by Alison Kent
“You don’t want to go to jail,” he said roughly, knowing she wasn’t going to listen. If a week alone with him couldn’t persuade her to change course, then he’d go the legal route. Punish her to the fullest extent of the law. But he wanted a week first. Christmas together.
“There’s a lot of things I don’t want to happen that do,” she answered, and she glanced at her wristwatch, as if she had some pressing engagement to go to. Again he marveled at her cool, at her incredible calm.
“You do have other choices,” he said.
Emily drew a slow breath and exhaled just as slowly. She was tired. She knew she couldn’t fight forever. But she also knew she wouldn’t go down until she’d brought him to ruin, too. “I’m not giving up.”
The corner of his mouth tugged, but his dark blue eyes were hard, void of all compassion. “I don’t expect you to.”
“So what are my choices? How do I avoid arrest?”
“You don’t avoid arrest—that’s happened—but it’s up to you where you spend your Christmas holiday.” He paused and she stared at him, waiting for him to finish. “You can,” he continued tonelessly, “get on that plane to Puerto Rico, or you can come home with me.”
“Home with you?”
“St. Matt’s.”
“St. Matt’s isn’t your home.”
His eyebrows lifted and Emily bit down on the inside of her lip hard. What the hell? A dozen questions welled up inside her but she wouldn’t ask one. She had to stay cool, collected, had to hang on to whatever dignity remained. There was no way she’d let Tristano see how much he disturbed her. And he did disturb her. Not as an adversary, but as a man.
And that made him the most dangerous adversary of all.
“Let me see if I understand you correctly,” she said rising from the table, sidestepping Tristano’s powerful frame.
In the past five years she’d been confronted by tremendous difficulties—more problems and controversy than she’d ever imagined—and yet she’d survived every crisis by staying cool, keeping her wits about her. But right now her wits felt scattered. Lost. Instead of thinking her way out of the problem, she kept thinking about him. “I’m still under arrest, but I won’t be deported if I agree to accompany you to your house on St. Matt’s?”
Tristano nodded his confirmation.
“How convenient for you,” she drawled coolly, shooting him an icy look.
“I’d say inconvenient—but why mince words?”
“Indeed.” Her voice dripped sarcasm and she stared at him a long moment, then looked away, her lips curving in a hard smile. If this was war—and it had been war for several years now—he had just won a major battle. But he hadn’t won the game yet. He hadn’t stopped her.
Still smiling that small, faint smile, she glanced back at him. “Maybe I’d rather go to Puerto Rico.”
“I wouldn’t be surprised, dearest Em. You’ve always preferred doing everything the hard way.”
She bit down, working her teeth, her jaw tight. “Can you please use Emily, not Em?” She hated being called Em. Her father was the only other person who’d ever called her Em, and to have Tristano use the same intimate form of her name hurt.
Tristano had helped destroy her father. He’d taken her father’s strength…stripped him of his power, his pride, that inherent male dignity…leaving him empty. Dead.
“Whatever makes you happy, cara.”
“What do you want, Tristano?”
He stood up, approached her, towering over her. “You know what I want. The question is, are you ready to work with me?”
“But you don’t mean work with you. What you intend to do is shut down my company—”
“Your company isn’t a company!” His voice rose, his anger palpable. “Your entire company is based on undercutting mine.”
“I’m merely offering consumers a comparable product at a lower cost, and that’s called commerce. Capitalism. Something even you should understand.”
His eyes narrowed, creases forming at the corners, and his frustration became tangible. He was losing patience. “It would be fair commerce if you were truly offering a comparable product. But you’re not. You’re offering our line, reproducing virtually our entire line, flooding the market with counterfeit leather goods, destroying market value.”
“How terrible.” But she thought it anything but terrible.
If he’d been there Christmas morning, struggling to revive her father, struggling to save him before Mother saw. If he’d been there, stretched out over someone he loved dearly, trying to force air into his lungs, trying to bring him back to life, he’d know what she felt and he’d know this wasn’t about leather goods. It was about justice. It was about fairness.
It was about revenge.
She’d have her revenge, too. She’d find a way to bring peace to her poor father’s soul.
And maybe, somehow, peace to her own.
“As I said earlier, this is serious, Em.”
Her eyes burned, her heart just as hot, and the pain washed through her. The picture of her father sprawled on the bathroom floor was too vivid still, the picture forever burnt into her memory. “Yes, it is.”
“I’ll prosecute.”
“I’m sure you will.” And then she smiled, if only to keep the tears from forming, to shift her muscles, the tension, the need, the loss. “You see, the only reason you’re going after me is because I’m successful. I’ve hurt your business. I’m doing something well—so well that it’s forcing you to stop me, try to recoup your losses.”
He said nothing, but she saw from his expression, the fixedness at his mouth, the hardness in his eyes, that she was right. She’d been good. Her business model—much to Ferre’s consternation—was very good. But of course it would be. She’d taken Tristano’s principles of commerce, taken everything he’d done well, and applied it to her own company.
Tristano’s business model was brilliant. He’d make her a very wealthy woman. A year ago she’d made her first million. This year she looked to make two.
“It’ll get ugly when this goes to court,” he said now.
“It won’t hold up in court.”
“It will. I’m pressing charges in the United States first, and the US courts will recognize your designs as the legal property of Ferre Design.”
“Even though the Ferres haven’t a designing bone in their greedy, manipulative bodies?”
“Article I of the US Constitution gives inventors exclusive rights to their discoveries.”
“Father’s discoveries.”
He crossed his arms. “The legal fees alone will ruin you.”
She thought back on her hard-won financial security, thought back on the years when she and her mother had struggled, especially right after her father’s suicide. “I’m prepared.”
“Emily.”
“You know the truth,” she said bitterly, stepping toward him, fury sweeping through her. Did he think she was afraid of him? Did he think he could do anything to her that hadn’t already been done? “You destroyed us, Tristano. You and your father. So don’t think I have it in my heart to forgive. Because I’m not that big. I’m not. I can’t forgive, and I can’t forget. So here we are.”
Tristano sucked in air, held his breath, his lungs hot, explosive. She pushed his control, tested his willpower. He wanted to touch her, wanted to take her in his arms, cover her lips, plunder her mouth the way she’d plundered his company, but he held himself still.
“You’re the one who doesn’t know the truth,” he said softly, staring at her mouth, at her lips, wide, full, incredibly lush. She had the mouth of an Italian film star, and yet her eyes were the stunning blue-green of great English beauties. “And if this goes to court you’ll hear the truth. Along with thousands of strangers.”
Dusky pink color suffused her cheeks. “I can handle it.”
Emily, Emily. He shook his head. “I don’t think you can.”
“You don’t know—”
“No,�
�� he interrupted curtly, his deep voice crackling with anger and impatience. “You don’t know. And if you think you can handle this on the front page of the paper, or on the evening news, then think about your mother. Can she? Is this what she needs? Is this what’s best for her?”
Emily stared up at him, onyx flecks in the blue-green of her eyes. He could see her hatred there, could see the violence of her emotion, but she turned her head away, averting her face. “She’ll be fine,” she said hoarsely. “She’s been through a lot.”
Tristano laughed hollowly. “Then bring it on, cara. Let her suffer some more.”
He moved to the door and knocked once, indicating he was through. The door opened. The green-uniformed customs agent appeared. “Is she ready?” the agent asked, nodding at Emily.
Tristano shot her a glance through narrowed eyes. “She’s ready. She’s looking forward to Christmas in San Juan. Right, Em?”
Emily felt too hot, too alive, and with a wretched sinking in her stomach she found herself turning to Tristano and smiling a preternaturally calm smile. “Right.”
He stood there a moment, staring at her. “You kill me, carissima.”
Sometimes she killed herself.
Somehow she’d become this fierce.
Suddenly Emily didn’t want to be so tough, so strong, but she couldn’t let go of the past, couldn’t forgive or forget. Not when her family had been crushed, reduced to bits of agony. “This is about Ferre Designs,” she said, her voice breaking, her bitterness slicing through the room. “Not about me.”
He looked at her. A muscle pulled in his jaw. “Are you sure?” When she didn’t answer, he shrugged. “She’s all yours,” Tristano said to the agent, and then to Emily, “Have a good Christmas, Emily. See you in court.”
“And when will that be?”
“January? February? Depends on the hearing date.” He hesitated. “I’ll call your mother—let her know the name and number of the prison in San Juan—”
“Don’t, Tristano.”
“She’d want to know.”
“Tristano—”
“She’s your mother, Em. She deserves the truth.”
And he walked out, leaving her alone with the customs agent.
The truth? Emily silently repeated. But it wasn’t the truth! The truth was that Briano and Tristano Ferre had destroyed her father and grown rich at his expense! That was the truth.
“If you’ll put your hands out, mademoiselle.”
The custom agent’s voice brought her back to the moment, and the small dismal room where she’d been interrogated.
She blinked, eyes focusing, and felt her blood drain as she saw him draw out handcuffs. “You’re going to handcuff me?”
“If you’ll put your hands out?”
She really was going to be deported, sent to San Juan to who knew what kind of conditions. And while she wasn’t afraid for herself, she was very afraid for her mother. She wasn’t well, hadn’t been well in years, and Emily knew she couldn’t handle this—not now…definitely not after the last six months of agonizing pain. Her mother’s arthritis had become so bad, completely debilitating. She didn’t need anything else to hurt her.
“Get him,” Emily said tersely, coming to a swift decision. “Get Tristano Ferre before he leaves.”
CHAPTER TWO
TRISTANO had known the mother card would work with Emily—because he knew Emily.
She might think he didn’t understand her, but he understood more than he let on. And maybe it hadn’t been fair to dangle her mother like bait on a hook, but what was fair in love and war?
He watched now as she was escorted from the terminal into the bright afternoon light. She’d been inside the terminal for nearly three and a half hours. He knew she hadn’t eaten since arriving, knew she hadn’t been offered anything to drink, and her flight had been an all-nighter.
Yet as Emily walked toward him she looked stunning, her white pinstriped suit jacket still crisp as it dangled casually over one bare shoulder, long hair gleaming in the sunlight, high heels emphasizing her confident stride.
She could have modeled professionally, had been sought after late in her teens by several big Italian agencies, but she’d passed, devoted to school and apprenticing at the company.
For a moment his gut burned. Not guilt, he told himself, but a rare flicker of remorse.
She’d loved the company.
She’d loved Ferre & Pelosi as much as he had, but she’d been cut out when her father had been written off. It must have hurt her. He suppressed the thought, knowing her father had nearly ruined the company, robbed the company blind. His father, Briano, hadn’t had a choice.
“Changed your mind?” he said as Emily reached his side.
Her jaw compressed, eyes sparking defiance. “Do you really own a house on St. Matt’s?”
“Yes.”
She stared at him disbelievingly. “The Flemmings sold to you?”
“Five years ago.”
“I can’t believe they’d do that.”
“Why not?”
“They…the Flemmings…promised they wouldn’t.”
“Did you ever meet them? The Flemmings?”
Emily’s eyes narrowed as she studied Tristano’s hard but handsome face. His dark blue eyes were almost too perfect with his thick dark hair and dark brown eyebrows. “No. But I talked to them on the phone many times.”
“Mmm,” Tristano said, his expression bland.
Emily battled her temper. For twenty years her family had owned St. Matt’s; for twenty years it had been her second home…Every Christmas holiday had been spent on the tiny island, and when her father had been forced to sell St. Matt’s he’d sold to John Flemming, a wealthy American.
John Flemming had been wonderful about keeping in touch, letting them know when the island house would be free in the event that the Pelosis wanted to visit.
But they hadn’t visited. Not after Father’s death. Even though it had been tradition to escape London’s chilly dampness for the Caribbean sunshine. It would have been too painful returning to St. Matt’s, too painful facing what they’d all loved and lost.
Tristano held the door open to the waiting limousine. “Maybe you should have done a little more research.”
Emily shot him a dark look as she slid into the back of the limo. “What does that mean?”
He climbed in after her. “It means there are no Flemmings.” He shut the door and the car set off, heading for the water, where an anchored yacht would take them to St. Matt’s. “Let me clarify myself. There is a John Flemming, but he doesn’t own the island. He never did.”
Confused, Emily stared at Tristano blankly. “I don’t understand.”
“John Flemming worked for me,” Tristano continued blithely. “Represented me during the purchase of St. Matt’s.”
A wave of nausea swept Emily and blindly she reached for the door handle, as if to throw herself out of the moving car.
Tristano reached over her lap, covered her hand with his and held tight. “Don’t do it. You’d break a leg…or worse…and then you’d be dependent on me for far more than you’d like.”
His hand felt hard, warm, and far too personal. She flashed back to that summer years ago, when all she’d wanted was his hands on her body, covering her breasts, clasping her face, and him kissing her until she couldn’t breathe or think.
Disgusted, Emily jerked her hand out from beneath his. He arched an eyebrow at her reaction and she shuddered, pulling as far from him as possible. “Don’t touch me.”
“You’re scared of me.”
“I’m not.” She fought panic, realizing how she’d put herself in his care, handed herself into his keeping. Not good, she thought, glancing nervously out the tinted car window. Not good for body or mind.
“So why do you flinch whenever I get near you?”
She laughed, low and harsh. “Because I hate you.”
“Hate?”
She laughed again, and the sound f
elt as raw in her chest as it sounded. Her insides were hot with emotion, bubbling with the acid pain that never went away. “Hate.” Her gaze met his and she let him look into her eyes, let him see what she felt, let him see the anger burning there. “I will never forgive you for what you’ve done.”
“You hate me because I let you believe the Flemmings owned St. Matt’s?”
“No. I hate you because of what you did to Father. What you did to the company. What you did to my family.”
“I’ll take the blame for the purchase of the island, but the rest of it—” He shrugged, leaned forward to retrieve a chilled bottle of water from the limousine’s mini refrigerator. “That was your father’s doing.”
She closed her eyes, held the pain in, holding tightly to what was left of her control.
But it was worse with her eyes closed. With her eyes closed her senses were sharper, more acute, and she felt even more aware of Tristano sitting so close. She could feel his warmth, his immovable presence, could feel his smug arrogance, too.
He was awful. Despicable. And she’d bring him down. All the way down. She’d fight to destroy him and his father, just the way they’d destroyed the Pelosis.
She heard Tristano twist the plastic cap off the bottle and swallow.
“Want a drink?” he offered.
She opened her eyes, saw he was holding the bottle out to her. “No.”
“Are you certain? You’re looking quite pale, cara.”
“It’s just the sound of your voice making me ill, Tristano.” And she closed her eyes again, tipped her head back and prayed for deliverance. But even with her eyes closed she could feel his gaze on her, feel him—his size, his strength, the heat from his impossibly solid, muscular body. And now St. Matt’s was just one more thing Tristano Ferre had taken from her family.
The car rolled to a stop, and as Tristano opened the back door Emily avoided his hand. She reached into the trunk of the car to retrieve her own luggage and walked quickly toward the waiting yacht.
They boarded the yacht in tense silence. The trip from Anguilla to St. Matt’s would take less than ninety minutes. Fifteen if they’d flown.
As the yacht left Anguilla’s harbor Tristano sprawled on a padded lounger, basking in the golden sunlight, while Emily stood stiffly at the railing, staring out across the endlessly blue water.
