A Ring to Take His Revenge

by Pippa Roscoe

  It would seem that Antonio Arcuri’s shock engagement was just the beginning. The business world is holding its breath as father and son pitch for the same deal! Sources close to the tycoons have suggested a last-ditch battle of wills.

  For years Arcuri has nipped at the edges of Steele’s business dealings, and is now pulling out all the stops to slash and burn with his legendary ruthlessness—his father, no less.

  And while women around the world are still mourning the loss of this international bachelor, men are salivating, placing bets on who will draw first—and last—blood.

  With so much on the line for these two men, it will certainly be a clash of the tycoon titans!

  DIMITRI’S GREEK-ACCENTED VOICE rose above the hum of the crowds as he read the article out loud, clearly just for the hell of it.

  ‘At least they didn’t mention Bartlett by name,’ he noted.

  ‘I doubt very much that it was by mistake or from some inherent sense of propriety. This has the stink of my father all over it,’ Antonio growled.

  ‘He must be desperate if he’s willing to risk such exposure, given how notoriously private Bartlett is,’ Danyl reflected, looking out at the race course from the balcony of the hospitality suite set aside for the Winners’ Circle.

  Discreet servers had placed trays of delicate food there, none of which was appealing to Antonio at that moment. He shifted his sunglasses back over his eyes.

  Danyl turned in his seat beside him, pinning him with a powerful gaze. ‘You have something to hide?’

  ‘No,’ came Antonio’s terse reply.

  Danyl gave a spectacularly un-regal grunt in response, and placed a Bloody Mary on the table in front of him. ‘Hair of the horse that bit you, so to speak.’

  Antonio ignored them both and took a mouthful of the thick, spicy tomato juice.

  ‘Virgin?’ queried Dimitri as Danyl rolled his eyes.

  The sting of tabasco sauce caught Antonio in the back of the throat and he forced himself to swallow the drink through a throat thick with convulsions.

  ‘For God’s sake, Dimitri.’

  The sounds of the crowd and the announcements over the Tannoy drifted up from the race course below.

  ‘Did anyone see Mason this morning?’ Antonio asked, when in truth his mind had been searching for Emma. Emma whom he’d left sleeping in the hotel room while he’d sneaked out like a thief.

  ‘John was guarding her like a dog. He wouldn’t let anyone near her this morning. Said something about not letting us “psych her out”.’

  ‘Us or you, Danyl?’ Dimitri asked. ‘You still haven’t said how you know her.’

  ‘I still haven’t said that I do know her.’

  Antonio let the sounds of his friend’s light-hearted squabble fall over him as he tried to block out the memory of Emma’s sighs of pleasure that still, even now, thickened his blood.

  He clenched a fist, trying to regain control of his errant body. He couldn’t believe what madness had overtaken them last night. He’d promised her only one night, but now he wondered if he could keep that promise. It wouldn’t last—it couldn’t. He would only end up hurting her, letting her down, drawing her deeper into his own need for revenge.

  ‘You might want to put that glass down, Antonio,’ Dimitri said, his words cutting through the emotional fog that was surrounding him.

  ‘Mmm?’

  ‘The glass. If you carry on, it might just crack.’

  Antonio looked down to see white knuckles encasing thin glass and put the drink back on the table. Danyl was looking at him with a raised eyebrow, wry curiosity painting his features.

  ‘Dare I ask how the Bartlett deal is going?’

  ‘Actually, our meeting went very well. Even after my father made his surprise guest appearance.’

  Concerned silence met his statement. Danyl and Dimitri were watching and waiting for the explanation they knew he would give them. They alone knew the depths of his hatred for his father, the true extent of which he hadn’t been able to confess to Emma.

  They greeted his account with an anger and fury that matched his own. And Michael Steele’s treatment of Emma was high on their list of his crimes.

  ‘Are you sure you want to go that way?’ Dimitri asked when Antonio confessed the action he had directed his PI to.

  ‘If there’s anything to find you can be sure that Michael will have already discovered it, and he will plan to use it to his advantage.’

  ‘And are you willing to do the same? To use blackmail to get what it is that you want?’

  A commotion at the paddock drew their attention and prevented Antonio from needing to answer Dimitri’s question. As Antonio recognised Mason’s colours and Veranchetti’s proud stance he forced all other thoughts from his mind.

  * * *

  Emma wove her way through the throng of people in the stands towards the stairs to the hospitality suite, where she knew Antonio and his friends—the Winners’ Circle syndicate—would be. The day was beautiful, despite the bad weather forecasted for later. It was strange to think that there could be anything like rain on the horizon when the air, despite being stirred up by the spectators, was calm and the sun was strong.

  She felt a laugh rise within her chest and stifled it. Here she was, in a sea of people, and no one was looking at her because of what she lacked. She was invisible. And yet she felt as if she knew a secret that no one else did.

  Throughout the night she had reached for Antonio, had felt him reach for her, and they had teased and taunted each other to completion more times than she could believe. Those precious hours were a montage of sensation and feeling, always with the heat of Antonio beside her, over her, behind her. It was as if her body had craved that warmth, needed it to come alive again. She felt re-made—re-worked in a way she couldn’t have expected. It was as if an old ache around her heart had lessened and she felt lighter than she had done in years.

  She had woken alone and hadn’t been surprised, realising that on some level she must have heard him leave. A web of nerves had tightened around her stomach. How would they be the next time they encountered each other?

  No, she thought now, pressing a hand against her belly to quell the butterflies. She wouldn’t be embarrassed about last night. They were adults. And what they had shared was incredible. Antonio had made her see herself in a way she had never done before and that was something more precious than she ever could have realised.

  She felt strong and, yes, even a little giddy. Last night she had seen him, Antonio Arcuri, as needy and as aroused as her. She had met him as an equal and nothing would take that away. And to be his equal—not his PA, and not his fake fiancée? It thrilled her.

  Was this what love was? Desire, she hastily corrected herself. A high that made her feel powerful, strong? She relished that feeling and all of a sudden her chest was fit to burst. Excitement swept through her as she began to climb the steps towards the balconies bordering the race course.

  Her heart pulsed within her chest and she wondered how anyone could live like this, in this constant state of awareness and excitement. Would it go away? Would it dim over time? Did she want it to?

  For so long, so many years, she had wanted to feel this way. Wanted to own herself, to feel cherished and desired. Somehow, despite her optimism and determination to experience all that life had to offer, she had let herself hide from the one thing that she had truly wanted.

  Here she was, on the brink of having it all, and suddenly she felt the fear that it could all be taken away. And that was when she knew just how much she had sacrificed—just how much she had pushed deep down within her, ignoring the wants and desires that she craved.

  This man—hell-bent on revenge, but capable of the tenderness of last night—had stolen her heart. The goodness in him that she could see made those feelings even more powerful. She wanted him to wi
n the Bartlett deal against his father. Not because of the hatred that Antonio felt for him, but to put an end to it so that Antonio could move on.

  * * *

  Even from this high up Antonio could imagine—could remember—the feeling of sitting on top of a powerful horse pawing at the ground with shod hoofs, the flex of the animal’s muscles beneath the saddle, the creaking of leather, the way a horse would lift and shift beneath him. The thrilling rush of adrenaline that would pound through both him and the horse together, as one. That moment just before the horse would pull back, ready to launch itself forward, ready to catapult into a gallop and leave just about everything behind.

  At one point in his life riding had meant freedom—escape from a father who had made his and his mother’s and sister’s lives a misery. In the end, he realised, he’d not escaped anything.

  As the noise picked up around the grounds, mixing with incoherent announcements from the Tannoy, Antonio battled with the past and the present. Somehow he knew that it was all rooted in the events of the night before. Bartlett, his father, Emma, business, passion... All of it was making him feel as if he were on some precipice, and he couldn’t tell whether he was about to be saved or doomed.

  The shrill of the bell signalling the start of the race cut through the stands as the barriers on the starting gate opened and the horses leapt forward.

  For just a moment the breath caught in his lungs.

  But it wasn’t because of the race.

  He felt her presence behind him, as she stepped out on to the balcony that jutted out over the course below. He teased himself, holding himself back from the moment when he would turn and look at Emma. A test of sorts. One that he failed.

  She was dressed in a white sleeveless top with dark blue flowing trousers. Her thick dark hair swirled around her. She raised her hand to catch at the strands, sweeping them back from her face as she looked down at the horses, rather than at him.

  His heart thumped painfully in his chest as tension ran through the crowd on a ripple that reached all the way to the balcony. Urgency filled the air, and the noise created by the people reached higher towards a crescendo that, just for a moment, he thought might never find its peak.

  And still he could not take his eyes from the woman who had come to stand beside him. He felt her on his skin, through the layers of his clothes, over the hours since they had shared a bed. The bed he wanted to take her back to and never leave.

  Suddenly her body sprang into action. Both arms were raised and she was punching into the air, her cry of surprise matched only by the furious yells of the two men beside him. A fist thumped on his back—Dimitri, lost in his excitement. And Danyl was staring deep into the winner’s gate, as if not really sure he had seen Mason McAulty lead Veranchetti to victory.

  Antonio hadn’t. All he’d seen was Emma. And he shuddered as a cold bead of sweat trickled down his spine.

  He watched with an unwarranted anger unfurling in his stomach, seeing Danyl and Dimitri sweep Emma up into swift, joyous embraces. The small balcony suddenly seemed overly full as waiters descended with bottles of champagne and hands reached over the balcony walls to offer congratulations and cheers of success.

  A possessive streak he hadn’t realised he owned coursed through his body. If he’d noticed the flash of the cameras, he couldn’t say. If he’d told himself it was for appearances’ sake, rather than the desperate need to feel her lips against his, it would have been a lie.

  He pulled her to him—a move that was becoming increasingly familiar and ever more welcome—until he was an inch...a breath...away from a kiss that he already knew would enflame the burning furnaces of his desire. Something that would have the power to take away the painfully fierce anger boiling in his chest as he thought of his father, as he thought of his own actions.

  He teased them both, watching the hazel flecks of her eyes dissolve into sea-green depths. Over the din, the shouts and cries of the crowd around them, he heard her gasp, saw the moment surprise sizzled into expectation and want, and pushed the moment further. To when nothing else could be seen, heard or felt—when it was just the two of them.

  When he could make her realise that this wasn’t for the press, for Bartlett, for anyone else other than him and her.

  And then he took what he so desperately wanted.

  * * *

  Emma felt her hand creep up towards Antonio’s neck, pulling him deeper, forging them together with tongue and teeth. She laved his tongue with her own, brought the thumb of her other hand to the corner of his mouth, relishing the sensual power she wielded now, daring him to taste her. Taste more of her.

  She gave no thought to anyone around them, no feeling for the concern as to where this might lead, and it thrilled as much as terrified her. She matched his almost desperate movements with her own, taking everything he had to give and offering her all in return.

  He had turned her into a wanton woman and she shamelessly claimed him for the world to see. She wanted to imprint herself on him, wanted to eradicate the memory of all who had come before her. Wanted to be the only thing he needed.

  ‘That’s enough, you two,’ Dimitri called out, bringing Emma crashing back to the present.

  She slowly pulled back, satisfaction stretching through her to see Antonio Arcuri as dazed and shocked as she felt.

  ‘No,’ she whispered, for his ears only. ‘It’s not enough,’ she said with a gentle shake of her head—before she turned a beaming smile on Antonio’s friend and relinquished her hold on Antonio to accept a glass of champagne .

  ‘Gentlemen. Congratulations,’ she said, in a surprisingly steady voice.

  * * *

  Three hours later and the promised storm had bruised the sky a deep purple, but for all its bluster it had still failed to break. The wind was whipping up the leaves around the trees that lined the streets below, reminding Antonio of the crowds of people surrounding the winner’s gate earlier. The press had burst upon them in a hail of flashbulbs, firing questions about the next two races, to be carefully deflected by three men who knew better than to engage with the paparazzi.

  Mason McAulty, the female jockey whose name was now on everyone’s lips, had been discreetly spirited away by John, moved on to prepare for the next race in Ireland almost before her feet had left Veranchetti’s stirrups.

  Danyl, who had watched her go with the same frantic energy of the storm, had barely commented on the win—as if both relieved and concerned by it—and had simply stalked through the halls of The Excelsus towards the private function room that had been prepared for the closing event of the Hanley Cup’s first leg.

  It was a glamorous affair, attended by royal dignitaries, international syndicates, horse breeders and owners. Models hung from arms like accessories, but none took Antonio’s notice. A waiter passed by with a tray full of the finest champagne, but even the promise of cool nutty flavours and frothy light bubbles wasn’t enough to disguise the taste of Emma still on Antonio’s tongue.

  It was addictive. He wanted more. And he never wanted more.

  He made his way over to the bar, looking for a drink that would succeed in refocusing his tastebuds. Bartlett would be there to celebrate the Winners’ Circle’s success, although he was still to confirm whether he would choose his father or him. But Antonio knew. He would be chosen in the end. He was now sure of it.

  Dimitri was at the bar, his brooding presence enough to create a wide berth around him, clear of people. Danyl was still looking out over the race course through the windows as the first drops of promised rain slung themselves against the glass. In contrast to the gloss and sheen of revelry that dusted the other guests, the members of the Winners’ Circle seemed consumed by their own demons.

  Dimitri reached behind the bar, ignoring the frown from the barman busy with another customer, grabbed a glass and poured Antonio a drink from the bottle of obscenely expensive
whisky beside him. Dimitri threw an impressive stack of pesos onto the bar, which mollified the barman.

  ‘Why does this feel like a wake rather than a victory?’ Dimitri demanded. ‘Come on—we’re celebrating!’

  Antonio cast a glance in Dimitri’s direction. There was a light in his eyes that Antonio hadn’t seen for far too long. ‘What is it?’

  Dimitri’s gaze was fierce. ‘They got him! The SEC have finally brought civil charges against Manos,’ he said, spitting out the name of his half-brother, ‘and my name is finally and completely cleared.’

  ‘Now, that I can drink to,’ Danyl said, and he leaned over and poured himself a large helping of whisky.

  ‘It’s been a long time coming,’ Antonio added, ‘but well worth the wait.’ He savoured the burn of the alcohol in his throat.

  ‘I’m sorry that I can’t stay for longer,’ said Danyl. ‘I have to fly home. My mother has been talking about brides and babies again.’

  Dimitri choked on his drink. ‘Nothing, and I mean nothing, would tempt me into taking a bride, let alone having a baby,’ he said, slamming his glass down on the bar. ‘But it seems that the same cannot be said for Antonio.’

  He felt the weight of both men’s gazes on him. ‘It’s just for show. Bartlett needed reassurance to get him to the table—Emma offered that.’

  He saw Dimitri’s eyes lock onto something over his shoulder. ‘I don’t think that’s the only kind of enticement she’s offering,’ Dimitri replied.

  Antonio’s stomach clenched even before he had seen her—awaiting, expecting, the punch to the gut he had begun to experience each time he caught sight of her. The hair on his neck prickled as he forced himself not to immediately turn towards the entrance to the bar. Holding off the moment for as long as possible...both punishment and penance.

  ‘You bloody fool,’ Danyl said.

  ‘What?’ Antonio asked.

  ‘You’ve slept with her,’ Dimitri accused.

  Finally lifting the leash on his body, Antonio turned to watch her enter the room. She was wearing the midnight-blue lace dress he’d seen her try on in the dressing room the other day. It wrapped around her skin as if it had been painted on, and yet there was nothing indecent about it. Only the reaction it had caused in him.