by Andie Brock
He had wanted to show her Trevente too—something that had surprised him, considering his own overwhelming urge to get the hell out of the place and never come back. But he’d known she would love it and the sparkle in her eyes when he had caught her gazing at the shoes in that shop window had told him he’d been right about that too.
Even if he’d felt a ridiculous pang of jealousy because she didn’t look at him that way.
Placing his knife and fork together, he told himself to focus on the practicalities of the situation he found himself in. Which meant getting shot of his unwanted inheritance and figuring out the best way forward with Isobel and the baby. What he shouldn’t be doing was allowing himself to wallow in this darkly introspective mood.
He needed to take control. But for some reason being around Isobel Spicer was making that spectacularly difficult—in fact everything about her was pulling him apart. From the sassy sway of her slender figure when she walked, to the velvet pout of her lips as she ate, even the obstinate tilt of her chin when she insisted on challenging him turned him on.
Not to mention the flashing green eyes that were focussed on him now...
Dio. He could have taken her just now, in that dark alley. Pressed her up against the wall, pushed up her short dress with hands that would have trembled with need until he found her panties and the sweet pleasure that lay beneath. And what sort of grubby behaviour would that have been for a thirty-four-year-old man who prided himself on his masterly control?
He blamed it on those boots. As he watched Isobel scan the dessert menu he thought back to the way the thick curtain of her hair had fallen across her face as she had held her heel in her hand, the balletic angle of her raised leg making all sorts of improper thoughts race through his mind. The thought of undoing those leather thongs still taunted him now, even though they were safely hidden under the table.
‘So.’ Clearing his throat, he made a conscious effort to push aside his absurd adolescent fantasies. ‘How did it go at the factory today?’
‘Good...yes.’ She looked at him over the top of the laminated menu. ‘It’s very impressive—all those brand-new machines and the machinists already in place. I can’t believe how quickly it has been set up.’
‘Several factories have gone under since the recession, and unemployment is high in this region—plenty of skilled machinists looking for work.’ Orlando paused while the waiter took Isobel’s order for chocolate soufflé, declining his invitation to join her with a raised hand. ‘I knew this area would be an ideal site for the Spicer factory.’
‘You were right. It was great to see for myself where your investment is being spent. And everyone seemed very enthusiastic and committed.’
‘So they should be. This is the start of a very productive relationship that means food on the table for these people, security for their families—and healthy bonuses too, if all goes well and the business takes off as predicted.’
‘Let’s hope so.’ Isobel shot him a tender smile that threatened to undo him. A pulse throbbed at the base of her slender neck, giving away just how much this business meant to her.
‘And the quality control you were so worried about?’ Forcing himself to concentrate on business, he continued. ‘Did you manage to resolve that?’
‘Yes, I think so.’ She levelled dancing green eyes at him. ‘I have to confess I may have overreacted a bit when I first saw the samples.’
Orlando thought back to yesterday morning in her office, to the discarded pile of shoes and the upturned boxes that had been strewn across her desk. To the mood she had been in as she had tossed them around—the flush of her cheeks, her eyes glittering dangerously.
‘Oh, I don’t know... The spacing of the holes on that strap... Enough to tip anyone over the edge, I would have thought.’
There was a pause as Isobel stared at him, obviously struggling to believe that he was teasing her, that he was actually being light-hearted. When had he turned into such a grouch? But as her full lips slowly curved into a smile that lit up her face and his blood rushed south with dizzying speed he remembered just why he had to be so careful around her.
‘Okay, point taken!’ As the waiter set her dessert before her Isobel dug in her spoon and took a mouthful, closing her eyes with pleasure. ‘Mmm... This is delicious.’ Reloading her spoon, she held it towards him. ‘Would you like to try some?’
‘Um...no—no grazie.’ Orlando dragged his eyes away, folding his arms firmly across his chest.
‘So...’ Licking the chocolate from her lips, Isobel continued. ‘How was your day? You haven’t told me yet what business has brought you to Trevente.’
Orlando hesitated. No, he hadn’t, had he? And if he had his way he wouldn’t. But something about the way Isobel was looking at him, those wide eyes searching his face for clues, weakened his resolve. What did it matter if he told her? It was done now.
‘I came here to sign for my inheritance.’
‘Really?’ Isobel replaced her spoon on its saucer. ‘What inheritance is that?’
Ah, that had piqued her interest, hadn’t it? He’d got her attention now. Orlando dragged in a breath.
‘Castello Trevente...the Trevente estate.’ He paused, almost enjoying the look of astonishment on Isobel’s face. ‘Oh, and the title that goes with it—Marchese di Trevente.’
‘No!’ Isobel touched her napkin to her lips. ‘Are you telling me that you are a marquess?’
‘If that’s what you call it in England—then, yes. But before you start getting the cards printed perhaps I had better tell you that I intend to renounce the title—and sell the estate and the castello, come to that. Assuming I can find anyone fool enough to buy it, of course.’
‘Sell it? Why on earth would you do that?’
‘It doesn’t matter why.’ Bored with the subject, Orlando turned to find the waiter. ‘Are you ready to leave?’
‘Not yet.’ Reaching forward, Isobel covered his hand with her own, then released it again as if it had scorched her. Orlando raised his eyebrows. ‘I’m just asking, Orlando. I mean, presumably this title has been in your family for generations?’
Orlando shrugged his indifference.
‘Don’t you have a duty to protect it? To pass it on to the next generation?’
‘No, I don’t. And frankly this is none of your business.’ He ground out the words through a clenched jaw. Opening his wallet, he threw a bunch of euro notes down on to the table. ‘We’re leaving, Isobel.’
But still Isobel didn’t move. ‘Don’t you think at least you should have discussed this with me before you came to your decision?’
Orlando froze, half standing up from the table, incredulity clawing at his composure. Had he heard her right?
‘Discuss it with you?’ He hissed the words.
‘Yes.’
‘And why, exactly, would I do that?’
‘Well...’ A flush crept up Isobel’s neck but still she held her ground, refusing to blink against his barely leashed anger. ‘Because of our unborn child, of course.’ She drew in a sharp breath. ‘I mean, obviously we don’t know yet whether we will have a boy, but if we do it’s hardly fair to dispose of his inheritance like this just because you don’t want it.’
Orlando’s voice was lethally low as he leant forward to hold his face up close to Isobel’s. ‘You have no idea what you are talking about, Isobel. I suggest you drop this conversation—now.’
His every instinct was telling him to grab hold of her hand, lead her away from the curious eyes of the other diners and into the street, where he would silence her himself in the way he’d been dying to do this whole evening. With a punishing kiss. One that would drive all thoughts of titles and inheritances out of her mind and leave her begging for mercy. Or begging for more.
But Isobel wasn’t done yet. In fact it seemed the more his anger simmered so dangerously between them, the more determined she was to make it burst into flames.
‘Well, what about your father, then?’<
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It was as if a wall of ice-cold water had sluiced over Orlando—as if he had stepped beneath a waterfall—pounding in his ears and tightening every muscle in his body.
‘What about him?’
The glinting malice in his voice should have told her to back right off, but not Isobel. Pure stubbornness made her continue. ‘How do you think he would feel about you selling the estate? After all, by leaving it to you in his will wasn’t he entrusting you with its safekeeping?’
‘Ha!’ With a cruel laugh Orlando dropped back down in his seat, his breath trapped high in his chest. He paused, waiting for the surge of fury to abate. He had to make himself control this reaction, tamp down the anger in his voice. ‘You have no idea how ridiculous that assumption is, Isobel. For your information, my father is the reason I am selling the estate—the reason I want nothing whatsoever to do with it.’
Isobel’s thick dark lashes lowered as she processed this information. ‘Can I ask why?’
Orlando glared back at her. He wanted to say no, she couldn’t. He wanted never to have to speak of the man again, to erase him from his life, cleanse him from his soul. Something he thought he had done until this inheritance had reared up to grab him by the throat, brought him back to Trevente to open up the festering wounds. But Isobel was still watching him, waiting for an explanation.
‘Because my father was scum, Isobel. The vilest of creatures. A man whose depravity knew no bounds.’
Isobel visibly tensed, her shock at his vicious statement showing in her eyes. When she finally spoke her voice trembled with emotion.
‘What did he do, Orlando? Whatever did he do that was so bad?’
The scowl that marred Orlando’s brow was deep enough to narrow his eyes to glinting slits of stone.
‘He murdered someone, Isobel.’ His words came out in a muted roar. ‘Is that bad enough for you?’
CHAPTER FIVE
ORLANDO WATCHED WITH something strangely akin to satisfaction as the shock of his revelation swept across Isobel’s face, opening her mouth, shining like glass in her eyes.
He had always loved the expressiveness of her face, the way her every thought, every reaction gave away her innermost feelings—at least until she had the chance to cover them up. He watched her trying to do just that now—trying to hide the smack of shock that had drained the colour from her cheeks. But she couldn’t manage it. Not this time.
Gone was the bolshie attitude, the softly persuasive look and the irritating beginnings of sympathy, to be replaced with appalled confusion. Now she looked at him the way he deserved. She looked at him as if he was the son of a murderer.
‘I need to get some air, Orlando. It’s very hot in here.’ Pushing back her chair, Isobel rose unsteadily to her feet.
‘Of course.’
Moving the table, he watched as she edged her way out, apologising and thanking the other diners in that oh-so-English way. Then, with an arm around her shoulder, he shepherded her out into the relative cool of the night air.
‘Do you feel unwell?’ Shame gripped him as he looked down on her slight, vulnerable figure. This was all his doing. Isobel was pregnant with his child—he should be looking after her, protecting her, not burdening her with his despicable family secrets.
Collecting herself, Isobel took a deep breath, then a step back to free herself from his arm. ‘I’ll be fine in a minute.’
She looked over Orlando’s shoulder, then down at her feet—anywhere, Orlando realised, rather than at him.
‘The car’s not far away. Can you walk there?’
‘Yes, of course.’
Self-hatred made Orlando start off at a brisk pace until, remembering Isobel’s frailty—not to mention those wretched boots—he moderated his step. Isobel paced beside him, unnervingly silent. He had expected a barrage of unwelcome questions, had been prepared to give her the bare minimum of details about his father before announcing that the subject was closed—for ever. But this silence was worse...far worse.
Shooting her a sideways glance, he could see she was lost in thought, oblivious to the streets that had held such charm for her earlier in the evening. As the breeze blew her shiny hair back from her face he could make out the hollows of her cheekbones, darkly shadowed by the unworldly orange glow of the street lights.
By the time they reached the car, parked on a narrow pavement right up against a wall, Isobel had still not uttered a word, and any perverted sense of satisfaction Orlando might have initially felt had been replaced with a gnawing sense of acceptance and shame. Now she knew the sort of blood that their child would inherit Isobel had gone into shock. And who could blame her?
‘Wait here and I’ll pull the car out so that you can get in.’
He was opening the driver’s door, about to get behind the wheel, when Isobel finally spoke.
‘There’s no need, I can slide across.’
Turning to look at her, Orlando took in the pale anguish that was etched across her face. And it twisted his heart.
‘Just as you like.’
Standing back, he watched as she lowered herself into the driver’s seat, swinging those long, booted legs over the gearstick to get to the passenger side and revealing a tantalising glimpse of naked thigh as she did so.
Orlando suppressed the immediate jerk of lust. After all, by refusing to stand in the street and wait for him to pull the car out, what exactly was she saying? That she was worried he was setting her up as a target? That he intended to mow her down in cold blood, right here and now, solving the problem of her pregnancy with the rush of cold metal and the screech of tyres? Maybe she thought murder was in his genes. Like father like son.
Certainly he was feeling pretty murderous now.
Starting up the engine, Orlando let the car roar into life, navigating it bumpily through the cobbled streets until they eventually joined the coastal road that led back to the hotel.
Beside him Isobel sat ramrod-straight, gripping on to the seat belt across her chest with one hand and the side of the leather seat with the other. She broke her silence only to ask him to slow down, in a voice that croaked with fear. It seemed she had no more faith in his driving than she did in his character. Or maybe the two were connected.
So their half-hour journey back to the hotel was travelled in a death-like hush, with just the hum of the engine and the whistle of the wind for company as both parties stared fixedly at the dark road that snaked before them.
* * *
Finally back at the hotel, Isobel sank down on to the sofa and gulped down a large glass of water. She was exhausted, but she couldn’t go to bed—not until she had talked to Orlando, made some sense of what he’d told her.
But first she needed to steady her nerves...reclaim her stomach from where it had been left behind, somewhere on one of those horrendous hairpin bends. The journey back from Trevente had been horrific, but she had survived it. In fact the masterful ease with which Orlando had dealt with the extreme cornering had strangely given her a bit more confidence—like some sort of aversion therapy.
Now, as she surveyed the man before her, she felt her poor stomach knot for an entirely different reason. After shrugging off his jacket he had rolled up his sleeves and was now pouring himself a large whisky, noisily dropping in several cubes of ice. He looked dark and brooding and distracted as he moved around the room, but also slightly vulnerable. And it was that that tugged at Isobel’s heartstrings, made her want to reach out to him both physically and emotionally.
‘It’s getting late.’ Orlando seated himself on the sofa opposite her, his laptop on his knees. ‘You should get to bed.’
Isobel stared across at him, judging how to continue. She knew she was going to have to be careful or Orlando would retreat behind his fortress of privacy, pull up the drawbridge and leave her standing on the wrong side.
‘We need to talk first.’
‘Not now.’ Opening his laptop, Orlando took a sip of his drink, balancing the glass on the arm of the sofa. �
�I’ve got some work to do—things I need to attend to before the New York office closes.’
‘Well, they will have to wait.’ Standing up, Isobel crossed the room and seated herself beside him, reaching across to close the laptop. So much for being careful. ‘This is more important.’
Orlando shot her a look of sharp surprise. ‘I don’t take orders from you, Isobel.’ His fingers went to open the laptop again but then, changing his mind, he placed it on the floor and shoved it to one side with his foot before turning to face her. ‘Or anyone else, for that matter.’
Too close now, Isobel was caught in the crossfire of his contemptuous stare. ‘Well, what do you expect?’ She tipped up her chin. ‘That you can announce that your father is a murderer and then say no more about it?’
Saying the word murderer out loud made it seem impossibly, horribly real. It hung above them like a guillotine blade. But at least she had got Orlando’s full attention—in all its skin-scorching glory.
She swallowed, lowering her voice. ‘Don’t you at least think you owe me an explanation?’
‘I owe you nothing, Isobel. Least of all an explanation of my past.’
Isobel stared at him, past the barked reply to the muscle that twitched beneath a cheek shadowed with stubble. He was hurting—she could see that. Suddenly she longed to take that rough chin in her hands, position her lips over his and use their warm pout to release that tightly drawn line, make them soften, make them hers. But she would do no such thing. Not unless she wanted to suffer the sting of rejection.
‘In any case—’ he attempted a throwaway remark ‘—you are better off not knowing.’
Isobel shook her head. ‘It’s too late for that, Orlando.’ She pushed herself back against the sofa and crossed her arms. ‘I’m not going anywhere until you tell me what your father did.’
