem with a dinner, for God’s sake?’

  ‘I don’t have a problem with dinner—I have a problem with you. This is my deal and I don’t need anyone’s help.’

  ‘You don’t trust me—is that it? You think I’ll say something or do something stupid.’

  ‘No, Stacey, that’s not it. It’s got nothing to do with how smart you are. It’s... It’s...’

  ‘Oh, get over yourself, Marco. You think because I work in casinos I can’t string a sentence together?’

  ‘Stacey, I know that you’re more than capable of stringing lots of sentences together—that’s the trouble. You don’t take people at face value—you take them on, period. You think everything is an attack and so you go into full-blown combat mode. And with Preston Chisholm—much as I’d like to take the guy out myself—I can’t risk it. I can’t risk that we’ll go for dinner and you’ll fly off the handle because he looks at you the wrong way or—or says the wrong thing.’

  As he spoke he trailed his eyes over her body. Fleetingly. Who could blame the guy for looking at her? Standing there in skin-tight leggings and a tiny little top. Her hair pulled back and her face scrubbed clean. Long, strong legs all the way down to her perfect cherry-red-painted toes. She was—simply gor
geous. But she couldn’t handle it. And he couldn’t risk her shooting her mouth off—or worse.

  It turned out that Chisholm Junior was a worse piece of garbage than his old man. He’d turned up for coffee and stuffed his face with eggs. He’d eaten his fill and then sat back while Marco made his pitch. They both knew Chisholm Financial didn’t need to sell. They both knew that Marco was prepared to pay way more than the house was worth.

  Maybe he’d been naïve to think that he’d be able to appeal to Preston on an emotional level, if not a financial one. He’d been honest about that, at least, and all it had got him was, ‘Pity your old man took such a gamble on the place.’

  Then he’d stood up, tossed his napkin on his plate and walked out. Right into the path of Stacey.

  So now he knew he was going to play a game. He was going to string him along, and Marco had to learn his stupid rules if he wanted to win. And there was nothing surer on this earth than that. But adding Stacey into this was just not going to happen.

  ‘Are you crazy? Don’t you remember Betty’s all those years ago? The day he sat there gawping at you for hours while you waited on tables. And I got so mad I pulled him out to the yard! And then you launched an attack on me. As if it was all my fault. What a disaster that was!’

  Her eyes opened wide and then she pursed her lips and frowned, as if she was reframing her memories and seeing her so-called I can look after myself attitude as something negative for the first time ever. He used the silence to keep going. There was no way in hell he was letting her loose near this.

  ‘Look, there’s no other way of saying it. I saw the way he looked at you just now. He’s more in love with you than ever—and that’s without the two large glasses of red that he’ll neck at dinner. You sit opposite him—’ he gestured towards her chest ‘—looking like you do, and God only knows where it’ll end up.’

  ‘Ah. That’s it.’ Her face flushed with colour and fire danced in her eyes. ‘It’s about how I look, isn’t it? Once a tramp always a tramp—is that it, Marco?’