Surrendering to the Vengeful Italian

by Angela Bissell

  And if Leo chose to let her walk away...if he was content to see the back of her...she would have her answer.

  * * *

  Relief. That was what Leo told himself he was feeling. When he walked into the suite and saw Helena sitting on the sofa, her bags packed beside her, he felt relief. She had come to her senses. Realised in the cold light of day that she could do better. Better than a man who had let her down when she’d needed him most.

  ‘You’re leaving.’ He kept his voice flat. Neutral. As if those words hadn’t stripped the lining from his stomach.

  She rose, her expression serious and her eyes, he realised on closer inspection, bloodshot and puffy. Self-loathing roiled in his stomach. No doubt he was the cause of her misery. He thrust his hands into his trouser pockets before he did something selfish, like haul her into his arms and beg her not to leave.

  ‘I think that’s wise,’ he said.

  ‘Do you?’ She looked at him, her gaze wide, unblinking.

  ‘Si. Of course.’

  He strode to the wet bar, pulled a soda from the fridge. Later he’d need something stronger. For now he just needed something to do—an excuse not to look at her. Not to drown in those enormous pools of blue.

  ‘Our seven days are up, are they not?’

  Silence behind him. He popped the tab on the can, quashed the temptation to crush the aluminium in his fist. Instead he took a casual swig and turned.

  She took a step towards him, her clasped hands twisting in front of her. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘And I know you can’t stay here for ever. Neither can I—which is why I’m going back to my flat...’ Her voice trailed off, an awkward silence descending.

  ‘I video-conferenced with my board this morning, regarding my acquisition of ShawCorp.’ He kept his delivery brisk. Businesslike. ‘They’ve agreed to a delay on the asset divestment.’

  ‘Oh?’ Her eyebrows lifted. ‘How long?’

  ‘Nine months, initially—provided costs can be restricted and profits improved.’ He put the soda down. ‘Time to see how the company performs and consider options for its future.’

  She blinked. ‘I...thank you.’

  ‘Don’t thank me, Helena.’ A bitter edge crept into his voice. ‘We both know you don’t owe me any gratitude.’

  Something flashed in her eyes. An emotion he couldn’t decipher. Her hands continued to fidget and he fought not to reach out and still them.

  ‘When will you return to Rome?’

  ‘Tonight.’ A decision he had just now made. Why stay? He couldn’t sleep here. Not knowing she was in the same city, close and yet untouchable. He needed land, water, miles between them.

  ‘I see. Will you—?’

  His mobile chimed and he pulled it from his pocket, saw it was his PA calling and answered with a clipped greeting. He listened to Gina relay an urgent message from his second-in-command, then asked her to hold.

  He glanced at Helena. ‘I need to take this,’ he said, and without waiting for an acknowledgement he moved through the French doors onto the balcony.

  Ten minutes later Leo ended his call and turned away from the view. Instinctively, before he even stepped into the room, he knew Helena was gone.

  Inside, the fragrance of her perfume lingered in the air—a bittersweet echo of her presence.

  Relief, he reminded himself, but the cold, heavy weight pressing on his chest didn’t feel like relief. Nor did the sudden insane urge to run after her.

  He flung himself into a recliner and closed his eyes. When he opened them long minutes later his gaze landed on a small unsealed envelope on the coffee table. Frowning, he reached for it, lifted the flap and removed the single item from within.

  A photo of their son.

  The one he had studied so intently the night before.

  He turned it over, and as he read the neat lines of handwriting on the back his eyes started to burn.

  He was special because we made him.

  Carry him in your heart, as I do in mine.

  I love you—and I’m sorry.

  H.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  ‘LEONARDO VINCENTI, ARE you listening to me?’

  Marietta’s voice, sharp with exasperation, jerked Leo from his thoughts. He looked up from the dregs of his espresso, guilt pricking him. ‘Sorry, carina.’

  His sister’s expression softened. ‘You were miles away.’

  He pushed his empty cup aside and cursed himself. This was Marietta’s night. He’d brought her to her favourite restaurant in the upmarket Parioli district of Rome to celebrate the lucrative sale of two of her paintings, and yet all he’d managed to do was put a dampener on the occasion.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ she said.

  ‘Nothing is wrong.’ If he didn’t count the fact that he hadn’t slept in weeks. Or eaten properly. Or achieved anything more productive than pushing paperwork from one side of his desk to the other.

  ‘Something is going on with you.’ She leaned in, elbows propped on the table, eyes searching his. ‘Talk to me.’

  Marietta’s sweet-natured concern only amplified his guilt. He forced a smile. ‘Tell me about this loft you found.’

  She frowned at him, but she didn’t push. Instead she said, ‘It’s perfect. Lots of natural light and open space.’ A spark of excitement lit her eyes. ‘And there’s a car park and a lift, so access isn’t a problem.’

  His sister had searched for months for a space she could purchase and convert into a dedicated art studio. The need for wheelchair access had made the search more difficult, but she’d tackled the challenge with the same determination she applied to everything in her life.

  Pride swelled. ‘How much do you need for it?’

  Her frown reappeared. She sat back. ‘I have money saved for a deposit. I don’t need a loan, Leo.’

  ‘Of course not.’ As if he’d ever loan his sister money and expect her to repay him. He could afford to buy her ten studios—one was hardly an imposition. ‘You’ll need a notary for the purchase contract. I’ll call Alex in the morning.’

  She threw her hands in the air. ‘You’re doing it again.’

  ‘Doing what?’

  ‘Taking over. Going all Big Brother on me. I can do this on my own—without your help.’

  Leo stared at her, his jaw clenching, a stab of intense emotion—the kind he’d been feeling too much of lately—lancing his chest. He tried to smooth his expression, but Marietta knew him too well.

  She reached for his hand. ‘You know I love you?’

  A fist-sized lump formed in his throat. ‘Si. I love you, too.’

  ‘I know.’ Her fingers squeezed his. ‘And that’s all I need.’

  Leo swallowed. That damned lump was making it difficult to speak. ‘It doesn’t feel like enough,’ he admitted, and realised he had never said those words out loud before.

  Marietta’s eyes grew misty. ‘Enough for what? For this?’ She tapped the arm of her wheelchair. When her question met with silence, she shook her head. ‘Oh, Leo. This isn’t your fault and you know it.’

  ‘The surgery—’

  ‘Wasn’t successful,’ she cut in. ‘Maybe we waited too long, or maybe the delay made no difference—we’ll never know for sure. But I’ve made peace with it and you must, too. My life is good. I have my job, my art, you.’ She sat forward, her dark eyes glistening. ‘I’m happy, Leo. Yes, my life has challenges, but I’m strong and I don’t need you to prop me up or catch me every time I fall. All I need is for you to be the one person in the world I can rely on to love me—no matter what.’

  Her fingers wrapped more tightly around his.

  ‘There’s one other thing I need, and that’s to know my brother is happy, too.’ She gave him a watery smile. ‘Maybe you could start by sorting out whatever has turned you into such a grouch these last few weeks?’

  Leo scowled, but underneath his mock affront his sister’s words were looping on a fast-moving cycle through his head, their impact more profound than he cared to a
dmit. He felt something loosen inside his chest. Felt the heavy shroud of darkness that had weighted his every thought and action for almost a month start to lift.

  He reached across and tweaked her chin. ‘I do love you, piccola. Even when you are giving me lip.’

  She grinned. ‘I know. Now, stop scowling. You’re scaring off the waiter and I want my dessert.’

  An hour later, after seeing Marietta safely home, Leo ignored the lift in his building and bounded up the seven flights of stairs, a burst of energy he hadn’t experienced in weeks powering his legs.

  He loved Helena. He had reached that conclusion within days of returning to Rome. Within minutes of walking into his apartment and realising how empty it felt—how empty he felt—with her gone.

  For more than three weeks he’d clung to the belief that she deserved better than him.

  But how could she do better than a man who would love her with everything he had for the rest of his life?

  Paris, eight days later...

  Helena pulled off her strappy sandals and took the stairs two at a time inside the old building near the bustling promenades of Les Grands Boulevards.

  The apartment she and her mother had rented for the week was small but charming, with shiny wooden floors, decorative finishes, and a sunny balcony where each morning they soaked up the beauty of Paris over coffee and croissants.

  It was a girls’ holiday. A chance for mother and daughter to reconnect and a celebration of sorts. For Helena because she’d worked out her notice at the bank, and for Miriam because, following her discharge from hospital, she had walked out of the home she’d shared with her husband of twenty-nine years and retained one of London’s most successful divorce lawyers.

  The weeks since had been challenging—tongues had wagged and Douglas had refused to ‘play nice’—but Miriam was holding strong and Helena was proud of her.

  Warm from her stroll and the three-storey climb, she reached the landing, glad she’d worn her new dress today instead of shorts or jeans. With its camisole bodice and little flared skirt the yellow sundress was cute and bright, and she’d worn it to buoy her spirits as much as anything. She was doing her best to move on, to live the life she should have lived these last seven years, but still she had plenty of dark, desolate moments when all she wanted to do was curl into a ball and cry. When it seemed she would never excise Leo from her thoughts or her heart no matter how hard she tried.

  It didn’t help that he’d called her mobile several times this past week. She hadn’t answered and he hadn’t left any messages—which was good, because she wouldn’t cope with hearing his voice. And, really, what could he say that she wanted to hear? Or vice versa? That last day at the hotel his lack of interest couldn’t have been any clearer. The man who’d held her with such heartbreaking tenderness in the aftermath of their lovemaking had, in those final stilted moments, barely forced himself to look at her.

  Sighing, she fished her key from her tote and ousted Leo from her thoughts. She was in Paris and the sun was shining—good reasons to smile. And she couldn’t wait to tell her mother, who’d opted for an afternoon of lounging in the sun with a book, about the incredible street art she’d found nearby.

  Helena pushed open the door. ‘Mum!’ she called. ‘I found the most amazing—’ She stopped short. Her mother had been outside on the balcony when she’d left but now Miriam sat in the cosy sun-filled lounge. And with her, looking utterly incongruous in an easy chair covered in pink floral upholstery, sat the man Helena decided some wistful part of her imagination must have conjured.

  Her key and tote dangled from her fingers, forgotten. ‘Leo?’

  He rose and he looked...magnificent. Big and dark and sexy in faded jeans and a snug-fitting black tee shirt.

  ‘Ciao, Helena.’

  The deep baritone fired a zing of awareness through her she didn’t welcome. Questions crowded her mind until one emerged from the jumble. ‘How did you find me?’

  His gaze roamed her face, her bare shoulders. For a second she thought she saw a flicker of heat in his eyes.

  ‘When I couldn’t reach you I contacted David. He told me you’d resigned.’ His voice carried a note of surprise. ‘He also said you’d planned a trip to Paris. The rest—’ He shrugged. ‘Let’s just say I know someone who’s good at tracking people down.’

  She wanted to be annoyed. She wanted to be so very, very annoyed. But all she could focus on was fighting the desire to reach out and touch him.

  She pulled in a breath and realised her mother was by her side, bag in hand.

  ‘I want to check out that little bookstore and café we spotted yesterday.’ Miriam touched Helena’s cheek, her smile tender, then gave her daughter a quick hug. ‘Hear him out,’ she whispered, and then she was gone.

  On rubbery legs, Helena went and perched her tote on the end of the small breakfast bar.

  ‘I like this,’ Leo said behind her, and she turned, ready to agree that the apartment was indeed likable.

  But he wasn’t looking at the chic decor, or the quintessentially Parisian views. He was staring at her—or, more specifically, at her dress.

  He stepped closer and slid his finger under a thin daffodil-yellow strap. ‘It’s pretty.’

  ‘And it’s not black,’ she quipped, nerves—and something else—jumping in her belly.

  One corner of his mouth kicked up. ‘It’s certainly not that.’ He fingered one of her curls, bleached amber by the sun, and let it spring free. ‘So...no more black?’

  ‘Well...less black.’ She couldn’t afford to ditch half her wardrobe. She’d made no definite decisions about her future, but whether she chose art school or simply a job that offered scope for creativity she’d need to stretch her savings. She shrugged. ‘I guess I’m rediscovering my love of colour.’

  ‘And what brought that about?’

  ‘You did.’ Her candour made her blush but she couldn’t regret the words. She wanted to be truthful with him, even though it wouldn’t change anything. ‘You challenged me. Made me think twice about what I’d chosen to give up.’

  He had reawakened her passion for art and life. For that, among other things, she would always love him.

  She moved away, sat in a comfy chair, needing to escape the heat his close proximity generated.

  ‘What do you want, Leo?’ The question came out sharper than she intended, but that was all right. She needed to keep her barriers up. Already the sight of him was spreading unwanted warmth. Making her forget how cold and remote he’d been during their last encounter.

  He reached for a jacket she hadn’t noticed over the arm of a chair. He pulled an envelope from a pocket, tossed the jacket back down and dropped to his haunches in front of her. When he slid the photo out and handed it to her, back side up, a thick wad of emotion clogged her throat.

  ‘Read it to me,’ he said.

  She glanced up, opened her mouth to refuse, but the firm set of his jaw made her reconsider. She looked down again, studying the words even though she didn’t need to. They were carved for eternity on her heart.

  She prayed her voice wouldn’t wobble. ‘“He was special because we made him. Carry him in your heart...as I do in mine.”’

  The next line blurred in front of her eyes.

  ‘Read the rest.’

  Her throat thickened. ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I need to hear you say it.’

  ‘Why?’ she repeated, fighting back stupid tears. ‘So you can watch me humiliate myself?’

  He placed his hands on the arms of her chair. ‘Why would those words humiliate you?’

  ‘Because!’

  She glared at him, discomfort turning to anger. Anger to resentment. He would do this to her? Make her pour out her wretched feelings? Confess her love in person to satisfy his ego? She should never have never written those words. Never.

  ‘Because it hurts!’ she cried, thumping the heel of her hand against his chest. ‘It hurts to love someone and know they don’t lov
e you back.’ She thumped again, her palm bouncing off a wall of immovable muscle. ‘It hurts to know you’ve lost any chance with that person. It hurts, Leo—’ She hiccupped on a stifled sob and whacked his chest a third time. ‘Because I do, damn it. I love you!’

  The silence that fell in the wake of her outburst threatened to suffocate her. As did her surge of outrage when she glimpsed the satisfaction on Leo’s face. With a shriek of fury she shoved at his chest and tried to rise, but he seized her wrists, his grip strong. Unyielding. Instead of standing she fell on his lap, straddling his thighs, trapped against the chair with her dress hiked around her hips.

  Her chest heaved, another mortifying sob rattling through her. She couldn’t fight him any more than she could fight the hot stab of need in her belly. Being this close to his big, powerful body was agony. She writhed, helpless, conscious of her sprawled legs, her exposed panties.

  ‘Tesoro mio...’

  She stilled, but she had no time to wonder at the rawness in Leo’s voice. He released her wrists, folded his arms around her and buried his face in her neck. His scent engulfed her. His body, so warm and strong, sent her pulse into overdrive. She couldn’t move, could barely breathe he held her so tight.

  ‘Leo...?’

  Finally he pulled back. His hands cupped her face. ‘I love you, cara,’ he said, and Helena didn’t know if it was the intensity in his dark eyes or his words that stole her breath. ‘I loved you seven years ago and I love you now. And, like a fool, I let you get away from me—not once, or even twice, but three times. Believe me when I tell you—’ his voice roughened ‘—it will not happen again.’

  Shock. Disbelief. Hope. Too many emotions to process at once rushed through her. Her body shook. Her brain, too—or at least that was how it felt. As if her mind couldn’t contain the enormity of what he’d just said.

  She studied his face, unwilling to let hope take hold too soon. ‘What makes you so sure you love me?’