“I know his type,” Eric said. “He’ll make sure they show up at every meeting and become thorns in my side. But I’ll get the rest of that stock back. One way or another.”
Franco nodded his approval, while Stacey paced the terrace and fumed. “I can’t believe you threw her out last night. She was so upset.”
Franco made a razzing noise with his lips. “The woman was upset because Eric discovered her little deception.”
Eric bristled. Although he’d said as much himself, it rankled to hear it from Franco’s lips.
“Stop.”
Franco eyed him in shock and opened his mouth. Thinking better of any protest, he closed his mouth again and joined Eric in gazing out at the landscape. After a few minutes, he leaned forward, hands clasped between his legs, and smiled.
“Hey, after your big board meeting on Monday, we’ll go on a vacation together. You’ve earned it, right? Two weeks at my chalet in the Alps, and you will be back in good spirits in no time. We’ll go rock climbing in Chamonix. We haven’t done that in a long time.”
“Yes, that would be good.” Eric stood up. “I should get back to the hotel. I need to pack for my flight. I want to allow myself time to rest up before that board meeting.”
“A wise move,” Franco agreed. “When you come back to Capri after the meeting, we can work out the details for the trip to Chamonix.”
“I won’t come back to Capri,” Eric said. “Not ever.”
He stood up and walked away even as Franco mouth fell open again.
Eric drifted into the library and sat down on the couch, staring at the Persian rug and trying not to picture her lying there. All her sweet lies about how unsure she was. That pretense of being reluctant. The tears. She’d cried in his arms, more than once. In his massive conceit, he’d believed it was because he’d taken her to some new heights of ecstasy. In reality, she’d probably cried because she was overwhelmed with guilt about being involved with him. She was no cold, calculating Mata Hari. There was too much tenderness in her, too much laughter and gentleness. Her father was a difficult man. No doubt he’d badgered her into seducing Eric and the tears were normal human regret for what she’d done.
You seduced her. The cold, logical voice of Antony again.
No, I did not.
Yes.
Against his will, Eric remembered how relentlessly he’d pursued her. How he’d pinned her against the very door of this room and bent her to his will. How she’d blossomed for him, so eager to please, her appetite so well matched to his own. He had seduced her, and he’d hardly even asked her about her life. She’d mentioned her father abandoning her, but had Eric pursued it? No. He’d never bothered to ask her what her childhood had been like. He’d offered her the barest of sympathy and focused all his energy on getting her into bed. He’d even enlisted one of his dearest friends to persuade Amanda to sleep with him.
Eric thought about the absurdity of the phrase sleeping with him. He would’ve liked a night of sleep with her. That one time when she had dozed in his arms, how he’d loved watching her. He could watch her forever.
Except that she had lied to him. She’d made a fool of him in front of Senator Harkness and she’d lied to him. Was she ever going to tell him the truth? Here, he’d been thinking about forever, sharing things he’d never shared with another human being, while all she’d been thinking about was right now. If she’d had any notion of forming a lasting relationship, she’d have told him who her father was. The fact she hadn’t proved she didn’t want anything long-term from him.
“Eric.”
He looked up to find Stacey hovering before him. “Yes?”
“She’s here.”
He knew that, as a man, he owed Amanda one last face-to-face talk, but the thought of it made him want to punch a fist through the wall. “I’ll talk to her out on the terrace. She won’t be here long.”
“Come on.” Stacey traipsed behind him as he emerged onto the terrace and walked around to the front of the villa. “Look how broken up you are. This one’s special, don’t throw her away.”
Eric halted and wheeled on her. “I’ll thank you to keep out of my love life.”
Stacey clenched her hands into fists. “You’re the one who dragged me into the middle of it. And I think you’ll be sorry if you dump her.”
She turned and went back the way she’d come, leaving him alone on the terrace. He walked slowly, steeling himself for the sight of Amanda in the Mediterranean sunlight. As he came around the corner and saw her, he realized he’d woefully underestimated her beauty and the effect it would have on him.
Amanda stood with her back to him, wearing jeans and flat sandals and a simple white blouse that set off her golden skin. She heard him move and spun around, her blond ponytail whipping around behind her. He longed to go to her and untie the ribbon from her hair, run his fingers through it and forget the last twelve hours.
“Thanks for seeing me.” She made no move to touch him or to step closer. “I know you’re angry, and you have a right. But I didn’t spy on you for my father.”
“Perhaps not,” Eric admitted. “But you lied to me. Over and over again.”
“I never did.”
“Yes, Amanda, you did. Every time I mentioned my feelings about Peter Tate, every time I mentioned our rivalry and you said nothing—you were lying.”
Amanda groaned through gritted teeth and threw up her hands. “I didn’t lie! Listen to me, Eric. At first, it didn’t matter who my father was; and then, it mattered too much. In the beginning, we were nothing to each other; we weren’t going to see each other again. All you wanted was sex, and I don’t even know what I wanted. Something romantic to look back on when I get old, I guess. Why would I tell you anything about my father? He barely exists for me. And later—”
She trailed off and looked into his eyes. Or tried. His sunglasses made it impossible, keeping a reassuring shield between them. She stepped closer to him. “Later, I didn’t tell you because it mattered too much. I tried, after that time on the balcony. But you kissed me, and I can’t think straight when you do that.”
Eric’s lips almost twisted up into a smile. No. To forgive that easily would be pathetic. She’d lied—or at any rate, she’d kept secrets. But what did it matter? She was right. All he’d intended when he met her was to teach her the joys of lovemaking. He’d done that. Time to move on.
Eric drew himself to his full height and flipped off his sunglasses. “I’m sorry if we both took the moment too seriously last night, Amanda. The sex was incredible, but that’s all it was. Finding out who you are is a reminder of why this should end when we both leave Capri.”
Her mouth fell open. He longed to stop it with a million kisses, but he remained rooted to his little corner of the terrace. If he moved any closer, he might smell the Ivory soap and he’d be undone by her again.
Amanda advanced on him.
“The best I’ve ever had, you said to me.” She pointed a finger at his chest. “Now who was lying to whom?”
“I wasn’t lying, I—”
She tilted her head up in angry triumph. “No. I may not be as worldly as you are, but I know you weren’t lying then. You’re lying now. I’ll tell you what your problem is, shall I?”
He poked his tongue in his cheek and glared down at her. “Oh, please do.”
“You’re afraid again. You’re afraid of what you feel when you look at me. It might mess up the brilliant new life you have planned. Loving me might take time away from building Greyford Publishing into a media empire to rival my father’s. Loving me might require you to occasionally put that business on the back burner. Loving me might mean you’d have to be loyal to one woman for the rest of your life, and gosh, wouldn’t that be boring?”
No. He almost said it out loud. No, it wouldn’t be boring, if that one woman was you.
“You are afraid of me, Eric Greyford,” she went on. “You’re using who my father is as an excuse to put an end to this relationship. Y
ou’re afraid of what might come next between us, and I feel sorry for you.”
She spun on her heel and stalked away from him, her sandals slapping down the marble staircase that led to Franco’s garden.
Eric fought down the urge to go after her.
***
“I heard you two.” Stacey ran to keep up with Amanda, who was stomping out the gates of Franco Battali’s estate.
“I’m sorry if I got a bit loud.”
Stacey caught her arm and held her in place. “For what it’s worth, I think you’re right.” Her freckled face was full of warmth and encouragement.
“I don’t know what to say. You’ve been very nice to me, and we’re practically strangers.”
“We’re two of a kind,” Stacey told her. “Both saddled with crazy dads who have way too much power and who’ve totally messed up our ability to relate to other men. At least, that’s my excuse, and I’m sticking to it. Anyway, having good friends makes it bearable, and Ric’s one of the best I have. But he’s got that macho thing going on, you know?”
Amanda nodded. She appreciated Stacey’s kindness, but she really wanted to be left alone.
“Give him time,” Stacey said. “I’ll talk to him if you want.”
“That’s a sweet thought.” Amanda patted her arm. “I don’t need anyone begging a man for attention on my behalf. He got what he wanted, and I guess I did too. It’s time for me to close the book on this chapter of my life. It was good meeting you.”
She raised a hand in farewell and turned away from Stacey. The gates of Villa Battali clanged shut behind her, and she walked all the way back to her hotel in Anacapri.
TWELVE
The London rain pelted down, sheeting the windows of Eric’s limousine. The board meeting earlier in the week had gone well, and he should be exultant because of it. Instead, exhaustion overwhelmed him. His energy levels often dipped when he returned to the gloomy English weather after time spent in Italy. He should be heading back tomorrow to watch Stacey close the festival. Instead, he’d excused himself based on the tremendous crush of work as Greyford Publishing’s new head. He was a very busy man now.
The driver halted in front of his father’s townhouse, and Eric alighted from the car. Climbing the steps with a mixture of dread and elation, he contemplated what he’d say to the old man. His father had slipped out of the board meeting silently after Eric announced he now owned over three-quarters of the stock and planned to take the company private. In effect, he’d told the entire board they would be fired. Some would return in the reorganization of the company, but many of his father’s comrades would be gone for good. And what about his father, whose weak heart made every breath a struggle? Had he ruthlessly destroyed the old man’s last reason for living? His father had been “out” whenever Eric called these last few days.
“Good morning, sir,” Nigel said, as Eric dripped his way into the entry hall.
Eric whipped off his trench coat and passed it into the waiting hands of his father’s butler.
“Your father and mother are breakfasting in the small dining room.”
“Very good.” Eric nodded and made his way down the central corridor. Turning left, he entered the small dining room, so named because it only held about twenty people at the big cherry wood table at its center.
A pert flaxen-haired woman sat at the table, sipping tea and eating toast. She glanced up from the newspaper she’d been reading and smiled. Putting down the tea, she held out her arms. “Darling, I hear you’ve had an eventful week.”
“Rather,” Eric admitted. He hugged her and dropped into a seat beside her, looking all around the room. “Is Dad not feeling well?”
“Feeling right as rain,” came the gravelly voice from the doorway.
His father stepped carefully into the room. His walk couldn’t yet be described as a shuffle, but it no longer had the spring Eric remembered from his childhood. His father was still tall, silver-haired and handsome, but his illness and his eldest son’s death had taken their toll. He walked more slowly now and there was a permanent pinched look about his eyes.
“You did a smashing job of taking charge of things on Monday, didn’t you?”
Eric wasn’t able to read his father’s tone. “Is that anger or amusement?”
His father took a plate from the sideboard and loaded it up with slices of bacon and egg.
“Dad!”
A quiet smile turned his father’s lips up. “You aren’t going to order me about in my own home too, are you? You’ve rendered me unemployed. Will you also leave me starving?”
“Dad, you shouldn’t eat that stuff. Mother—”
“Eric, your father is seventy-five years old. Do you think I’m going to change his eating habits now?” She flipped a page of the newspaper and gave a little exclamation. “How lovely. Harrod’s is having a sale. I must call Sarah. No, wait. I suppose I shouldn’t be spending quite so freely now your father doesn’t have a job.”
Eric sighed and rose to his feet. “All right, I get the message. How angry are you?”
His father settled in his usual place at the head of the table. “Not angry. Merely surprised.”
“Of course I’m going to include you on the new board, Dad. Did you doubt it?”
His father laughed. “No, you don’t. I don’t want to be on your new board. I think if you have this bold new vision, you should truly be the CEO. Leave me in peace to tend my roses.”
Eric snorted. “You don’t garden, Dad.”
“Always time to learn.”
“Look.” Eric leaned across the table and fixed his father with a pleading gaze. “I can make this company sound. I can move it into the future and give it an exciting, unique identity. I promise you, it will be a success.”
His father nodded. “I believe you, son. But it’s time for me to step aside. You see, I didn’t even believe you’d stay on. I half-expected you to come to that meeting and tell us you were selling all your shares out to that Tate fellow. More than half expected it, in fact. Senator Harkness rang me up over the weekend wanting to know what I thought about the impending takeover. Said he’d seen you in Capri with Peter Tate’s daughter.”
Eric caught the sly look that passed between his parents. They’d always made him feel as if he were an intruder in their private club, and today was no exception. He got to his feet and went over to the sideboard. He’d have liked the bacon and eggs, but after lecturing his father, he felt compelled to choose a couple of muffins and some yogurt. Returning to the table, he couldn’t help noticing the merry gleam in his father’s eye.
“Is there something you want to say?”
“The senator told me you two looked quite cozy, you and this Tate girl.”
Eric struggled to keep his voice level. “Jackson.”
“Excuse me?”
“Her name is Jackson, not Tate. She uses her mother’s maiden name.”
“Ah.” Eric’s father dipped a piece of toast in egg yolk and chewed thoughtfully. When Eric remained silent, he cleared his throat and spoke again. “I say, the senator wondered if you and Stacey were on the outs. Said you looked rather bedazzled by this other girl.”
Eric threw the muffin down on his plate. “You know there was never any real romance between Stacey and me. That was Antony’s plan. I merely got dragged into it. Most unwillingly, I might add.”
“Yes, before he died, your brother made it quite clear how unhappy you were.”
Eric winced. “Must we talk about this? I understand he died angry with me and disappointed in me. I carry that with me every day, Father.”
Eric pushed the plate away and leapt to his feet.
His father rose too and laid a hand on his shoulder, urging him back into his seat. Reluctantly, Eric obeyed. He’d given the old man enough trouble for one week.
“Is that truly what you think?” His father asked.
Eric didn’t answer. He was too choked with emotion to speak.
“Your brother was p
roud of you, Eric. Proud you stood up to him and went off to work on that project for your nature foundation.”
Eric couldn’t find his voice. He’d been so angry all year, knowing he’d let his brother down, knowing his father and brother both had been disappointed in his reluctance to join them in the family business.
“What are you saying?”
“You heard me,” his father said. “He was quite proud of you. I was too. I am, son. I can’t tell you how proud you made me at that board meeting. You reminded me of the stories about my grandfather.”
“Yes,” Eric’s mother piped up. “Remember the one where he came in and fired his entire senior editorial staff because someone had gotten a fact wrong in an article and none of the editors caught it? Why, you’re just like that, Eric.”
Eric blinked repeatedly. “I should hope not. That was rather excessive.”
“He did rehire them a few days later,” Eric’s father said. “After he’d given them all a good scare. I admit I’m nothing like that bold and never have been. I’ve been a caretaker for the company, not a true visionary. Now I understand whom I was taking care of it for. It’s yours now, Eric. I will learn to grow roses and you will—what was it you said at the board meeting? Create environmentally oriented content across multiple media platforms. I do like the sound of that. Don’t understand it one bit, though, do you, Cecily?”
“No, dear,” Eric’s mother admitted. “But it sounds awfully impressive. Now what about this girl?”
“She was nothing.” Even as he spoke, Eric’s spirit rose up in protest. She was everything. A lilting laugh and a lively mind, her body as intoxicating as any drug. He stared at his plate and said, “Her name’s Amanda, but she’s Peter Tate’s daughter. I didn’t know when I met her. She lied to me.”
He heard the pettiness in his own voice and knew he’d given himself away. His mother would never let him hear the end of it now.
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