by Abby Green
And yet all she could think of to say was, ‘Why did you pretend to be a driver?’
Ciro’s jaw clenched. ‘Because it amused me to see you in action among your peers. Behaving true to your nature. The nature you hid from me when we first met.’
Her chest ached. The woman she’d been when she’d met Ciro—that had been her. Infinitely naive and innocent. But she’d learnt many harsh lessons since then, and she had to protect herself around this man or he would annihilate her.
She said, with as much coolness as she could muster, ‘This conversation is over, Ciro. You’ve played your little stunt but I’m not interested.’
He merely lifted a brow. ‘We’ll see.’ He extended his hand towards the door. ‘My driver is ready to take you to the apartment, where he will wait for you outside.’
Without a word Lara turned and walked out. The woman who had shown her into the room was waiting with her things. Lara murmured a distracted thank you and went to the front door, where Ciro’s car and driver were indeed waiting. Along with the security men.
Another shiver went down her spine as she recalled that awful moment when Ciro had gathered her in his arms to kiss her on that quiet Florentine side street and all hell had broken loose as they’d been ripped apart and then bundled into the back of a van...
She was tempted to ignore the car and walk around the corner to her apartment, but the driver was waiting with the door open and Lara’s innate sense of politeness and a wish to not cause conflict made her get into the back of the vehicle. Also, although she was probably being paranoid, she could imagine Ciro standing at a window, silently commanding her to do as he’d bade.
The journey was short and she got out again only a couple of minutes later. She noticed that Ciro’s security detail hadn’t followed her to her apartment. And why would they? she scolded herself. She was nothing to Ciro except someone he wanted to toy with for his own amusement.
And revenge, whispered a voice.
She hurried inside, needing the time alone. To her relief the apartment was empty of staff. Her few meagre belongings were packed into two suitcases, which were standing neatly in the entrance hall. A reminder to leave as quickly and quietly as possible. But Lara needed time to process everything that had just happened.
She wandered around the apartment that had been like a prison to her in the past two years. She still couldn’t quite believe the sequence of events that had led her to this place: marriage to an odious man old enough to be her father.
Of course she hadn’t wanted to marry him. When her uncle had suggested it she’d laughed. But then he’d revealed to her that he’d been behind the kidnapping and that he would do worse to Ciro unless she married Henry Winterborne.
Lara sat down blindly on the end of the bed for a moment, overcome with the weight of the past.
Her uncle had been in debt to the tune of millions. His entire fortune gambled away. When she’d told him defiantly she didn’t need him, that she had her trust fund, which was due to come to her on her twenty-fifth birthday, he’d told her that that was gone too. He’d had access to it, in order to manage it on her behalf, and he’d gambled it away.
Even then—after his threats and after he’d revealed how far he was willing to go to stop her from marrying Ciro—Lara had still hoped that perhaps if she told Ciro he would be able to protect them. So she’d gone to the hospital where he’d been recuperating and she’d asked him if he loved her—because she’d known that if he loved her then she was willing to do anything to defy her uncle. She’d believed that once Ciro knew about the threat surely he’d be powerful enough to protect himself—and her?
But Ciro had looked at her for a long moment and hesitated. And in that moment she’d known she’d been ridiculously naive.
He must have seen her expression, because he’d said quickly, ‘Love? Cara, I never promised you love. But I am prepared to commit to you for ever, and I respect you... Isn’t that enough? It’s a realistic foundation for a life together.’
He hadn’t loved her. And so she’d followed the dictates of her uncle in order to protect a man she loved who didn’t love her.
Lara had come back to London where she’d been introduced to Henry Winterborne and the marriage had been arranged. Her uncle had made a deal. Henry would bail him out of his debts, restore his reputation, in return for marriage to Lara. A medieval and Machiavellian arrangement.
Lara had been in a fog for days. Lost. Alone. And all the time she was being reminded by her uncle that if she didn’t comply he would hurt Ciro.
It had been on their wedding night that Lara had returned to this apartment with her new and very drunk husband and reality had finally broken through the numbing shell in which she’d encased herself.
To this day she had no real memory of the wedding, or saying her vows. It was all a blur. But on that night she’d heard her husband thrashing about the apartment, shouting at the staff to get him drinks. She’d hidden in the bedroom, telling herself that she would leave, escape...send a warning to Ciro somehow... Anything had to be better than this.
And then Henry had come into her room. Crashed through the door.
Lara had tried to get away, but he’d caught her and tried to rip her nightdress. He’d shoved her down on the bed and instinctively Lara had lifted her legs to kick him off. His bulk and his inebriated state had made him fall backwards, and he’d hit his head on the side of a dresser.
The fall and his general bad health had resulted in him being put into a wheelchair. The shock of the accident, and Lara’s uncle’s persistent reminders of his threats, had stopped her initial thoughts of trying to escape.
That was when she’d started to see pictures of Ciro, out and about, getting on with his life. The beautiful women on his arm didn’t seem to be put off by the livid scar. It only enhanced his charismatic appeal. And seeing Ciro like that... It had broken something inside Lara. Broken any will to try and escape her situation. Any sense of optimism that perhaps she’d been wrong about him not loving her dissipated.
All hope had gone.
With the threat of physical violence from her husband negated, Lara had sunk into a routine of sorts. Days had passed into weeks, and then months, and before she’d known it a year had gone by. Henry Winterborne had got rid of his staff by then, had begun using Lara as an unpaid housekeeper and carer.
When her uncle had died, three months ago, Lara’s will to leave her husband had been revived. The threat hanging over Ciro was finally gone. But without any funds of her own she’d been in no position to take legal action.
Before she’d had a chance to assess her options Henry Winterborne had had a stroke, and he’d spent the last two months of his life in hospital. For the first time in two years Lara had had a sense of autonomy again. Albeit within her gilded prison.
She caught sight of her reflection in a mirror on the wall opposite her. She took in her pale and wan features. Why on earth would a man as vital as Ciro Sant’Angelo still be remotely interested in marrying her?
An inner voice answered her: For revenge.
And because he had her right where he wanted her. Vulnerable and desperate. Or so he thought.
Lara might have qualms about navigating the world on her own after a lifetime of not being prepared for it, but she’d do it. She’d longed for months just to walk out of this apartment and not look back. To take her chances. But the blackmail her uncle had subjected her to and the guilt of Henry Winterborne’s accident had kept her a prisoner.
And there was still guilt. Because the threat to Ciro might be gone, but it had been her involvement with him that had led to his kidnap in the first place. If she hadn’t ever met Ciro he would never have come to her uncle’s attention and would never have been put in danger.
She’d known that her uncle had plans for her to marry someone ‘suitable’. He’d spoken of little else sin
ce she’d left school and gone to university—which he hadn’t approved of at all. But Lara had never taken him seriously. It had sounded so medieval in this day and age, and at one time she’d told him so.
He’d reminded her of how much she owed him. Asked her where she would have ended up if he hadn’t been there to take her in after his dear brother’s tragic death. He’d reminded her of how he’d put his life on hold to make sure she was educated and looked after. He’d reminded her that his brother’s death had been a devastating shock for him too, and yet he’d had no time to grieve—he’d been too busy making sure Lara was all right.
Little had she realised how deadly serious he was about marrying her off, and by the time she’d met Ciro, Thomas Templeton had been in dire straits—which had turned Lara into an invaluable commodity. And even though Ciro was a wealthy man, it hadn’t been enough for Lara’s uncle. He’d needed her to marry a man of his choosing, from the right side of society.
Lara willed down the nausea that threatened to rise. She needed to focus on the present. Not on the painful past.
She stood up from the bed, immediately agitated. Ciro. Back and looking for revenge. And could she even blame him? No. She couldn’t. She’d single-handedly brought terror into his life. Forced him to live under the shadow of personal protection. Because he’d been shown to be vulnerable. Something she knew he must hate.
She also owed him for the resurgence in the rumours about his family’s links to the Mafia, who people believed had been responsible for his kidnapping. Not to mention the humiliation of walking out on him days before they were due to be married under the spotlight of the world’s media.
One of the many headlines had read Sicilian Millionaire to Wed English Society Fiancée! The article underneath had been less flattering, snidely suggesting that Ciro had been trying to marry far above his station.
The fact that Ciro had managed to ride out the storm of headlines and speculation to thrive and survive only demonstrated the scale of his ambition. But clearly that wasn’t enough for him.
Her guts twisted. She’d loved him so desperately once. She would have done anything for him. And she had. Could she sacrifice herself again just to allow him to feel some measure of closure? To allow him the access he craved to a level of society that would bring him even more success and acceptance?
‘A year of marriage...review it in six months.’
Ciro’s cold proposal was daunting. Could she possibly even contemplate such a thing? Subject herself to Ciro’s bid for revenge?
Lara stopped pacing and caught her reflection in the mirror again. Her cheeks were flushed now. Eyes over-bright.
Would it really be a sacrifice when he still stirs up so many powerful emotions and desires? questioned a snide inner voice.
She saw the buildings and the skyline of London behind her, reflected in the mirror through the window. There was a back way out of the apartment. She knew she could leave if she wanted to. Slip away into the millions of anonymous people thronging London’s streets. Get on with her life. Try to put all this behind her.
But Ciro would come after her. Just as he’d pursued her once before. Relentlessly. Seductively.
She’d kept refusing his advances at first, intimidated by his charismatic masculinity and his playboy reputation. But in the end he’d won her over, when he’d taken her to that gallery after hours.
She shook her head to dislodge the disturbing memory. All it had been was an elaborate seduction ruse. She’d been different from his other women. Naive, wide-eyed. Except now he thought it had all been an act.
Lara had already been through worse than a marriage of convenience to one of the world’s most notorious playboys. Far worse. She’d lost her entire beloved family overnight. She’d been heinously betrayed and exploited by her uncle, her last remaining family member. She’d been belittled and bullied by her husband. And she’d had her heart broken already by Ciro Sant’Angelo, so she had no heart left to break.
Realising that Ciro hadn’t ever loved her had made it easier for her to do what she’d had to. To be cruel. To walk away. And yet now she was contemplating walking back to him?
A voice in her head queried her sanity. After everything she’d been through at the hands of her uncle and her deceased husband she should be running a million miles from this scenario. And yet despite everything the pull she felt to go back into Ciro’s orbit was strong. Too strong to resist?
Lara knew she had only one choice. She had to do what was best for her and her future, so that she could get on with her life with a clear conscience and leave her past behind once and for all.
CHAPTER THREE
CIRO FELT THE tight knot inside him ease. Disconcertingly, it was the same sensation he’d felt when one of his assistants had informed him of Henry Winterborne’s death. Except that had been more acute, and quickly followed by a sense of urgency. Find Lara. Track her down. Bring her to him.
She was his now.
His driver had just rung to say that Lara had asked for help with her bags. Which meant she hadn’t tried to run. She was coming back to him.
It irked him that he hadn’t been sure, when he was so sure of everything else in his life. Nothing was left to chance. Not since the kidnapping.
His little finger throbbed. The missing finger. They called it phantom pain. Pain even though it wasn’t there any more. A cruel irony.
He found most women boringly predictable, but Lara Templeton had never been predictable. Not even now, when she was penniless and homeless. A woman that resourceful and beautiful? He had no doubt that she could slip out of his grasp and then he would encounter her at some future event, with another man old enough to be her father.
So why had he given her the opportunity to run if she so wanted? Because a perverse part of him wanted to prove to himself how mercenary she was. She wouldn’t get a better deal than the one he was offering: a marriage of convenience for a year, maximum. Minimum six months. And when they divorced she would be set for life.
He’d laid it out for her and she’d taken the bait. It was perverse to be feeling...disappointed. Especially when he had lived the last two years in some kind of limbo. Unable to move on. To settle.
He’d worked himself to a lather, tripling his fortune. Earning respect. But not the respect he craved. The respect of polite society. The respect of the upper echelons of Europe, who still saw him as little more than a Sicilian hustler with a dubious background. Especially after the kidnapping, which remained a mystery to this day.
His best friend, an ex–French Foreign Legionnaire who worked in security, and who had courageously rescued Ciro with a highly skilled team of mercenaries, had told Ciro that they might never find out who had orchestrated it. But one day Ciro would find out, and whoever was responsible would pay dearly.
At that moment he saw his car pull up in front of the house again. There was a bright blonde head in the back. Ciro’s blood grew hot. Lara Templeton would be his. Finally. And when he’d had his fill of her, and had achieved what he wanted, he would walk out and leave her behind—exactly as she’d done to him in his weakest moment.
* * *
Within hours Lara was sitting on Ciro’s private jet, being flown across Europe to Rome. She’d just declined a glass of champagne and now Ciro asked from across the aisle, ‘Don’t you feel like celebrating, darling?’
She looked at him suspiciously. He was taking a sip of his own champagne and he tipped the glass towards her in a salute. He’d changed into dark grey trousers and a black polo shirt. He looked vital and breathtakingly handsome. From this angle Lara couldn’t see the scar on the right-hand side of his face—he looked perfect. But she knew that even the scar didn’t mar that perfection; it only made him more compelling.
‘Surprisingly enough, not really.’
She’d wanted to sound sharp but she just sounded weary. It had been a long
day. She couldn’t believe the funeral had been that morning; it felt like a month ago. She’d changed out of her funeral clothes into a pair of long culottes and a silk shirt which now felt ridiculously flimsy.
Ciro responded. ‘Your marriage to Winterborne might have left you destitute, but fortunately you still have some currency for me. You must have displeased him very much.’
Lara had a sudden flashback to the suffocating weight of the drunken Henry Winterborne on top of her and the sheer panic that had galvanised her into heaving him off.
She swallowed down the nausea and avoided Ciro’s eye. ‘Something like that. Maybe I will have that champagne after all...’ she said, suddenly craving anything that might soothe the ragged edges of her memory.
Ciro must have made a gesture, because the pristine-looking flight attendant was back immediately with a glass of sparkling wine for Lara. She took a sip, letting it fizz down her throat. She took another sip, and instantly felt slightly less ragged.
‘Here’s to us, Lara.’
Reluctantly she looked at Ciro again. He was facing her fully now, and she could see the scar. And his missing finger. And the mocking glint in his eye. He thought he was unnerving her with his scars, and he was—but not because she found them repulsive.
He was holding out his glass towards her. Lara reached out, tipping her glass against his, causing a melodic chiming sound which was incongruously happy amidst the tension.
It was a cruelly ironic echo of another time and place. A tiny bustling restaurant in Florence where they’d toasted their engagement. Lara could recall the incredible sense of love she’d felt, and the feeling of security. For the first time in her life since her parents and her brother had died she’d felt some measure of peace again.
A sense of coming home.
The sparkle of the beautiful ring Ciro had presented her with had kept catching her eye. She’d left that ring in his hospital room when she’d walked out two years ago.
As if privy to her thoughts, Ciro reached for something in his pocket and pulled out a small velvet box. Lara’s heart thudded to a stop and her hand gripped the glass of wine too tight.
