Surrendering to the Vengeful Italian

by Angela Bissell

  He would not make the same mistake twice.

  Just as he would not be swayed from his purpose.

  Douglas Shaw was a bully who thought nothing of destroying people’s lives and he deserved a lesson in humility. Leo didn’t trust the man and he didn’t trust his daughter.

  He drained the soda and crumpled the can in his fist.

  Shaw wanted to play games? Leo was ready. He’d been ready for seven years. And if the man chose to use his daughter as a pawn, so be it. Two could play at that game.

  He threw the can in the wastebin, a slow smile curving his lips.

  Si. This might be fun.

  * * *

  ‘Go home, Helena.’

  Helena looked up from the papers on her desk. Her boss stood holding his briefcase, his suit jacket folded over one arm, a look of mock severity on his face. It was after six on Friday and their floor of the corporate bank was largely deserted.

  ‘I’m leaving soon,’ she assured him. ‘I’m meeting someone at six-thirty.’

  David gave an approving nod. ‘Good. Enjoy your weekend.’

  He started off, but paused after a step and turned back. ‘Have you thought any more about taking some leave?’ he said. ‘HR is on the use-it-or-lose-it warpath again. And if you don’t mind me saying...’ he paused, his grey eyes intent ‘...you look like you could do with a break.’

  She smiled, deflecting his concern. David might be one of the bank’s longest-serving executives and knocking sixty, but the man rarely missed a beat. He was sharp, observant, and he cared about his staff.

  She made a mental note to apply more concealer beneath her eyes. ‘I’m fine. It’s been a long week. And the rain kept me awake last night.’

  Partly true.

  ‘Well, think about it. See you Monday.’

  ‘Goodnight, David.’

  She watched him go, then glanced at her watch.

  She had to move.

  The car Leo was sending was due in less than twenty minutes, and earning a black mark for running late was not the way she wanted to start the evening.

  Shutting herself in David’s office, she whipped off her trouser suit and slipped on the little black dress she’d pulled from the bowels of her wardrobe that morning, then turned to the full-length mirror on the back of the door and scanned her appearance.

  She frowned at her cleavage.

  Good grief.

  Had the dress always been so revealing?

  She couldn’t remember—but then neither could she recall the last time she’d worn it. She seldom dressed up these days, even on the rare occasions she dated. She tugged the bodice up, yanked the sides of the V-neck together and grimaced at the marginal improvement.

  It would have to do.

  There was no time for a wardrobe-change—and besides, this was the dressiest thing she owned. She’d sold the last of her designer gowns years ago, when she’d had to stump up a deposit and a month’s advance rent on her flat. Keeping the black dress had been a practical decision, though she could count on one hand the number of times it had ventured from her wardrobe.

  She turned side-on to the mirror.

  The dress hugged her from shoulder to mid-thigh, accentuating every dip and curve—including the gentle swell of her tummy. Holding her breath, she pulled in her stomach and smoothed her hand over the bump that no number of sit-ups and crunches could flatten.

  Not that she resented the changes pregnancy had wrought on her body. They were a bittersweet reminder of joy and loss. Of lessons learnt and mistakes she would never make again.

  She snatched her hand down and released her breath. Tonight she needed to focus on the present, not the past, and for that she would need every ounce of wit she could muster.

  Outside the bank a sleek silver Mercedes waited in a ‘No Parking’ zone, its uniformed driver standing on the pavement. ‘Ms Shaw?’ he enquired, then opened a rear door so she could climb in.

  Minutes later the car was slicing through London’s chaotic evening traffic, the endless layers of city noise muted by tinted windows that transformed the plush, leather-lined interior into a private mini-oasis. Like the luxury suite at the hotel, the car’s sumptuous interior epitomised the kind of lifestyle Helena had grown unused to in recent years—unlike her mother, who still enjoyed the baubles of wealth and couldn’t understand her daughter’s wish to live a modest life, independent of her family’s money and influence.

  She dropped her head back against the soft leather.

  She loved her mother. Miriam Shaw was a classic blonde beauty who had moulded herself into the perfect society wife, but she was neither stupid nor selfish. She loved her children. Had raised them with all the luxuries her own upbringing in an overcrowded foster home had denied her. And when they’d been packed off to boarding school, at her husband’s insistence, she’d filled her days by giving time and support to a long list of charities and fundraisers.

  Yet where her husband was concerned Miriam was inexplicably weak. Too quick to forgive and too ready to offer excuses.

  Like today, when she’d called to cancel their prearranged lunch date. A migraine, she’d claimed, but Helena knew better. Knew her mother’s excuse was nothing more than a flimsy veil for the truth, as ineffectual and see-through as the make-up she would use to try to hide the bruises.

  Denial.

  Her mother’s greatest skill. Her greatest weakness. The impregnable wall Helena slammed into any time she dared to suggest that Miriam consider leaving her husband.

  A burning sensation crawled from Helena’s stomach into her throat—the same anger and despair she always felt when confronted by the grim reality of her parents’ marriage.

  She massaged the bridge of her nose. Over the years she’d read everything she could on domestic abuse, trying to understand why her mother stayed. Why she put up with the drinking, the vitriol, the occasional black eye. Invariably, when the latter occurred, a peace offering would ensue—usually some priceless piece of jewellery—and then Miriam would pretend everything was fine.

  Until the next time.

  Helena had seen it more times than she cared to count, but now the stakes were higher. Now her father stood to lose everything he held dear: his company, his reputation, his pride.

  If Leo got his way the ShawCorp empire would be carved up like twigs beneath a chainsaw, and Helena had no doubt that if—when—her father went down, he would take her mother with him.

  ‘Miss Shaw?’

  She jolted out of her thoughts. The car had stopped in front of Leo’s hotel and a young man in a porter’s uniform had opened her door. Lanky and fresh-faced, he reminded Helena of her brother, prompting a silent prayer of gratitude that James was in boarding school, well away from all this ugly drama.

  She slid out and the porter escorted her through the hotel to a grand reception room with a high vaulted ceiling and decorative walls. The room was crowded, filled with tray-laden waiters and dozens of patrons in tailored tuxedos and long, elegant evening gowns.

  ‘Have a good evening, miss.’

  The young man turned to leave.

  ‘Wait!’ She clasped his arm, confusion descending. ‘I think there’s been some mistake.’

  He shook his head, his smile polite. ‘No mistake, miss. Mr Vincenti asked that you be brought here.’

  * * *

  Leo stood at the edge of the milling crowd, his gaze bouncing off one brunette after another until he spied the one he wanted, standing next to a wide marble pillar just inside the entrance. Weaving waiters, clusters of glittering guests and some twenty feet of floor space separated them, but still he saw the flicker of uncertainty in her eyes. The twin furrows of consternation marring her brow.

  Satisfaction stirred. Last night the element of surprise had been hers. How would the minx cope when the tables were turned?

  He lifted two champagne flutes from a passing silver tray and carved a path to her side.

  ‘Buona sera, Helena.’

  She sp
un, her startled gaze landing on the flutes in his hands, then the bow tie at his throat, before narrowed eyes snapped to his.

  ‘This is dinner?’

  Score.

  He smiled. ‘You look very...elegant.’

  The look she gave him might have sliced a lesser man in half. ‘I look underdressed.’

  She smoothed an invisible wrinkle from the front of her short and exquisitely low-cut black dress.

  ‘The other women are wearing ball gowns.’

  ‘Your dress is fine,’ he said—an understatement if ever he’d uttered one. The dress wasn’t fine. It was stunning. No eye-catching bling or fancy designer frills, but its simple lines showcased her lithe curves and long, toned legs better than any overblown creation could.

  She stole his breath. As easily as she’d stolen his breath the first night he’d laid eyes on her. Her dress that night, however, aside from being a daring purple instead of black, had been less revealing, more...demure. By comparison, tonight’s figure-hugging sheath was sultry, seductive, the tantalising flash of ivory breasts inside that V of black fabric enough to tempt any man into secret, lustful imaginings.

  ‘It’s a plain cocktail dress,’ she said, fretting over her appearance as only a woman could. ‘Not a gown for an event like this.’ She pressed a hand to the neat chignon at her nape. ‘And you’re sidestepping the question.’

  He extended a champagne flute, which she ignored. ‘This—’ he gestured with the glass at their lavish surroundings ‘—is not to your liking?’

  ‘A charity dinner with five hundred other guests? No.’

  He feigned surprise. ‘You don’t like charity?’

  She glanced at a wall banner promoting the largest spinal injury association in Europe and its twentieth annual fundraiser. ‘Of course I do.’ Her eyebrows knitted. ‘But I thought we’d be dining in a restaurant. Or at least somewhere... I don’t know...a little more...’

  ‘Intimate?’

  Her eyes flashed. ‘Private.’

  ‘There’s a difference?’

  She glared at the flute in his hand, then took it from him. ‘Do you make a habit of attending charity dinners at the hotels where you stay?’

  ‘Si. When I’m invited to support a worthy cause.’ He watched her eyebrows arch. ‘There are better ways to spend an evening, admittedly, but this event has been a long-standing commitment in my diary. And it coincides with my need to do business in London.’

  ‘Ah, well...’ She paused and sipped her champagne. ‘That’s convenient for you. You get to mark off your social calendar and wreak revenge on my family—all in a week’s work.’ Her mouth curled into a little smile. ‘There’s nothing more satisfying than killing two birds with one stone. How eminently sensible for a busy man such as yourself.’

  Leo tasted his bubbles, took his time considering his next words. Exert enough pressure, he mused, and a person’s true colours would eventually surface. ‘Revenge is a very strong word,’ he said mildly.

  Her eyes widened. ‘Oh, I’m sorry. Do you have a different name for what you’re doing?’ She raised her palm. ‘No, wait. I remember—“an eye for an eye”, wasn’t it?’

  He studied the churlish set of her mouth, the dainty jut of her chin. ‘I had not remembered your tongue being so sharp, Helena.’

  Twin spots of colour bloomed on her cheekbones, but the glint of battle stayed in her eyes. ‘This is retaliation for last night, isn’t it? I turned up unannounced at the hotel and you didn’t like it. Now you get to spring the surprise.’ She raised her glass in a mock toast. ‘Well-played, Leo. So...what now? You parade me on your arm at some high-profile fundraiser and hope it gets back to my father?’

  He smiled—which only irritated her further if the flattening of her mouth was any indication. Her gaze darted towards the exit and the idea that she might bolt swiftly curbed his amusement.

  Helena would not run from him.

  Not this time.

  Not until he was good and ready to let her go.

  ‘Thinking of reneging on our deal?’

  Her gaze narrowed. ‘How do I know you’ll keep your side of the bargain?’

  ‘I’ve already spoken with your father’s solicitor.’

  ‘And?

  ‘He has until Tuesday to get your father to the table.’

  Her mouth fell open. ‘My God...that’s four days from now. Can you not give him longer?’

  ‘Time is a commodity in business, not a luxury.’ He didn’t add that the solicitor’s chance of success was slim, no matter the time allowed. Both men knew the invitation would be rejected. A great pity, in Leo’s mind. He’d hoped to see for himself the look on Douglas Shaw’s face when the man learnt the fate of his company. But Shaw’s repeated refusals to turn up had denied Leo the final spoils of victory.

  ‘He won’t show.’

  Her voice was so small he wasn’t sure he’d heard correctly. ‘Scusi?’

  ‘My father. He won’t show. He won’t meet with you, will he?’

  He schooled his expression. Had she divined his thoughts? Absurd. He shook off the notion. ‘You tell me. He’s your father.’

  ‘Leo, I haven’t—’

  ‘Leonardo!’

  Leo heard his name boomed at the same time as Helena stopped talking and darted a startled look over his shoulder. He turned and saw a lanky, sandy-haired man striding forward with a petite blonde by his side.

  Leo grinned. ‘Hans.’ He gripped the man’s outstretched hand. ‘I didn’t know you’d be here. How are you? And Sabine.’ He raised the woman’s slender hand, planted a kiss on her knuckles. ‘Beautiful, as always.’

  She issued a throaty laugh. ‘And you, my dear, are still the charmer.’ Rising on tiptoes, she kissed him on both cheeks, then turned her sparkling eyes on Helena. ‘Please, introduce us to your lovely companion.’

  Leo shifted his weight, fielded a sidelong glance from Helena and sliced her a warning look. Do not embarrass me.

  ‘Helena, this is Dr Hans Hetterich and his wife, Sabine. Hans, when he is not winning golf tournaments or sailing a yacht on the high seas, is one of the most prominent spinal surgeons in the world.’

  ‘Nice to meet you, Helena.’ Hans took her hand. ‘And please pay my friend no attention. I am not nearly as impressive as he makes me sound.’

  An unladylike snort came from beside him. ‘I think my husband is not himself tonight.’ Sabine commandeered Helena’s hand. ‘Normally he is not so modest.’

  Hans guffawed and clutched his chest, earning him an eye-roll and a poke in the ribs from his wife. He winked at her, then turned a more sober face to Leo. ‘Our new research unit in Berlin is exceptional, thanks to your support. Our stem cell procedures are attracting interest from some of the best surgeons in the world. You must come soon and see for yourself. And you are most welcome too, Helena. Have you visited Germany?’

  Her hesitation was fleeting. ‘Once, a long time ago. On a school trip.’

  ‘Perhaps in a few months,’ Leo intervened. ‘When I get a break in my schedule.’

  ‘How is Marietta?’ Sabine said. ‘We haven’t seen her since her last surgery.’

  His fingers tightened on his glass. ‘She’s fine,’ he said, keeping his answer intentionally brief. He had no wish to discuss his sister in front of Helena. Proffering a smile, he gestured at the dwindling number of people around them. ‘It appears the waiting staff would like us to be seated. Shall we...?’

  With a promise to catch them later in the evening, Hans and Sabine joined the trail of diners drifting through to the ballroom. Leo turned to follow, but Helena hung back.

  He stopped, raised an eyebrow. ‘Are you coming?’

  After a pause, she jammed her evening purse beneath her arm and shot him a baleful look. ‘Do I have a choice?’

  He gave her a silky smile—one designed to leave her in no doubt as to his answer. But just to ensure she couldn’t mistake his meaning he leaned in and said softly, ‘You don’t.’

&n
bsp; * * *

  Gorgeous. Devastating. Lethal.

  Those were three of a dozen words Helena could think of to describe Leonardo Vincenti in a tuxedo. And, judging by the lascivious looks he was pulling from every corner of the ballroom, she wasn’t the only female whose hormones had clocked into overdrive at the mere sight of all that dark, brooding masculinity.

  He spoke from beside her. ‘The fish is not to your taste?’

  She cast him a look from under her lashes. ‘It’s fine. I’m not very hungry.’

  The treacle-cured smoked salmon served as a starter was, in fact, superb, but the knots twisting her stomach made the food impossible to enjoy. Which really was a shame, some part of her brain registered, because she rarely had the opportunity these days to sample such exquisite cuisine.

  She laid her fork alongside her abandoned knife and leaned back in her chair. So much for a quiet dinner à deux and the chance for a serious talk. She almost rubbed her forehead to see if the word gullible was carved there.

  Surreptitiously she watched Leo speak with an older woman seated on his left. His tux jacket, removed prior to appetisers being served, hung from his chair, leaving his wide shoulders and lean torso sheathed in a white wing tip shirt that contrasted with his olive skin and black hair. He bowed his head, murmuring something that elicited a bright tinkle of laughter from the woman, and the sound scraped across Helena’s nerves.

  Age, evidently, was no barrier to his charms.

  She averted her gaze, smothered the impulse to get up and flee. Like it or not, she’d agreed to be here and she would not scarper like a coward. If she was smart, bided her time, she might still persuade Leo to hold his plans for her father’s company. A few weeks...that was all she needed. Time to make her mother see sense before—

  ‘Bored?’

  Leo’s deep voice sliced across her thoughts.

  She drummed up a smile. ‘Of course not.’

  ‘Good.’ His long fingers toyed with the stem of his wineglass. ‘I would hate to bore you for a second time in your life.’