‘Why should I tell you anything?’ she answered, and a look of savagery flashed across his face, quickly replaced by cold, bored mockery. ‘You wouldn’t believe a word I said anyway. You wouldn’t want to. You came back here because, unexpectedly, circumstance has opened up an opportunity for you to make me suffer. I have no intention of throwing myself on your mercy. I’m not a fool.’
‘You’ve always been a fool, Isobel Chandler,’ he said in a voice that could have cut glass. ‘You were a fool to become involved with me in the first place. I attracted you because I was from the wrong side of the tracks, and that sort of thing can hold quite a bit of appeal to a girl of your impeccable upbringing, can’t it? But you made a grave mistake, my darling. You’re right. Circumstance has thrown me a lifebelt, and I have every intention of using it.’
‘I won’t allow this,’ she said, confused and frightened by the intent in his eyes. He had always been single-minded; he had always possessed the sort of personality that gauged a situation, assessed the outcome and then went for it. His ferocious drive had amused and bewitched her once because she had seen it through the eyes of a girl in love. Now she wasn’t amused or bewitched. She was standing in its path, and all she could see was herself being rollercoastered into bits.
‘I have nothing further to say to you,’ she informed him. ‘I won’t sell my father’s company to you, whatever you offer.’
‘Oh, I shall have control of it, Isobel, just as I shall have control of you. There’s no point fighting. It’s only a matter of time.’
He walked across to the office door, opened it, and within minutes Mr Clark was hurrying in.
Isobel looked at him and should have felt a feeling of relief, but she didn’t. All she felt was dread at the dark threat behind Lorenzo’s words.
‘All sorted out, I hope?’ Mr Clark bustled to his desk, his eyes busily glancing at the two of them and apparently not registering anything amiss in the atmosphere.
‘Not quite.’ Lorenzo sat down on the chair opposite the desk and crossed his legs elegantly.
‘Ah.’ That obviously stumped Mr Clark. ‘What appears to be the problem?’
‘I won’t sell.’ Isobel spoke calmly but firmly. In the chair next to her she could feel Lorenzo. Some weird sixth sense seemed to register his presence so that every pore of her being was in a state of tense awareness. It was a feeling she hated because she had not felt vulnerable for a long time; she had learned to hide within herself, and to depend on that carefully cultivated talent for self-control.
‘She’ll sell,’ Lorenzo said smoothly. ‘There are just a few rough edges to work through. A few terms and conditions to be agreed upon.’
She didn’t need to see his face to imagine the utter confidence written there. Mr Clark was clearly convinced. He looked relieved and settled back comfortably in his chair. Things would progress as normal. Never mind her objections. They were technicalities.
She badly wanted to protest but she didn’t.
This was neither the time nor the place to indulge in a debate on the subject. But Lorenzo Cicolla was not going to have his way. If he wanted war, then she would fight.
CHAPTER FOUR
‘HOW absolutely delightful for you, darling.’ Mrs Chandler looked at her daughter with a smile, but Isobel refused to smile back. It was all of a week since she had set eyes on Lorenzo, and that week had been ample time in which to feed her growing panic at the prospect of his moving back to England to live.
He hated her. That had been evident in the cold, contemptuous slant of his eyes every time he had looked at her in Mr Clark’s office, in the curl of his lips, in the well-chosen cruelty of his words. And now, four years on, he had the wherewithal to make her feel his hatred.
She looked at her mother, now frowning, and said as tactfully as she could, ‘Mum, he’s changed. He’s not the man you used to know.’
‘People don’t change overnight, Isobel.’
‘Four years is hardly what I would call overnight!’ She stood up and began clearing away the dishes, and her mother began helping her. Isobel took this as a good sign. For the past few months she had been too lethargic, too wrapped up in her unhappiness to do anything, but recently, over the past couple of weeks, Isobel had noticed little changes in her mother.
‘What I mean, darling, is that fundamentally people don’t change. Oh, their fortunes may go up or down, their lifestyles may alter, but basically, they always remain the same.’
‘Your theory falls down when it comes to Lorenzo Cicolla,’ Isobel informed her, not wanting to prolong the conversation, but not quite knowing how to terminate it. ‘He’s become cold and ruthless. Why do you think that I have reservations about selling to him?’ Start, she had thought, with the reservations ploy, so that when downright denial became inevitable her mother would find it easier to accept. As it was, it had taken quite some doing to convince her mother that selling immediately wouldn’t have been the best option. After all, they both knew Lorenzo, didn’t they? They both knew him for an honourable man who would see that everything was handled in a thoughtful and fair manner, didn’t they?
They had cleared the table and Isobel turned on the tap, running the water until it was the right temperature, then filling the sink and piling the plates and cutlery in.
‘Darling, I do think you’re exaggerating a little.’ Mrs Chandler picked up a tea-towel and began drying. ‘You probably felt a little awkward with him because you used to go out with him.’
Now that, Isobel thought resentfully, was definitely not on the conversation agenda. So much water had flowed under the bridge since that time that whole landscapes had changed in the process.
‘What are you planning to do tomorrow?’ Isobel asked, adopting diversion tactics, and received a sly, amused glance from her mother.
‘Of course,’ Mrs Chandler said, ‘I shall have to meet him. It’s only polite, after all.’
‘I have no idea where he is, and anyway why on earth do you have to meet him?’ Isobel retorted, keeping her face steadfastly averted. ‘It’s hardly as though the deal has gone through. It’s hardly as though he owns the company. We don’t owe him a debt of gratitude.’ Strong stuff, Isobel thought, biting back the urge to carry on for several hours in the same vein.
‘Whatever went on between the two of you in Mr Clark’s office?’ her mother asked curiously.
‘Nothing. Money and power’s gone to his head, that’s all,’ Isobel muttered. ‘There. Dishes done. Coffee?’ She poured them both a cup and they retired to the sitting-room.
Outside, the autumn evening was drawing in and the light was deep and gold. It filtered through the trees in the garden and skirted across the well-maintained lawns. Isobel had arranged for two of the local lads to do the garden twice a week and, despite a few feeble protests, Mrs Chandler had been quite relieved.
‘Darling, I know that you’re handling this business, but any decisions must finally be taken with my agreement, mustn’t they?’ Mrs Chandler picked up the conversation as though there had been no lapse in between. ‘It would seem very odd, don’t you think? Having nothing to do with him when he is thinking of buying the company and, more to the point, when he is, after all, a family friend?’
‘No.’
Isobel sprawled back in the chair and tried to look sleepy in the hope that it might deflect her mother’s temporarily one-track thought processes. Lorenzo’s return, she realised, had coincided with her mother’s re-entry into day-to-day living, and it was providing her with a great deal of fodder with which to take her mind off her own personal worries.
‘You’re being difficult, Isobel.’
‘No, I’m not,’ Isobel said, and she heard the sulky petulance in her voice with irritated amusement. ‘It’s just,’ she continued in a crisper tone, ‘that I don’t see the point of making a fuss over Lorenzo Cicolla just because he’s decided to return to Deadsville, Yorkshire, as he no doubt sees us here, or even because he thinks he’s going to buy Chandlers
and have the opportunity to lord it over us. Why should we?’
‘Because you were very fond of him at one stage, and of course, dear, I remember him quite clearly as a young boy, and I’d like to see how he is now!’
Isobel sighed in frustration and then shrugged.
‘Well, I’m sure something can be arranged if he resurfaces,’ she added. ‘Quite likely immediate lack of success in getting what he wants has put him off and he’s taken himself elsewhere.’ Never in a million years would she admit it, but, for the past week, she had found herself looking out for him, even though she hated herself for doing so.
‘Perhaps you could check for me,’ Mrs Chandler suggested, and Isobel gave her a horrified stare.
‘Check?’ she asked. ‘Check? Me? After everything I’ve just said?’
‘Yes,’ her mother answered serenely. ‘Would you object, darling? I do think it would be a nice gesture if we had him over to dinner. Just something light, of course. Apart from everything else, I’d like to discuss any hold-ups to the sale of the company. I’m convinced something can be worked out.’
‘Dinner? Discussions? Work things out?’ She sounded strangled and quickly swallowed some of the coffee.
‘What else?’ Mrs Chandler stood up. ‘I think I shall retire now.’ She moved towards Isobel and kissed her on the top of her head. ‘It should be easy to trace him, though I’m sure he’ll be in touch soon to resume discussions. Let me know just as soon as a day has been fixed. You and I can prepare something.’ She smiled wistfully. ‘Do you know, I shall never forget those wonderful parties your father and I used to throw. All the neighbours,’ she sighed. ‘I don’t expect I shall ever do that again. But it will be nice seeing a different face, and Lorenzo was always such a charmer.’ She sighed again and Isobel followed her slow walk to the door before falling back into the chair with a little depressed groan.
Damn Lorenzo Cicolla. She would have been happy to put the past behind her; there were so many questions she had been dying to ask him, but he had made his hostility clear from the start, and if she had felt any warmth for him, it had been killed before it could take root.
She stood up, collected the empty cups and took them into the kitchen.
Of course, she had no choice but to ask him to dinner. Her mother already thought it peculiar that she had been so antagonistic in her reactions to him when to her, as to any outsider, he would appear an old friend.
She spent the following two days wondering whether she could convincingly develop temporary amnesia on the subject of Lorenzo Cicolla, whether she should make a token effort to find out where he was staying, perhaps a quick phone call to the least likely place for him to be, or whether she should simply make do with nothing under cover of reassuringly agreeing with whatever her mother suggested.
As it turned out she was spared having to do anything at all because she bumped into him quite by chance as she was cycling back from the surgery after work. Or rather he cornered her in his car, pulling up against the kerb so that she was hedged in and forced to dismount.
‘I thought it was you,’ he said coolly, stepping out of the Jaguar, and Isobel reluctantly stood facing him, her hands gripping the handlebars.
He was wearing dark trousers and a white shirt rolled to the elbows, even though there was quite a cool feel to the air.
‘Lorenzo,’ she said woodenly. ‘What a surprise. I thought you might have changed your mind about coming back here now that you no longer have any reasons to remain.’ Her heartbeat had unobligingly gone into overdrive and she tried to ignore that disastrous sensuality which he exuded without having to try.
‘You didn’t really think that,’ he inserted with equal cool politeness. ‘You knew that I’d be back.’
‘How would I know that when you weren’t around?’
‘You mean that you’ve been looking out for me, Isobel? How flattering.’
Trust him, she thought sourly, to misconstrue an entirely innocuous remark. She looked at him with dislike and said, ‘It’s rather crowded here, and I’m late home, so if you don’t mind…’ That damned dinner invitation would just have to wait. She knew that her mother had a valid point, that decisions to do with the company had to be taken with her approval, but right now she felt unsettled and in no mood to prolong their conversation.
That wonderful sexual excitement which he used to induce in her all those years ago had now been replaced by feelings of muted panic and unease and a stupid stirring in her blood which, she told herself, irritated her more than anything else.
He didn’t get back into his car. He remained staring at her, then he said, with a cursory glance around him, ‘You’re right, it is crowded here. Everyone leaving work.’ He slammed shut the door and locked it.
‘I won’t keep you. My answer still stands.’ She began to cycle off but he moved around the car with something approaching the speed of light and gripped the handlebars so that she was forced to stop.
‘What do you think you’re doing?’ she asked furiously, looking up into those light, mesmerising eyes and feeling even more unsteady.
‘So why don’t we adjourn to the coffee-shop?’
‘What for?’ Her heart was racing but she continued to look straight at him.
‘Now, now, is that any way for two old friends to treat one another?’
‘The coffee-shop will be closed,’ Isobel informed him bluntly, ‘so I’m afraid we’ll have to postpone the friendly chat for some other time.’
‘In that case there must be a café or a wine bar within striking distance.’
‘I have plans for this evening, Lorenzo,’ she lied.
‘What plans?’
‘That’s none of your business.’
‘Come along. I want to talk to you.’
‘I am not “coming along” anywhere. And, believe it or not, I have nothing to say to you. You made your position perfectly clear the last time we met! I was prepared to meet you in friendship and instead you chose warfare.’
‘And were you upset, Isobel darling?’ he drawled, and the colour shot into her face.
‘I am too indifferent towards you to be upset by anything you say or do,’ she replied quickly, and he gave her a slow, disbelieving smile.
‘I’m cut to the quick,’ he murmured.
She was, she discovered, feeling more flustered by the minute. ‘What do you want, Lorenzo?’ she asked in a low, hurried voice. ‘There’s nothing further to discuss about my father’s company. You hate me and I understand that…’
His hand shot out to grip her arm. ‘How very sympathetic of you.’
‘These confrontations aren’t going to get either of us anywhere.’
‘Is that pub still open? The one old Wilkins used to run?’ The snarl was no longer on his face. The coolness was back. The cat was once again toying with the mouse.
‘Sam Wilkins died two years ago,’ Isobel said. ‘Not that I intend to stay here and run through life histories with you.’
The sarcasm was lost on him. He slipped his arm around her waist and before she could struggle had removed her bodily from the bicycle. Isobel sprang back from him, shaking from head to toe. The suddenness of the action had unnerved her, and the feel of his hands on her had been an electric shock to her system. It reminded her too dramatically of how she had felt in that office when he had touched her.
‘Stop looking so wide-eyed, Isobel,’ he said with a slight sneer. ‘We both know that you’re not sweet sixteen and never been kissed. We both know that you sold yourself to the highest bidder, so spare me the outraged expression.’
‘Get lost, Lorenzo Cicolla,’ she snapped, but keeping her voice down because she didn’t need rumours spreading like wildfire through the town.
His mouth tightened. ‘In a minute, one of these kind passers-by is going to step over and ask whether everything is all right. Isn’t it easier just to come with me?’
‘So that I can be insulted?’
‘How,’ he asked smoothly, �
��can I possibly insult you when you claim to be so indifferent to me?’
She glared at him and he gave a bark of laughter, but he won, because when he turned away she found herself walking alongside him, her fingers wrapped so tightly around the handlebars that they hurt.
The pub, which was the very last building on the High Street, was fairly empty. The landlord, Sam Wilkins’s son, whom she could remember as an overweight adolescent a few years older than she was, smiled at her, but his attention was on Lorenzo.
‘Good to see you after all this time.’ He nodded curtly, pouring them their drinks. ‘Heard that you were going to be taking over Chandlers. News round here spreads faster on the grapevine than on a radio.’ He placed their drinks in front of them. He was tall, rather florid in the face, and possessed a forthright tongue that had no respect for tact or diplomacy. ‘Plan on staying long?’
‘Long enough,’ Lorenzo said, his eyes hooded.
Long enough, Isobel would have liked to add, to make my life a living hell. She took her drink and asked after Tom’s wife and children.
‘Town could do with some fresh blood,’ Tom said, having confirmed the status of his wife and children and refusing to have his attention distracted by domestic chitchat. He eyed both of them. ‘And of course, with Jeremy gone…’
‘Leave it alone, Tom!’ Isobel said warningly, but Lorenzo laughed, with real amusement on his face.
‘With Jeremy gone, what do you suggest, Tom?’ he asked lazily, and Tom shrugged with a sheepish expression.
‘Women aren’t meant to be alone,’ he stated, to which Isobel replied tartly,
‘How very twentieth-century and forward-thinking of you, Tom.’ Actually she was beginning to feel rather embarrassed, especially since she could feel Lorenzo’s eyes on her.
They walked across to one of the circular oak tables by the fireside, and Isobel said crossly, ‘Tom Wilkins should watch what he says. There’s such a thing as an excess of honesty.’ She sat down, crossed her legs and gave him a ‘well, now that you’ve dragged me here, what do you want to talk to me about?’ expression.
Vengeful Seduction (Mills & Boon Vintage 90s Modern) Page 6
