The Italian's Vengeful Seduction

by Bella Frances

  He’d climbed the steps up into the suite and pushed open the door.

  As silently as his one hundred and eighty pounds would allow he’d crept through to his bedroom—the room where he’d put Stacey when they’d arrived. It had seemed the right thing to do at the time—to hold off what he’d felt sure was inevitable. Maybe if he’d followed his gut instead of his head they wouldn’t be in this situation now. But he’d let the tension build to a frenzy, and then what had happened, had happened.

  He’d stepped into the room and stilled, listening for the sound of her breathing. Feeling for the sense of her. He’d walked in further and stood by the bed, tuned in to the long soft breaths that had filled the space. Stood there in the darkness.

  The winds had picked up during the evening. Roars from the ocean and hard squally blasts had rocked through the town and there had still been remnants at that hour of the morning. But there had been a sense of peace in the room. Despite all the drama and headaches that always seemed to be wrapped up with Stacey Jackson, standing there, listening to the sounds of her in sleep had been soothing.

  Strange that he’d found that so reassuring.

  He’d stood for a few more moments, then turned around and headed back down to the lounge. Overthinking about women never did anyone any good. He had much more important things to overthink instead.

  * * *

  Stacey’s eyes opened onto a golden-tinged day. For a moment she lay, her limbs leaden from a dreamy sleep, her mind frothing with memories of last night. She was still here—that was a first. She rolled over and sat up on one elbow—looked around for signs that Marco had been near.

  The door was closed. The room was just as she’d left it—her clothes packed away, her cosmetics tidy on the dressing table. The robe that he wore was still hanging at the side of the en-suite bathroom. He’d slept in another bedroom the first night, but she’d thought after what they’d done that he might end up waking her in the night.

  The fact that he hadn’t hurt a little, she realised. More than a little. Like holding a hot coal against her chest, she felt it burn. She’d felt the pain of rejection before—felt it more sore and harder than now. But she was ready for it this time—and she wasn’t going to let it get any hotter, cause any more blisters on her heart.

  So, much as she was tempted to curl up under the sheet and relive those moments in his office, it would be about the stupidest thing she could do. What she needed to do was work out the smart thing to do.

  Every other time it had involved moving on. This time she’d been going to give it a shot, hang out a little longer. But was that really the smart thing to do? Or should she chalk yet another one down to experience and head off someplace totally fresh?

  ‘Hi.’

  She jerked her head up. Marco. Standing in the doorway.

  ‘Hi,’ she said.

  ‘I brought you coffee.’

  He walked towards her, same old gorgeous Marco, but forever changed to her now. He set the coffee down on the table beside the bed.

  ‘How are you feeling?’ he asked, sitting on the edge of the bed.

  She was wearing a slip nightdress, and she was covered by a sheet, but she felt exposed despite what they’d shared. She drew her knees up to her chin.

  ‘I’ll get back to you on that. After the coffee,’ she said, reaching for it. ‘Thanks. How about you?’

  ‘Now? I feel pretty good. Last night? Less so. We need to talk about what happened, Stacey.’

  She sipped the coffee and put it down.

  ‘Happy to.’

  She sat up properly. The sheet fell away from her. The spaghetti straps of the nightdress and the deep-sliced neckline held very little cover. Marco glanced and then turned his head. Very deliberately.

  So that was how it was going to be. He couldn’t have painted his regret any more vividly. She felt a prickle of fight. ‘Are you starting with an apology?’

  He turned back to face her. ‘I’m sorry about the whole thing. It was a mess. From start to finish.’

  She thought about that for a minute. Then she swung her legs out from under the covers and stood.

  ‘That’s it? That’s your apology? I’m sorry it was a mess? Doesn’t cut it, Marco. Not from where I’m standing.’

  She put her hands on her hips and waited.

  ‘And I’m sorry about walking out on you the way I did. That’s not how I normally handle things. It was juvenile.’

  He stood too. She looked more closely. He was fresh, scrubbed clean and handsome as the day was long. But he still had that barbed, tense air and the low thrum of menace. He was still a man on edge, despite what he wanted her to think.

  She swallowed. Didn’t matter a damn. He’d been out of line too many times now.

  ‘It was way past juvenile. It was messed up. Humiliating. Weird. Actually, it was just weird.’

  ‘I wouldn’t describe it as that. You seemed to be into it as much as I was.’

  She did a double take. She hadn’t expected that.

  ‘Are we talking about the sex, here?’ No way was he going to brush things under the carpet. ‘I was talking about your behaviour being weird. The sex is a whole other conversation.’

  ‘Well, let’s have it. No point in putting it off.’

  He looked angry. Again.

  Stacey felt her heart quicken. Felt a rush of stress whoosh through her body. Anxiety gripped her in that way it did when she was confronted with something she didn’t like—and the only way out was to fight or run.

  ‘It was—’ she began.

  ‘The timing was wrong and it was a bit out of left field. Is that what you’re trying to say? But it wasn’t weird. Not in my opinion.’

  He stared at her, then seemed to shake his head in disgust. Or maybe incredulity.

  ‘I’m going to start again, Stacey. The whole thing was a mistake and a mess. My business life is my own. I never mix business with pleasure, and last night I let not one but two barriers down. I’m sorry if that’s hard to hear, but it’s the only thing I can say.’

  ‘You can say anything you like. You can say, Hey I made a fool of myself, I made a fool of you, I let myself down—you can say all those things. But you’re choosing to say you don’t like to mix business with pleasure. Well, good for you. At least you have one bit of self-knowledge.’

  She walked past him to reach for his robe. She wanted cover. She wanted to wrap herself up and tell him what she’d done for him. She wanted his self-knowledge to extend to seeing it from her point of view.

  All she’d tried to do was keep the conversation going so that he could get Preston to accept his stupid offer. Did he think she’d really wanted to sit opposite yet another man who groped her body with his eyes, who patronised her and denigrated her just because he was a man, and a wealthy man at that. Had he any idea what it had cost her to do that?

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘Doesn’t matter,’ she said quietly. ‘I won’t be hanging around for an apology. I’ve decided I’m heading to New York later today.’

  It was as if last night’s storm had suddenly returned, but worse. A silent storm. Breathless and violent.

  ‘You’re supposed to be waiting to see your mother.’

  ‘For the record, I moved away from home ten years ago. I’ve had worse things happen to me than a bump on the head, and I’ve never once come running home to my mother. That was all your doing. I don’t like it here. Do you understand? That’s why I don’t visit. I. Don’t. Want. To. Be. Here.’

  ‘I see.’

  She let her hand hang in mid-air beside his robe. There wasn’t going to be time for a leisurely goodbye. No time for a shower—no morning-after sex. No Let’s see where this thing goes with us conversation. He’d made that perfectly clear. She’d pack and go now.

  She turned back round to face him. ‘Marco—let’s not pretend that you want me around. You hold me responsible for the disaster with Preston. You probably hold me responsible for
what happened in your office. And for the polar ice caps melting and everything else that’s wrong with the world. It’s like your whole life was on track until you bumped into me.’

  ‘I had one thing left I wanted to accomplish—that’s all.’

  ‘Sure. Good for you. I’ll get out of your hair and let you get on with accomplishing it.’

  ‘You mean you’re going to run off again? We should talk this thing through, Stacey. That would be the mature thing to do.’

  She stopped pulling underwear out of the drawer, where the overconfident maid had packed it away, and started to stuff it into her bag.

  ‘Oh, get over yourself. You’re so mature—I get it. You’re so sorted—you never do anything wrong, do you? Is that because you never do anything, period? You never take risks in case—oh, I don’t know—in case things go wrong and something slips out of control. And, hey, you might just find out that you’re a hell of a lot more like your father than you think you are!’

  The words were out—they had flown out of her mouth and landed like daggers on the floor. She hadn’t even known what was coming, but there they were—gleaming and deadly—and there was no way of getting them back.

  ‘I’ve told you before—my personal life and my business life are my own.’

  His voice was frozen. She longed to be able to claw something back but he’d closed down. She watched him recoil from her. She longed to go to him but he was in total lockdown. Back in complete control. Nothing ruffling him, nothing moving him to anything more than the twitch of a muscle in his jaw.

  And watching him like that made her more and more wild. More and more angry that he could just disregard what she’d done for him—what they’d done together. She’d bared more than her flesh for him—she’d trusted him not to hurt her.

  But he didn’t give a damn about anything other than his wretched family jewels and his reputation. He wouldn’t even give a damn that she’d stood up for him and his family with Preston. She’d had his back but what point would there be in telling him that?

  She picked up those knives and stuck them in further.

  ‘You don’t have a personal life in Montauk, Marco. You know that better than anyone—so why are you pretending? Everyone knows that your mother had addiction issues and your father gambled it all away. You think they’re not all sitting on their porches wondering if you’ll go the same way? Do you think that every single detail of what happened here last night won’t have been swapped in the bars and along the beach and at the harbour? Come on—you’ve not forgotten that much, have you? Hotshot Borsatto and the Town Tramp! This morning’s headlines.’

  ‘You’re really going for it this time, Stacey, but I’m not rising to your bait. I came here to apologise. I thought we could get over what we did. But I’m not getting involved in your acid.’

  ‘If I’m spitting acid it’s because of you and this place. The moment I stepped back in I remembered why I’d left.’

  ‘Well, I’m sorry you feel that way. It could have turned out differently.’

  ‘Could it? How? You’re clearly regretting bringing me here. Or are you just regretting the fact that we had sex?’

  She turned then, to face him. She wasn’t afraid of him. Standing there like a hurricane ready to blow.

  ‘I didn’t say I regretted it. I just don’t want you to read more into it than it was.’

  ‘What was it?’

  His darkly lashed eyes were trained straight onto hers. His brow furrowed and his mouth pursed.

  ‘It should have been fun. A one-time thing. A quickie, for God’s sake. But it wasn’t. It was intense. And it can’t happen again.’

  ‘I don’t think it was any big deal. I’ve had better. So don’t bother having a conscience about anything that happened. It happened. Move on. Preston might sell you your damned house back. If he doesn’t—so what? You can buy another. And you can fill it full of people with class and money. Yeah, and girls who will be mature the morning after—no questions asked. I’m sure they’re choking up the highway trying to get here already.’

  His face now was rigid as Rushmore. Stern and disparaging. Her childhood friend stood before her, hating her. But that was no surprise, really. It had only ever been a matter of time before he joined the ranks.

  ‘I think I’d say your head injury is not an issue any more. As soon as you’ve packed there’ll be a car waiting to take you to your mother’s. Goodbye, Stacey.’

  He turned and walked to the door. The handful of silk she held crushed in her hand slid and fell at her feet. He moved through the door and she braced herself for the bang. But it didn’t come. He closed it as quietly and carefully as if there was a baby sleeping. She watched the handle move back up as he released it on the other side and then she heard the almost silent tread of his feet as he moved off down the hall.

  In the mirror beside the dressing table she saw herself reflected. Pale, hunched and drawn. The nightdress, a mirror of silvery satin, hugged her body, traced her shape, outlined where he’d touched her and seemed to rejoice in her. He’d grasped her hips and palmed her breasts. He’d kissed her and lifted her and poured himself into her.

  She’d always wondered what loving him would be like. She’d always wanted him. And finally having him had been wilder and better than anything she’d ever known. But losing him as a friend was a worse pain than she could ever imagine.

  She lifted the silk robe at her feet and held it out. She used it to dab at the tears that rolled down her face. Tears seeped from her eyes and poured freely. Silently. Achingly.

  What had she done? What had she done?

  She’d handled it so badly—again. His emotions were high...he’d lost his deal. She could have tried to see it from his point of view. Maybe if she’d let him talk it through he’d have felt better about what they’d done. She’d been such a good listener in the past—he’d told her so. But when the listening was about her she couldn’t handle it. She knew that.

  She sat on the bed, curled in on herself and slid to the ground as one wrenching, silent sob racked her after another. Then she bunched the silk around her hand and stuffed her fist in her mouth to stop the howl that was building inside.

  When was she going to stop fighting the world?

  You’re going to be a lonely, bitter old woman.

  Across the floor the mirror told her the ugly truth. She was lonelier and more bitter than she could ever have thought possible. She had nothing. No friends, no job, no lover. No family apart from her mother, whom she’d avoided for years.

  And she was exhausted.

  For an hour she lay there, curled up. Finally her breathing eased...her eyes began to open. She had to get herself up. She had to go.

  Feeling greyer than the thick veil of clouds wrapped over the sky, she showered, dressed and tied up her hair.

  She left the luggage, the clothes, the cosmetics and the jewellery. She wore the simplest outfit—leggings and a sweater.

  She made her way through the suite and down the hallway. Out through Reception. She looked around to see if she could see him. She’d steadied herself enough to be able to say, Goodbye, so long, no hard feelings if he was there—but he wasn’t. There was no sign. Just some little blonde waitress with rosy cheeks, pouring coffee and looking fresh and carefree, the way she herself must have once looked.

  She walked over to her. ‘Tell your boss the coast’s clear,’ she said to her startled face. And then she stopped. ‘Sorry—I didn’t mean to snap. I’d appreciate if you could pass that on. Thanks.’

  She stepped out to the entrance, where cars were being dropped for valet parking. Good as his word, there was a car waiting. She slid in and tugged the door closed.

  ‘Get me as far away from this place as you can, driver.’

  The engine turned over and they were off.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  MARCO PULLED HARD on the reins and the pony spun to a stop. He rattled the ball as far up the field as he could and saw it clear t
he goal mouth.

  A cheer came up from the stablehands, who had stopped work to watch the electrifying match between their two bosses—one of whom was a professional player, the other the best amateur on the circuit—but it barely registered with him. A momentary lapse in his black mood was all.

  ‘I’ve had enough,’ he called to Dante, indicating with a slash of his hand through the air that he was out of there. They could get someone to replace him—there were enough eager players from among the youngsters at Dante’s Polo Foundation to fill another four teams.

  Dante saluted with his stick and sent him one of his golden smiles. To the world that guy was the luckiest, easiest, happiest man on the planet. Only Marco knew differently. For all his light there were dark, deep shadows. And it was the shadows that made him the best friend and confidant any man could ask for. Dante had lived more than anyone knew, buried more than anyone could stomach, and for that Marco treasured his advice. But right now he didn’t want to hear it.

  Right now he had other things to be getting on with.

  He passed his pony to one of the kids and headed for a shower. It was another hour until the dinner Dante had arranged at Betty’s. A whole load of the old crowd were going to be there, plus a whole load of the new crowd. Dante was well connected—too well connected. Marco had tried to tell him that after the weekend he’d had the last thing he wanted was a party, but he’d said Montauk was turning into a party town and, anyway, it might do him good to socialise.

  He began to make his way through the club to his suite. He really should look at moving in to the villa he’d bought along the coast. He’d never really seen himself moving back into the sprawling buildings of Sant’Angelo’s anyway. It never had been about recreating his childhood home—it was more about getting back what was his: the Borsatto estate, Sant’Angelo’s. But Stacey was right. The fact that the locals still called it by a name from the mists of time really made him think. Who was he actually fighting this fight for?