by Alison Kent
‘Cruelly and heartlessly afterwards.’
‘You were punishing me because you thought the baby wasn’t yours.’
‘You are very charitable, cara, but I don’t need excuses made for me. I was a—bastard to you.’ That was the first time he had ever used the word, and it surprised him as much as it did Nina to hear it fall from his lips. He slid up the bed to come and lie beside her. ‘I will make it up to you,’ he vowed huskily.
He was referring to the lost baby, Nina knew that, but…
She turned to face him on the pillow. ‘Do you love me, Rafael?’
‘More than I can deal with sometimes,’ he admitted, and touched her cheek with a tenderness that almost brought tears.
‘You know I love you the same way, so we don’t need—’
‘No.’ The fingers on her cheek moved to cover her mouth. ‘It’s you who does not understand, amore, that I wanted the baby to be mine so badly that every one of my foolish objections just paled into insignificance on the strength of that need. I’ve grown up, Nina. I’ve shed my past. I will never know who my parents are, but that’s OK. Our children will know their parents. They will be loved and cared for and protected, and they will grow into good, strong people because that is what we will teach them to be. And,’ he added on a lighter note, aimed to lift the serious mood, ‘finding out I have a very healthy sperm count has placed a spectacular new edge on making love with you. Kind of—lusty and macho,’ he said, with a lusty groan as he tipped her onto her back so he could lean over her.
‘Oh, no, you don’t,’ she said, pushing him away. ‘I’m hungry and thirsty. Have you any idea when we last ate anything? Because I haven’t. And I have to call Nonno,’ she reminded him.
‘Do you want to go back?’ he asked.
‘To Sicily? No.’ She snuggled into to him. ‘I’m happy right where I am.’
‘Then go and call him up—invite him for Christmas. Hell, invite them all if you want!’ he said. ‘If it makes him feel better about coming then I will even go against my better instincts and finance his latest disaster for him!’
A knock sounded at the bedroom door.
Parsons did not let himself in this time, but waited for Nina to scramble off the bed and pull on a bathrobe before she opened it. ‘Your grandfather has arrived,’ he informed her. ‘Gino has checked him out and he seems—safe. What would you like us to do with him?’
Nina turned to look at Rafael. ‘Oh, dear,’ she said solemnly.
Oh, dear just about said it, Rafael thought as he made a reluctant shift from the bed. One old man with his dignity in tatters was going to take a lot of soothing.
‘This is going to cost me,’ he muttered ruefully.
‘You can afford it,’ his wife said. ‘Just think about the payback when I show you my gratitude and you will be fine…’
The Italian’s Blackmailed Bride
Jane Porter
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER ONE
“YOU can’t arrest me.” Emily Pelosi’s voice betrayed none of the icy cold she felt on the inside. “I’ve done nothing wrong.”
“Step aside, mademoiselle,” the uniformed customs agent repeated tonelessly, destroying the effect of his lilting Caribbean accent.
Emily worked to keep her irritation from showing. She wasn’t easily intimidated, had never been timid, and after five years of fighting fire with fire she held her ground now, hanging on to what had been written up once in the Times as “her remarkable cool.” “Can you legally detain me?”
The customs agent looked at her as if she were stupid. “Yes.”
Emily’s brain raced, trying to absorb facts. Clearly she was in trouble, and clearly it wouldn’t do to alienate the customs agent further. “I understand. But if someone could just get my friend…she’s outside, waiting?”
“She’ll just have to wait.”
Emily looked away, swallowed, the long veil of her chestnut hair half hiding her face, cloaking her frustration. Be cool, stay calm. Annelise will eventually return to the terminal and we’ll get this whole thing straightened out.
Head throbbing, eyes dry and gritty after the redeye flight from Heathrow, she scanned the small island terminal. The squat cement building was virtually deserted, leaving just her and the customs agent alone.
She wished for the first time she’d taken something to make her sleep, like Annelise had, instead of working. But Emily had made herself work through the night. Just as she always worked these days. Emily Pelosi. Workaholic.
For a moment Emily had a strange view of her life—a life lived in international airport terminals and foreign hotels, with business meetings conducted over pots of green tea.
She didn’t live, she thought wearily, she existed. To attack. To plunder. To destroy. But now she had to focus on more practical matters—like that of Annelise outside, waiting. “I understand you’re not interested in my friend, but if someone could just let her know what’s happening?”
“Your friend has already been advised that she can’t return to the terminal.” The customs agent crossed his arms over his chest. “And you must wait until the detectives arrive.”
Detectives? Detectives from where? Emily had been flying into Anguilla for years, en route to St. Matt’s, and she’d never been stopped before, never been hassled about anything. “You have a warrant, then?” she asked, feeling as if she were piecing together a puzzle in the dark.
“Yes, mademoiselle. We have a warrant issued by a member of the EU.” The uniformed officer spoke with the heavily accented English of the Eastern Caribbean. Most of the islands close to South America were multi-lingual—French, Dutch, English, Spanish—and many of the smaller islands, like St. Matt’s, were privately owned.
“But this isn’t part of the European Union.”
“We’re working more closely with US and EU Customs to control piracy.”
Piracy. International smuggling. And suddenly Emily suddenly understood. “Which member of the EU?”
“Italy. More specifically, a group called the Altagamma.”
The Altagamma. Her lips nearly curved in a small, bitter, brutal smile. Of course. It was all beginning to make sense.
The Altagamma was an association that represented quality Italian goods for national and international markets. Some forty brands comprised the Altagamma, with sales in excess of eleven billion dollars—most of which came from exports. And Tristano Ferre was the new president of the Altagamma.
Tristano Ferre.
Emily felt a shaft of ice pierce through her chest.
Tristano Ferre. This was his doing.
For a moment her head buzzed with white noise, the kind of empty static that drowned out other sound. There were few people she knew as well as Tristano. Few people she hated as much. Tristano had taken over from his father, Briano, a number of years ago, and if Briano had been hard, tough, ruthless, Tristano was a thousand times worse.
“Ah.” The guard exhaled with relief. “They’ve arrived. The detectives are coming now.”
She heard a metallic clang, and when she turned around Emily saw the doors at the far end of the small terminal part. Three men entered the building—two uniformed, one in plain clothes—and Emily realized her war on Ferre Design was just about to get interesting.
Two hours later the detectives had gone, and for a moment Emily sat alone in a small room that had probably never served any purpose in all the years the little island terminal had existed. She’d flown in and out of Anguilla so many times, and had never known about the little room before.
Tired, hungry—she’d been offered nothing to eat or drink—she glanced down at her hands, flexed her fingers. As always, her fingers were bare, her nails unpolished, filed smooth and short. She had practical hands, and yet it was an impract
ical life.
Her trips to China, her meetings with manufacturers. What had once been merely a stab at Ferre had become a deep-rooted commitment to Asia itself. She’d learned that many of the Chinese were great capitalists—creative, driven, dedicated to perfecting technology—and she’d respected that drive to succeed, admired the fact that everyone she’d met in China wanted the opportunity to work for himself, everyone had a dream of being an entrepreneur.
The door opened quietly, and yet Emily heard it. Her head lifted.
Tristano stood in the doorway. His thick dark brown hair was neatly combed, and yet even dressed in elegant clothes there was still something fiercely masculine about him. He was very tall, and very broad-shouldered. Rugged. Like a Tuscan farmer instead of one of the richest design manufacturers in Italy.
“Buongiorno, Emily.” His voice, so deep, whispered across her skin.
Her jaw clenched, and for the first time she actually felt sick.
She’d wondered when he’d appear, had expected to see him once the customs agent had said the Altagamma was involved, but somehow seeing him here, face to face, was worse than she’d expected. She hated Tristano. Hated him so much she wanted blood.
“You can’t escape me this time,” he continued genially, as if they were two friends meeting in the middle of a sunny public square.
But of course he hadn’t given up. He’d never give up. Not until he’d removed her as a threat to his company. It might have been two years since his last lawsuit, but he had kept going. And that second one should have been a clear warning.
“Really?”
He entered the room, gently closed the door behind him, and yet she flinched at the click of metal on metal.
Tristano approached and she longed to look away, avert her head, but she wouldn’t let him have the up per hand.
“More interrogation?” she mocked, calmly crossing her leg above her knee, hands folded in her lap.
His eyes, the darkest blue, held hers. “This is serious, Emily.”
She felt a sizzle of alarm as he continued to approach, the fabric of his slacks hugging his thighs, the muscles taut, honed, visible. “I’m sure it is.” He was bigger than she remembered. Harder. But she was stronger, harder, too. Her lips curved in a cool challenge. “You’re losing money.”
“I have lost money, yes, but the association is losing, too. You’re not just hurting me. You’re hurting many, many Italians.”
“I’m only reproducing Pelosi designs.”
“Ferre designs,” he corrected.
“But they’re not your designs. They’re mine. Emily Pelosi Designs.”
He stood over her, the table between them, his eyes narrowed as he gazed down at her. “So why are your handbags and luggage lines exact replicas of ours?”
She shrugged. “It’s as I told the detectives. The bags are generic lookalikes, which is legal.”
“Not generic. Your luxury line infringes on our company trademarks, and when you sell the bags they’re marketed as Ferre & Pelosi, like our original line.”
Another cool shift of her shoulders. “I label nothing. If retailers choose to market a bag as such, how can I stop them? I’m in London, not Chicago or San Francisco.”
He leaned across the table, looked her in the eye. His voice dropped low, so low she had to strain to hear. “What you’re doing, cara, is illegal.”
Cara. Cara. She’d once been his cara, but she’d been young and innocent. Trusting. He’d taken that trust, along with everything else. So she said nothing, just held his gaze, staring up at him furiously, defiantly, grateful in some respects that their battle was finally taking place face to face.
Her silence succeeded in provoking him. His features tightened. “Where are your ethics?” he snapped, leaning further across the table, moving so close she could smell a whiff of the spice of his subtle fragrance, see the grooves paralleling his mouth.
“Where are yours?” she countered.
“Everything I do is legal. While you…you’re a pirate.”
A pirate? She nearly smiled. He was right. She felt like a pirate, a buccaneer, one of the many outlaws that settled in the Caribbean in the middle of the 1600s.
“You weren’t raised like this,” he continued tersely.
“Leave my education out of this. I’m doing what needs to be done.”
“Despite the consequences?”
“I’m not afraid.”
“Just foolish,” he concluded, with a faint shake of his head, watching her, seeing how her blue-green eyes flashed fire, seeing how determined she was to bring him down.
Everything in her was bent on destruction. Specifically, destroying him. But she hadn’t been reckless, she’d been smart. Very smart, and remarkably careful. Only he’d been just as smart, and even more careful, because this time he was going to make sure the charges stuck.
This time Emily Pelosi would be held accountable.
“The detectives have a plane waiting,” he said, sitting down on the corner of the table, close to her, invading her space, making his presence known.
He saw her lips compress. She didn’t like to be crowded, especially not by him. Too bad. This time Emily wasn’t going to get what she wanted. This time it was his way.
Her head tipped back, long hair spilling down her back. “Put me on it.”
Tristano had to admire her. She had guts, he thought, enjoying the hot spark in her eyes. But then, she’d never been afraid of a fight. He wouldn’t call her a tomboy, but she’d always believed so fiercely in things, had loved her family passionately, loved her friends, too. Growing up, he’d never thought of her as English…British…but Italian through and through. And yet now she wasn’t a girl but a woman, and she was the epitome of tough. Cool.
“The detectives will take you to Puerto Rico, where the investigation is based.”
“Fine.”
“They will toss you in jail.” His lips curved, firmed, and there was bite in his words. “With all the other thieves, smugglers and criminals waiting prosecution.”
She shifted, one leg crossed high above the other knee, without putting a single wrinkle in her impeccably white pinstriped linen trousers. She’d paired the expensive trousers with a black halter-top which revealed her slim pale gold shoulders, and the pale gold column of her throat. “Great. Let them know I’m ready.”
“You don’t mind going to jail?”
“No.”
“You’ll be locked up with dangerous people—people without any regard for human life—”
“Fine,” she interrupted. Her chin lifted. “You’ve no regard for human life either, and, frankly, I’d rather be there than here with you.”
Maledizione. She was a pirate. A rogue beauty—brave, foolish, swaggering, cunning, vain. If she’d lived during the seventeenth Century he was certain she would have followed in the footsteps of famous women pirates, like Grace O’Malley, Anne Bonny and Mary Read.
Instead she was here, alone with him, beautiful, proud, intelligent, fierce.
And he wanted her. He felt like a bounty-hunter, because he’d been working for a long time to rein her in, bring some control back to his life and Ferre Design. But, unlike a bounty-hunter, he didn’t want her shackled in jail. He wanted her shackled in his bed. He wasn’t about to turn her over to the authorities.
But he wasn’t going to tell her that. Let her think she’d be handed over to the detectives and customs officers. Let her think she had a choice when really she had none.
It was time Emily Pelosi faced facts, and this time she was going to face them. Alone with him.
“So what happens now?” she asked, and she sounded almost bored. Definitely complacent.
“After deportation, or after time in jail?”
Her expression didn’t change. “I was thinking more in terms of my friend Annelise. What happens to her?”
“She’s already taken a plane back to London.”
Tristano saw a flicker of emotion cross Emily�
��s flawless face. Worry? Dread? Regret? And then the expression disappeared, leaving her perfect oval-shaped face serene again.
“Going to jail doesn’t scare you?” he asked, trying to understand her, wanting to understand how she’d changed so much in the years since they’d been close friends. Although friends wasn’t an adequate description. They’d been more than friends, they’d been lovers, too, and for a couple of weeks one August they’d been together every moment possible.
He tried to remember the last time he’d seen her. It couldn’t have been all that long ago. She’d once moved in similar circles. They both came from affluent Italian families, had both grown up in the same inner circle, with big houses in Milan and rambling estates in the Tuscan hills, estates where vines covered acres and orchards of olive trees covered more. But the problems with her father had resulted in a deep break between the families, and the Pelosis had left Italy to return to England, where Emily’s mother was from.
And even with half of Europe stretching between them he had bumped into Emily more often than one would have thought. They had both attended a party in Sienna a year or two ago, and then there’d been the passing at the airport. Her flight had just landed and his had been about to depart. They hadn’t spoken either time. They’d simply looked at each other and moved on.
It had been clear to him then she had nothing to say, and he hadn’t been sure what he wanted to say to her.
Well, that wasn’t entirely true. He’d wanted to tell her to stop with the counterfeiting, tell her he was cracking down, that he had to get serious. But he couldn’t breach the divide, couldn’t reason with her when she looked at him with so much ice and hatred in her eyes.
Emily.
He was only four years older, but right now he felt vastly her senior, knowing that the charges leveled against her this time would stick, that his director of security had gathered enough evidence, enough samples, enough of everything to cost her…everything.
