Rossellini's Revenge Affair

by Yvonne Lindsay

  “There’s something wrong with my key. It’s not working.” She turned to the two men standing behind her. “Why can’t I go into my apartment?”

  “It’s not yours anymore, ma’am. The bailiffs arrived just after you left this morning. They’ve taken everything and the building manager said you weren’t to be given access.”

  “Show me.”

  “Mrs Whittaker, I can’t.”

  “Show me right now.”

  To her chagrin James looked to Raffaele Rossellini for approval. At the other man’s nod, James reached for the master keys he kept hanging on the chain at his side. In a moment the door swung wide.

  Lana pressed her lips together firmly, fighting to hold back the cry that threatened to escape. On a deep instinctive level she knew that if she let it go she wouldn’t be able to stop until there was no breath left in her lungs.

  The expansive rooms opened emptily before her. She’d thought the memories were bad enough but this, this was far worse. She moved like a ghost through the vacant rooms. Even the kitchen cupboards were empty. Gone was the Meissen dinner set, gone the Baccarat crystal, her furniture, everything. Even in the bedroom, the walk-in wardrobe door stood open, the shelves and rails jeeringly empty. The realisation that she stood with only the clothes on her back slammed home with the impact of a juggernaut. Not so much as a scrap of paper lay on the floor.

  Nothing remained of her life as she knew it. Absolutely nothing.

  Somehow she found her voice. “Thank you, James. I think I’ve seen quite enough.”

  The guard barely masked his sigh of relief. No doubt he’d expected a more hysterical response. As, for the last time, she walked out of what had been her home, he locked the door behind them.

  Downstairs Lana numbly headed for the exit. Where she was headed even she didn’t know. All she knew was she had to get out, get away.

  “Mrs Whittaker.” Raffaele Rossellini hailed her. “One moment.”

  Lana stopped but didn’t turn around.

  “Where are you going?”

  “That’s not your concern.” That this man had been there to see her whole life ripped apart was bad enough. She couldn’t admit to him that she had nowhere to go.

  “Kyle was my friend. I owe it to him to take care of you.” He drew her hand through his arm and led her towards the car. “Come, tonight you stay with me at the hotel. Tomorrow we will visit your lawyer again and find out what is happening.”

  To Raffaele’s surprise she didn’t so much as murmur a single objection. He showed her into the back of the limousine and settled himself opposite her. He thought she’d looked brittle last night, but now she looked as though a single breath would see her dissolve into a million tiny particles and float away on the breeze.

  He deliberately quelled the protective surge that billowed through him. She was, after all, his sworn enemy. She’d destroyed his sister’s happiness. He was only helping her out so he knew exactly where to find her. The more she was indebted to him, the easier it would be when he finally wrought his revenge. And yet, there was a vulnerability about her that tugged at him with a persistence he could not disregard.

  At the hotel she didn’t speak as he took her up to his suite. He shrugged out of his coat, dropping it across the back of a chair and he called for room service while she sank onto a voluminous sofa, appearing almost childlike on its vast surface. A far cry from the cool and confident woman who’d greeted him in her apartment last night.

  Kyle’s creditors had acted swiftly once news of his death had hit the papers, and it was all her fault. If his friend hadn’t been forced to maintain two homes, two lifestyles—essentially, two wives—Kyle wouldn’t be dead today and Maria wouldn’t be hanging to a thread of life.

  Raffaele fed the anger that smouldered like a burning lump of coal in the pit of his stomach. Lana Whittaker had it all coming to her, and more.

  The subtle tone of the doorbell echoed through the room. Room service was at least prompt. Raffaele stood to one side as the two staff wheeled in the trolley, laden with food, and set everything out on the table. From the corner of his eye he saw Lana’s head lift up as he opened his wallet and generously tipped the wait staff. Money. She could probably smell it at twenty paces.

  “Come, eat.” Raffaele pulled out a chair and settled Lana at the table.

  “Thank you, but I don’t think I could eat a thing.” Her voice was little more than a whisper.

  “It’s been a difficult day, but you must eat.” He served a portion of seafood fettuccine onto her plate. “Try this, it’s almost as good as my Mamma used to make.”

  “Your mother cooked for you?”

  “Always. Yours?”

  “No. We had staff.”

  Staff. It figured. Not for her the drudgery of shopping at the market and coming home laden with groceries. Not for her the simple pleasure of being covered in flour while making pasta from scratch in a noisy bustling kitchen filled with a happy blend of chaos and delicious aromas. His mother had ensured each of her three children was as capable in the kitchen as she. It had stood them in good stead in the hard years when her husband’s business began to fail. It had been a difficult time, leading to his father’s premature death, and had been the catalyst that drove Raffaele to excel. One way or another he had been determined to make up to his mother for the hardships she’d endured. And he had—with the exception of his last promise to her to keep Maria safe. In that he’d failed shamefully.

  The creamy seafood sauce soured on his tongue and he placed his fork on the plate and reached to pick up his wine.

  Lana, he noticed, ate little, but some colour had begun to return to her cheeks. Her skin was like that of a pearl, lightly blushed with the softest pink. No doubt she’d been a wonderful adornment to Kyle’s life and been the perfect hostess. But despite her appearance he knew she was cold and grasping to her very core.

  Eventually, she too put down her fork.

  “Thank you. I feel much better now.”

  “Prego. Is there something else you would like? Some dessert perhaps?”

  “No. Nothing, thank you. I’m fine.” He watched as she elegantly lifted her napkin to her mouth to stifle a yawn. Ever perfect manners.

  What would drive her over the edge, he wondered. What would it take to make her let go of that impenetrable calm, the haughty posture, the mask of perfection that governed her features? Raffaele’s fingers tightened around the stem of his glass as the need to push her over that edge swelled within him. Not now, he cautioned himself. Not yet. Her time would come, though. Of that much he was certain.

  “Would you mind if I retire now? I am rather tired.” Lana’s request penetrated his thoughts.

  “Forgive me for my rudeness. Of course you’re tired. Come. I will show you your bedroom.”

  On the other side of the suite from his own room he ushered her into a slightly smaller and less opulently appointed bedroom.

  “You’ll find everything you need in the bathroom through there,” he gestured. Lana started forward, but hesitated in the doorway. “Is something not to your liking?”

  “No, it’s not that.” She plucked at her clothing, a look of distaste twisting her lips. “Would it…would it be possible to have my clothes dry cleaned overnight? I have nothing else to wear.”

  “But of course. My apologies, Signora, how careless of me not to have thought of that. I will take care of it for you straight away.”

  “Thank you.”

  As Raffaele went to withdraw from the room and close the door she reached out her hand and stopped him.

  “Mr Rossellini, I mean it. Thank you.”

  “Raffaele, and you’re welcome. It is a small thing I do.”

  To his surprise, tears welled up in her eyes. She swung away from him in a vain attempt to mask the raw emotion that painted across her face. He reached out his hand and turned her back to face him.

  “Mi dispiace. I did not mean to make you weep.”

  He watch
ed her struggle to regain the composure she’d exhibited most of the day. Struggle, and fail. The shoulders she’d held so straight now shook as gulping sobs escaped her mouth.

  He pulled her against his body, offering comfort when his instinct told him to turn his back and leave. Offering strength when his inner voice demanded he cast her off to face her misery alone.

  She held her slender frame apart from him, then, with a shuddering breath, her body moulded against the length of his. Her small high breasts pressed against his chest, her hips cradled against his. Every nerve in his body leapt to attention and a deep pulsing heat gathered in his groin. He flattened his hands across her back, determined to pluck her away. Yet almost of their own volition, they swept down the length of her spine, lower to her waist, to her hips, and drew her harder against him.

  Raffaele lifted one hand and slid it to her throat, his thumb tilting her chin up. Forcing her to meet his gaze. Her eyes stared back at him, as turbulent as a storm-tossed sea. Moisture brimmed in their depths, threatening to fall if she so much as blinked.

  He pulled her body against his again, more firmly this time. There was no hiding his arousal. She didn’t so much as pull away by a millimetre. So, it was to be like that. Two could play at that game. He lowered his head, capturing her lips with his own, feeling the softness of hers yield against the pressure he knew he applied too firmly. She should fight back—reject him—he argued internally. But a tremor raced through him as her lips parted and her tongue swept out to trace his lower lip.

  Her arms snaked up and her hands clasped behind his neck. Raffaele walked her backwards until the back of her knees hit the edge of the bed. Still locked in their embrace he tumbled them onto the satin bedcover, one hand cupping the back of her neck, the other tugging her blouse free of the waistband of her trousers. His hand slid beneath the silky fabric, upwards until he reached the gentle mounds of her breasts. His fingers swept over the cup of her bra and higher until they traced over the cool softness of her skin. She trembled beneath the mastery of his touch.

  Disgust and anger swept through him. She had been a widow only four days yet now she was his for the taking? He yanked his hand away from her, away from the enticement of her body, and pushed himself to his feet.

  He drew a deep steadying breath into his lungs and slowly exhaled, his eyes narrowing at the picture she made sprawled on the bedcovers—her clothing in disarray, her lips swollen and glistening like temptation incarnate.

  Words failed him. He knew he should say something scathing—cut her down or, even better, cast her out. But as she curled onto her side and away from his gaze he found he could do no such thing.

  “My apologies, Mrs Whittaker,” he said through gritted teeth. “It was not my intention to take advantage of your grief. If you put your things in a laundry bag and leave it outside your door, I’ll arrange for housekeeping to attend to it for you.”

  She nodded, the merest inclination of her head, but not another word passed her lips.

  Later, under the pounding jets of his shower, Raffaele tried to wash the feel of Lana Whittaker from his body and out of his mind. But it was useless. The taste of her, the texture of her tongue, her skin, ran through his veins like a drug.

  He forced the image of Maria to the front of his mind. For her he would do this. Only for her.

  Four

  Lana rose from the bed the moment Raffaele left her room and rapidly peeled off her clothing. She grabbed the laundry bag off the hanger in the built-in wardrobe and shoved her things in it. Dressed now only in her bra and panties, she quickly opened the bedroom door and dropped the bag outside before pulling it swiftly closed again.

  Automatically, she went through the motions of getting ready for bed—rinsing out her underwear, brushing her teeth, taking refuge in a warm shower—all the while refusing to acknowledge, even to herself, how swiftly she’d fallen into Raffaele Rossellini’s arms and under his masculine spell. Wrapped in a dry bath towel and with nothing left to do to occupy her, she finally sat on the edge of the bed and faced the irrefutable truth.

  Her husband had been dead less than a week and she’d already thrown herself into another man’s arms. What did that make her? Waves of desolate weariness swelled through her. Even if she’d wanted to understand, nothing in her life had ever prepared her for this. Not the private schooling in various cities around the world, not the grooming at a Swiss finishing school, not her duties as her father’s hostess or her work with underprivileged children in the city, and certainly not the discovery that her husband—the man she’d sworn to love a lifetime—had been a two-faced lying scoundrel.

  When had her marriage started to fall apart? What could she have done differently? Would it even have made any difference?

  And what of her behaviour with Raffaele Rossellini? This time last night he’d been the last person she expected, or wanted, to see ever again. Another of Kyle’s creditors, and for a huge sum of money. Letting herself be comforted by him was one thing, but to have willingly offered her lips, her body, to him was quite another. And yet, even now her nipples still tightened at the memory of his touch and fire still shot delicious flames through her body. His kiss had been dominating, masterful, and she’d welcomed it with a wantonness that still pulsed through her.

  She shouldn’t be feeling like this. Guilt should be flaying her with its many tails, not leaving her body awakened and craving more of his touch. She could even still smell him, the musky spice of his cologne, the underlying heat of him.

  She wanted him with a force that shocked her to her core. Was it only a knee-jerk reaction to Kyle’s infidelity—to the proof that she wasn’t woman enough for him, and obviously hadn’t been for some time? Thoughts cascaded through her mind, one after the other, like pebbles tumbling in a fast flowing stream.

  Lana crawled beneath the sheets on the bed and pulled the covers up to her chin staring unseeingly into the dark. What had her life come to and, more importantly, what came next?

  A gentle knock at her door dragged her from sleep the next morning—sleep that had been fractured with dreams of herself entwined in Raffaele Rossellini’s arms. She sat up and pushed her hair from her eyes. God, she felt a total mess. The towel she’d wrapped around her last night had twisted and slipped around her body and she grasped at its edges, pulling them up to cover herself as her door swung open.

  Raffaele stood in the doorway, a towering dark presence, dressed in what she realised was his trademark black business attire. Cool grey eyes, flicked over her tumbled hair, her bare shoulders and lower to the shadowed valley of her breasts, accentuated by the way she clutched at the towel. Heat bloomed through her body, her skin suddenly ultra sensitive to the texture of the towelling beneath her. She flicked her tongue across suddenly dry lips, her eyes captured by the answering flare of heat in his as he watched the automatic action.

  “Buon giorno, Mrs Whittaker. I trust you slept well?” There was a steely tone to his voice, almost as if he was angry.

  Lana fought to regain her poise. “Please, don’t call me that. I don’t…I’m not—” she broke off mid-sentence.

  It sounded all wrong hearing “Mrs Whittaker” from his lips, it sounded all wrong altogether. She had been Kyle’s wife, but it had meant nothing to him. Nothing whatsoever. As she’d lain tangled in the sheets of her bed last night thinking about anything and everything but how she’d wantonly thrown herself at Raffaele Rossellini it had finally dawned on her that she’d been no more than another achievement to him. Something to flaunt before his colleagues. Something to boast about when he’d talked about how far he’d come from the kid who’d dropped out of school at fifteen to panhandle the streets and run odd jobs.

  Raffaele’s eyebrows drew together in a stark line and his grey eyes grew cool. “You want me to call you Lana.”

  She shivered slightly as her name rolled off his tongue, his accent lending an entirely new pronunciation to the two simple syllables. “Please, let’s not stand on formalit
ies.”

  “As you wish. Housekeeping has not yet returned your clothing. I took the liberty of ordering some items for you from the hotel boutique. I trust they will be suitable. I’ve also contacted Tom Munroe’s office. They’re expecting us at ten-thirty.”

  “Tom’s office?”

  “You need to find out what is to happen next, don’t you? Where you stand financially.”

  “Of course. Thank you. You surprised me, that’s all. I’ll be out in a minute.” She’d forgotten for an instant that she owed this man money. A great deal of money. Of course he wanted to know how soon she would repay him.

  Raffaele lifted two large shopping bags, embossed with the hotel boutique’s insignia on the side, onto her bed. “Let me know if these are not suitable. We can have them changed.”

  “Thank you. Yes. I will.” With each time her words of thanks passed her lips Lana was reminded of how he’d accepted her thanks last night, of how she’d reacted under his touch and how her body flared to life in his presence. It was as if he exuded a drug that intoxicated her senses and drove all thought of her precarious position from her mind.

  He was dangerous.

  The thought flashed through her mind, identifying the subtle power he already held over her. She’d do better to focus on each tiny step she would have to take to get through today and each subsequent one after that, in an effort to get through the mess Kyle had left of their lives.

  When Raffaele closed the door, Lana carefully tipped the contents of the bags onto her bed. She gasped in surprise at the items that spilled onto the covers, her fingers reaching for the lingerie that slid from its tissue wrapping. The briefs were the sheerest scrap of lace, their colour the shimmering turquoise of a tropical sea, and the matching demi-bra more enticing than anything she’d ever worn before. Something was caught in the tissue and she plucked it from the delicate paper—a suspender belt.

  She clutched the items in her suddenly fisted hand and examined the sizes. Perfect. A disquieting thought sprang to mind. Had he chosen these himself, his long fingers caressing the sensuous slide of fabric? A heated flood of desire pooled at her core. Had he imagined her in them when he’d bought them? No! She had to stop thinking like this, tormenting herself like this. He’d been thoughtful enough to arrange for a change of clothing. That was all. It was no more than anyone would have done for her under the circumstances, surely.