by Alison Kent
Emily had left the doctor’s without getting a prescription for sleeping pills and returned to work, to her small office, and the stress had continued—just as had her sleepless nights. But her sleep deprivation was getting worse. Soon she’d have to do something about the insomnia. Soon she’d have to give her body a break, before her body broke her.
Hopelessly wide awake, Emily left her bed, put on shorts and a cotton top and headed outside, away from the plantation house, down the worn stone steps to the cove.
It was late, well past midnight, but the night air wasn’t cold. She walked along the edge of the surf, her feet wet, waves splashing and breaking against her calves. The water was warmer than the night air.
The heaviness on her chest didn’t ease, and the heaviness in her gut just grew worse, as if she’d taken to eating bricks.
When had everything gotten so hard? She looked up at the sky, at the nearly full moon obscured by a silver-plated cloud. When had she’d become this tired, flat version of herself?
She didn’t need to ask the question. She already knew the answer, knew exactly how and when. So the issue wasn’t what was wrong, but how to deal with it. How to fix it—because something had to give. Something had to go. But what?
And somewhere from inside her she heard the answer.
Let go of Father.
Let him go.
And Emily’s eyes, which never watered, never felt anything, burned again, burned for the second time in one day. Before she could fall apart, dissolve into tears, she stripped her shirt off, pulled off her shorts and dove naked into the water, swimming out, swimming far, as far as she could. Then, turning onto her back, she floated, looking up at the sky. In the clouds that slowly covered and uncovered the moon she felt her tiredness, felt the endless weight of battle, the fatigue of never being able to rest, never being able to find peace.
But how to let go of her father?
She flipped over, began swimming again, parallel to the cove, trying somehow to outrun her thoughts. And yet before she’d swum far she understood why Tristano had brought her here, trapped her on St. Matt’s alone with him. He was going to force a confrontation with the past even if it killed her…him…them.
Feeling a prickle of awareness, the same awareness she’d felt earlier at the pool, she knew she wasn’t alone in the cove anymore. Tristano had arrived. She couldn’t see him, but she knew he was on the sand somewhere. Watching.
Slowly she swam back to the shore. As she neared the beach Emily lifted her head and caught sight of him. He stood close to the surf, dressed in faded jeans and a dark T-shirt. He was watching her, waiting for her, and she let herself sink deeper into the water, trepidation weighting her limbs. She couldn’t do this again. Couldn’t argue so soon, not when their confrontation at dinner still troubled her so much.
It wasn’t fun fighting with Tristano. At least there was no fun in it now, when she was close enough to see his face, feel his warmth and intense energy. She’d once been part of his inner circle, and yet now she stood on the outside, bayonet in hand.
As she walked out of the water she kept her chin high, making no apology for her nudity. Tristano dropped
a towel around her shoulders, lightly buffed her skin. “You shouldn’t swim alone at night,” he said.
She took the towel away and wrapped it around her torso, cinching it tightly over her breasts. “I’ve always swum at night.”
“That doesn’t make it right. It’s dangerous—”
“My career is dangerous,” she interrupted impatiently, wringing water from her hair.
Shipping merchandise from China into the States wasn’t without traps. She’d learned all the different methods for avoiding customs—trans-shipping, selling the goods first to a country not associated with counterfeiting and then importing from there, or smuggling the merchandise in containers filled with legal goods—but the pressure was intense, the fear of being caught always there at the back of her mind.
He looked away, muttered something unintelligible, then glanced back down at her. “What happened to you?”
Even in the dark she could see his face clearly and she held his gaze. “I learned from you.”
“Oh, cara—”
“It’s true.” She reached up to comb wet hair back from her forehead. “You were my role model. Whatever you did, I wanted to do.” The corners of her mouth tipped. “Just better.”
“I don’t recall stooping so low as to make cheap, knock-off merchandise.”
“My handbags and suitcases aren’t cheap, and they’re not knock-offs. They’re exact Pelosi design. And maybe you don’t have to go to Asia to get your merchandise made, but I vow if you can make a thousand bags, I can make ten thousand. If you can produce a gorgeous leather, I can do it one better. And that’s been my goal—not to just match you, but beat you.”
“Beat me?”
“Yes.”
“What a terrible waste of your life.”
“I’ve no regrets.”
When he said nothing, she smiled, but she hated how she felt on the inside—so cold, so tired. It felt as if she’d been carrying this enormous burden on her shoulders forever, and she felt exhausted by the weight of it—the weight of worrying, the weight of hating. She’d vowed to make the Ferres pay, and yet she saw now she’d been the one who just continued to suffer.
She could have sworn he knew, that he was thinking the same thing, and he shook his head, his jaw pulling. “You would have been better off focusing your considerable energy into making Ferre Designs succeed.”
“I would never help Ferre Designs.”
“Not even if it benefited you?” he asked softly.
“The only way I could benefit is if Ferre Designs fails.”
“That won’t happen.”
“You sound awfully confident.”
“I am. I know our revenue.” The corner of his mouth lifted in a faint smile. “You’re the one backed into a corner, carissima. You’re facing not just jail time but financial ruin.”
Furious, she squeezed her wet hair again. “I’m prepared.”
“Are you?”
Her chin inched higher. “Yes.”
His gaze never left her face, his blue eyes searching hers intently. “And your mother? Is she prepared?”
For a moment Emily heard—saw—felt nothing, and then the implication of his words hit. “You wouldn’t go after Mum.”
His blue eyes were hard, cool. “I already have.”
Emily let his words seep through her, let the stunning pain go on and on, until she was certain she could speak without her voice betraying her. “What have you done?”
Tristano tipped his head. His expression appeared to gentle, but it was deceptive—nothing about him had gentled. She knew him too well for that.
“Tristano.” She said his name, low and sharp.
His lips curved. His blue eyes flashed. He intended to destroy her. “You weren’t the only one arrested.”
Her jaw dropped, eyes widening in horror. “You didn’t?”
“Cara, you don’t listen. You didn’t heed my warnings. I tried—”
“Not Mum.”
“She’s a Pelosi, too.”
Emily felt wild on the inside. She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t seem to get air inside her despite the fact that her head had begun to swim.
Mum didn’t deserve this. She hadn’t been well. She hadn’t been well for years. But it was worse now…her arthritis so crippling she needed help doing the most basic things, like bathing and dressing. Emily had hired a nurse to stay with her mother so she could make this trip.
“Mum’s not well,” she said quietly, unable to even look at Tristano.
“The officers told me.”
Panic welled fresh. “Officers?”
“The two that arrested her.”
Emily’s legs nearly went out beneath her, and she sank slowly down into the sand, chilled. “You’ve had my mother arrested?”
“She’s on t
he company letterhead.”
“That’s just paper.”
“And she shares ownership in your company stock.”
“Where is she now?”
“Being looked after.”
Her fingers curled into her palms.
Silence stretched, lengthening, and Emily felt as though the sweeping indigo night sky was smothering her, suffocating her. She’d come to St. Matt’s and left her mother at home, helpless and vulnerable. She should never have left at all, but Mum had insisted…had agreed with Annelise that Emily needed a break…Oh, no…
“This isn’t that difficult.” Tristano broke the silence. “You should count yourself lucky—”
“Lucky?” Emily scrambled to her feet, sand flying. She marched on Tristano, trembling with shock and anger. “You killed my father. You killed him, and you think I should feel lucky? That I should welcome marriage because it will what? Stop me from infringing on your copyrighted designs?”
She was poking him in the chest, each furious word accompanied by a stab of her finger, and Tristano gazed down into her flushed face. The moon was reflected in her green eyes, lit with flecks of blue, bright and intense, like the Caribbean waters surrounding the island.
He took her anger, let her fury wash over him. He could handle it. He’d been her first lover, and in some ways he knew her better than himself.
“I want my mother home for Christmas,” she said, her finger still jabbing against his sternum. “She should be home—”
“Marry me, and she will be.”
Emily gasped, fell back a step. “You didn’t just say that.”
“I did. Marry me and we’ll start over. A fresh start—”
“For Ferre Design!”
“For both of us. Correction, for all three of us. Because your mother will benefit, too. As the mother of my wife, I’d make sure she was surrounded by every comfort conceivable.”
Emily took another step backward. Her expression was stricken. “That’s blackmail.”
“If you look at it like that.”
He moved toward her, settled his hands on her bare damp shoulders and felt a shiver race through her. Her shiver should have moved him, but it didn’t. He felt cold and hard on the inside, and he wasn’t going to back off. He knew exactly what he was going to do. Make Emily his. Make her a Ferre, make her family—his family—and nullify the threat to his business and his sanity.
She tried to squirm away. “And how do you look at it, Tristano?”
“Business.”
Her eyes flashed daggers. She hated him. He knew she hated him. But she was still attracted to him, still responded when he touched her, and for now it was enough.
“Merger and acquisition,” he said lightly, carelessly, his fingers tightening against her shoulders. He was rewarded with fresh fire in her eyes, the blue-green irises hot, stormy, like the sea churned by wind and rain.
“I don’t want to be merged or acquired.”
Her voice sounded like brittle bits of glass, and he smiled—because he knew what this was costing her—knew she was fighting for control, for calm—knew that Emily loved a good fight. But he’d taken all her weapons away and she was virtually cornered. Trapped. His favorite place for his favorite Pelosi.
“You should have thought of that before you devoted the last five years of your life to counterfeiting Ferre Designs.”
“They aren’t your designs—”
“Legally they are.”
“Morally they’re not.”
“But law isn’t about morality, is it?” One hand stroked upward, along her neck, to cup her cheek while the other tangled in her long wet hair, keeping her still so she couldn’t escape. “Which is why I can make you mine without any pangs of conscience.”
He forced her head up, forced her to see the desire, the determination in his eyes. “But it’s not as if you’ve no choice, Em. You don’t have to become Signora Ferre.”
“No, I can just let my mother rot in jail.”
“I’m certain the courts would be lenient with her.”
He saw the fury sweep through her, and as she opened her lips to speak he covered her mouth with his and drank her breath and warmth and anger into him.
His lips moved across hers and he could taste salt water, taste the cool ocean on her tongue, and as he sucked the tip of her tongue into his mouth she shuddered, this time with pleasure.
Tristano reached between their bodies, grasped the towel and tugged it off Emily, drawing her naked body into his arms. She arched as she came into contact with his hips, her body instinctively pressing against his. He loved how her breasts felt crushed to his chest, her nipples peaking hard and tight, and as he pressed a hand to her bottom she moaned deep in her throat.
He was hard, and his jeans barely restrained him. It would be so easy to lay her down on the sand here, so easy to put his hand between her legs and feel her softness and warmth. But he kept his desire in check, concentrating instead on the satin texture of her skin and the sweet gentle curve of hip and breast.
She was so responsive to his touch, her slender body rippling with pleasure, and he parted her mouth wider, his tongue teasing her inner lip. Emily tasted of honey and spice. He wanted her, all of her, loved the feel of her body against his, the cool, damp taste of her mouth.
He remembered how sweet she’d tasted when he’d kissed her years ago. As her first lover, he’d taught her his favorite pleasures, showed her how exciting, how erotic lovemaking could be with the right partner. He’d been with plenty of women since that summer, but he’d never forgotten the way she’d felt in his arms, beneath his body. Nor had he forgotten kissing her intimately, tasting her wetness, feeling her shudder against him as she broke in waves of sensation.
He’d discovered everything he could about her that August, discovered she was curious and open, trusting, sensitive. He’d discovered she welcomed his hands, his mouth, his body, his touch. He’d discovered she enjoyed lovemaking—sex—as much as he did, and they’d spent hours alone—hours wrapped in nothing but each other’s skin.
Tristano had waited a long time to reclaim her, but he’d known all along that eventually he would. She didn’t even know that the lawsuits, the counterfeiting, had just played into his hands, giving him power over her.
His hands shaped her hips, held her firmly against him, and she quivered when he curved his palms across the firm contours of her bare bottom, molding her even more closely to him.
“Tristano…” She choked against his mouth and she shook, her whole body trembling.
He lifted his head and gazed down, uncertain what he’d find in her eyes. They were wide, wet with tears.
“You will make me hate you,” she said, her voice breaking, her control smashed.
“But you already do,” he reminded her, stroking her soft, warm cheek before tracing the swollen contours of her mouth.
Blindly Emily pushed against his chest, pushing to be free, and his arms fell away. He was the one who stepped back and retrieved her towel, draping her body again.
Emily clutched the edges of the towel. “I’m not afraid of you, Tristano.”
“No, you’re just afraid of yourself.”
Sick with self-loathing, Emily stumbled back to her bedroom. She headed straight for the bathroom and turned on the shower.
What had she done?
But she didn’t have to try hard to remember…didn’t have to try at all to see herself in Tristano’s arms, her body fitted to his, her desire spiraling higher and hotter, threatening to spiral right out of control.
Despite it being three-thirty in the morning, she was desperate to get clean, to rinse the sea and sand and Tristano’s touch away. But even after scrubbing, even after toweling off and climbing back into bed, she still felt his hands, his mouth, his hard body against hers. In his arms she’d lost all control. She’d been completely gone—reason and rationality swept away in the face of her tremendous physical need.
Maybe that was what made
her feel so sick right now. The fact that she’d wanted him so much. The fact that she’d turned her conscience off, turned down the volume on her voice of self-respect and given herself over to Tristano’s touch, given in to hedonistic pleasure.
Worse, she still wanted his touch. Wanted more of what they’d started. But it wasn’t right. She knew who he was, what he represented…how could she just hand herself over to Tristano like that?
Yet thinking back to the beach, remembering the feel of him against her body, the shape of him, the strength and hard warmth of him, she knew it had been natural.
The attraction hadn’t died over the years. If anything, it was stronger, more real than ever before. Desire had just flared, shooting to life, superseding everything else. Including self-preservation.
Marry Tristano? She might as well put her head on the chopping block.
CHAPTER FIVE
“WE’RE heading out for the day,” Tristano said the next morning, appearing on the terrace, lazily ruffling his still damp hair. He’d obviously just showered, for his jaw was freshly shaven and his shirt hadn’t been buttoned yet, the linen fabric hanging open over tanned, honed muscle.
He looked too good, Emily thought resentfully, not knowing where to look—at his clean, smooth jaw or the lean hard muscle of his torso.
Her gaze skimmed his face—the intense blue eyes, the deep groves etched on either side of his mouth, his mouth itself. She’d always loved Tristano’s mouth. He had lips that were real. Firm. Full. Wide enough to smile, sensitive enough to kiss properly. But then her gaze dropped down, to the sinewy plane of his chest, and then lower still, lingering appreciatively on his flat stomach with its tight, rippling abs.
It wasn’t right that a man in love with his company, a man married to his work, should have a body like this. Tristano’s large frame, with its abundance of smooth, hard muscle made her crave skin. His skin.
