by Alison Kent
Abruptly Emily sat up, anxious to flee. But her haste sent her paperwork flying. On her knees, she scrambled to gather the graphs and reports even as the women’s voices echoed in her head. The view is worth thirty million alone…you can always replace the house…bulldoze it down…no more than one hundred thousand…you could even put in your media room here…
Two sleek, well-preserved blondes, with shiny gold hair and expensive jewelry, appeared in the doorway overlooking the terrace. “Oh!” one exclaimed. “I didn’t know anyone was here.”
Hands shaking, Emily shoved the crumpled pages into her open briefcase. “Yes—I’m here.”
The woman marched over to Emily, hand outstretched. “Di Perkins, Lux Estates. I’m showing the property to my client.”
Emily awkwardly rose. “I’m not the owner.”
“Oh.” The women looked disappointed.
“I used to be,” Emily added, thinking that maybe she could say something about the house, and its history, that would give it value…respect. “St. Matt’s is a wonderful island—it has a fantastic history—”
“I’m not really into history.” The second woman’s nose wrinkled. “I just want a great beach, a bay deep enough for my husband’s yacht, and privacy. We don’t get enough of that in the States.”
“It is private. You don’t get visitors here. Not unless they’re invited.” Emily fought to hide her irritation. “It’s said that Blackbeard hid here for a month one December—”
“Blackbeard? Ugh.” The second woman shuddered. “Didn’t he kill a lot of people?”
Not enough, Emily thought, smiling so hard her eyes watered. “Excuse me.” She nodded and, leaving her briefcase on the table, practically ran down the stone steps heading for the beach.
She found him stretched out on a lounge chair on the sand, his arms extended over his head, his eyes closed, his long nearly black hair combed back from his face.
Either he hadn’t heard her approach or he was ignoring her.
“You can’t sell the island,” she said flatly, not bothering with pleasantries. “Not like this—not to these kinds of people. The island’s special. Beautiful. You can’t let people without taste destroy it.”
His eyes slowly opened. He looked up at her, his arms folded behind his head. Deep blue eyes met her own. “Ciao, bella.”
“Did you hear me?”
He held her gaze.
“Did you hear me?”
Damn him.
He still thought he ruled the universe. Things hadn’t changed. But then in the Ferre world why should anything change? The gods divided up the pie and gave the Ferres everything, leaving everyone else with crumbs.
“Those people want to tear down the house. Just bulldoze it.” She held his gaze. She wasn’t afraid of him, didn’t need him, didn’t give a flying fig what he thought of her. But the house, the island, the history—that she loved.
“It’s their prerogative if they buy it,” he answered, stretching a little, lifting his face higher to the sun. “That’s the privilege of ownership. Something you lost when you sold.”
“You know we didn’t want to sell. You know we sold only because we had to.”
“I’m sorry.”
“You’re not.” It crossed her mind that the estate agent’s visit wasn’t coincidence, but rather something Tristano had arranged. He’d wanted Emily to see the future of St. Matt’s. He’d meant for her to meet the prospective buyers. “You set me up,” she said softly.
“Set you up?” He grinned, and his teeth flashed white. A small dimple appeared briefly in his carved cheek. “Intriguing deduction.”
“And a correct one. You planned all this. The Flemmings…the arrest. You intended for me to come here, remain here. You’ve spent a great deal of time orchestrating this.”
“I did hunt you down, yes.” His smile had faded and his dark blue eyes burned intensely. “And, yes, I’ve deliberately brought us together. You’re stranded here on St. Matt’s, alone with me. And you’re going to listen—work—co-operate with me.”
“Never.”
“Careful, cara. Never is a very long time.”
CHAPTER THREE
“WHY are you doing this?” she demanded, her head spinning a little. She’d flown all night, hadn’t slept. This had become a day that seemed as if it would never end.
“You know the answer, Em. Just look inside your heart—or your bank account—and you’ll see the answer there.”
She shook her head. “You could call them off, you know.” She fought to keep the fury from her voice, fought for the control she so desperately needed. “Since you arranged this whole thing you can end it, too.”
“Yes, I know.” He’d closed his eyes again, and, exhaling, relaxed his tanned upper body into the chair. “But I won’t.” The warm sun gleamed on his bronzed skin, on one burnished highlights in his dark hair. “Cara, could you just move over a foot or two? You’re blocking my sun.”
Blocking his sun? She felt a bubble of hysteria form in her chest. She was standing here, pleading for her freedom, and he was worried about his sun?
“Sorry about that.” Her voice dripped venom.
“No problem.”
For a moment she remained rooted to the spot, frozen in anger and indecision, and then she moved. But not in the direction he expected. Emily knelt down and buried her hands in the sand, grabbing great handfuls of the fine warm grains, and before she could think twice she stood up again and poured the sand on top of his head.
Tristano sputtered, coughed, then gave his head a sharp shake, sending sand flying.
Emily planted her feet, hands on her hip. “How’s that? Better?”
“Oh, yes.” But Tristano clasped her by the forearm and with a tidy twist flipped her down on her back in the sand. He left his lounge chair and straddled her hips. “How’s that?”
The sun shone in her eyes, blinding her. Tristano’s body was heavy, hard and warm—very warm—and Emily felt stunningly aware of the size of him, the fierceness of him, the sensual nature he’d never tried to conceal.
“Off,” she demanded hoarsely, her voice nearly breaking, betraying her rising anxiety. Maybe for Tristano this was nothing, but she was incredibly uncomfortable, almost paralyzed by the intimate contact.
Tristano Ferre had had more girlfriends than twenty Italian playboys put together. For him it had always been new week, new woman. It had galled her back then, when she had still been part of his life, and it galled her now. She shouldn’t care who he was with, or what he did with whom, but somehow she did. She told herself it was anger, hatred, but the intensity of her feelings made her wonder.
“Not until we get a few things squared away,” he answered, and suddenly he was stretched out over her, his hands still wrapped snugly around her wrists, his body extended over hers until his chest pressed to her breast, his hip rested on hers, his thigh parted her thighs. And even though she was wearing the silky skirt and shirt, the sheer chiffon fabric allowed her to feel all of him.
“What do you think you’re doing?” she breathed, ineffectively pushing up against his grasp.
“What you’ve been dying for me to do ever since last time.”
“Screw you!”
“We already did that, carissima, or do you not remember?”
Her body grew tellingly warm, and blood rushed to her cheeks. Embarrassed, Emily struggled to drive her knee up, straight into his groin, but he knew, because he knew her, and he shifted, immobilizing her legs, his hips gouging into her.
Emily drew a short breath. Tristano lay heavily on her, pinning her down, pinning her legs, and the friction of skin on skin made her conscious of the hardness of his hips, the hair on his legs, the heat of his chest.
“I hate you,” she choked, emotion filling her, sweeping through her, hot, so hot, and full of anger.
“You lie, cara.” His head dipped, his lips traveling over hers in a brief tortuous caress. “You love me.”
And his head
dropped again. But this time his lips covered hers, completely, firmly, and he kissed her the way she’d remembered all these years. His lips slowly moved across hers, parting so slowly that she wondered if it was her encouraging him or the other way around.
This was the kiss that had driven her mad all those years ago, when she’d thought she’d tasted real life, real love, real passion.
And then she’d discovered it wasn’t anything. It was just Tristano practicing his craft. Tristano the expert. The seducer. Tristano the Ferre sinner.
Eyes burning, she tried to hold back, pull back, tried to forget that his lips were making her shiver, that the flick of his tongue made her want to open herself up to him, that the feel of his hands against her neck made her want those hands everywhere, against everything.
This was how she’d given herself to him last time.
Innocently. Naively. Sweetly.
She’d never be so stupid again.
Fighting tears, Emily sank her teeth into Tristano’s lower lip and he cursed, rolled partially away, to gaze down at her.
Her heart was racing and she struggled to catch her breath, struggled to get a grip on the emotions that were flying all over the place.
He was right. She had loved him once.
And he’d broken her heart into a thousand pieces—broken her heart along with her trust.
Then his father had done the unthinkable—sold her father out, seized the company—and the Pelosis had suddenly become cast offs.
And Tristano hadn’t just watched it all happen. He’d helped. He’d stood at his father’s side and made sure with his fancy law degree that the Pelosis were stripped of everything.
“I never loved you,” she said now, her voice deep, husky with the hunger she hadn’t quite contained. “It was lust. You had the goods, and I wanted them.”
His eyebrow arched. “Is that so?”
“Yes.”
“And is that how you explain yourself this time?” He touched her soft lip with the tip of his finger. “Your mouth quivered. It wanted my kiss. It welcomed my kiss.”
“Lust is lust.”
“So I still have the goods?”
She thought of the company he’d helped seize, the company he’d torn apart, and the island she’d loved and lost. Her throat ached. “In more ways than one.”
His smile grew, and yet it was the smile of a pirate, the smile of one taking exactly what he chose without fear, without worry, without conscience. She had to leave, had to escape before she did something criminal.
She fled back to the house, running up the steep steps, the stones weathered and worn smooth, and into the cool semi-dark house. She heard Tristano following close behind and ran faster, through the great room, where the big dark plantation shutters had been closed against the brightness of the afternoon sun, down the corridor toward her room. But before she could slam her door shut Tristano caught her, trapping her against the wall.
“I have the goods,” he said, his voice deep, his hand closing around her wrist.
“And you love that, don’t you?”
“Is that what you’re thinking?”
“I don’t know.” She couldn’t focus, too aware of the warmth of his skin against hers, his bare chest against her chiffon top, the salty spiced fragrance of him, the pulse pounding in her own veins.
“What do you know?”
Emily drew a shaky breath. “Don’t ask. You don’t want that kind of honesty.”
“I wouldn’t have brought you here if I didn’t.”
She stared up at him, her emotions barely contained, her pulse pounding wildly. It was all she could do not to faint. Everything about Tristano was huge. Significant. Like his treachery. His ability to detach and destroy.
“I trusted you.” The words were torn from her, flung in his face. She hadn’t meant to say them, hadn’t even known she was going to say them, and she felt as if she were sailing straight into the eye of a storm. This was bad, so very bad, and there was no one—again—to help her.
Tristano leaned closer, his chest hard against hers, his knee brushing the inside of her thigh. “You know why you’re in trouble now? You’ve confused objectivity with subjectivity—taken something that had nothing to do with us—”
“Nothing to do with us?” she interrupted roughly. “Tristano. We were them. We were—are—what they made.”
“But that was your mistake, cara. We have always been different. We are different people, a different generation. We’ve always had different dreams. After your father left—”
“Left?” She laughed, feeling hysterical. “He didn’t leave. You shoved him out. Tied him to a speedboat and dragged him out to sea.”
Tristano abruptly reached for her, touched her cheek with the back of his fingers. “Is this the story you tell yourself? No wonder you hang on to such hate—”
“Don’t touch me.” Flinching, she closed her eyes, steeling herself against all response. The enemy, she whispered silently, reminding herself. He is and always will be…
Drawing a quick breath, she opened her eyes, his expression clear, cool again. “This isn’t a story, Tristano. You know what you did—you and your father.”
“Yes, I know what we did. But do you know what he did? Your father?” The cool shadows of the hall made his voice sound deeper, his accent warmer.
They were both fluent in English and Italian, and they switched back and forth between the two, comfortably, easily, neither noticing when the language changed.
She wanted to escape, but she couldn’t move, squashed between Tristano and the wall. “He did nothing.”
His head dropped, his voice lowering. “Em.”
She heard the warning in his voice, and it sent a ripple of fear through her. He’d never hurt her. Not physically. But emotionally…he was as dangerous as hell.
“Unlike you, Tristano, Father was a good man—a principled man. He didn’t do anything wrong. I’d have known it if he had. Mother would have told me. Father would have told me. But there was nothing for him to confess—” Emily broke off at the sound of voices echoing down the hall.
Tristano heard the voices, too. The realtor and the buyer. They were discussing the buyer’s dream house. Pool pavilion here. Sculpture garden there.
Tristano saw Emily pale, one smooth line of her jaw tightening. He straightened, giving her a little space—but not much. He wasn’t going to let her go. There was no escaping him this time. The course they were on was nothing short of madness. It would lead to nowhere good. He had to put a stop to the insanity before it destroyed her—him—all of them.
The two women disappeared into a bedroom and Tristano turned his attention back on Em. They were still standing close but he felt her resistance, saw the mutinous set of her mouth. She wasn’t ready or willing to learn the truth. Her family had done her a disservice, keeping the truth from her, letting her father’s flaws and weakness poison her life like that.
She was so different from the Emily he’d once known, the Emily he’d made his lover all those years ago.
That Emily had been so warm, so sunny, so open. She’d been passionate, earnest, hopeful, strong.
This Emily was strong, too. But it was strength born of bitterness. Hatred.
“What would it take to get you to cease and desist?” he asked, surprising even himself with the question.
But she wasn’t ready to talk. There was still no negotiation. “Nothing.”
“Nothing?” His eyebrows lifted. “Not even this…island?”
He saw her eyes widen, heard the soft catch in her breath. For a moment she looked hopeful, endearingly young as she stared up at him, torn between wonder and worry. He realized then how vulnerable she was—how vulnerable she’d been. And then the hope died in her eyes and her features hardened, freezing into the cool don’t-touch-me mask she always wore these days.
“Nothing,” she repeated, her voice low, brittle.
Emily squashed the rise and fall of emotion in her chest
, squashed that flicker of hope—because really her only hope was removing Tristano from Ferre Design, taking Ferre Design apart, bit by bit, just the way they’d dismantled her father.
And remembering her father made her stronger, fiercer. Hurt was replaced by old rage. She wanted to take Tristano down, take him to the mat like the Greco-Roman wrestlers had, and beat him mercilessly. Show him what the Pelosis were really about. Show Tristano that he and his father had gotten it all wrong.
Integrity, she told herself. Truth. Determination. This was everything.
“I won’t be bought,” she said, her spine pressed flat against the wall, her whole body rigid with years of heartbreak and hatred. “There’s only one thing I want from you.” She paused, held her breath a moment, lungs bursting, and then she exhaled. “I want you to fail.”
Emily looked up into his eyes, such a dark blue, a lovely blue, if you loved sapphire and the sky close to midnight.
“I want you to fail so badly you lose everything.”
She saw a small muscle jump in his jaw, but his voice was gentle when he spoke. “Everything?”
She didn’t know why she wanted to cry—she who didn’t cry, she who didn’t feel anything, was feeling far too much. “Everything. Your house, your cars, your wealth, this island—all of it. I want you to know what it was like being me.”
The women emerged from one of the guest bedrooms and Emily used the opportunity to duck beneath his arm and escape into her room, locking the door behind her. And as the women stopped outside her door to speak to Tristano Emily heard the strangest noise—a muffled cry somewhere between a mouse’s squeak and the scream of a bird. She sat down on the foot of her bed and realized the agonized sound had come from her. She was crying. Huge tears, hot wet tears. Even though she hadn’t cried in years.
Later, a knock on her door roused her. She’d fallen asleep fully dressed on her bed, and groggily she pushed herself into a sitting position. “Yes?”
