The Italian's Vengeful Seduction

by Bella Frances

  Stacey scooped up a handful of sand and let it trickle through her fingers. A few gritty lumps caught in her palm and she shook them, watching the glints of quartz catch the sun. She’d watched her mother too. Waiting. Just waiting. Her whole life on pause while she waited for him to come home. Losing her beauty, her figure, her health. Wasting her life, waiting for a loser.

  Because that was what he was. She’d found that out the hard way. In a way she had Marco to thank for that. Because if he hadn’t asked her about the rumours she might never have run off to find him. It had been the bullet she’d needed to fire her out of town. Her wonderful father had got the hell out and she was going to do exactly the same.

  If only finding him had been the crock of gold she had imagined. All she’d got instead was twenty dollars stuffed in her hand when he’d finally shown up in a little diner, because it was ‘easier that way’. The slack jaw and the paunch she hadn’t remembered—the restless blue eyes she had. Because they were her eyes—the same eyes that stared back at her every single day, reminding her of his weakness and hers.

  Oh, yes, she was weak. Weak and selfish—just like him. And it terrified her. She would never forget the looks of disgust and disappointment on everyone’s faces when she’d reappeared. The panic she’d caused. And worst of all the hurt she’d caused her mother. She had screamed at her that she had caused this. She had driven her daddy away into the arms of another woman. It was all her fault.

  Her mother had simply bowed her head and agreed.

  She would never, ever forgive herself for that.

  She looked across the lake to the private jetty with little boats like bunting all along it, to the dense, dark wall of shrubs. Behind it, she knew now the swimming pool was dried up, tennis courts tufted with dead brown grass. A sprawling English manor house and outbuildings—stables, yards and meadows. All desperately, dreadfully vacant. And, hidden away beside the lake in the willow trees, the summerhouse—the last habitable building.

  She’d had no idea what she was going to say when she’d cycled along the driveway that day, but she’d had to try. They’d been close. He’d been her friend, her confidant. Her anchor. And when their friendship had grown over those few short weeks into something deeper it had been beautiful. She’d had something beautiful in her life for the first time since her daddy had gone.

  She’d wanted to make one last attempt to explain why she’d lied about the gossip. If only she’d known why herself. To hurt him? To hurt herself? Why she’d then fled to find her father. Why she’d come back. Why she’d balled up the anger at herself and fired it right back at her mother. She’d needed Marco’s comfort, craved his touch, his tender words, the patience he had shown her every other time.

  She’d never got the chance to reason with him, though. Two trucks had passed her as she’d cycled. Men had jumped out, and when she’d caught up with them Marco had been yelling and swinging punches. She’d thrown down her bike and raced over, but they’d just grabbed him up and thrown him in a truck. Driven right past her.

  Straight past her and straight through any hope she’d had of making things right between them...

  The wind was rising. The bunting fluttered helplessly. Stacey dropped the rest of the sand and clapped her hands clean.

  Yes he’d had it tough back then but things had worked out. And he deserved even more. She’d help him. Of course she would. She wanted to get one over on the Prestons of the world as much as he did—Preston Chisholm and the rest. She wanted to walk into the Polo Club lounge tonight with Marco and she wanted to feel as if she belonged there. Just for once. Just for tonight.

  She flicked the last grains of sand from her palm and stood up. Then she stepped onto the rock and looked out across the wild and beautiful bay to the Meadows beyond. He would get it back. He’d make it his home and maybe even settle down here in time. That was his dream.

  She’d had a similar dream once. She’d imagined he might fall in love with her. But that kind of thing was never going to happen, and she would be beyond insane even to let the kernel of hope seed itself in her heart.

  No. She’d keep her distance—physically and emotionally. But she’d be there at his side, pulling Preston into her net. All in a good cause.

  She tucked her feet back into her trainers. She was going to head back to the Polo Club now and begin to prepare for the evening ahead. She had the most exquisite dress to wear and she was going to enjoy every last second. Before the clock chimed midnight and she had to scurry back to her cinders again.

  * * *

  ‘Okay, you can have dinner with Preston tonight. But I’ll be there and you’ll take your cues from me. I do not want you talking about my house at all. Is that understood?’

  Stacey clipped her earrings into place. Beautiful black pearls that played hide and seek with the light. She twisted her neck until a slick of rainbow colours wrapped itself around the little globes. Then twisted the other way and watched it darken into midnight.

  ‘Sorry—what did you say?’ She lifted the necklace next. ‘Only I thought for a second you were trying to give me permission for something.’

  ‘Here...let me get that.’

  Marco strode across the room. She kept her gaze fixed on her earrings. Anything except look at the image of him. All that storm of a man. Snug dark jeans and tight black cashmere. Energy resonating from his core.

  He lifted the necklace from her hands and slid it round her throat.

  ‘Where were you all day? I was looking for you.’

  ‘I’m in the clear, Marco. No headaches, no fainting. You don’t need to worry about a thing.’

  ‘I was looking for you because I wanted to see if you wanted to go riding.’

  His fingers brushed her skin. Every nerve sprang to life.

  ‘And I wanted to apologise.’

  He placed his hands on her shoulders and turned her round. She let her eyes land on his mouth. Earnest and electrifying. How the hell did he do it?

  She looked away.

  ‘You look stunning. Every inch the lady.’

  ‘Thanks,’ she said aloud.

  Her prayer of thanks was silent, but she’d hoped that the midnight-blue silk shift would pick out her eyes and complement her skin tone. And that the round neck was modest enough to keep everyone’s gaze exactly where it should be. Her hair was pinned back at one side to give her an elegance that she desperately needed. Her skin was lightly bronzed and her eyes subtly shaded. She looked exactly the way she’d wanted to look.

  His fingers found her chin, tipped it up gently.

  ‘You’ve been avoiding me.’

  ‘Hey,’ she said, turning herself back around and picking up a bracelet. ‘Hate to break it to you, but there are other attractions in Montauk.’

  She tried to flick the catch open with her thumb, but it flicked back and forth aimlessly.

  ‘What’s going on, Stacey?’

  She slapped the bracelet back down on the dressing table.

  ‘You show up here, fifteen minutes before I’m due to eat dinner, and you find me clipping on earrings. What are all the clues pointing to, Sherlock?’

  She wasn’t going to pretend that this past hour had been easy. He’d been nowhere in sight and she’d actually begun to think that he wasn’t going to show up at all. She’d been toying with ideas of how she was going to play it with Preston if he didn’t show. But she wasn’t going to lose it. She wouldn’t do that. Cool was her MO. There was no other way.

  ‘I’ve been taking care of some other bits of business. Dante’s in town. He’s going to join us.’

  He lifted her wrist with one hand, lifted the bracelet with the other and fastened it in one smooth move.

  ‘Ah,’ she said. ‘Did you give him permission to come to dinner too?’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  She smiled, sweet as she could.

  ‘Nothing. It’ll be nice to meet him. And I’m sure Preston will be thrilled.’

 
; She went to move away but he held her wrist, tugged her back.

  Her eyes flashed into his. He was stormy. Dark. Dreadfully sombre.

  ‘You know, I’m still not mad about this idea at all.’

  ‘It can be dinner for two. Just say the word.’

  She was trying to be light. She tried to smile. But the thunderous look from his eyes told her this was a man on the edge.

  ‘Marco. You need to chill. This is PC Junior’s little party—his fantasy come true. So just let me play the hostess in the way I know how, and if he drops any happy crumbs you be ready to pick them up.’

  She dusted invisible dust from his chest, smoothed the muscles with her palm. Then she smoothed with her other palm. A really stupid thing to do. He felt like heaven. Her own particular version of heaven. Warm and strong and solid and safe. She breathed him in—couldn’t not.

  She tried to pull her hands away but he took hold of her wrists, moved a little closer.

  ‘Stacey. Look at me.’

  She fluttered her eyes up to his. It wasn’t a great idea. He was like an electrical storm, and she was trying her damnedest to keep indoors with the shutters battened down.

  ‘What?’ she said, looking at his mouth. The blue-black glaze of shadow that framed it kick-started the merry little dance her body so enjoyed.

  ‘You’ll do what you’re told and let me lead this tonight. I can’t risk anything going wrong.’

  He lifted a finger to the underside of her chin and gently tipped it up. His eyes fell to her mouth. He leaned forward. She desperately wanted to kiss him.

  ‘And you have to trust me.’

  His hand dropped...his head fell. He stepped away. The eye of the storm moved off, leaving only an anxious pause before the damage could be seen.

  ‘You don’t understand.’

  ‘I understand more than you think,’ she said, grabbing his sleeve. ‘I know what it’s like to have something held just out of reach. To be teased over and over and think that you just might get it if only you do this or that or the next thing.’

  He looked at her hand on his sleeve.

  ‘Of course you do—it was how you rolled, Stacey, yeah?’

  Her fingers slid from the velvety softness of the cashmere straight onto her chest to hold in a gasp of air. He was talking about them. He was stabbing her with the rumours even now.

  ‘Look, I’m sorry—I didn’t mean that—’

  ‘Oh, you meant it, all right.’

  All this time had passed yet he still believed the lies.

  ‘You took it the wrong way—’

  She held her hand up. ‘I took it the way you said it.’

  ‘Stop this now, Stacey.’

  He grabbed her wrists and hauled her against him.

  ‘You haven’t a clue about me, Marco. And every time I’ve tried to talk to you about back then you shut me down.’

  ‘I told you—it’s not my business how you ran your life or how you run your life now. But it damned well is my business how I run mine.’

  She kept her head twisted.

  ‘Look, I’m sorry. I trust you, Stacey. More than I’ve ever trusted anyone. I don’t know why, but I do.’

  His voice was low. It was calm. It was the way it had used to sound. He held her close, pulled her in against him. And as they stood there, holding one another, Stacey felt the warmth and security of being in his arms, her head on his chest, listening to the steady strong sound of his heart, and inside her something tight and painful loosened.

  She drew in her breath, pushed herself back, put her hands on his chest.

  ‘Well played, there. You were almost out of aces, but you pulled it back from the brink.’

  He put his hands on hers. Flattened them against his chest. Held them there.

  ‘Not everything’s a joke, Stacey. I meant what I said.’

  She swallowed. ‘I meant what I said too, Marco. Every word.’

  ‘Good, then let’s do this. Let’s go get Sant’Angelo’s back from that grifter.’

  CHAPTER NINE

  BEAUTIFUL WOMEN WERE a dollar a dozen in the Hamptons. They were even more common in New York. In Asia and Europe they were everywhere, too. Marco liked to find beauty in his world, and beauties made a habit of finding their way into his. He was lucky. He knew it and he’d never taken anything for granted.

  When things had started to go wrong in his early teens—when the cracks had started to appear in his parents themselves, and then in their marriage, when the paintings and then the jewellery and then the house and the land itself had all had to go—even then he’d still known he was lucky.

  People liked him. Men and women sought out his company. And he’d learned that when he wanted something all he had to do was really want it, really go after it, and it would land in his lap. One way or another. Sometimes women landed in his lap a lot more often than he wanted, of course.

  But not this one.

  As he watched her walk through the hallway to the reception area he still couldn’t believe that she was the one that got away. Sure, he was the one who had pushed her—he’d been out of his mind with jealousy when she’d admitted that the stories that had been circulating were true. He’d been so sure she was loyal to him. So sure that she was beginning to fall in love with him. So sure that they might actually be able to go the distance in some way or another.

  He had trusted her implicitly back then—the same way that she’d seemed to trust him implicitly too. She’d opened up to him. She’d poured forth her heart and her head. He was the one who had counselled her through the worry about her mother.

  He knew that. He’d lived it himself.

  ‘Hey, buddy, good to see you.’

  He felt Dante’s hand on his back and heard the familiar mellow tones of his friend in his ear.

  ‘Hey.’ He stopped, turned and gave him the handshake, backslap and smile exchange that had marked their friendship for the past fifteen years.

  ‘Stacey, hold up!’ he called, and smiled as she turned her head in her best Lauren Bacall to slant a glance over her shoulder before turning slowly. ‘Come and say hello to Dante. My partner in crime—and other things.’

  She trained that navy blue gaze directly on him, and then her face broke into a full, unguarded smile—the exotic lily, so fragile, so rare. A momentary tension crept down his spine. Would Dante make more of it than he should?

  But he should have known better. His friend had his back, and he knew enough about the situation to manage it perfectly. He walked forward and shook her hand. Kept his distance. Cool. Appropriate.

  ‘A pleasure to meet you, Stacey.’

  She continued to smile and—dammit—the smile was in her eyes too. Dante did that to people. They loved him. He was like a long drink in the desert, a blast of sunshine in the darkness. He had a light, easy manner that everyone warmed to. Marco had never minded it before.

  ‘Let’s get this started. And finished,’ he said, moving them both through. ‘Ol’ Preston will be waiting.’

  And sure enough there he was.

  ‘Stacey.’

  He stood, filled the space with his hulking frame and flat-topped head. Marco resisted the urge to reach over and twist his neck.

  ‘My, but you look more and more beautiful each time I see you. Come over here and sit next to me.’

  ‘Thanks, Preston, but I don’t want to get too close,’ she said smoothly, resting her hands on the back of the chair opposite. ‘Nobody wants to see a grown man dribbling. The sight of saliva on a dress shirt? Eugh.’

  Marco heard a muffled chuckle to his left from Dante, but it was drowned in the guffaw that Preston delivered as, regardless, he shifted himself forward and tried to steer Stacey round to the seat beside him.

  ‘What a mouth you have. I’ll say that. Beautiful and smart. The whole package.’

  ‘Preston. Good to see you again.’

  Dante reached across to shake his hand and everyone slipped into the heavily upholstered chairs do
tted around the table. They were right in the middle of the rear wall. The place was packed—and as far as Marco could make out every head was turned.

  Stacey sat back in her seat, crossed her legs and then tugged down the hem that had ridden up. So her legs weren’t bare, as he’d thought, but clad in sheer silk stockings. He let his gaze travel from the lacy-topped flash of thigh down the curve of her shin to her shoes—satin, pointed and skyscraper-high.

  There was no way Preston Chisholm was going to get his hands on those. Stacey would use them as weapons first, he thought. Still, it wasn’t his business what she did with her damn shoes—but even so his hands bunched and he realised his jaw was even more tense than it had been earlier. He looked for a glass of water and realised Dante was in the throes of ordering drinks and keeping the small talk going.

  ‘So, what have you done with yourself in the past ten years, Stacey? Last I heard you’d left the cruise ships and were in Atlantic City,’ said Preston.

  ‘Was that front page on the Long Island News?’

  ‘People here like to hear how everyone’s getting on. And I’ve always made it my business to keep up with your news. I must admit I nearly made it all the way down there once, on a whim.’

  ‘All the way to Atlantic City? On a whim? A whim to do what—lose all your money?’ said Stacey.

  ‘I consider myself a very lucky guy. And if I’d run into you I’d have hit the jackpot.’

  ‘And I feel so blessed that you didn’t.’

  Stacey crossed her legs. Marco’s eyes dropped.

  Preston laughed again. ‘Well, I for one feel very blessed that you’re back in Montauk. And for good, I hope?’

  Marco spoke. ‘We’re not here to discuss Stacey’s personal business, Preston. I’m sure we’d all be more comfortable if we kept to the agenda.’

  Stacey slanted him a look, but said nothing. Preston raised his eyebrows. Marco felt his veins bubble with boiling blood. Who the hell did he think he was?

  ‘Hey, man,’ Dante said, leaning over. ‘You want to dial down the alpha? He’s no threat.’