A Ring to Take His Revenge

by Pippa Roscoe

  Emma remembered the press articles speculating on who she was, how she had managed to capture the notorious playboy, whether she might be carrying his child. She was thankful that she had managed to get hold of both her parents to let them know what was about to happen, but hated to think of them reading all the gossip and conjecture.

  The discreet lift doors opened and Antonio entered, waiting for Emma to do the same—but she couldn’t. He was in there, taking up the whole space, dominating it. Some kind of self-preservation instinct kicked in, preventing her from joining him. Until Antonio reached out a hand, caught her by the wrist and pulled her right into hell with him.

  The move had startled her so much she had fallen against him, found herself pressed against the hard planes of his chest, and the physical contact drew an almost instantaneous reaction from Emma, who had been trying desperately to forget the shocking kiss that had announced their engagement to the world.

  He was looking down at her, his dark hawk-like eyes watchful, almost waiting...

  ‘Capable of standing on your own two feet?’

  Embarrassment painted her cheeks red as she disengaged her body from his. The lift was ascending with barely a jolt, and she put the flip of her stomach down to the ascent of nearly twenty floors in just seconds.

  Coming to a halt, the lift opened onto a hallway with only two doors at opposite ends, and Emma slapped down her active imagination that had been expecting to walk straight out into a penthouse suite.

  Not waiting for her, Antonio exited and made his way towards the door to her left. She followed, and as he swiped the key card and pressed his way forward into the suite she hovered by the door.

  ‘Emma?’

  ‘Yes? Oh, sorry. Now that you’re safely settled in, I’ll take my key and find my room,’ she said, trying to look anywhere but at where her new fiancé was standing.

  His silence drew her gaze like nothing else could have. He stood there, barely a hair out of place despite the flight and the visit to the stables, his head cocked to one side, and looked at her with something in his eyes she didn’t want to name.

  ‘This is your room, Emma.’

  Shock kept her in place, hovering outside the door to the suite. She was pretty sure her jaw had dropped.

  ‘That’s not going to work, Antonio.’

  ‘Of course it is. You’re my fiancée—where else would you be staying?’

  ‘Who’s to say that I’m not the kind of fiancée who believes in...in waiting for the wedding night?’

  Words like sex were dangerous at the best of times, but with him...? She cursed internally. She wasn’t going to be able to do this.

  ‘No one—and I mean no one—would believe that I would allow my fiancée to have her own set of rooms. We’re on this path, Emma, and I will not let anything or anyone question that. This is going to have to be believable, so get used to it.’

  He was standing in front of her now, so close, and strangely even more dominating than he had been in the lift.

  Before she could take a breath, he continued, ‘You have your company credit card?’

  Her mind was spinning enough that she was not able to understand why that would matter, but she nodded.

  ‘Good—perhaps if you look the part it will help you act the doting fiancée.’

  She looked down in dismay at the sensible, albeit rumpled clothes she had worn on the plane. He was right. Not only did she need a whole wardrobe of clothes—those she hadn’t been able to retrieve from her apartment before coming here—but she needed a particular style of clothing.

  She scowled at him. ‘No one,’ she said, echoing his earlier words, ‘would believe you would settle for doting.’

  * * *

  The concierge at The Excelsus had arranged for a car to take her to the most exclusive mall in Buenos Aires, with the assurance that it had a wide selection of fashion stores from which she would be able to get everything that she needed.

  In the years since her breast reconstruction Emma had taken to shopping for clothes online, enjoying the fact that she didn’t need to expose her insecurities to anyone but the four walls of her bedroom. This, however, was daunting. But she knew Antonio was right. The level of sheer extravagance in even the daywear of the women in the hotel had been enough to convince Emma that if she needed to be Antonio’s fiancée, on his arm at evening events and at the racetrack, she would need thick and very expensive armour to succeed.

  Besides, millions of women around the world who’d had reconstructive surgery did this every day. So could she.

  But now, standing in the fourth store she’d entered, she felt the drive and determination that had brought her there beginning to fade. It wasn’t just a dress or two that she needed—it was an entire wardrobe. She knew that there were women who would kill to be left free in one of Argentina’s hottest fashion districts holding a credit card without a limit, but right now it was all just a little too much.

  Some of the shocking and outlandish creations she had seen on display were so far outside her comfort zone, and the sheer sensuality of the Argentinian designs were both tempting and frightening in contrast to the office-style respectability of the clothing she was used to wearing in New York. But this was getting silly. She had spent so long hiding her figure behind loose clothes and dark colours. Perhaps this was a chance to make the most of this opportunity—even if she did feel slightly out of her depth.

  She took her courage in both hands and approached a saleswoman who had been eying her suspiciously. Briefly, in a no-nonsense way, Emma explained the situation.

  Rather than cloying mawkish sympathy she had prepared herself for, she was surprised and oddly touched when instead the woman beamed, informing her that she would be utterly delighted to help.

  * * *

  Antonio had just exited a shop, with a present each for his sister and mother safely in transit to his hotel, when he’d caught a glimpse of Emma slipping into a store. He’d held back a moment, losing her briefly as she moved amongst the mannequins and rows of designer clothes. Then, curious to see how she was getting on, he hadn’t been able to help himself as he followed her in, telling himself that he only meant to make sure that she chose clothing suitable for her new role.

  He’d felt the vulnerability coming off her in waves when he’d discussed her need for a wardrobe, and had had an urge to reach out and comfort, to protect. The only other women in his life he’d ever felt like that about were his sister and his mother, and from them he understood only too well how important it was for a woman to feel beautiful in what she wore.

  As he neared the back of the shop he was surprised by a high-pitched coo falling from the lips of a shop assistant. He turned just in time to see Emma twisting around to catch a glimpse of herself in the floor-to-ceiling mirror by the changing rooms.

  Need and desire consumed him fiercely and unexpectedly the moment his eyes snared her. There she stood, in a strapless dress that hugged her perfect breasts and stomach, leaving her arms and shoulders bare while layers and layers of blood-red silk cascaded from her slim waist, looking almost as shocked as he felt.

  He watched as she took in her own appearance, her eyes drawing upwards from where the dress fell at her bare feet all the way to the top, where she met his eyes in the reflection of the mirror.

  In a second the shock in her gaze was shuttered. Her eyes narrowed and she spun round, looking at him accusingly. ‘How did you find me?’

  Affronted by the way the fire in her voice matched the temperament of the dress, he couldn’t help the retort that fell from his lips. ‘I don’t have a tracker on your phone, if that’s what you’re implying.’

  She scowled, and oddly Antonio felt—and resisted—the urge to laugh.

  ‘I’m here by mere coincidence,’ he concluded.

  ‘You don’t believe in coincidence.’

 
‘No,’ he said, feeling exasperation rise within him.

  He really didn’t, and in that moment he wondered what kind of game the gods responsible for their lives were playing. Because that was exactly how he felt right now. Played.

  As her hands clutched instinctively at the skirts of the dress he remembered just for a moment the feeling of her skin beneath his palms, and he forced himself to turn away before he embarrassed them both. The almost painful shock of arousal had hit him hard, and he knew it had nothing to do with how much time had passed since he’d last been in bed with a woman.

  He could almost taste desire as he made his way over to the seat beside the dressing room. He was some kind of masochist to stay, but he didn’t have the will-power to leave.

  A glass of champagne was left discreetly on the table beside the chair, and when he took a sip the bubbles scraped against his raw throat.

  ‘It’s not right,’ Emma said, looking at him, and for a moment he forgot that she was speaking about the dress.

  He felt his eyes narrow instinctively, and everything male in him roared that she was wrong.

  Before sanity prevailed.

  ‘Perhaps not. Try something else.’

  * * *

  It was a command. Uttered in a harsh tone. One that did not befit the dressing room, and Emma felt it down to her very soul.

  Yet she didn’t think that they agreed for the same reason. She had never chosen clothes to accentuate her breasts before. At least not since the surgery. Before that she had been seventeen and happy with her body. Had never suffered from the kinds of insecurities she’d seen in her friends as they judged themselves against each other, against impossible to achieve celebrity figures.

  But afterwards? Yes. She had let her insecurities run her wardrobe.

  The selection of clothes given to her by the lovely sales assistant here was impeccable. Some of them were rather more extreme than others, but she had begun to view it as a kind of shock therapy. The more extreme made the less outrageous palatable, when once she would have baulked at the whole lot.

  Emma had known women—powerful, strong, inspiring women—who had embraced their bodies and their lives with vigour after chemotherapy. She had longed to find that sense of self, and now she was beginning to realise that the courage that had seen her battle fiercely with the chemo was still needed to battle her future.

  Stepping back into the changing room, she fought the instinctive urge to run. Run from Antonio’s assessing gaze...run from the desire. She wasn’t foolish enough to try and hide from what it was that had sprung forth between them.

  She undid the zip hidden in the side seam of the dress and it pooled around her feet. She stepped out of the delicate red silk and her body felt the lick as if of flames across her body. There was only a thin curtain of material separating her from Antonio. She knew it and so did he.

  Her exposed skin feeling overly sensitive, she reached for the last dress the assistant had procured for her.

  Having already chosen some incredible day clothes, she only had evening functions to cater for, and she cursed herself for leaving the best for last. It was her favourite dress of the selection, and she’d wanted to have this moment for herself. But outside sat Antonio, glass in hand, as if he were waiting for a show. Except rather than taking her clothes off she was putting them on.

  Suddenly she wanted him thrown off balance as much as she was. She wanted him to be feeling just an ounce of what he was doing to her.

  Standing in a thong and nothing else, she reached for the dress and stepped into the skirt. The fabric of the dress’s blue silk was covered in a subtle lace flower pattern detail, with a figure-hugging bodice. It rubbed against her sensitive skin at the same time as the cool silk soothed. The sleeves were sheer, with the same lace detail covering her arms but leaving her décolletage bare. It covered even whilst it revealed and she silently thanked the shop assistant’s perfect eye.

  Before she stepped out into the dressing area she looked at herself in the mirror, feeling that same sense of shock she had experienced when she’d seen herself in the red dress moments ago.

  Was that really her? Whilst her hair and minimal make-up were almost ordinary, the dress had called forth something within her. Something powerful and feminine... Things she’d always wanted to be but had never seemed to achieve. There was a blush to her cheeks, making more of her cheekbones than she was used to, and the glitter in her eyes shone like diamonds.

  She pulled aside the curtain that separated her from Antonio and everything else faded away—the assistant, the shop...it all disappeared and only he came into focus.

  And her lungs stopped working.

  Because Antonio Arcuri, destroyer and saviour of global companies, was looking at her as if she were the only thing in the world and she nearly came undone.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  THREE DAYS OF trying to ignore the woman living and breathing in the same suite was driving Antonio insane. He was now thoroughly regretting the impulse he’d had to stay and see Emma’s last outfit at the shop. Ever since that moment he’d been imagining what it would be like to peel her out of the silky dress and enjoy every delight her stunning figure had to offer.

  But he couldn’t. Emma was nothing like the women who graced his bed. The women who lived and played in his world—the women who had the hard edge needed to take his emotion-free entanglements. Emma didn’t know how to play that game, and although she might hide it well she would break in his arena.

  Besides—as he reminded himself for the hundredth time—there was far too much at stake.

  He had done everything needed to ensure the meeting with Bartlett would be a success. He had orchestrated an irresistible deal the man would be insane to refuse. But he didn’t like the silence from his father. Didn’t trust it. The man must be up to something.

  For the first time Antonio found himself wondering just how far he would go to get his revenge.

  And the only answer in his heart was, However far it took...

  It was gone eleven, and Emma had retired to her room almost an hour ago. In that time he’d pulled out all the files on Bartlett they had collated in the last week and turned the sumptuous living room into a practical office. The meeting with Bartlett was set for tomorrow evening—and the day of races that would commence the first leg of the Hanley Cup would start the following morning. Everything was lining up nicely... But he couldn’t shake the feeling of an approaching storm.

  As if he had summoned demons for Emma too, he heard sounds of distress coming from her room. Worried, he got up from the sofa and was halfway towards her door when he heard her scream. He rushed into her room, barely noticing as the door slammed back against the wall, probably leaving a dent, and took three strides to her bed.

  She was tossing and turning, caught up in the cotton sheets, kicking out desperately. He could see the trails of tears on her cheeks. Dio, it must be some nightmare.

  Remembering how his sister had suffered so badly from them in the year following their departure from the States, he sat down on the bed beside Emma’s restless form and gently took hold of her arm.

  ‘Emma...’ he whispered. ‘Emma, it’s just a dream.’

  She thrashed against his gentle hold and let out a whimper that struck his heart.

  ‘Emma, come on. It’s just a dream. You need to wake up.’

  Her eyes sprang open, searching for focus. A shudder racked her body, and she gasped on an inhalation of much needed breath.

  ‘You’re okay. It was just a dream.’

  But the hurt in her eyes told him he was wrong.

  She looked so vulnerable, so in need of comfort, that it took everything in him not to take her in his arms, to replace the fear in her eyes with want, with arousal. He wanted her to feel the same need, the same desire that burst into life against his skin when it met hers...something he
knew could only be satiated by a touch, by a caress.

  He cursed himself to hell and back. He couldn’t take advantage of her. Not now...not like this. Not ever, he warned himself.

  * * *

  Emma took in Antonio’s presence. The light filtering through from the living room cast his face in night-time shadows, so much more welcome than her awful dream. For a moment—just a moment—she thought he might reach for her. Might kiss her as she so desperately wanted to be kissed. But seconds passed and he didn’t. He held himself back.

  She nodded. Resting her hand on his where it held her arm. ‘I’m okay. It’s okay. I’ll be through in a minute. I just need...a minute.’

  As Antonio left her room she willed the fierce beating of her heart to slow. Her fingers brushed away the traces of the nightmare from her eyes and she realised that the tears she had thought contained by the dream had escaped.

  She moved to the en suite bathroom, passing the wardrobe full of the clothes they had bought two days ago with an accusatory glance, as if they could be held responsible for causing old fears to surface. The fear that the cancer would come for her again, just when she was beginning to hope that she could reclaim her sense of self, reclaim the sense of her body.

  She splashed water on her hot cheeks, finally shaking off the hold of her terror. Wide awake, and not ready even to consider going back to bed, she pulled on the hotel’s silk robe and padded into the living area of the suite on bare feet.

  She took in the devastation caused by Antonio’s preparation for the meeting with Bartlett with a rueful smile.

  ‘I am very glad you don’t usually work like this. I’d have the cleaners quitting on me each and every day if you did.’

  He looked up from the papers he held in his hands, his hawk-like gaze refusing to be distracted by her attempt at small talk.

  ‘Nightmare?’

  ‘Yes. Clearly,’ she replied.

  She was surprised to see his chiselled features soften.