The Italian's Vengeful Seduction

by Bella Frances

  He puffed out an angry breath. What the hell did she expect him to say to that? He wasn’t going to stand in judgement on anyone, but she was hardly the most conservative type. God knew how he’d kept his cool all day while she’d stretched and rolled around inside that dress. She was who she was, and that was fine. Fine! But he didn’t want to subject himself to another second of it until the deal was in the bag—particularly with a sleazeball like Preston Chisholm Junior anywhere nearby.

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ he said, trying to keep his voice low. ‘Preston Chisholm would be all over you if you were dressed in a sack. We both know that.’

  ‘Good job you didn’t stick a sack in with the rest of your charity shopping, then, isn’t it?’

  ‘Back to that, Stacey? The clothes are yours. Do what you like with them. Burn them for all I care.’

  She threw the yoga mat down on the floor like a petulant child. He almost expected her to stamp her foot.

  ‘What’s wrong—is your arsenal empty? No weapons left to fire?’

  He knew he was going too far. But, dammit, the last thing he needed was to deal with her ego on top of second-guessing Chisholm.

  In the quiet of the suite he waited, half aware that their voices might be carrying. Dante was due soon, and the staff would be circling. Marco liked a low profile, a quiet ride. He did not like drama and he did not let down his guard. He’d sworn he would never let himself go again—not since he’d been tossed off his own land, swinging punches and lashing out. It had taken five men to shift him—a fact that didn’t make him proud.

  ‘Well?’ Are you going to call him to say you’ve changed your mind?’ he demanded.

  She drew in a breath so deep her chest rose up. Her skin glowed under the stretch of coral Lycra.

  ‘Is that a yes? It’s not like you to have nothing to say.’

  For a moment she looked as if she was going to cry again. Her lip seemed to wobble. He stepped forward. Surely he hadn’t hurt her. She was impervious to criticism—she was made of steel. Stronger! Nothing and nobody got her down. Wasn’t that the case?

  ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘I’m waiting. What are you going to fire at me next? Is it because I wouldn’t sleep with you last night? Is that it? Must have been the first time that’s ever happened.’

  He’d never seen her lose it before. Really lose it. She seemed to turn white. Fury cloaked her face. She took one step and raised her arm to strike him. He caught it, brought it down by her side, pulled her in so close he could see the trail of freckles on her brow that had developed there the day before. Tiny, light and brown, sprinkled over her clear, pale skin.

  ‘You absolute bastard. I wouldn’t sleep with you if you were the—’

  ‘Last man alive? Yeah, well—maybe you won’t have to worry about that. I’ve got no intention of offering myself up for that particular honour.’

  They stood facing each other, his hand still encircling her arm. Her breath was shallow, her mouth an angry line. Then she closed her eyes, as if looking at him was too hideous. As if they’d burn if she saw his image.

  Suddenly his anger eased.

  ‘Stacey. I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I’ve never spoken to a woman like that before. I don’t know what came over me.’

  She turned away. He pulled her back round. She kept her eyes closed and tilted her head away. He loosened the grip on her arm as she twisted the rest of her body away from him.

  ‘I mean it. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean a word of that—it just came out. It must be the stress of this deal. Stacey...come on, sweetheart—you know how I feel about you...’

  She stepped further away and he moved himself round to face her. He tried again to pull her close to him but she stepped away. And then she lifted her chin and her chest and seemed to suck in a breath. She straightened, and this time she faced him, and her cheeks were wet with tears.

  He was appalled. He had never made a woman cry like that before. Never used words in anger. He felt sick to the pit of his stomach.

  ‘Honey—’

  ‘Get your hands off me, Marco.’ She hissed the words at him.

  ‘No,’ he said.

  He’d been fine—he could handle Chisholm and all his brinksmanship. He didn’t need her help. Why couldn’t she see that? Why did she get him all fired up like this?

  He pulled her closer, so that she was right under his face. Her eyes were glassy, the dark blue irises glazed grey with her tears. He stared from one to the other, saw salty smears trailing her cheeks.

  ‘I hate you,’ she said, each word a dagger.

  ‘So you keep saying,’ he said. And he pulled her against him, grabbed her and tugged her closer than close. ‘And I’m telling you to get in line.’

  ‘I can’t see the line past the members of your fan club,’ she spat back.

  He laughed. ‘You are the smartest, sexiest woman I’ve ever met, Jackson.’

  He kept her there, fighting the urge to kiss her. The next time he started that it was going to end in bed. And it was too soon, yet. Much too soon.

  ‘I mean it—get your hands off me!’

  With another tug she loosened herself from his grip and he let her go. Her eyes blazed with fury and her cheeks were high with colour. She was the most passionate woman he had ever met.

  ‘You honestly think you can talk to me like that? Bring me down and make me feel worse than anyone—anyone—has ever made me feel and that’s all right?’

  He swallowed, and it was as if a boulder had lodged in his throat. She was right.

  ‘You know, I nearly ran out of here earlier. I nearly thought sack this. I went to that studio and who do I see but all your old crowd in their safe little cliques? All reassuring themselves that they’ve made all the right choices—the right hair and the right clothes. The right husbands and houses. Probably the right damn children. I nearly let them get to me again.’

  Her eyes filled up. He moved to her. She was crying again and it was all his fault.

  ‘Stacey—’ he began, reaching out for her.

  She put up her hand. He paused. Her anger and her grief grew and tears spilled freely down her face.

  ‘No!’ she said. ‘I nearly let them derail me again. But I didn’t. I looked at them—all of them wondering what shade of Lycra they should wear, as if that’s the important stuff in life. As if their brand of trainers is more important than putting food on the table. Looking down at people like me because we have to actually work for a living.’

  He’d heard her say things like this before. He knew how she felt about people looking down on her. But she’d never levelled her criticism at him before.

  ‘You know that’s not what I feel, Stacey. You know I hold you in as much regard as any of them—any—’

  ‘Any what, Marco? Any woman? Because it seems to me that something’s changed. You might be rich—richer than anyone in your family has ever been before—and you’ve got everything you could ever want. Look at you. Wealth and power ooze from every pore. But you’ve lost something along the way.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous, Stacey. I’ve grown up. Matured. That’s all it is.’

  ‘If that’s all it is then you were better off before. Better off poor. Because the poor Marco—the one who lost it all—he was a nice guy. This one...’

  She wiped at her eyes and turned away from him, bent down to pick up the yoga mat from the floor that had unravelled like a long pink tongue.

  ‘I don’t know what’s happened to you. You always took things easy. Sure, you could get angry from time to time—but you never got personal. You never aimed to kill. But now...’

  He watched as she stooped and began to roll the mat up. Watched as her back rippled with her graceful moves. Watched as her slender arms reached out and her long fingers clenched round the edges.

  ‘What are you doing? Leave that,’ he said. It was the most surreal thing. ‘That’s a load of crap, Stacey. You can’t say that and then start rolling up your damn mat.’

&
nbsp; ‘You think because you bought me a bunch of fancy clothes and made a promise to my mom that you can order me about?’

  She stayed crouched down. Her fingers slipped and the mat unfurled itself.

  He couldn’t take it any more. He grabbed her arm and hauled her to her feet. And she let him.

  ‘For the last damn time—the clothes are yours because I pronged you on the hood of my car. You can sue me, if you like. Others would. That’s how the world is these days—so I’m grateful to you that you haven’t threatened me with that...’

  He knew as he finished the sentence that he hadn’t finished it well. He’d let it trail. He knew and she knew—and she looked up at him.

  ‘Yet? Did you forget to add on yet? Because that’s what it sounded like. You actually think that I might file some sort of suit against you?’

  ‘It wouldn’t be the first time,’ he said as he turned away.

  ‘Wow,’ she said. ‘Now we’re really getting somewhere.’

  He walked away from her and that stupid mat. He needed coffee. There was a machine in the suite’s kitchen he hardly used—he preferred going down to the restaurant kitchen and making his espresso at the huge Italian machine there. He loved the steam and the clunks of metal. The whole process of making coffee rather than just pushing a button. But he needed a blast of full-strength java now. In private. No onlookers.

  ‘Don’t turn your back on me, Borsatto.’

  He stopped. What had she just said?

  ‘Don’t think for one minute that you can level all that stuff at me and then, when I raise the fact that you’re a tiny bit suspicious of people, walk away.’

  ‘I’m getting coffee,’ he said, and started to move again.

  ‘Thanks!’ she called after him. ‘That would be lovely. You’re quite the host.’

  ‘Pleasure’s all mine,’ he called back.

  ‘Well, your version of pleasure is totally overrated. I’m surprised none of your girlfriends have told you that!’

  He shook his head and realised that his mouth had almost hitched into a smile. Through all the rage and frustration and confusion she and her one-liners always managed to make him smile.

  He pulled out two cups and popped two coffee pods into the machine. He felt her come in to the kitchen—her presence, her aura, whatever the hell it was. But something deep within him recognised it and warmed to it. It had back then. And it did now.

  He waited, hands braced on the worktop, listening to the muffled gurgles as the coffee brewed. Then he passed her the first cup and turned.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said again. ‘Truly I am. I know it’s no excuse, but Chisholm is playing games and I let that get to me. Okay?’

  She took the cup and put it down.

  ‘No. It’s not okay. Number one—I nearly ran out of here earlier. I was all set to get on the train. And then I thought, Actually, you know, Marco is a nice guy and he doesn’t deserve to be treated badly. You know that I only said I’d go to dinner with Preston for you, don’t you? Number two—’ She held up her hand to stop him from speaking. ‘Let me finish.’

  ‘Go on,’ he said, stifling another tiny smile as he lifted the second cup from the machine and settled himself back against the worktop.

  ‘Number two—it was you who lost control in Betty’s, not me. I didn’t give a damn that Preston was hanging out and sucking on the same soda all day. You had the problem with it—not me. So if anyone is going to let themselves down at dinner tonight it’s you, sweetheart!’

  He swallowed the espresso in two gulps, put the cup down. Gently.

  ‘May I speak now? Or is there a number three?’

  ‘Yeah—it just so happens there is. Number three—you have significant—and I mean significant—trust issues. Do not interrupt me. If you think that I would ever, ever come after you for damages...’

  She lifted her own cup and placed it to her lips. Sipped, put it down. Gave her head a little shake and lifted her chin.

  ‘And I can’t help you with that. You need professional help to get over it.’

  He couldn’t hold back any more. His face broke out into a full smile and a chuckle gurgled up in his throat.

  She spun round.

  ‘What is so funny?’

  He shook his head.

  ‘Nothing. It’s...’

  He pushed himself back from the counter and stepped round it, braced his arms on either side of where she still leaned. She tipped her body away from him, held herself rigid.

  ‘You. You’re one of the only people I know who says it like it is.’

  ‘It’s the only way to say it.’

  He nodded. ‘No games with you, Stacey. Never have been and I don’t suppose there ever will be.’

  ‘None. But never mind that. Question is—how are you going to get past your paranoia that I’m going to stab Preston to death with my stiletto? Or bury you in lawsuits for dangerous driving?’

  ‘This is my business, Stacey. My life—my deal. It’s not that I don’t trust you—it’s just that I don’t need...’

  ‘You’ve got a better plan?’

  He lifted his empty cup, put it back down.

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘Well, what harm could it do? Filet mignon and a bottle of Château Lafite. Preston likes me. And I don’t think he’s all that sweet on you.’

  ‘Any wine on the table will be Italian.’

  Marco rolled it around in his head. To be truthful he hadn’t yet figured out the next step in his plan. He had focused on walking out of the restaurant with the deeds to his house—hadn’t let any other thought enter his head. So now what did he do? Smoke him out? Threaten him? Ruin him financially so there was no other choice? That wasn’t his style.

  ‘You know, the thing about Preston is that he wants to belong. In a way he’s just like me,’ Stacey said.

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Have you ever been the one who didn’t get chosen for a game? Or had literally nobody to talk to all weekend?’

  Marco popped another pod in the machine as he continued to stare at her. ‘Are you truly trying to make me feel sorry for him?’

  ‘No. I think he’s a worthless piece of trash. But if you understand why he’s such a creep that will help you figure out how to beat him.’

  ‘Go on,’ he said.

  ‘He’s lonely. I know how lonely feels, and he is lonely, all right. It’s the most horrible way to be. He wants to be you. He wants to have the money and the looks and the fans and the friends. But he can’t have it—so all he can do is hold back the thing you want most.’

  Marco drained the second espresso in a single gulp and made yet another mental note to move to decaf.

  ‘This is not about my ego.’

  ‘God, no—it’s about playing him at his own game. He hasn’t figured out yet that being Marco Borsatto isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. So you let him in a little—you share your downtime...you have dinner. With me. He likes me.’

  ‘Forget it,’ he said.

  ‘Think of it as another little bit of charity. What harm would it do? Instead of gift-wrapped leisure wear you give him gift-wrapped personal time. I bet he rolls over for you. As long as you don’t sink him with a left hook if he stares at me for too long.’

  Marco poured himself some water and checked his watch. Ten-thirty. Eight and a half hours to come up with a better plan. He drained the water and stared out across the bay. He had everything. Everything he could ever want. And he’d done it himself. It was a very simple rule. You could rely on one person in life and one person only. If you stuck to that then no one let you down.

  And, anyway, business did not mix with pleasure. And pleasure was overrated.

  ‘I’m sure Preston will be quite the host.’

  He looked round to see Stacey sauntering across the lounge. Pleasure was overrated. Was it? She would bring him pleasure, all right. He was counting on it.

  ‘If you change your mind,’ she added, ‘you know where we’l
l be.’

  Then she slung him that look over her shoulder, hitched her lip and slowly slipped out of sight.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  WIND WHIPPED AT Stacey’s hair and slipped icy fingers on her bare flesh as she cycled the last part of the road down to the beach. The memory of the stinging pain of the sea breeze was still fresh. Almost as fresh as the stinging pain of being back here at all.

  The road narrowed to a path, which narrowed further to a sandy track, with tufts of grass on either side and pebbles that were big enough to knock her off balance if she wasn’t watching. But she knew what she was doing and steered carefully until she saw the wooden perimeter fence. It was even more lopsided and calcified than she remembered, but she settled the shiny Polo Club bike against it, tugged up her zipper and made her way down to the shore.

  The waves roared her a welcome, but it was the shingly swish of the tide back and forth, back and forth, that most brought her home. She picked her way to her favourite spot and there it was—the same flat-topped rock that she’d sat on for so many hours, just staring out across the bay at the sprawling mansions and estates opposite.

  She stepped out of her trainers, buried her toes in the sand and looked directly over at the biggest estate of all—the Meadows. Even from this distance she could make out the fence that had been erected along its boundaries since she’d been away. Different parts of it had been parcelled up and sold off for retirement homes, summer houses and—according to Marco, who had almost spat out the words at dinner last night—‘Goddamn crazy golf’.

  It must really hurt, she thought. To know that what had once been your family home was now occupied by hundreds of strangers.

  She’d never felt any sense of loss for the two-bed shack that she’d called home, though. It hadn’t felt like a home since her dad had gone. That was when it had all started to go wrong. She could see it so clearly now. Her mother’s whole world had been about pleasing her husband. Every decision she’d made had been run through a mental Will he like it? filter.

  He hadn’t been a bad man so much as a disgustingly selfish one. He probably hadn’t set out to leave them devastated and torn apart—he’d just seen something he’d liked better and thought he’d have that instead. It wouldn’t surprise her to learn that he’d moved on to wife number three by now.