Surrendering to the Vengeful Italian

by Angela Bissell

  Leo sat—or rather, lounged—in a blue and gold brocade chair in the private sitting room, a half-consumed glass of champagne at his elbow, his long legs stretched out over a plush velvet rug.

  He didn’t bother glancing up from his phone. ‘Scusi?’

  She scored her palms with the tips of her nails. ‘Don’t scusi me. You heard me perfectly well. This is pointless.’

  He pocketed the phone and raised his head, his gaze travelling with a discernible lack of haste from her feet to her face. She squirmed, heat trailing over her skin in the wake of his indolent scrutiny. Teeth gritted, she fought the urge to adjust the robe over her breasts.

  ‘Pointless only because you are being stubborn.’

  She snorted. ‘I’m not stubborn. I’m just...selective. I haven’t seen anything I like, that’s all.’

  ‘You have tried on fourteen dresses.’

  He was counting? She crossed her arms. ‘And I told you—I haven’t seen anything I like.’

  ‘Then I suggest you find something you do.’

  ‘And if I don’t?’

  ‘I will choose for you.’

  The desire to stamp her foot was overwhelming. But no doubt he would enjoy her loss of composure. She settled for raising her chin. ‘I don’t know what type of relationships you have with the women in your life, and frankly I don’t care. But I, for one, do not like to be bullied.’

  In a single fluid movement of his powerful frame Leo surged off his chair. He prowled towards her and her nerves skittered, but she held her ground. He stopped just short of their bodies touching and locked his gaze on hers.

  ‘My mother gave me three pieces of advice before she died.’

  It wasn’t remotely what she’d expected him to say. She frowned, uncertain. ‘Did she?’

  ‘Si.’ His right index finger appeared in front of her face. ‘One, to take my schooling seriously.’ His middle finger rose beside the first. ‘Two, to learn English and learn it well.’ His third finger snapped up to join the others. ‘And three, always to choose my battles wisely.’

  Her frown deepened—a convulsive tug of the tiny muscles between her brows. During their brief time together he’d not spoken of his mother except to say that she’d died when he was eleven. Her heart squeezed now at the thought of a young boy grieving for his mother and it stirred a ridiculous urge to comfort him—this proud, infuriating man who wouldn’t accept her comfort if they were the last two people on Earth.

  ‘Your mother was a sensible woman,’ she ventured, unsure how else to respond.

  ‘Si.’ He hooked his fingers under her chin. ‘And her advice has served me well. As it will you, if you have the sense to heed it.’

  She gave him a blank look. ‘I was a straight A student, thank you very much. And I think you’ll find my English is perfect.’

  His teeth bared in a sharp smile that mocked her attempt to miss the point. ‘Then you will have no trouble understanding this.’ He lowered his mouth to her ear, his breath feathering over her skin in a hot, too-intimate caress. ‘Wisdom is not only in choosing your battles with care, cara. It is knowing when to concede defeat. We will stay here until you choose a dress or I will choose one for you. Those are your options. Accept and decide.’

  ‘I—’

  He planted a brief, hard kiss on her mouth, stealing her breath along with any further attempt at protest, then held her gaze in mute challenge until she gave a grunt of anger and whirled away.

  ‘Bully,’ she muttered, but he either didn’t hear or chose to ignore the slur, and by the time the saleswoman reappeared he was seated again, dark head bowed, his attention back on his phone.

  With mammoth effort she mustered a smile and cast a critical eye over the two latest gowns, both backless halternecks with ankle-length skirts, one a bright turquoise, the other a deep, stunning claret. She ran an appreciative hand over the latter.

  The saleswoman removed the dress from its hanger. ‘Beautiful, si?’

  Helena had to agree. ‘How much?’ she asked quietly.

  The Italian woman quoted a number in euros that dropped the bottom out of Helena’s stomach. The equivalent in pounds would pay the rent on her flat not for weeks, but for months.

  She slipped into the gown and it was even more beautiful on, its weightless silk gliding like cool air over her body, the shimmering claret a striking contrast against her pale ivory skin. She performed a little pirouette in front of the mirror, her stomach fluttering with a burst of unexpected pleasure.

  The saleswoman smiled. ‘This is the one?’

  Helena hesitated. Could she really allow Leo to buy her this dress? She studied her reflection. A lot of skin was exposed, and the style called for going braless, but he had said he wanted her in something more eye-catching. Something more befitting his mistress.

  She chewed her lip. She could go out there, parade for his approval, but pride and some residual anger over his high-handedness stopped her. Maybe she lacked the glamour of his usual mistresses, and maybe her wardrobe was a little staid, but she still had enough feminine savvy to know when she looked good.

  Confidence swelled. Yes. She could do this. She could play her part and convince the world—or at least the Santinos and their guests—that she and Leo were lovers. She had to. If she wanted to honour her end of their bargain—if she wanted Leo to honour his—there could be no half-hearted performances. She either did this properly or not at all.

  She gave the ever-patient saleswoman a beatific smile. ‘This is the one.’

  * * *

  Leo eased the Maserati to a stop in the gravel courtyard outside the Santinos’ palatial mountainside villa. Behind him a long queue of taxis, luxury cars and black-windowed limousines stretched into the distance. Valets swarmed like worker ants on a sugar trail, keeping the line moving as guests poured from the vehicles and watchful dark-suited security men oversaw the hustle of activity.

  He glanced at Helena, sitting silent in the passenger seat, but her face was angled away and he couldn’t gauge her reaction.

  He liked the way she’d styled her hair tonight, her glossy curls piled high on her head, a few random ringlets left loose to float around her face. He didn’t like that all he could think about was how it would feel to pull out the pins and watch those silky tresses spill over his hands...his sheets...his thighs...

  He killed the engine. ‘Are you ready for this?’

  Her head swung around, her blue eyes inscrutable under their canopy of dark lashes. ‘Yes. Are you?’

  He smiled at the challenge in her voice. ‘Always.’ He fired off a wink that earned him a frown, then climbed out, grabbed his suit jacket from the back seat and shrugged it on.

  On the other side a valet opened Helena’s door and she stepped out, a swathe of rich burgundy silk cascading like wine-infused water down her body. She smiled, and the kid’s face split into a goofy grin that lasted all of three seconds—until he met Leo’s dark stare.

  ‘One scratch,’ he warned in Italian, handing over his key, ‘and I will find you.’

  The young man nodded, his Adam’s apple bobbing as if jerked by an unseen string, and Leo eyeballed him until he disappeared into the driver’s seat.

  The vehicle purred to life and Helena froze, her eyes widening. ‘The gift!’ She whirled and tapped on the side window as the car started to move. When it stopped she pulled open the back door and reached into the footwell.

  Behind her Leo dug his fingers into his palms. Did his damnedest not to notice how the sheer dress clung to her hips and buttocks below her naked back. An exercise in futility, no less. He’d have to be blind not to notice all that smooth ivory skin. Those beautiful curves.

  Dio.

  He should have let her wear the black dress. It might remind him of a nun’s habit, but at least his thoughts wouldn’t be steeped in sin.

  She turned and stilled, the gift-wrapped antique silver Tiffany bowl clutched in her hands. ‘You can stop looking at me like that.’

&nb
sp; Like what? Like he wanted to slide her dress up her thighs and bend her over the hood of his Maserati? He unfurled his hands. Tried to blank his expression. Hell, was he that transparent?

  ‘I’m not going to screw this up, so you can wipe that frown off your face,’ she said, her voice tinged with exasperation. ‘Here—’ she thrust the gift at him ‘—you take this. It’s your gift.’

  And a detail he’d have overlooked if she hadn’t asked him earlier in the day what he’d bought the Santinos. Normally his PA took care of such things, but Gina had had a family emergency on Tuesday and he’d told her to take the rest of the week off work. He’d cursed at the oversight, but Helena had promptly set about finding something suitable—and pricey, he’d noted when handing over his credit card. Funny... Once she’d overcome her reluctance to choosing a dress she’d warmed noticeably to the idea of spending his money.

  Inside, a waiter took the gift, offered them wine and guided them through a long piano hall doubling as a ballroom and outside to the uppermost of three sprawling terraces. A floodlit swimming pool dominated the middle tier and in the distance, beyond the landscaped grounds, the lights of Rome winked like fallen stars under a purpling sky, painting a view of the ancient city that might have been impressive—breathtaking, even—had the flash and dazzle of the party guests crowding the travertine terraces not eclipsed the panorama beyond.

  ‘Oh, my.’ Helena stood beside him, one hand resting in the crook of his arm, the other cradling a glass of ruby-red wine. ‘It’s very...um...’

  Leo dragged his gaze from the landscape back to the glittering assemblage before them. ‘Flamboyant?’ He didn’t bother hushing his voice. The music piped into every corner of the grounds, mixed with the babble of a hundred conversations and the chiming of crystal and laughter, made discretion unnecessary.

  ‘That’s one description.’

  ‘You can think of others?’

  ‘Mmm... Nothing as polite. You should have told me I’d need my sunglasses.’

  Her wry humour extracted a grin from him. ‘We Italians know how to do bling, si?’

  After a short silence she squeezed his arm. ‘Thank you.’

  He looked down at her. ‘For what?’

  ‘For not letting me wear that “boring” black dress.’

  He shrugged. ‘It wasn’t—’

  ‘Charity.’ She looked him in the eye. ‘Yes. I know. But thank you all the same.’

  Her gratitude caused a ripple of guilt to radiate through him. The truth was she could have worn a sack and still outclassed every woman here—a fact he’d been confident of long before they’d arrived—but he had wanted to see her in something other than the nondescript black that seemed to have become her standard default. Had wanted, for reasons he refused to examine too closely, to see a glimpse of the old Helena.

  She turned, lifted her face and broke into a smile that struck him square in the chest. ‘Whisper in my ear and kiss me,’ she said, her voice urgent, breathy. ‘Carlos is on his way over. And he has company.’

  Well, hell... That was an invitation he didn’t need to hear twice. Without a beat of hesitation he put his lips to her ear, murmured a few words in Italian, then angled his mouth over hers.

  And tried not to groan at the feel of her soft lips parting under his.

  Just for show, he reminded himself, as the temptation to run his tongue into those warm, honeyed depths proved a true test of his restraint. Even knowing that his host approached and others looked on, he wanted to prolong the kiss into something far less chaste and fit for public display.

  Helena, by contrast, appeared in full control, and by the time Carlos—and his daughter—reached their side she was rubbing the gloss off his lips and giggling as if they’d just shared some private joke.

  Anna Santino glowered at them.

  ‘Good to see you again, my friend.’ Grinning, Carlos took Leo’s hand in a strong grip. ‘And Helena.’ He turned, clasped her hands and kissed her on both cheeks. ‘You look radiant, my dear. I am delighted you could make it.’

  ‘Thank you, Carlos.’

  Her voice was husky, her cheeks tinged a delicate shade of pink. From the compliment? Or their kiss? The latter, he hoped.

  ‘And congratulations on your wedding anniversary. What a wonderful party your wife has thrown. Thank you again for inviting us both.’

  Carlos inclined his head towards the dark-haired girl by his side. ‘May I introduce my daughter, Anna?’

  Helena extended her hand, smiled warmly. ‘It’s a pleasure to meet you, Anna.’

  ‘Likewise,’ the younger woman said, her pretty face barely cracking a smile.

  Had Leo been a betting man he’d have wagered that Carlos had dragged her over, told her to be polite, but the young socialite’s pout said she was in no mood to be gracious.

  She dropped Helena’s hand and nodded at Leo, her brown eyes dark. Petulant. ‘Leo.’

  ‘Anna,’ he said, and felt Helena’s slender hand slide into his.

  She pressed close and he caught a drift of the light, summery scent she wore on her skin. He tightened his hand over hers and she squeezed back, the contact spreading a peculiar warmth up his arm.

  Smiling, she addressed Carlos. ‘Leo has persuaded me to stay in Rome for an entire week. I’m planning to sightsee while he’s working, but it’s hard to know where to start. There’s so much of your fabulous city to see.’

  Smart girl. A safe, neutral topic and an irresistible opening to a man passionate about his city. Asking questions, listening intently, she kept the conversation alive until finally Carlos excused himself, invited them to a Sunday luncheon for their out-of-town guests, and moved on with his hosting duties. His sullen-faced daughter, who’d uttered not a word since the introductions, trailed away with him into the crowd.

  Helena stared after them. ‘She looks so miserable I almost feel sorry for her.’

  He snorted. ‘Don’t.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘She’s a pampered party girl with three priorities in life. Money, attention, and getting what she wants.’

  Helena’s expression was contemplative. ‘She didn’t get you.’

  Thank God. He almost shuddered with relief. ‘And see how she sulks.’

  ‘Yes.’ Helena sighed. ‘A tragedy in the making, no doubt.’ She hooked her arm through his. ‘I dare say the poor girl’s heart is ruined. You do realise she may never get over you?’

  He narrowed his eyes. ‘Are you mocking me, Helena?’

  Her lashes swept down, but not before he’d caught the bright glitter of amusement in her eyes. He felt a thump under his ribs. A stirring of recognition in his blood. There. That’s her. That’s the girl you remember.

  She signalled a passing waiter, swapped her empty wineglass for a full one and turned her mischievous eyes back to him. ‘Darling...’ she cooed, loud enough for those nearby to overhear. ‘Make fun of you?’ She pursed her lips in mock reproach. ‘Never. You’re too sensitive. It’s one of the things I adore about you. Come on.’ She grabbed his hand. ‘The night is young. Let’s mingle.’

  Letting her lead him into the crowd, Leo filed a mental note to teach her later about the perils of overacting. He could think of any number of activities he’d enjoy performing with her right now. Mingling wasn’t one of them.

  Yet mingle they did. For two endless hours. Hours during which his eyes glazed over and he repeatedly fought the urge to glance at his watch. Small talk was an art he’d mastered over the years out of necessity, not preference. Business dinners and charity events—the select few he supported—at least had a deeper purpose. But the kind of meaningless prattle that typified gatherings like this invariably wore at his patience.

  ‘Signor?’

  Assuming it was a waiter who had spoken behind him, Leo turned to say that he didn’t want a drink or another damned canapé. What he wanted, he thought moodily, was Helena back by his side. How long did a woman need to powder her nose?

  He frow
ned. The waiter was not bearing the usual tray of decadent offerings.

  ‘Signor Vincenti?’

  His frown sharpened. ‘Si.’

  ‘Signorina Shaw would like you to know she is resting in the salon off the piano hall.’

  Resting? ‘Is she all right?’

  The man hesitated. ‘Si. But there has been a small incident—’

  Leo didn’t wait for the man to finish. He powered up the steps of the terrace and into the hall, skirting the edge of the surging, overcrowded dance floor until he found the salon. He paused in the doorway. In the far corner Helena sat on a red velvet divan, and a kneeling waiter held a compress to the top of her left foot. Off to the side, a middle-aged couple hovered. As if intuiting his arrival, Helena glanced up and smiled and his chest flooded with relief.

  He strode over.

  ‘I’m fine, darling,’ she said, her game face firmly in place. ‘I just had a minor mishap.’

  The middle-aged woman stepped forward. ‘Je suis vraiment désolée—I am so sorry,’ she added in heavily French-accented English. ‘I was clumsy. We were dancing and I did not see her walk past behind me.’

  Leo took in the woman’s solid frame and six-inch stilettos, then glanced at Helena’s foot with renewed concern. ‘Scusami,’ he said to the waiter, indicating that he should lift the compress, and then knelt on one knee to examine the damage.

  ‘It’s not serious,’ Helena said quickly. She looked up to the woman. ‘Please don’t feel bad. It’s just a scratch.’

  More like a gouge and the promise of a decent bruise, but, no, it wasn’t serious. He stood, picked up her purse and the high-heeled sandal she had removed and put them in her hands. Then he bent and hooked one arm around her back, the other under her knees, and lifted her against his chest.

  ‘Oh!’ Her exclamation came out on a gush of air. She frowned at him even as her arms looped around his neck. ‘Really, darling.’ She gave a little laugh. ‘This isn’t necessary. I can walk.’

  He ignored her protest. ‘Thank you for your concern,’ he said to the couple. ‘Please enjoy the rest of your evening.’ He nodded to the waiter. ‘Grazie.’