High Stakes Seduction - Book 1

by LeCoeur, Ami

  But they wouldn’t tell me anything useful about this Antonio Mancini. All they could tell me was that the claim was legitimate, though they suggested I could seek legal advice if I wanted to contest it. Which meant my sister and I were still dealing with Dad’s debts, while some complete stranger would be getting half a million dollars.

  I rubbed at my temples, trying to figure out what to do next. I decided to take the insurance company up on their suggestion, pulling out my phone and flipping through my contacts.

  "Hi Mr. Conner," I said when his secretary put me through. "It’s Angela Tilson."

  "Angelina?" he said, using the name I hated. But he was an old family friend of my mother’s who’d known me since I was young enough to love that nickname. I could forgive him for still calling me that. "How are you? How is your sister doing?"

  "Not so great," I said. I wasn’t in the mood for small talk, so I spilled right into the details of our situation. Conner listened intently, "hmm"ing and "uh huh"ing at the appropriate times. I could almost see the crinkle in his brow and the look of concentration he always had when he was thinking really hard about something. I could hear him typing away on his keyboard in the background as I spoke.

  "Antonio Mancini is pretty well known here in town," he said when I stopped talking. "He's in the fashion business. Seems to have lots of connections." I heard his fingers on the keys again. "Hmm…" he said, trailing off.

  "I want to meet this guy, Mr. Conner. I want to know who he is."

  "Hmmm, no, Angelina. That's not a wise decision," he said in that lawyer tone of his. "I understand you want to know more about him. So I'll tell you what. Let me have someone look into this Antonio Mancini for you. Promise me you'll sit tight and just wait until you hear back from me, okay?"

  Chapter Five

  I stood gazing at the urn that contained what was left of our father. We hadn't decided yet what to do with his ashes, so they sat on our fireplace mantel, next to Mom's. It was strange to think of the two of them together again, but there was also some measure of comfort in knowing where I could find them if I needed to.

  I laughed at myself, feeling silly for the nostalgic sense of family I got, looking at their remains. There was a kind of madness to the whole situation and I certainly hadn't sorted everything out yet.

  God, how I hated to wait for things to come to me. I wished there was something more I could do to unravel the mysteries surrounding the events of the past week. I knew my pacing and silent cursing wouldn't change a thing. But it did help to dissipate some of the anger and sadness I didn't yet know how to deal with.

  True to his word, Mr. Conner had a thick manila envelope delivered to us by courier within a week. Maria already had the contents spread out across the coffee table when I got home from my job at the restaurant that night. There was quite a pile of papers she was riffling through.

  "If I see another set of official documents this week, I swear I’m going to–"

  "Oh you’ll want to see this," Maria interrupted, pointing to several photographs strewn across the table.

  I sat down beside her, and immediately understood what she was talking about. "He’s … um… gorgeous…" I said, picking up one of the photos.

  "That's Antonio Mancini," she said, turning the photo over to show me the note written on the back.

  The man stared at me with cool dark eyes, well-coiffed hair and a tiny smile on the corner of his lips. He was on a crowded sidewalk with people bustling around him, but he stood out in his perfectly tailored suit. He had the look of a man who was completely in control.

  I spread the photos out on the table so I could see them, but I was unable to stop myself from admiring just how handsome this particular man was. Then something caught my eye. Or rather, someone. The photographer had managed to snap several shots of Mancini meeting with different people, including the mayor.

  The mayor was known less for his charitable work around our town than for his alleged connections with the mob. Nothing had been proven, of course, at least nothing that would get him booted out of office. Still, I couldn’t help but wonder about his friendliness with Mancini. I frowned, remembering the calls we’d received about Dad’s gambling debts and wondering if there somehow was a connection.

  I looked more carefully at the other photos. "Do you recognize any of these other people?" I asked Maria.

  "The Mayor," she said, pointing to the picture I’d just put down. Her finger moved to hover over another image. "Isn’t this that club owner who was in the news recently? The one who survived an apparent mob hit that killed a whole bunch of other people at his club?"

  "And this," I said, showing her a newspaper clipping of Mancini with a middle-aged business woman with sharp features and a frowning mouth, "identifies a Mrs. Grant, you remember, that woman whose husband died under mysterious circumstances shortly after she took over his father’s manufacturing business?"

  Maria looked up at me, her mouth twisted in thought. "And Mancini seems to be friendly with all of them. What the hell was Dad doing with this guy?"

  I picked up a business card Conner had included in the stack. "I don’t know, Maria. But I’m going to find out."

  Chapter Six

  "Yes? What can I do for you?"

  I froze when I heard his voice on the other end of the phone. I hadn’t exactly planned out what I was going to say when I got Antonio Mancini on the line. I figured I could handle a simple conversation. But that was before his voice erupted into my senses. It sounded like smoke and velvet, and I found my eyes drifting back to the photos still sitting on the coffee table.

  "Miss Tilson," he said, "what is it?" I could hear a touch of impatience unraveling the velvet.

  I cleared my throat, snapping myself back to reality. "Mr. Mancini," I began. "I am the daughter of Jack Tilson, who has… recently passed away."

  "I’m sorry for your loss," Mancini said a bit too bluntly, but after a pause, he added, "He was a good, if somewhat troubled man."

  I looked over at Maria, and took another deep breath. She watched me expectantly. "How did you know my father?"

  "You might say we had a business arrangement."

  I didn’t like the way he said the words. I didn’t like what the words implied. "What kind of arrangement?" I asked, feeling the heat rise in me. "And why does my father have an insurance policy with your name as the beneficiary, instead of his own daughters, Mr. Mancini? Tell me that."

  After a brief silence, he responded in a calm voice.

  "Your father had a problem that I am sure you were aware of, Miss Tilson. Though I suspect you don’t know just how deeply his debts have taken your family."

  I stared at the phone in my hand. After everything that had happened, how could I not know? "And how would you know this?" I sputtered, unable to stop the anger from creeping into my own voice.

  "Perhaps it would be best if we discussed this in person, Miss Tilson," Mancini said quietly.

  "No, Mr. Mancini," I said, raising my voice. "You’ll talk to me right now."

  "No, Miss Tilson," he said. His tone, cold and uncompromising, gave me pause. "You will come to my office at Emerson Plaza tomorrow morning at nine. We will discuss your financial situation at that time. Is that clear?"

  I blinked, stunned.

  "I will accept your silence as compliance, Miss Tilson. I will see you in my office at nine a.m.," he said, and then the line went dead.

  "What?" asked Maria, frowning at the shock that must have registered on my face. "What did he say?"

  "He didn't. He won't tell me anything on the phone."

  "Well, that's outrageous! Call him back and insist."

  "He wants me to meet him at his office tomorrow." I continued. "He said we'll discuss it then."

  "Ange—I can't believe you're willing to let this guy order you around. That's not like you at all. You're nobody's fool, and certainly nobody's servant!"

  She was right, of course. But I had to get to the bottom of this. We need
ed the money—if he was such a big shot businessman, then it wouldn't hurt him financially to let go of the insurance policy.

  My job at the restaurant barely paid the bills. Maria's settlement for the accident had somehow evaporated into our father's gambling debts, and we were tapping into the Uncle Benito Fund far more than either one of us wanted to. So, anything I could do to get this Mancini character to talk about a potential solution sounded like a good idea. Or so I rationalized.

  Chapter Seven

  I've never been really good at blindly obeying demands, and I wasn't about to start when the stakes were so high.

  I glanced at my watch. It was thirteen minutes after nine. Call it childish defiance, but it was all I had at this point.

  Antonio Mancini stood in front of a large, floor-to-ceiling window with his back to me, speaking quietly into his cellphone. Even standing behind him, I felt the strength of presence this man had. His impeccable suit and highly polished shoes fit with the photos I'd seen. But there was something more. Maybe it was the sheer breadth of his shoulders, the easy grace of his stance. Or the slight tilt to his head as he spoke into the phone.

  His secretary nodded towards a white leather couch in the corner of the huge office. I smiled and thanked her as she closed the door, leaving me inside with the formidable Antonio Mancini.

  But, I didn’t go over to the couch she'd indicated. Instead, I stood at the door, trying to keep my calm in the presence of this man who was clearly used to being in charge. I distracted myself by looking around the office.

  It was elegantly decorated in blacks, whites, and grays, with deliberate splashes of mauve, worked in to various pieces of furniture and artwork, including a single flower in a vase on his desk. The décor was subtly tasteful and I found myself wondering what his home must look like.

  The ride up the elevator had been almost as nerve-wracking as standing in this office. I'd peeked through the store windows as I passed into the building lobby, and been suitably impressed. It's not a store I'd ever had the funds to visit.

  Scanning the offices looking for the Mancini name, I'd been further impressed by the other occupants: architects, several accounting firms, even a private investigator. And there, on the top floors, Mancini Enterprises.

  "Thank you for coming to my office, Miss Tilson." The smooth, husky voice broke me out of my musings.

  I silently cursed myself for letting my mind wander and opened my mouth to speak, only to find my throat dry. Clearly, his pictures did not do him justice.

  He was—I hated to use the cliché, but my mind was not thinking very clearly at the moment—tall, dark, and extraordinarily handsome, with the same cool, dark, piercing eyes I had seen in the photographs. I couldn’t quite read his expression and suddenly felt stupid for playing games.

  "I—I’m sorry I’m late," I said, taking his proffered hand and noticing the subtle shift of energy that ran up my arm at his touch.

  He shook my hand firmly, but his thumb lingered, caressing my hand as it slid away to rest at his side. Just his touch made my knees weak.

  "Please sit down," he said, turning and extending a hand to indicate the chairs opposite his desk.

  I stepped over to the chairs and sat down, grateful not to have made a scene. He paused for a moment, then seated himself behind his desk.

  "Look, Mr. Mancini," I began, leaning forward, and then the words just came tumbling out. "My sister and I have been dealing with my father’s debts ever since… since the accident when my… my mother died. When he disappeared a year ago, we heard nothing from him, until last week when I got a call telling me he was dead. And then, when I pick up his meager belongings, I find your name on an insurance policy? What is going on, Mr. Mancini?"

  He watched me for a long, quiet moment. For the first time since the news of my father’s death, I felt tears threatening, and cursed silently. I could not let this man see me cry. I blinked and looked away, letting my gaze fall to a fashion magazine near his elbow.

  I heard him inhale slowly. "Antonio," he said, laying his hands on the desk.

  "Excuse me?" I said.

  "You can call me Antonio. May I call you Angela?"

  "I—"

  "As we've already discussed, Angela, your father had many problems, most of which resulted in the financial situation you have inherited. However, you’ll note that the creditors stopped calling your home shortly after your father’s disappearance."

  Creditors? I thought. More like goons. I narrowed my eyes. "How did you know that, Mr. Mancini?"

  "I know, because I was the one who made arrangements to relieve those debts. And that, Ms. Tilson, is the reason my name is on the insurance policy you found. The money your father owed—and that, technically, you now owe—is owed to me."

  I inhaled sharply. That was the last thing I had expected—or wanted—to hear.

  "It wasn't the first time he had called on me for help. I doubt you realize how deeply your father was in debt, Angela." His right hand moved to a folder sitting on the desk, which he slid toward me.

  I reached for it, my hands shaking as I opened the folder. Another sharp intake of breath. "The mortgage on our house?" I managed to whisper.

  "Yes," he said simply as I scanned the document.

  The words started to blur and I realized that this time I was unable to stop the tears.

  The one thing keeping me and Maria going since Mom's death was knowing that even though I'd quit college and taken that crap job as a waitress, at least we had the house. I might not make much between the restaurant and my occasional photography gigs, but the house had provided some measure of security. Except now, even that had been ripped out from under us.

  "I’m sorry you had to find out about the extent of your father’s troubles in this way." He handed me a soft cotton hankie—not a Kleenex, a hankie. I dabbed my eyes, unexpectedly breathing in the warm scent of his cologne.

  "When he came to me needing help, I had no idea how bad it was. This was the first big arrangement we made. He had assured me he would buy back the mortgage, but that never happened. It is unfortunate that he chose not to tell you about it, but I suppose that was understandable, under the circumstances. I had sincerely hoped he would turn his life around and fix this, but clearly that did not work out."

  "You—you sound like you knew my father better than we did," I stammered, still staring at the blurred lines of the mortgage papers. "How would my father have even met someone like—" I glanced around at the elegant office. "How would he know someone like you?"

  Antonio leaned back in his chair, resting his elbows on the armrests and steepling his fingers. "Gamblers can make some … unusual acquaintances," he replied.

  The dark sparkle in his eyes made me uncomfortable. It was a knowing gaze; one of power and control, which I had none of at the moment. I felt a cloak of hopelessness settle around my shoulders. I tried to shake it off and fumbled in my purse for a tissue, handing him back his hankie.

  "I met your father on several occasions," he continued.

  I blew my nose and dabbed at my eyes, praying that I wasn’t making a mess of the makeup I'd so carefully applied that morning.

  "In fact, I encouraged him to seek help for his addictions since he was already way over his head," his voice softened slightly. "But it's difficult to get anyone to do something they don’t want to do. Then he disappeared from our usual circles for a few months before showing up here, at my office."

  "He came here?"

  "To request my help again," he said, pointing at the folder. "But by then he didn't have anything more to offer, so the life insurance policy was my price."

  I placed the mortgage documents back in the folder and sat there, quiet for some time, trying to piece my thoughts together. "But…" I started, glancing up to find him watching me with those shadowy, intense eyes. I looked away, unable to hold his gaze. "Why would you help him out… Again?"

  He sat watching me. "I have my reasons. They are my own."

&nb
sp; "You don’t need any of this." I pointed to the folder. "My sister and I don’t have anything left. Couldn’t you at least give us back the house?"

  He sighed. "I helped your father out of an immediate bind, but I am, by no means, a charity. I appreciate your situation and your point of view. But I am a businessman, and I expect his debts to be repaid."

  "But I—"

  "There are options," he said, cutting me off as he leaned forward, his eyes narrowing and locked onto mine, squeezing the air out of my lungs. I was pinned, I couldn't look away.

  "You seem like a capable woman, Miss Tilson. Perhaps you would like to apprentice here at my store? Provided you are willing to meet my conditions, I would like to offer you a job."

  I sat there. Dumbfounded. Staring at the man across the desk. He stared back, those unwavering eyes watching every twitch that must have played across my face. We were in his debt, but he was offering me a job? My brain was having a hard time putting all the pieces together.

  True, he was drop-dead gorgeous, and the thought of working around someone this good looking couldn't be all bad.

  But my mind raced back to the information Conner had dug up on Antonio Mancini. His fashion business was very successful, but there were those photos - those other connections—some that left me wondering if I should even be talking with this man at all. My father had already bound me to him through his debt. How could I actually work for him?

  "What—what do you mean?" My heart was pounding in my chest, so hard I was afraid it would come through my voice.

  He leaned back in his chair, and a small smile played on his lips. It made me feel like a child—as though he was toying with me. A cat playing with a mouse that had walked into his trap. "I own a very lucrative fashion design company, Miss Tilson," he said, spreading his arms wide. "It just so happens that I am in need of an associate. How are you with sales?"