Helena’s smile faltered. His casually delivered words carried a meaning she couldn’t fail to comprehend. Not when her own words—words she’d bet every hard-earned penny in her bank account had hurt her more than they’d hurt him—were embedded like thorns in her memory. I’m bored, Leo. Really. This relationship just isn’t working for me.
She shifted in her seat, her face heating. ‘That’s unfair.’ She glanced around the table, pitching her voice for his ears alone. ‘I tried once to explain why I said those things.’
After he’d left that awful message on her phone—telling her what her father had done, accusing her of betrayal and complicity—she’d gone to his hotel room and banged on his door until her hand throbbed and a man from a neighbouring room stepped out and shot her a filthy look.
‘You didn’t want to listen.’
He shrugged. ‘I was angry,’ he stated, as if he need offer no further excuse.
‘You still are.’
‘Perhaps. But now I’m listening.’
‘I doubt that.’
‘Try me.’
She arched an eyebrow. He wanted to do this now? Here? She cast another furtive glance around the table. Fine.
‘I needed you to let me go without a fight,’ she said, her voice a decibel above a whisper. ‘And we both know you wouldn’t have. Not without questions. Not unless I—’ She stopped, a hot lump of regret lodging in her throat.
‘Stamped on my pride?’ he finished for her.
Her face flamed hotter. Must he make her sound so cruel? So heartless? She’d been nineteen, for pity’s sake, staring down the barrel of her father’s ultimatum. Get rid of the damned foreigner, girl—or I will. Naive. That was what she’d been. And unforgivably stupid, thinking she could live beyond the reach of her father’s iron control.
She smoothed her napkin over her knees. ‘I did what I thought was best at the time.’
‘For you or for me?’
‘For us both.’
‘Ah. So you were being...how do you English like to say it...cruel to be kind?’
His eyes drilled into hers, but she refused to flinch from his cutting glare. She didn’t need his bitter accusations. She, too, had paid a price, and however much she longed to turn back the clock, undo the damage, she could not relieve the pain of her past. Not when she’d worked so hard, sacrificed so much, to leave it behind.
She mustered another smile, this one urbane and slightly aloof—the kind her mother often wore in public. ‘Hans and Sabine seem like a nice couple. Have you known them long?’
The change of subject earned her a piercing stare. She held her breath. Would he roll with it?
Then, ‘Nine years.’
He spoke curtly, but still she breathed again, relaxed a little. Perhaps a normal conversation wasn’t impossible? ‘You never talked much about your sister,’ she ventured. ‘Sabine mentioned surgery. Is Marietta unwell?’
Long, silent seconds passed and Helena’s stomach plunged as the dots she should have connected earlier—Leo’s choice of fundraiser, Hans’s reputation as a leading spinal surgeon, talk of the Berlin research unit followed by the mention of Marietta and surgery—belatedly joined in her head to create a complete picture.
A muscle jumped in Leo’s cheek. ‘My sister is a paraplegic.’
The blood that had heated Helena’s cheeks minutes earlier rapidly fled. ‘Oh, Leo. I’m... I’m so sorry.’ She reached out—an impulsive gesture of comfort—but he shifted his arm before her hand could make contact. She withdrew, pretending his rebuff hadn’t stung. ‘I had no idea. How...how long?’
‘Eleven years.’
Her throat constricted with sympathy and, though she knew it was silly, a tiny stab of hurt. Seven years ago they’d spent five intense, heady weeks together, and though he’d mentioned a sister, talked briefly about their difficult childhood, he’d omitted that significant piece of information.
Still, was that cause to feel miffed? She, too, had been selective in what she’d shared about her family.
‘Did she have an...an accident?’
‘Yes.’ His tone was clipped.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I didn’t mean to pry. I can see you don’t want to talk about this.’
She lifted a pitcher of iced water in an effort to do something—anything—to dispel the growing tension. She’d half filled her glass when he spoke again.
‘It was a car accident.’
Startled, she put the pitcher down and looked at him, but his head was angled down, his gaze fastened on the wineglass in his hand.
‘She was seventeen and angry because we’d argued about her going to a party.’ His black brows tugged into a deep frown. ‘I didn’t like the neighbourhood or the crowd, but she was stubborn. Headstrong. So she went anyway. Later, instead of calling me for a ride home, she climbed into a car with a drunk driver.’ He drained his wine, dropped the glass on the table. ‘The doctors said she was lucky to survive—if you can call a broken back “lucky”. The driver and two other passengers weren’t so fortunate.’
Helena tried to imagine the horror. Teenagers made bad decisions all the time, but few suffered such devastating, life-altering consequences. Few paid such an unimaginable price.
She struggled to keep her expression neutral, devoid of the wrenching pity it was impossible not to feel. ‘Sabine mentioned surgery. Is there a chance...?’
Leo’s gaze connected with hers, something harsh, almost hostile, flashing at the centre of those near-black irises. ‘Let’s drop it.’
Slightly taken aback, Helena opened her mouth to point out she had tried to drop the subject, but his dark expression killed that pert response. ‘Fine,’ she said, and for the next hour ignored him—which wasn’t difficult because over the rest of their dinner another guest drew him into a lengthy debate on European politics, while the American couple to Helena’s right quizzed her about the best places to visit during their six-month sabbatical in England.
When desserts began to arrive at the tables the compѐre tapped his microphone, waited for eyes to focus and chatter to cease, then invited one of the organisation’s patrons, Leonardo Vincenti, to present the grand auction prize. After a brief hesitation Helena joined in the applause. In light of his sister’s condition Leo’s patronage came as no real surprise.
His mouth brushed her ear as he rose. ‘Don’t run away.’
And then he was striding to the podium, a tall, compelling figure that drew the attention of every person—male and female—in the room. On stage, he delivered a short but pertinent speech before presenting a gold envelope to the evening’s highest bidder. People clapped again, finished their desserts, then got up to mingle while coffee was served.
Twenty minutes later Helena still sat alone.
Irritation sent a wave of prickly heat down her spine.
Don’t run away.
Ha! The man had a nerve.
She dumped sugar into her tea. Gave it a vigorous stir. Was he playing some kind of cat-and-mouse game? Or had he cut his losses and gone in search of a more agreeable companion for the evening?
Another ten minutes and finally he deigned to show. He dropped into his chair but she refused to look at him, concentrating instead on topping up her tea.
‘You have no boyfriend to spend your Friday nights with, Helena?’
Her pulse skipped a beat. No apology, then. No excuse for his absence. Had his desertion been some kind of test? An experiment to see if she’d slink away the minute his back was turned? The idea did nothing to lessen her pique.
She piled more sugar in her tea. ‘He’s busy tonight.’
‘Really?’ His tone said he knew damn well she was lying. He lifted his hand and trailed a fingertip over the exposed curve of her shoulder. ‘If you were mine I would not let you spend an evening with another man.’ He paused a beat. ‘Especially not in that dress.’
Carefully, she stirred her tea and laid the spoon in the saucer. He was trying to unsettle her, nothing
more. She steeled herself not to flinch from his touch or, worse, tremble beneath it.
His hand dropped and she forced herself to meet his eye. ‘You said my dress was fine.’
His gaze raked her. ‘Oh, it’s fine. Very fine, indeed. And I am sure not a man here tonight would disagree.’
Did she detect a note of censure in his voice? She stopped herself glancing down. She’d been conscious of her plunging neckline all evening, but there were dozens of cleavages here more exposed than her own. And, though the dress was more suited to a cocktail party or a private dinner than a glittering gala affair—cause at first for discomfort—there was nothing cheap or trashy about it.
She crossed her legs, allowing her hem to ride up, until another inch of pale thigh defiantly showed. ‘And you?’ She watched his gaze flicker down. ‘I wouldn’t have thought a man like you would need a last-minute dinner date. Where’s your regular plus-one tonight?’
His lips, far too sensual for a man’s, twitched into a smile. ‘A man like me?’
‘Successful,’ she said, inwardly cursing her choice of words. ‘Money attracts, does it not? The world is full of women who find wealth and status powerful aphrodisiacs.’
One eyebrow quirked. ‘When did you become a cynic?’
‘Oh, I don’t know.’ She pursed her lips. ‘Maybe around the time you were getting rich.’
He lounged back in his chair, the glint in his eye unmissable. ‘In answer to your question, I’m between mistresses.’
‘Oh...’ She fiddled with the handle on her teacup.
Not girlfriends or partners. Mistresses. Why did that word make her heart shrink? So he enjoyed casual relationships. So what? His sex life was no business of hers.
She sat back, forced herself to focus. She couldn’t afford to waste time. The evening was slipping away. If she didn’t speak soon her chance would be lost. ‘Leo, my father and I are estranged.’
In a flash, the teasing light was gone from his eyes. Her stomach pitched. Should she have blurted the words so abruptly? Too bad. They were out there now.
A vein pulsed in his right temple. ‘Define “estranged”.’
She hitched a shoulder, let it drop. ‘We don’t talk. We don’t see each other. We’re estranged in every sense of the word, if that’s what you’re asking.’
‘Why?’
She hesitated. How much to tell? The bitter memory of that final violent confrontation with her father was too disturbing to recount even now.
‘We fell out,’ she said, her tongue dry despite the gallon of tea she’d consumed. ‘Over you and what he did after we—after I broke things off. I walked out seven years ago and we haven’t spoken since.’ She paused and glanced down. Her hands were shaking. She lifted her gaze back to his. ‘I dropped out of university and went to live in a rented flat. Father cut off my allowance, froze my trust, so I work at a full-time job. As a...a secretary. In a bank.’
Leo stared at her, his face so blank she wondered if he’d heard a single word she said. Her insides churned as if the tea had suddenly curdled in her belly. She wished she could read him better. Wished she could interpret the emotion in those dark, fathomless eyes.
And still the silence stretched.
God, why didn’t he say something?
‘You gave up your design studies?’
She blinked. That was his first question? ‘Yes,’ she said, frowning. ‘I couldn’t study full-time and support myself. The materials I needed were too expensive.’
Other students on her textile design course had juggled part-time jobs along with their studies, but they’d had only themselves to think about. They hadn’t been facing the same dilemmas, the same fears. They hadn’t been in Helena’s position. Alone and pregnant.
Careful.
She shrugged. ‘I might go back one day. But that’s not important. Leo, what I’m trying to tell you is that I’m not here for my father.’
‘Then why are you here?’
She leaned forward. ‘Because what you’re doing will hurt the people I do love. And before you remind me that my father—and thus his family—stands to gain financially from having his company torn apart, it’s not about the money.’
Helena hesitated. She had to choose her words with care. Miriam Shaw might be too proud to admit to herself, let alone the world, that she was a victim, but she was none the less entitled to her privacy. Her dignity. She wouldn’t want the painful truth about her marriage shared with a stranger. Who knew what Leo might do with such sensitive information?
‘My father can be...difficult to live with,’ she said. ‘At the best of times.’
Leo sat so still he barely blinked. Seemed barely to breathe. ‘So what exactly do you want?’
‘I want you to reconsider your plans for ShawCorp.’ The words tumbled out so fast her tongue almost tripped on them. ‘At the very least give my father more time to come to the table. Offer him a chance to have a say in the company’s future. Maybe keep his position on the board.’
He gave her a long, hard look. ‘That’s a lot of want, Helena. You do realise my company is overseen by a board of directors? I am not the sole decision-maker.’
‘But you have influence, surely?’
‘Of course. But I need good reason. Your concern for your family is admirable, but this is business. I cannot let a little family dysfunction dictate corporate strategy.’
‘Can’t you at least delay Tuesday’s deadline by a few weeks?’
His eyebrows slammed down and he muttered something under his breath. Something not especially nice.
He rose. ‘We will finish this talk later.’
Warmth leached from her face. Her hands. Had she pushed too hard? Said too much? ‘Why can’t we finish it now?’
He moved behind her chair, lowered his head to hers. The subtle scent of spice twined around her senses. ‘Because we’re about to have company.’ His hot breath fanned her cheek. ‘Important company. And if you want me to consider your request you will be very, very well behaved.’
CHAPTER THREE
LEO STRAIGHTENED AND quelled the urge to mutter another oath.
Of all the damnable luck. This night was going from bad to worse. First a call on his mobile from a board member whose angst over a minor matter had required twenty minutes of placation, followed by his relief at finding Helena hadn’t done a runner in his absence turning into stunned disbelief over her staggering revelations—revelations his reeling brain had yet to fully process.
And now Carlos Santino. Here in London. At this hotel. At this function.
Tension coiled in his gut as the older Italian approached. Santino stood a full head shorter than Leo, but the man’s stocky build and confident gait more than made up for his lack of stature. Add to that hard, intelligent eyes above a beaked nose and a straight mouth, and you had the impression of a man who tolerated weakness in neither himself nor others.
Leo liked him. Respected him. Santino Shipping dominated the world’s waterways, and in the last three years its cyber security needs had generated sizable revenue for Leo’s company. The two men shared a business relationship based on mutual trust and respect.
But Leo had not seen Carlos Santino for several months.
Not since he’d rejected the man’s daughter.
‘Carlos.’ He gripped Santino’s hand. ‘This is unexpected. What brings you to London? I thought few things could prise you away from Rome.’
His client grunted. ‘Shopping. Shows. Anything my wife and daughter can spend my money on.’ A chunky gold watch and a heavy signet ring flashed in the air. ‘Nothing they cannot get in Rome, or Milan, but you know women—’ he shrugged expressively ‘—they are easily bored.’
Leo fired a loaded glance at Helena, but she was already rising, gifting the newcomer a million-dollar smile that drove a spike of irrational jealousy through his chest because he wasn’t the recipient.
‘Helena, this is Carlos Santino, head of Santino Shipping.’ A deliberate paus
e gave his next words emphasis. ‘One of my company’s largest clients.’
She extended a slim hand. ‘A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Santino.’
‘The pleasure is mine.’ Santino’s hand engulfed hers. ‘And, please, call me Carlos.’ For a long moment he studied her face in a frank appraisal that nearly but not quite overstepped the bounds of propriety. By the time he released her hand, her cheeks glowed a delicate pink. He turned to Leo. ‘Business is not your only good reason for visiting London, si?’
Leo forced a smile that almost made his eyes water. ‘This is a coincidence, running into you here.’ He pulled out a vacated chair for his client. ‘Maria and Anna are with you?’
Carlos waited for Helena to resume her seat before taking the proffered chair. ‘This was Anna’s idea. She remembered you were patron of this organisation and...well—’ another very Italian shrug ‘—when my wife planned the weekend Anna called your office and asked if you would be in London.’ His smile offered only the vaguest apology. ‘You know my daughter. She is resourceful and persistent. And furious with her papà right now. She woke with a bad cold this morning and I forbade her to come out. The tickets were already purchased and Maria insisted she and I still come.’ He waved his hand. ‘My wife is here somewhere—no doubt talking with someone more interesting than her husband.’
Some of Leo’s tension eased. The young, voluptuous Anna Santino was an irritation he’d spent several months trying hard to avoid. Running into her this evening, or rather running from her, would have turned the night into a complete disaster.
Carlos switched his attention to Helena. ‘It is fortunate, I think, that my daughter could not be here tonight. I fear she would be jealous of such a beauty at Leo’s side.’
The provocative compliment heightened her colour but her hesitation was brief. ‘I’m so sorry to hear your daughter is too ill to come out, Mr San—Carlos. That really is most unfortunate.’ Her voice sang with sympathy. ‘I do hope she’ll be back on her feet again soon. You must tell her she has missed a wonderful, wonderful evening.’
Leo fought back a smirk. She might blush like a novice in a convent, but there was backbone beneath that pseudo-innocent charm. He noted a quirk at the corner of Santino’s mouth. A flash of approval in his eyes.
Surrendering to the Vengeful Italian Page 4
