by Alison Kent
It was one of the young Caribbean housemaids outside her door. “Dinner in an hour, mademoiselle. Drinks in a half-hour.”
Emily didn’t want dinner—not if it meant joining Tristano—but she wasn’t the type to sulk and hide. All her life she’d been a fighter, and she’d continue fighting now.
Washing her face, Emily pulled herself together. She combed her long hair smooth, adding a little concealer to hide her under-eye circles, and a little blush to give color to her pale cheeks. She wasn’t beaten. Not by a long shot.
Dressed in a white Spandex cap-sleeve top and a long black sequin-beaded skirt, Emily headed toward the great room—only to be told that dinner was being served outside, by the pool. Indeed, she could hear the faint strains of calypso—odd here, on the quiet, remote St. Matt’s.
Turning a corner, she caught a glimpse of a slender, fashionably chic woman with long chestnut hair, wide somber eyes. Emily paused, puzzled by the woman’s lonely expression, and then realized with a discomforting flash that it was her—her reflection in a mirror. She was seeing herself, seeing her own unhappiness, and it unnerved her.
She didn’t even recognize herself anymore.
Emily started to move on, and then glanced back over her shoulder into the mirror one last time. The same face looked back at her.
Funny—she saw her father in her, her mother as well, and for a moment she saw a timeline to the past. She saw her father dressing for dinner—he’d always dressed, he’d been Italian and gorgeous: a Latin Cary Grant, her mother used to say. She saw her mother, too—her mother’s blue eyes, her mother’s porcelain rose complexion, a hint of her mother’s sweetness.
Her parents had met when her father had been in London on business. Mum had worked as a receptionist for a London textile exporter and her father had stopped by to meet one of the owners. They’d met and, despite Father being nearly fifteen years older than Mum, they’d fallen in love. They’d married and had soon moved to Milan. They’d had a good life together, too, until Mum’s illness had progressed and Father…
She suppressed the rest of the thought, knowing she didn’t need to go there. She knew the history too well. She’d been tortured by it for years.
Reaching the pool, Emily stopped in the courtyard doorway, greeted not by the simple old pool but an entirely new landscape. The new pool was surrounded by buff limestone pavers, softly lit and lined by young native palms. A splashing fountain shot up from the middle of the illuminated pool and dozens of candles shone around the perimeter of the courtyard. More candles gleamed on the staircase leading to the new guest wing.
As she stood there, taking it all in, she gradually became aware of being watched intently.
Turning her head slightly, she scanned the exterior until she saw him—Tristano—standing in the shadows, too.
He was wearing pressed green linen slacks and an off-white linen long-sleeve shirt, cuffs rolled back. He looked elegant, distant, a stranger.
Here they were, Ferre and Pelosi, together as they’d once been. Lives so entwined that in nearly every good memory Emily had—like the shiny new bike or the white Vespa scooter—Tristano was also there, riding alongside her, racing her to who knows where. And yet even though they were together, they were poles apart.
Tristano stepped out of the shadows. “You look beautiful,” he said, moving slowly toward her.
She didn’t feel beautiful, and suddenly she couldn’t leave the security of one door, overwhelmed by all the changes on the island. This visit had been about coming home…making peace with her past…but nothing felt peaceful. In fact, she felt even less settled than before.
“I’ve noticed you only wear black and white,” he said, his gaze roaming leisurely over her slim-fitting beaded skirt and the snug Spandex top that hugged her breasts and emphasized her small waist.
“It’s easy to co-ordinate pieces for travel.”
“As well as being stark. Hard. Controlled.” Hands in his pockets, he crossed close behind her—so close she felt energy ripple between them, heat and awareness, and her lower back tingled, suddenly unbearably sensitive.
Her stomach clenched in a knot of anxiety, trepidation. “Is that how you see me?”
“Isn’t that how you see yourself?” He stood behind her, still—too still—and Emily’s skin prickled, her muscles coiling.
She had to turn her head slightly to see him, and looking at him over her shoulder she felt very vulnerable, her throat, breasts and body open, exposed.
“What—?” And then her voice failed her, the air blocked in her throat as Tristano suddenly touched her low on her back, his fingers trailing across the small dip in her spine.
His touch felt like fire and ice, and she couldn’t move, frozen in place. Eyes closed, hands knotted, she nearly cried out when he trailed his hand lightly up the length of her spine. How could she feel so much? How could she feel like this? Because it was huge, hot, sharp—it was as if life had expanded, so powerful, so sensual that it stopped the air in her lungs.
“Breathe,” he murmured from behind her, and she shivered, feeling him, feeling him everywhere, even though he only touched her back. She felt his strength, and the shape of his chest and thighs, knowing he was hard, knowing he was responding to her just as much as she to him.
“Breathe,” he repeated, fingers sliding up from her shoulderblades to the back of her neck.
And she did—only because black spots had fluttered before her eyes and she couldn’t think, couldn’t see.
His hand moved beneath her hair, his fingertips brushing the skin at her neck, circling her nape and then up into her hair so that she felt weak. Helpless. Boneless.
“You’re killing me,” she whispered, her voice faint as air.
“You’re killing yourself,” he answered, and his hand slid up, against her scalp, before clasping a handful of her hair, twisting the silky length around his hand. “Emily…my own little freebooter,” he said, his voice dropping as he leaned forward to place a kiss on her nape.
She shivered, and balled her hands more tightly into fists, digging her nails hard into her palms. “You’re not playing fair.”
“No,” he answered with mock gravity, turning her around to face him. “But when have you?”
Slowly she looked up, dragging her gaze first to his mouth—he had gorgeous lips—and then to his eyes. The intensity in his gaze stole her breath. His words were light, almost teasing, but she saw the fire in his eyes, saw the strength of his will.
His intensity touched her, teased her senses, stroked her nerves awake until she felt heat rise and shimmer between them. She was hot, too hot beneath her skin, hot and molten, like chocolate melted down to the warmest, sweetest, darkest liquid.
Her lips moved, tried to shape words. But nothing came to her—no sound, no thought. Instead she just felt. Emotion. Passion. Desire. All the things she shouldn’t feel, all the things she didn’t want to feel.
“No.” The word slipped from her in soft, low protest.
“No what?” he asked, reaching out to touch her earlobe, and then the hollow beneath her ear. And all the while he touched her she looked up at him, fascinated, appalled.
If there was hell on earth, she’d found it. What he stirred within her was so strong, so raw and carnal, that the sensation threatened to pull her down—pull her under. It was, she thought, staring into his midnight-blue eyes, an agony being here. An agony feeling so much.
It crossed her mind as his palm cupped her collarbone, fingers lightly stroking her skin, that this was how it had always been between them. This was how she’d fallen so hard, so fast for him. This was how friendship—close, familial ties—had turned into wild, fierce emotion. His touch turned her inside out. His touch blew her mind.
There could never be anything platonic between them. Could never be anything but the fiercest love and the fiercest hate.
And she hated him. Didn’t she?
Her heart seemed to slow, pounding harder, yet less stead
ily as she searched his eyes and then his face.
He’d aged in the past five years, but it was the kind of maturity that suited his hard, strong face, carving beauty into his jaw, whittling the broad cheekbones, putting the finest lines at his eyes and near his mouth. His dark hair was as thick as ever, and yet there was caution, wisdom in his eyes
Yes, he was a little older, but she was older too, and somehow the chemistry was so much stronger. Or was this how all women felt when Tristano touched them? Looked at them?
The thought knifed her, a cut in the chest, between the ribs, and she drew in a short breath, trying to discount the pain. She didn’t care, she told herself. His life, his women…they meant nothing to her. Not after what he’d done to her father.
The reminder of his role in her father’s humiliation should have chilled her, frozen her in place, but she wasn’t frozen—just confused. His touch felt good. Right. And yet he represented everything wrong with the world, everything selfish and hurtful in human beings.
“You’re torturing me, you know.” Emily tried to smile, to make it a joke, but she couldn’t pull it off.
“If only it were that simple.” He leaned forward to pluck a tendril of hair that clung to her lashes, lifting the tendril and smoothing it behind her ear. His lips curved but he wasn’t smiling. He looked piratical. “Torture isn’t to be taken lightly. Proper torture requires effort. Planning. It’s an art form.”
“Father died here.”
“I know.”
“Christmas morning.”
“I heard.”
Tears scalded the backs of her eyes but she didn’t let them fall. “Did you hear how?”
“A tragic fall.”
“No.” And the word whispered out—soft, stealthy, speaking of a heartbreak that few people would ever know about. “It was tragic, but it wasn’t a fall.”
Tristano said nothing, asking no questions, and Emily offered no more information. There were some things, she thought, too cruel, too ugly, too unbelievable to ever reveal.
Dinner was beautiful, the meal cooked perfectly. Tristano’s chefs had trained on the Continent, and had prepared fresh seafood in the best French and Mediterranean styles.
Sitting at the table, with candlelight flickering and the torches around the pool burning, Emily saw light everywhere—the pale ivory taper candles, the stainless steel torches, and the nearly full moon reflected whitely in the pool. She didn’t remember the island this way, didn’t know the house like this, either, and she felt off-balance all over again, felt the strangeness of everything, the strangeness of her own emotions. She’d been so determined for so long, and yet she wasn’t sure of anything right now—certainly wasn’t sure of herself.
As coffee was served she turned to examine the pool courtyard again, dazzled by the perfectly matched palm trees and sophisticated lighting. It was all so pretty, but almost too perfect—like a designer set waiting to be photographed.
“Is this for your hotelier?” she said, and she’d meant to sound tough. Instead her voice had cracked.
“The new pool? No. It’s for me. The family.”
“So why sell?”
“To get your attention.”
Emily sat very still, her hands resting in her lap, aware of the steam rising from her coffee cup but unable to reach for it. “You’re selling something I desperately love to get my attention?
“Yes, carissima. And it’s working, isn’t it?”
CHAPTER FOUR
SHE stared at him, disgusted, appalled.
They were older. But no wiser. Everything with Tristano boiled down to a deal. Sell. Buy. Bargain. He was all about money. Power. He’d had it. She’d wanted it. Amazing how little had changed in five years.
And suddenly the source of her real hurt surged through her—a scorching memory. Their families had been as one.
“We were a family business,” she said, forgetting the island, the house and the history in the Caribbean and returning to Italy, where it had all begun. “And I thought family business was about pooling strengths, everyone helping one another.” She sat very still, and yet her voice blistered with fury. “Obviously I was wrong.”
“The difficulty was between them, not us.”
“No, we were like a family. We were always together. Your family, my family—we were what I thought a real family felt like. But I was wrong. Your father wanted more, and he cut us out. Not just Father. He cut me, Mum—”
“It was a business decision. You’re making it personal.”
“And it’s not personal? It’s not about giving everything to the Ferres and taking everything from the Pelosis?”
“Our fathers had differences in opinion.”
“So how did your father get everything and mine get nothing?”
“My father always was the practical one. He knew the business—”
“While my father was just the genius, the creative mind, and therefore dispensable?”
“Emily.”
“No, Tristano. I shall never forgive your father, and I shall never forget how you’ve allowed—encouraged—this injustice to continue. You yourself have grown rich from my father’s designs. You have built your own empire on his back.”
His dark blue eyes looked nearly black in the candlelight and his expression was taut. “And it’s my empire you hate most. Not my father’s. But mine. That which I’ve done.”
“Yes! You’re perpetuating a sin.”
“A sin?” he demanded, rising.
She left her own chair, moved toward him, conscious of the height difference between them, conscious of the fact that he would always be bigger, larger, more dominant. At least physically.
Mentally she was his equal, though.
Emotionally she’d hold her own.
Maybe her father had cracked in the face of such ostracism, maybe he hadn’t been able to endure the shame, but she felt no shame.
She loved her name. Loved what her father had accomplished. And just because he wasn’t around to fight for himself anymore that didn’t mean she wouldn’t continue the fight herself.
“A sin. A wrong. A tragedy.” She met Tristano’s narrowed gaze and lifted her chin in outright defiance. “You can arrest me. You can throw me in jail. Take me to court. But I won’t cease and desist. I won’t. I will fight you forever. Understand? I will not give up. I will not forget.”
“Fighting words,” Tristano said softly, watching her face every bit as intently as she’d watched his.
She saw the curiosity in his expression, the blatant interest, and it wasn’t innocent, either. He looked very male just now, very much engaged in the hunt.
What on earth was this anyway? What had brought them on this collision course?
They’d once played together as children, behaved like brother and sister…cousins…
Hadn’t they?
Or had there always been this edge of anger? This vein of emotion that went deep, so much deeper than anything Emily had ever felt for anyone else?
“Marry me and this stress—this fear—will disappear.” Tristano’s voice sounded soft, persuasive.
His soft, smooth voice had temptation buried in it, its deep tone compelling, soothing, as if he had a power greater than she knew—as if he could put everything right, as if he were the answer to all her problems…
But he had created all her problems.
“Marry?” She said the word just as softly, but there was no give in her voice, no persuasion. She was angry, deeply angry. “Marry you? Never. Ever.”
“Aren’t you tired of worrying so much? Tired of the pressure? The weight of caring for your mother?”
Her head lifted and her hot gaze met his. “I love my mother. It’s a joy to care for her.” A lump filled her throat. The pain of his betrayal was fresh all over again. “And if we have worries, if we’re bowed by pressure—”
She broke off, pressed a knuckled fist to her mouth to contain the sound of heartbreak. She fought for control. “You were
supposed to be the good guy,” she said finally, and the words were wrenched from her, practically a confession.
He laughed once, a low, mocking sound that made their differences all the more obvious. “But, Emily, I was never the hero. Maybe that’s what you wanted, but I’ve never wanted to be the good guy, and you shouldn’t have been surprised. We were once close…at least close enough that you should have seen the truth. You should have known that my family would come first, that the business would always be important. Essential.”
But I didn’t think you’d put the business before me.
There—the truth. Only she hadn’t admitted it to him, just herself, and that was bad enough.
Hours later, lying in bed, with the windows open to let in the fresh air and the dull roar of the sea, Emily tried to sleep. But the day played like an endless movie in her weary mind, scene after scene, discussion after discussion, every nuance and inflection slowed, repeated, her life on rewind.
The arrest on Anguilla.
The never-ending confrontations with Tristano.
Dinner and his absurd proposal, the realization that she still responded to him, that she didn’t know how not to respond to him…
She shouldn’t be here. She should have stayed home, celebrated Christmas with Mum like she always did, instead of making this crazy trip with Annelise. Well, Annelise was gone, and she was trapped here on St. Matt’s—her former home—under house arrest.
The only small mercy was the fact that her mother didn’t know. Her mother would be protected from the chaos and indignity of it all.
Another hour passed, and Emily flipped from her back onto her stomach and back again. The sheets were hot, the Egyptian cotton clinging limply to her skin. She couldn’t stop thinking, couldn’t shut off her mind. But it wasn’t just being here. She simply couldn’t sleep anymore. For the past couple years she’d take forever to fall asleep, and then once asleep would wake repeatedly in the night, thoughts racing, muscles twitching, her body unable to shut down long enough to let her rest.
She’d gone to her doctor about it, asked for help so she could start sleeping properly again, and though the doctor had said he could prescribe pills, he’d thought she needed more than pills. She needed a change of lifestyle. Too much stress, he’d said. If she wasn’t careful, he’d added, not knowing the details of her father’s death, Emily would end up just like him…
