Madonna! It was impossible now not to notice the perfection of her flawless skin and the fine bone structure of her face from her high cheekbones to her delicate nose.
Luca’s lips twisted as he continued to study her features. There was something different about her. Something had changed over the time since the photo had been taken.
She was still beautiful—there’d be no argument from anybody about her stunning appearance. Her bone structure was even more exquisite in real life than the photo portrayed. Her eyelashes were longer than he’d realised and her lips were so much fuller he concluded she must’ve undergone cosmetic surgery.
He frowned. There were definitely differences, but not all of them were good. She’d lost weight. The slender body that’d once curved in all the right places now bordered on being too thin. Lines of sadness rather than laughter bracketed her lips and the cornflower blue eyes that’d flirted happily from the photograph had flashed with fire and murderous intensity as she’d launched herself at him.
The very faint lines around her lips and across her forehead suggested she’d had her share of stress. Perhaps she’d finally found a conscience and it now pressed down on her?
Whatever.
Miss Temple may have thought she’d live on easy street after the exorbitant amount of money she’d received from his brother, but by the look of her, wealth hadn’t brought her happiness.
Enough. The most pressing problem was to ensure the well-being of this avaricious woman he had every reason to despise.
Water. She’d probably need water when she came to.
Despite the early hour, he’d appreciate something much stronger. This female lunatic was enough to drive any man to drink.
Making his way to the kitchen, he was struck by the impoverished appearance of the home. The faded, almost thread-bare curtains above the sink were ripped and the linoleum on the floor was badly pitted. Everything was neat and tidy—almost clinically clean, but appallingly shabby.
What had she done with all the money?
With economy of movement, he filled a glass with water and made his way back into the living room. He placed the water on a nearby coffee table with a heavy, impatient thud, bent over her and reached for her upper arm to shake her back to consciousness. He needed her alert. Now.
***
Olivia’s eyes flickered open. Hazy at first, her brain cleared at super-fast speed and her body jerked upright as her gaze clashed with the scowling expression of the stranger.
Not such a stranger, she amended, but her sworn enemy. Antonio Borghetti.
Dear Lord! He was inside her home and they were quite alone.
Fear skittered through her and she looked around the room, trying to find something she could access quickly in case she needed to physically defend herself.
‘Good. You’re conscious.’ He sent her a perfunctory nod. ‘Now, we talk.’
‘I have nothing to say to you.’
‘But, I have plenty to say to you.’
Generations of Borghetti arrogance pumped through his veins. His family were among the wealthiest families in Italy but Olivia doubted there was any goodness in them. Hard. Uncaring. Selfish. Arrogant. There weren’t enough negative words in the dictionary to describe this man and his father.
Glaring at him, she took in the barely leashed strength of his powerful body which was emphasised rather than cloaked by the superior cut of his suit. The image of him towering over her was so intimidating her first instinct was to shrink back against the sofa at the heated disdain in his eyes. Thankfully, defiance rose to the fore—defiance and the knowledge he had no right to be here.
The Borghetti men were done hurting her family. She wasn’t about to let him take anything more from her.
‘Get out!’ She pointed to the door.
‘Are you on drugs?’
‘What?’ The word exploded from her lips. ‘You bastard! How dare you come here and suggest—’
‘Answer the question,’ he demanded through teeth clenched with displeasure.
‘No, I’m not bloody well on drugs. Despite everything you and your father have done and how you both treated me, I haven’t resorted to substance abuse.’
‘You’re no victim.’ His scowl deepened as he angled his head and continued to examine her as though she was some unidentifiable species. ‘You’re still talking rubbish but at least your eyes aren’t as glazed now.’
Olivia barely refrained from cursing at him as she stood up and pulled her robe more securely around her. Watching him closely, she edged towards the phone. Again, she pointed to the door. ‘I’ll give you ten seconds. If you’re not making your way out, I’m calling the police.’
‘You think I’d let you?’ His question sent a chill down her spine. ‘You have no idea who you’re challenging and what’s at stake here.’
It was hardly a surprise he’d threaten her—he was his father’s son. And, while Damiano Borghetti had won on his home ground while Olivia was at the lowest emotional point in her life, this was her turf. ‘I know exactly who you are. More importantly, I know what you are and what you’re capable of. Let me tell you, I’ve never tolerated bullies in the playground and I certainly won’t tolerate bullies in my home.’ She took another step towards the phone. ‘Three seconds!’
‘I’m not leaving until you give me what I want so you may as well sit down and hear me out.’
Her eyes widened. ‘You’re out of your mind. I have nothing you could possibly want. Get the hell out of here.’
‘Naturally I didn’t expect you to comply without some financial incentive,’ he drawled with contempt. ‘You’ll receive a generous payment if you come with me immediately to see a doctor.’
Her jaw went slack and she shook her head in an attempt to clear her befuddled brain. This couldn’t be real. Any moment now she’d wake up.
‘A very generous payment,’ he stressed.
‘I don’t need a doctor. It’s just a virus and all I need is rest—rest which you’ve disturbed with your damned banging at this ungodly hour of the morning.’ Even as she spoke she tried to make sense of this.
How would he know she was sick?
Why would he care?
‘None of this makes sense. Why would you pay—?’
‘Believe me, I find it abhorrent you should receive any more money from my family, but—’
‘What are you talking about? I haven’t received a cent from you or your rotten family. How dare you come here after all these years when you didn’t even care enough to …’ Her anger evaporated and she wrapped her arms around herself as a ball of grief lodged in her throat. ‘You didn’t even care enough to …’
Overwhelming sorrow made speech impossible. Antonio hadn’t even bothered to go to the morgue to identify Jane’s body. The agonising responsibility had fallen to Olivia. She’d flown to Rome to complete the gruelling task of claiming the corpse of the younger sister she’d spent most of her life trying to shelter—trying to protect from every cruel taunt that’d come her way.
Olivia had been alone in her cheap hotel room—completely unsupported by the Borghetti family—while the coroner examined the body and ruled that, while under heavy sedation from sleeping tablets, Jane had died from undetected postpartum haemorrhaging.
Now, unbelievably, Antonio Borghetti stood in her home unmoved by her loss and pain, showing no remorse and treating her as though she was the one who had to atone for past wrongs.
How could Jane have fallen for this man?
Olivia had to admit he was extremely good-looking, but how could Jane have failed to see beneath the handsome exterior to his black heart?
Poor Jane.
Jane had loved Antonio but it was obvious she’d never meant anything to him.
So, why was he here?
‘Spare me the theatrics, Jane. I know Antonio paid you a small fortune but you were greedy and tried to extort more from him. Think of this as your lucky day because I’m here with a chance for you to ma
ke more money.’
‘What?’ The word whispered out from her mouth. This had to be a ridiculously bad dream. Extortion? ‘What the …?’ She stilled. Her skin pinched across her cheekbones as the most important of his words registered.
He thought she was Jane?
But that was impossible. He knew Jane had died.
Hang on … He spoke about Antonio?
She looked at him speechlessly, trying to work out what was going on. It was true Antonio had never bothered to meet with her in Rome, but Jane had sent pictures of him and Olivia recognised this man as the one in those photos.
‘Don’t play me like a fool.’ His words were a razor-sharp warning. ‘I’m not gullible like my brother.’
My brother …
She reached out and gripped hard on the edge of the small table that housed the cordless phone. ‘You’re Antonio’s brother?’
‘Of course,’ he confirmed with impatience.
‘You’re … identical twins?’
‘Si. I’m Luca Borghetti. You told me you knew who I was.’
‘No.’ Her head had been swimming in dizzy confusion but now she felt like someone had put all her reasoning capacity in a centrifuge and it was spinning uncontrollably without any ability to form a single intelligent notion. ‘I thought I knew who you were.’
Raising the fingertips of both hands to her temples, she pressed against them, closed her eyes and willed herself to focus—to assemble some pieces of this cryptic puzzle.
Jane had never mentioned Antonio had an identical twin brother.
‘Have a drink.’
She opened her eyes and saw Antonio—Luca, she amended—thrust a glass of water at her. Mind blank, she stared at his strong hand. The same hand had stopped her frenzied attack. She’d attacked him thinking he was Antonio. Should she apologise for her behaviour?
‘Do you swear you’re not on drugs?’
Ignoring the water and his ridiculous question, Olivia grappled with the situation. It didn’t matter who he was, this man was still her enemy if he was here at Antonio’s bidding. He’d forced himself into her home, refused to leave and everything about him still screamed hostility.
When she hadn’t reached for the glass, Antonio’s brother placed the glass of water onto the coffee table with such force the water sloshed over the rim. Long male fingers bit into her shoulder and gave her a non-too-gentle shake.
‘What are you on, Jane?’
She lifted her head and met his dark, menacing expression. Clearly, he believed she was her sister, but … ‘How can you not know?’
‘I’m not a doctor,’ he replied tersely. ‘I don’t know anything about the effects of different drugs.’
She wrenched her shoulder free from his touch. ‘How can you not know,’ she accused, ‘Jane is dead?’
His hand fell to his side, his disbelief evident in the cynical, contemptuous twist of his mouth. ‘What kind of perverted game are you playing now? You’re Jane Temple. I recognise you from your photo.’
Olivia shuddered as his contempt continued to bore into her, but she drew herself up as tall as she could, determined to end this madness and send him packing. ‘I don’t know why you’re here and I don’t care. It’s way too late to make amends for what your brother did to my sister. You can tell Antonio from me—’
‘Antonio is dead. The only reason I’m here is because the little girl you gave birth to needs you.’
Chapter 3
‘Get out!’ Olivia gestured wildly towards the door as her control snapped once again.
‘Not until I have what I came for,’ he declared through gritted teeth. ‘Antonio’s daughter needs you and, as much as I abhor having to pay you another euro, you will do what you can for her.’
‘You’re insane.’ He was certifiably crazy. He had to be.
‘You’re not hearing me. There’s more money in this for you,’ he ground out.
‘Out. Now.’ Olivia stalked towards the door.
‘You sold a baby like a commodity and walked away from her,’ he accused in acid tones. ‘God knows she was better off without you, but she needs you now and you will be there for her because I’m here to make sure of it.’
His words were like giant waves pummelling her solar plexus, throwing her against a rocky shore and leaving her winded. Emotions knotted inside her, making her draw her hands up to her chest to try to ease some of the excruciatingly jagged pain cutting through her like a serrated edged knife.
Seconds ticked.
The mellow chiming of the family’s grandfather clock was the only sound to break the thick silence stretching between them.
‘You’re sick,’ she finally managed in a horrified, breathless whisper as he stood his ground. Her features fought valiantly to stop from crumbling in anguish at his painful lies. ‘Twisted.’ Forcing herself to acknowledge the tragic events of five years ago she said, ‘Jane and Antonio’s little girl died the day she was born, and your brother deserted my sister when she needed him the most. If she hadn’t been so distraught—if he’d been there by her side where he should’ve been—she wouldn’t have needed sedation while she was still in hospital in Rome. If she hadn’t been sedated, the medical staff would’ve realised she was haemorrhaging and she wouldn’t have died.’
A few taut seconds of silence were shattered by the explosion of his words as the swarthy skin along his cheekbones reddened in rage. ‘Don’t lie to me! You’re Jane!’
‘My sister’s dead.’ Olivia’s voice broke. Soul-wrenching grief cracked through her and left a gaping crevice unable to be covered over, even with anger. ‘I was the one who had to fly to Rome to identify her body. Antonio didn’t even have the decency to meet with me at the … morgue … or answer my messages when I pleaded to know where Jane’s daughter was b-buried.’
Luca Borghetti’s head snapped back as though she’d whipped him, then he subjected her to an intense, narrow-eyed appraisal.
She didn’t realise she was holding her breath until she was released from his scrutiny.
He looked around the room quickly, seeming to absorb every detail of his surrounds.
‘Please leave.’ She begged now rather than demanded because this encounter with him was simply too much to bear. Too much of her pain had been re-exposed and she needed him gone so she could crawl back into her bed and huddle under the covers in a self-protective ball.
When he finally moved, it wasn’t in the direction of the front door. Instead, he walked around the sofa and stopped in front of a sideboard cabinet.
Shaking with emotion, she could do nothing but stand and watch as he picked up a photo of Jane and her that’d been taken the summer before Jane travelled to Italy.
The trip overseas was supposed to have been Jane’s new beginning—a chance to gain confidence, enjoy new experiences and find some direction in her life. Instead, she’d been taken advantage of by this man’s brother.
A molten pit of raw loss and bitterness bubbled within Olivia as he inspected the photo. As different as they’d been in personality, Olivia and Jane had been very close. All their childhood and up until Olivia had left home for university, she’d looked out for Jane. Olivia hadn’t been able to protect her from Antonio Borghetti.
Finally, the Italian intruder looked from the photo to her and back again. ‘The familial resemblance is very strong.’
There was only eleven months difference in age and people had often mistaken them for twins. Although they were very similar, nobody had confused their identities in person because Jane walked with a limp.
‘Jane was younger?’
‘What does it matter?’ God but these Borghetti men were callous creatures. There was no reaction to Jane’s death and not a hint of apology for any of his false accusations.
‘What’s your name?’ The words were toneless as he replaced the photograph and moved back towards her.
‘That’s immaterial,’ she bit out tautly. ‘You weren’t invited here and I’m not interested in a s
ocial call.’
‘Your name?’ he insisted.
God damn him! ‘Olivia. Now—’
‘Is Jane really dead?’ There was tension in every syllable as he cut across her speech.
Seriously? ‘You shouldn’t have to ask,’ she vented angrily. ‘Your twin brother was supposed to be in love with her. So much for that! Obviously he didn’t even bother to tell you she’d died.’
The deep score of his frown was an indication of his struggle with the truth of her words. ‘Antonio and I weren’t … close, but I don’t believe he was in love with her.’
‘No,’ she pronounced savagely. ‘It became glaringly obvious he was an utter bastard who lied to her and led her on with promises of getting a divorce. It’s his fault she’s dead.’ She didn’t bother asking how Antonio had died because she didn’t care.
Luca lifted one hand and ran it through his hair. ‘Olivia, sit down. There’s much we need to discuss.’
The change in him was dramatic. Suddenly he didn’t look threatening—he looked weary, his expression brooding. His broad shoulders rounded in … defeat?
Standing firm, she folded her arms across her chest. ‘I don’t know why you’ve come looking for Jane, but I have nothing to discuss with you, Mr Borghetti.’
The intensity was back in his regard. ‘I don’t know of the circumstances of your sister’s death, but the little girl your sister gave birth to didn’t die. She’s living with me in Rome.’
No! Why would he say that?
Pain screamed through every one of her nerves. ‘Jane’s—daughter—died.’
‘Christiana is not dead,’ he denied vehemently. It seemed to take him some time to control his emotions as he turned away from her and stared out through the window at some distant point. The conflict within him was so marked, she felt herself being drawn to him against her will.
‘Why would you lie to me about this?’ she pleaded as she took two steps closer to him.
He swung back to face her. ‘I’m telling you the truth.’
‘Jane phoned. She was out of her head with grief. Antonio had flown to London on business almost immediately after their daughter was born, and when the baby died—’ Oh shit! ‘What did you call her?’
Seduced by the Enemy Page 2
