His Wedding Ring of Revenge

by Julia James

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  HE LET her go. A blank, black anger filled him.

  So Rachel Vaile claimed she was innocent! Innocent as a newborn lamb. That she’d never tried to trap him into marriage!

  His mouth thinned. Easy to say—oh, very easy to say—seven years later! But that moment when Arlene Graham had walked in on them would stay in his memory for ever. An eternal action replay that ripped from him everything he’d thought he’d known about the girl he’d spent two weeks with.

  Devoting himself to her.

  Devoting himself because—

  No, he would not go down that path. It was a path marked for fools, and suckers, and fall guys. Patsies.

  Just as he’d been.

  He could feel the hollowing out of his guts, just the way they’d been gouged out that morning seven years ago. The moment he’d realised he’d been taken for a royal fall guy by his father’s mistress and her daughter who, between them, had set a honey trap to clip his wings with.

  Dio, but he’d fallen for it! He’d been totally taken in by her! Led up the garden path and tipped headfirst into the trap she’d dug!

  But he’d refused to be trapped. Had walked out of it, skin free.

  Memory leapt again.

  Waking from sleep, hearing that harpy shrieking, seeing Little Miss Innocent—not!—clutching the duvet to her, gasping in fake shock as Mamma screamed at her, at him, yelling blue murder at his having seduced her precious virginal daughter. And himself, registering the set-up in a fraction of a second and realising there was only one way out of it.

  Turning the tables on the pair of them!

  With iron control he’d got up out of the bed, not bothering to hide his nakedness, and then casually, oh, so casually, reached for his jeans.

  He could remember exactly what he’d said.

  ‘Seduced her?’ he’d drawled. ‘She was gagging for it…’

  He’d thought for a moment that Arlene Graham was going to have an apoplexy. She’d shrieked even louder, all but drowned out the reaction that Rachel had given.

  He frowned, looking back down the years to that imploding moment.

  It had been such a quiet sound she’d made. Not a gasp, nor a moan, nor a cry.

  But something—he frowned more deeply—something that had sounded like something breaking…

  His face hardened again.

  Her reaction had all been part of the plan she’d laid with her mother! That was all. Arlene’s part to play Accusing Mother, Rachel’s to play Innocence Lost. And his father, of course, had been supposed to play Stern-voiced Paterfamilias, ordering him, dastardly Libertine Son, to make good the lost honour of Betrayed Young Girl…

  Well, Enrico had not been so gullible! He’d cut his mistress down to size, silencing her shrieks of mock hysterical outrage. As for himself, his father had taken him aside later on and told him bluntly that if he had the slightest idea of marrying Arlene’s bastard daughter he could find himself another company to work for—and it had better be a well-paid job, because he’d be out of the running to inherit Farneste Industriale…

  He hadn’t needed telling, of course. Rachel Graham—Vaile—whatever name she called herself to try and sound respectable—could whistle for a husband to be caught in her honey trap!

  Not that it hadn’t taken long enough to shake her off! Christo, but she’d tried hard to get him back! A non-stop three-month campaign to get in touch with him.

  God alone knew what had finally persuaded her to give it up! She must have finally got the message that he didn’t want to know.

  Or maybe she’d met another man by then. Lined up a more likely sucker.

  Not, of course, that she’d managed to get anyone to marry her…

  Until now.

  He paced across the room, yanking open the wardrobe doors to haul out some clothes to wear.

  His mood was foul. What the hell was he doing here? He should never have let his ego get the better of him and agreed to her ludicrous proposal! What the hell did he care if Rachel wanted him in bed or not?

  His hand stilled on the shirt he was about to take off its hanger. A stone seemed to be filling his lungs.

  Once he had called her his beautiful girl, his bella ragazza, held her in his arms, felt her body tremble in his embrace. He had kissed her with a tender passion that he had never before bestowed on any woman.

  Because Rachel Vaile was like no other woman he had ever known.

  And he had realised it from the first moment. Something had happened to him that night that he had never had any expectation of. It had been just one more party—he went to a lot of parties—and he’d cast his eyes around, keeping one open for women he didn’t want to come on to him and the other for women from whose number he might choose to select one to amuse him for the night—or perhaps longer, if the mood took him. A few weeks, even, maybe a month or two. Nothing more than that. They got ambitious otherwise, started fancying their chances to get him to the altar.

  But that was a place he’d had no intention of going. The scars ran deep. He’d seen what his father had done to his mother, the effect it had had on her, her life a living misery. And, though he might not intend to follow his father’s path, he had known without vanity that any woman he married would want to cling to him, and if he got tired of her then severing the matrimonial ties would be messy. And besides, by then children might have arrived, and he would put no child through what he had grown up with, being torn endlessly between two parents.

  So women would remain what they had been since he had first reached adolescence and discovered the power that his combination of wealth and looks could have. He was spoilt, he knew. Spoilt for choice. Had learned quickly that few women, if any, were beyond his reach if he so wanted. Married ones he’d stayed clear of. He’d seen enough adultery in his life, and didn’t want to see more firsthand. He’d stuck to women who wanted what he wanted—an easy, sexually satisfying affair, with no strings, no meaningless hearts and flowers—had chosen women who could move in his world, stylish, fashionable, sophisticated.

  A foolproof formula that had worked perfectly until that evening….

  What had it been about her? The quiet English girl who had drawn his eye. He had never really been able to work out why. That air of being quite untouched, not just in the physical sense, which he could see instantly, but untouched by where she was. There had been two other English girls with her, both cut from quite different cloth. Sexually aware, sexually experienced. Assured and confident and quite at home. Wanting nothing more than to flirt, and dance, and sip their cocktails, and talk fashion and music and movies.

  Rachel had been completely different.

  He had spent two weeks—fourteen perfect, devoted days—finding out just how different.

  She’d wanted to talk history. Art. Literature. Classics. Languages. Politics and economics.

  But she’d been no bluestocking, trying to impress him. She had been just as happy throwing her coin in the Trevi Fountain, trying out every flavour of ice-cream, driving along the avenues of the Borghese Gardens in the pedal-powered chaises that could be hired there.

  Happy gazing up at him with an adoration in her eyes that she hadn’t even known was there.

  But he had known it was there, and known he could not, must not, take advantage of it.

  He must not lay a finger on her. She was a virgin. He had known that straight away, been able to tell she was utterly unversed in the ways of men. Did not even realise how powerful an allure that held.

  For two long weeks he had held off. Using every ounce of self-control to stop himself from touching her, as he had increasingly ached to do. Knowing that if he did, then there would be no going back. Because her allure for him had grown with every passing day, every passing hour. His awareness of her had been intense—but he had not shown it. Had not let his gaze caress her silken hair, her clear, beautiful eyes, the tender curve of her mouth, the slender line of her graceful body, the delicate swell of h
er breasts, the sweet roundness of her bottom, the slim length of her gazelle-like legs…

  It had become an ache. Wanting her.

  And holding back from her.

  Until that last night. She had been so melancholy beneath the laughing gaiety—she had relaxed in his company by then; he had drawn her out, made her feel safe, trusting him. The following day she would be returning to England.

  It would be over. All over.

  And suddenly he had known that it was not over. That it could never be over. That Rachel Vaile had become someone he would not, could not, let go of. Not when she sat gazing at him with such yearning in her eyes as they took their final coffee together in the Piazza Navona. The tourists there might not have existed. Only the girl sitting opposite had existed, with her gold silk hair and her wide, wanting, yearning eyes.

  He had not been able to walk away from her.

  And so, that night, he had done what he had wanted to do since the first moment he’d laid eyes on her. He had taken her, on an impulse that he’d known he should fight, but could not, would not, to the Farneste apartment, and in its baroque opulence he had cupped her face with his hands and lowered his mouth to hers. Finally doing what he had wanted to do since the first moment of seeing her.

  And she had been everything and more that he could have dreamt of. Because he had never known a woman—a girl—like her. Had never before taken that beautiful, miraculous journey that made a girl a woman. He had been so careful with her, as if she were finest porcelain, and yet she had given herself to him with a sweetness, an ardency that had set his senses on fire.

  And as he had lain with her, her tender body within the circle of his protective arms, he had known that something had happened to change his existence for ever. He hadn’t been able to give it words, or a name, but he had known, as he cradled her silken head against him, his hand gently stroking her satin flank, their limbs tangled, their breath mingling, their hearts beating against each other’s, in a closeness that had made him weak with wonder, that it was the most precious moment of his life.

  Then, in the morning, the truth had arrived—in the form of a screaming harpy—and he’d known that he had been taken for the biggest sucker in the world…

  He ripped the shirt from its hanger and thrust his arms into the sleeves. His face was like iron. Hard and unforgiving.

  But inside, somewhere in his guts, he could feel the same feeling that had ripped through him that morning seven years ago.

  Searing, tearing pain.

  By the time he left Ste Pierre Rachel was long gone. He didn’t care. Not any longer. If there was any suspicion of false marriage he would trot out some tale of his over-emotional bride behaving like a diva just because he’d had to spend the morning catching up with his business affairs.

  Which he did—taking a couple of hours on the phone and e-mail to Turin and London. Though he’d forcibly cleared his desk, to free up these days here in the Caribbean, the moment he got back in touch he was deluged. As he terminated yet another call, this time to his European head of ops, the memory of his father came to him again. Working like a demon and then calling time on everything, disappearing with Arlene. But even his mistress had not been able to de-stress him. Irritable, pressured, short-tempered—his father’s moods had seldom been good.

  A cynical curve pulled at his mouth. Arlene Graham had worked for her money, all right! Being his father’s mistress had been no sinecure. She might have got rich pickings and an easy financial life, but his father could not have been easy to live with. She must have found it rewarding, though—she’d never decamped to another, easier protector. Maybe his father had doted on her more than he’d let on to his son.

  A frown pulled at him.

  But Enrico had left her nothing. Not even the villa. Unless he’d been giving her cash on a regular basis, she hadn’t walked off with any tangible assets from her protector.

  Except the emeralds…

  His mouth tightened. Well, he’d got those back now, and all it had cost him was a trip to the Caribbean! A bargain if ever there was one!

  And, he added, his body forcibly reminding him, he’d got Rachel Vaile in his bed as a sweetener…

  All she was good for now.

  Whatever protestations she made, however much she tried to play that Little Miss Innocent card—dog-eared as it was by now—she was lying, he knew. If she’d been so innocent, so devastated all those years ago, as she’d tried to claim just now, then how come she’d been so keen to come back for more straight after? Plaguing him and pestering him and constantly trying to get in touch with him…

  No, she was what he had discovered her to be that morning in the Farneste apartment, and that was all there was to her. She was a clever, manipulative, deceitful little operator.

  And I still want her…

  The stab of desire knifed through him, punishing in its urgency. He could feel his body surge, hungry for what it had had last night.

  Because it had been good—better than good. Whatever Rachel Vaile had had at eighteen she still had—and more so! But this time around she could not play him for a sucker, because he had her number now.

  And he wanted to dial it, right now.

  Desire sucked at him. He wanted to feel her soft, silky body beneath his, wanted to see her hair fan out around her beautiful, impassioned face, wanted to feel again that satin sinking of his body into hers, feel the taut arching of her spine, the lush softness of her breasts thrusting against him, hear the soft, helpless moans she’d given as he’d stroked her higher and higher, into an orgasm that had convulsed her body, ignited his, rocking them both with its white-hot intensity.

  What other woman could do that for him?

  None that he could remember.

  Rachel might be the one woman he would wish to perdition for what she had done to him in the past, but if she could do that in bed for him still then he wanted her still. Whatever the past had been, the present could be good for both of them. He couldn’t present her to the world—let alone his mother!—as his wife, but he’d put her in a decent apartment in London, visit her discreetly.

  Like a mistress.

  With sudden decision he picked up the phone and ordered transport from the island back to Antillia. Then he called his pilot to get the jet ready.

  There was one more phone call to make. Rachel had bolted, and, clutching that damned marriage certificate as she had been, there was only one place she was going. She was going to flaunt her marriage in her lover’s face.

  Well, she could do that if it humoured her—but it would be the last time she’d see that lover of hers until he, Vito, was done with her and let her have a divorce.

  You married me, Rachel Farneste. You married me and I intend to enjoy my bride. So you can just dispose of lover-boy, and I’ll keep you satisfied instead.

  She would be satisfied too—he would see to it. He would make her see that it was useless for her to try and convince him that what had happened seven years ago had been anything other than what he’d known it to be all along. And once that was out of the way he’d make her see that what they had now was worth putting their aggro aside for. So long as she didn’t go on at him, trying to defend herself, he was prepared to keep her—for the sake of what she could do for him in bed.

  He might even be prepared to buy her something to replace the emeralds with. Nothing as valuable, but something, he mused, that she could wear privately for him. Very privately.

  His mind wandered off along enticing pathways, visualising her naked body glittering with diamonds…

  He brought it back with a snap.

  First he needed to see off lover-boy—and to do that he needed to find out who he was. Then he could get rid of him.

  He punched the London office number on his mobile. The connection was fast and his call was answered instantly.

  His voice was controlled. Very controlled.

  ‘Mrs Walters? Get Security on the line, if you please.’

&
nbsp; Rachel had dressed with great care. It was the same outfit she had worn to Vito Farneste’s office. She didn’t want to wear it, would have preferred to have burnt it on a bonfire as a warning to passers-by never to be as stupid as she had been—seven years ago or now. Stupid… Unbelievably so…

  But she couldn’t afford to squander any more money on another expensive outfit. Paying her airfare back from Antillia had eaten another punishing hole in her finances. Besides, the delicate lilac suit was exactly the sort of thing she would wear as Signora Vito Farneste. Exclusive, expensive, chic.

  She travelled by tube to the Underground station nearest to her mother’s hospital, but then, instead of walking the rest of the way as she usually did, she hailed a taxi. Signora Farneste would not walk. A taxi, at the very least, would be her mode of transport—unless it were a chauffeur-driven limo, of course.

  Her mother wouldn’t see the taxi, but the hospital reception staff would, and it would all add confirmation to what she was about to announce to her mother.

  So would the ring glinting on her finger.

  And most convincing of all were the precious marriage certificate in her handbag and the wedding photos she had collected from André as she left Honeymoon House. She’d forced herself to look at them, biting down hard on her lip as she’d done so. She wanted to put them on a pyre, with her outfit, but she needed them to show her mother.

  Show how happy she was with her wonderful bridegroom, Vito Farneste…

  The lie didn’t matter. Only that it was sufficiently convincing to make her mother happy….

  Her mother’s happiness was all that mattered.

  I don’t matter. Vito doesn’t matter.

  We’ve got the rest of our lives ahead of us.

  Her mother only had her life behind her…

  Her sad, thwarted, unfulfilled life.

  Grief clutched with its pincer claws.

  But I can fulfil it for her. She’ll know that she’s leaving the world with her daughter fulfilling the dream she had for her…

  She could wish all she liked that her mother had had a different dream for her—a dream that left Vito Farneste far behind in the disaster of her youth.