Innocent of His Claim

by Janette Kenny

  She winced, her burning cheeks surely as pink as the roses clustered against an ivory wall. “He must have been a very miserable man.”

  “Cabriotini lived hard and played hard and enjoyed a procession of mistresses. According to them, he made it clear to every women he bedded that he would deny any ‘mistakes’ that might evolve from a liaison.” His mouth pulled into that pained smile again and she shifted away from the car door without realizing she’d done so.

  Not that Marco noticed. His gaze was riveted out the window again, his broad shoulders so stiff she imagined them lashed to a steel girder.

  She worried her lower lip, wanting to avoid a scene. God knew she’d endured enough of them in her life.

  “You haven’t been a family for very long then,” she ventured, thinking by diverting the conversation to his sister again it could qualify a bit as her doing her job.

  “We’ve never been a family,” he said flatly.

  “When did you become so cold, so unfeeling?”

  “Ten years ago,” he said, not even deigning to look at her.

  She bit her lower lip and stared at her clasped hands, surprised they were trembling. Of course he would blame everything on that awful night when he’d cornered her and her father in the posh Zwuavé Gardens in Mayfair, accusing David Tate of stealing his family business, accusing Delanie of betraying him.

  She’d never been able to forget that ugly scene. Each second of that confrontation was embedded in her memory, each hurtful word tattooed on her heart.

  “How could you believe I betrayed you?” she asked as the car cruised down the poplar-lined driveway, taking her deeper into his lair.

  Marco snorted, pressing a knuckled fist into the leather seat, accusing gaze drilling into her. “You were the only person I confided in about my grandmother’s mental state. You knew I intended to remove her from her role in her own business before she was taken advantage of. You told your father this and he swooped down on her.”

  As she’d done that night, with her heart threatening to pound out of her chest, she shook her head in denial. “I never told Father anything.”

  Marco leaned closer and loomed over her. “Then how did he know something that I told only you?”

  She shook her head, having no answer. Never in a million years would she have divulged what they’d spoken of in whispers, arms and legs entangled, bare bodies curled perfectly together in a delicious skin-on-skin rub. Their intimacy had been a precious gift to her. She wouldn’t have jeopardized that.

  But her father would, she admitted, worrying her bottom lip with her teeth, the same question plaguing her mind as well.

  She’d been so wrong about this man, certain he loved her, certain he believed her innocence. Certain that he would return for her. But he’d disappeared.

  When she’d needed him most, he’d proven to be no better than her father.

  That night at the restaurant with Marco and David Tate she’d hardened, realizing with a sinking heart that her father had used her to get to Marco and he’d succeeded. He’d used the one good thing in her life against her—used his daughter.

  “What did you do, Father?” she had demanded, ice crystallizing in her veins as she’d confronted her father, his light eyes devoid of any emotion.

  “What did I do?” he parroted then laughed, a nasty cackle that taunted—haunted her still. “You know exactly what I did. As you well know, one learns so much through pillow talk.”

  The insinuation she’d intentionally betrayed the man she loved had her face flaming—not with shame but with anger. She’d known her father was the ultimate manipulator, but she’d never dreamed he would go to such lengths to best Marco.

  A huge error on her part. Any man who beat his wife wasn’t above using his daughter to his benefit.

  “I didn’t give you any information,” she’d hissed, but her father only gave her that smug smile.

  She’d only mentioned her worry over Marco’s grandmother to one person: her own mother. But her mother wouldn’t have divulged something Delanie told her in private. She wouldn’t have betrayed her. Would she?

  She’d turned to Marco ten years ago, standing at their table tall and proud and so very angry. “He’s lying, Marco. I would never hurt you. Never betray you.”

  He’d stared at her a long time before he stepped closer, dragging one finger down her cheek that was slick with tears she hadn’t realized she’d shed, his palm strong yet gentle as he cupped her chin. She leaned into that hand, her gaze on his, begging him to believe her.

  “Then how could your father possibly know things that I shared only with you?” he asked, pulling his hand back, denying her his touch, his trust.

  She shook her head, having no solid answer. “He spied on us. He must have.”

  The anger in his beautiful brown eyes cooled to a brittle glaze that chilled her to the bone. And she knew that the torrid love they’d shared was freezing over.

  Marco had backed away from the table, the epitome of arrogant pride. And she held her breath, praying for him to see the truth, waiting for him to extend his hand to her.

  Instead, he turned and walked away with brisk determined steps, spine straight, broad shoulders girded in an impossibly stiff line.

  She’d pressed trembling fingers to her lips, stilling the cry that tried to escape. Rejection bludgeoned her and she shrank in her chair, humiliated. Stunned. Hurt beyond words.

  “That was unpleasant,” her father said, returning his attention to his beef Wellington and topped-off glass of port, dismissing her heartache as if it were nothing.

  Because to her father, she was nothing. It had never been more clear to her than at that moment.

  She pushed to her feet on shaky legs, the scrape of chair legs blaring over the din of happy customers.

  “I hate you,” she hissed, batting tears from her eyes.

  Her father had lifted one sardonic brow then laughed, a dark sound edged with sarcasm. “Of course you do. Perhaps you should hurry after Mr. Vincienta. Beg him to take you back,” he said. “I don’t need you and neither does your mother.”

  But her mother did need her.

  Delanie could see the retribution gathering in his light eyes and her stomach twisted into a tighter knot. She knew his pattern. He would need to release his tension over being confronted publicly by Marco and now her.

  Her mother would pay the ultimate price. Again.

  Even so she wove through the restaurant on shaky legs, mumbling excuses as she went, heart thundering in her chest. She had to speak with Marco one more time. She had to make him believe she’d had no part in her father’s latest scheme. That she was as much a victim as anyone else.

  “Marco!” she cried out as she pushed past the doorman and stumbled onto the sidewalk, her teary gaze frantically searching for him.

  He stopped in the arc of light but didn’t face her.

  Heart in her throat, she gulped a sob and raced to him. Her trembling fingers banded his arm and he stiffened even more.

  “I don’t know how he found out about your grandmother but I was ignorant of his plan. I played no part in his corporate schemes,” she said. “You have to believe me.”

  He looked at her then with an expression so cold she shivered. “No, I do not have to believe you.”

  She batted at a tear that leaked from her gritty eyes only to do the same with another. And another. She gave up the effort to stay them and looked at him through a veil of tears.

  “I’ve never told a soul since primary school, but you have to know the truth. Father is abusive,” she said.

  His brows snapped together. “To you?”

  She shook her head and gulped in great drafts of air. “To Mother. He’s always abused her, though he was careful her bruises didn’t show.” Until that last time …

  Her fingers inched up his rigid forearm. “I can’t leave her. He’ll—” She shook her head again, fingers digging into his muscled arm. “I don’t know what depths he wi
ll sink to this time if I defy him again.”

  “You’re telling the truth?” he asked, his frown fierce.

  “Yes,” she whispered past dry lips.

  “You need to escape his grasp. Come with me to Italy.”

  When he’d asked her before, in the heat of passion, she’d refused because, while he’d told her he wanted her, he’d never professed his love. He always held back something she couldn’t define, she’d just sensed the wall going up. That kept her from totally trusting him as she longed to do.

  But now he was giving her a real chance to escape her hellish life. To be with the man she loved, the man with the wounded heart that she still believed her love could heal. She wanted to go but wouldn’t unless specific conditions were met.

  “Yes, I’ll go with you but not without my mother. I can’t leave her to suffer.” The guilt of doing so once still plagued her. “Please. I love you, Marco. I need your help. I need you.”

  Marco jerked his head aside, his rigid posture concealing anything he was feeling. And she’d prayed he believed her. Prayed that he would help her and her mother.

  “Go back to your father but say nothing about telling me this,” he said. “I’ll go to your house now and speak with your mother. Trust me to arrange everything. It will be all right.”

  She’d swallowed hard. Trust was asking so much, especially with so much at stake. Especially when she was leery of putting her heart and soul into his hands. But she loved him. She wanted to believe he would never hurt her but she needed time—time she simply didn’t have.

  “Okay,” she said. “When will I see you?”

  “Soon.”

  He stood there a moment longer, staring into her eyes before his gaze fixed on her mouth. Kiss me, she thought. Hold me. Convince me everything will be fine. Perfect. Make the fear go away.

  But he did none of that.

  In a blink he disappeared into the darkness, leaving her with the unpleasant task of trudging back into the restaurant and facing her father.

  “Did you change your mind about leaving with the Italian or did he reject you?” her father asked the moment she eased onto the chair across from him.

  She damned the heat flooding her cheeks and averted her eyes so he wouldn’t read the truth in them. “He was already gone by the time I got outside.”

  “Hmm,” her father said, cradling his port in one pale hand, the long slender fingers looking too effeminate to be capable of inflicting pain.

  But she knew differently.

  As Marco had asked of her, she suffered the evening in her father’s company. Her nerves jumped like live wires by the time they returned home but she held onto the belief he would make everything right. That she and her mother would soon be free.

  She hurried to her mother’s room, hoping Marco had talked over a plan with her. That they would be leaving here soon. That they would finally be free of David Tate’s control.

  “Well? What did Marco say? When do we leave?” Delanie asked in hushed tones.

  Small furrows raced across her mother’s pale forehead, the skin so thin and white it was nearly translucent. “I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.”

  And so Delanie explained it in a rush, her fragile faith in Marco withering when her mother gave her a pitying smile. “He never came, dear. He never called.”

  “But he said—”

  “Men are the kings of false promises,” her mother interrupted, her fragile blue-veined hand patting Delanie’s in a conciliatory gesture that failed to comfort. “You should know that by now.”

  Yes, she should know it. Did know it. But she’d begun to trust Marco.

  “Mother, did you ever mention what I told you about Marco’s grandmother?” she asked.

  “No, not a word,” her mother said, but looked everywhere but at her. “Why do you ask?”

  Delanie waved a dismissive hand. “Just curious. It’s just that I told nobody but you and yet Father has learned of it.”

  Her mother had smiled. “You should know by now that the walls here have ears.”

  Yes, of course. A maid must have overheard and told someone. That’s how the information had trickled back to her father.

  Delanie had gone to her room that night, refusing to sob. Tears solved nothing. She’d crawled into bed and curled into a ball, vowing never to fall victim to love and a man’s control again.

  Yet, ten years later, here she was as the car stopped under the portico of the palatial villa, blinking eyes that burned with unshed tears. Heart aching in an all too familiar pain that she thought she had buried long ago.

  A glance at the tall Italian who’d just pushed out of the auto gave her the answer.

  Years ago Marco had simply stormed out of her life, turning her tenuous trust in him to dust as he walked over the shards of her broken heart. Now he was back, causing her to doubt her mother’s loyalty. Making her want to lean on him all over again. The odd pang in her chest confirmed the one thing she’d feared most. She was still vulnerable to Marco’s magnetic charm. Still not over him.

  This time she would guard her heart.

  Marco stood a moment stretching his long legs. His gaze climbed the gray walls of Cabriotini’s Italianate villa, the red tile roof gleaming in the late-afternoon sun and the well-tended lawn with artistically designed flower beds overflowing with bright yellow and orange blossoms.

  His time living here was about over. Two weeks and he would move to his home. In two weeks he wouldn’t be haunted by the stigma of this villa. Or by Delanie Tate?

  The hint of a smile tugged at his lips as he rounded the hood. He opened her door and extended a hand, challenging her to accept his manners or publicly snub him.

  There was a long pause as she sat huddled on the plush seat, sunlight dancing down the length of her lovely legs encased in the sheerest hose, the skin pale. Were they still as smooth?

  Sexy legs. That was the first thing he’d noticed about her before discovering how luscious the whole package was—full breasts, lush, inviting lips, soft, yielding body begging for sex.

  “We manage a sparse staff,” he said, dragging his gaze back to hers. “But they’ll see that your reasonable needs are met.”

  “I don’t need or wish to be waited on,” she said, slipping her small hand in his and exiting with the grace befitting quality.

  “It’s breathtaking,” Delanie said, her silken wrap slipping down her arms as she extracted her hand from his.

  He just caught himself from grabbing the shawl. From easing it around her narrow shoulders and stealing a caress.

  “Yes, breathtaking,” he said, his gaze on her.

  Her face was uplifted to the sun, one hand shielding her eyes, her golden hair fluttering in the warm breeze scented with ripe fruit. Both were slightly sweet. Intoxicating.

  His stomach tightened another notch, but fighting it was as useless as trying to ignore it.

  Delanie Tate was still the most beautiful woman he’d ever met. Still stirred something in him that he hadn’t truly understood himself. That he couldn’t control.

  Oh, there was attraction. Lust even. But the odd feelings churning deep inside him went beyond that.

  She took him to a level he didn’t understand. Didn’t trust.

  Hell, he couldn’t trust her to abide by her word. Which is why he had to keep her close. Had to make sure she planned his sister’s wedding right down to the last canapé and curled bit of ribbon, that she saw it through to the end.

  She looked at him then, cheeks pink from the sun, lush lips holding a tentative smile.

  He sucked in a breath, ignoring the urge to drag her into his arms. Hold her. Kiss her.

  “You won’t miss living here, will you?” she asked.

  “Not one bit. I look forward to moving into my home.” He motioned to the door. “After you.”

  She studied him a moment longer before striding toward the door. He took a breath and followed, keeping his gaze trained on her glorious hair instead of h
er inviting backside.

  “Will you continue to keep in close contact with your sister or are you ready to push her out of your life as well?” she asked.

  “Why the concern?” he shot back.

  She stopped at the door and faced him. “You’ve made it clear you have never been a family man and yet you’ve lived in a place you dislike for years. Now you’ve gone to the trouble to force me here to plan your sister’s wedding.” Her gaze locked with his. “Why do all that? And don’t spout duty!”

  He rubbed the bridge of his nose and heaved a sigh. She couldn’t know how much he wanted to rid himself of this place or why. How reluctant he was to open his heart to Bella—the sister who was a stranger in so many ways.

  All his life he’d tried to be a good grandson. A good son. A good man to one good woman—Delanie.

  But in the end he hadn’t been good enough for any of them. His aged grandmother had trusted a stranger over him. His mother had let him live a lie and his biological father had shunned him.

  And Delanie …

  Delanie had betrayed his trust. His love. And yet she still plagued his thoughts over the years.

  The one who got away, he thought with a mocking smile. Only that wasn’t the truth.

  Sobering, looking at her now standing before him so proud and vexed, he could only admit the truth. She was the one he’d pushed away. Ruthlessly. Furiously.

  Wisest thing he’d ever done or biggest mistake of his life? That question nagged at him at the oddest times, but he’d never been more determined to discern the truth until now.

  To do that he needed to spend time alone with Delanie.

  “It’s not Bella I wish to distance myself from,” he said at last, his eyes never leaving hers. “It’s this place. It symbolizes a pattern of life that I fell into naturally, just like the man who sired me.”