The Italian's Vengeful Seduction

Then she looked pointedly at him and feigned a look of surprise.

‘I’m sorry—have I spilled something?’ she said, looking down at her chest. Then she took her time readjusting those goddamn straps over one breast and then the other, wriggling and jiggling her flesh and flicking at little flecks of invisible dust. It was a car crash. He couldn’t look away. She was teasing him out of his mind. Just as she’d used to. Teasing but never giving out. At least not to him.

‘So, how is your mother? Did she remarry?’

He lifted her cup and turned away to the coffee machine. A few minutes making coffee and talking about Montauk ought to do the trick.

‘No, thankfully she made a lucky escape. But there are so many assholes in the world. I’m sure you know what I mean.’

He smiled and refilled her coffee cup, put it down in front of her, noting the way she shifted in her chair. She couldn’t resist.

‘She’s still in Montauk, right?’

‘Yes, still there. Same house. New curtains.’

He frowned. ‘Sorry—what?’

‘Doesn’t matter. What about you?’ she said, changing the subject with another forced smile. ‘Is the old gang all back in touch now that you’ve got all that bullion to sell? Or buy? Or whatever it is you do nowadays?’

He nodded. ‘Something like that.’

He could go into it—tell her about his years spent in penury following the humiliation of being tossed out on his ass, the journey south, then east, bumming across Europe, then India, until he landed his first break exporting gold. Then his time in Italy, picking up what he could about winemaking from his extended family. Finally thinking that there might be a way back home.

But—no. There would be nothing to gain in sharing any of that. He’d drawn a line.

He drained the last of his coffee. So much caffeine, so much adrenaline. So much stress...

Maybe he should go easy for the rest of the day. There was a lot still to do.

‘So, been here long?’

She was looking round the kitchen, her eyes landing quickly on different things and then dancing on and moving back to his face. With that smirk.

‘A while. A year.’

‘Really?’ She nodded contemplatively. ‘Don’t you hang out here much, then?’

‘Not sure what you’re getting at, Stacey...’

‘Your villa. It’s pretty vanilla—almost as sterile as that hospital. No offence. Just not how I remember the Meadows at all.’

He lifted the two cups and walked to the dishwasher.

The Meadows. It had been years since he had heard his home called that. It was the name the locals had given it and it harked back to the first white settlers who’d come from England. But it had been Sant’Angelo’s since the Borsattos had taken up residence there. And it would be Sant’Angelo’s again soon.

‘None taken. As I said—the spare bedroom is down the hall.’

She took the hint and stood up.

‘I’m sure I’ll find it,’ she replied. ‘And, hey, thanks again for the jacket.’

She patted it and—dammit—his eyes landed there again.

‘And the trip to the hospital. I—appreciate it.’

She smiled softly and for the first time it looked genuine.

‘As I said...least I could do.’

She nodded and picked up her purse, then started to make her way down the hallway. Her long brown hair sank down over the nape of her neck in a silken sweep, landing an inch above where the straps of the dress slashed across her back and a good six inches above where her perfect backside sashayed. He found himself watching, mesmerised. Hypnotised. It was as flawless as he remembered.

As a kid, every single thing about Stacey Jackson had caused some kind of chain reaction in him from brain to body. The way she’d walked into a room, the way she’d swung her eyes round to look at people, or more often to ignore them completely. The way she’d give nothing away to the world, but had somehow made people feel as if they knew all about her and wanted to know more.

Thank the Lord he was immune to everything now—apart from the primordial reaction in his brain telling him he still found her attractive. He was a man...she was made the way she was. It was just a mental process firing off. So she still made him hard? So what. It didn’t mean he had to act on it.

She was halfway down the hall now—taking her time, taking up his time.

She stopped. The prints on the wall there were huge, brightly coloured inks that represented the Southern Hemisphere sky that he’d stared up at for all those months on the road. Months when all he’d had was his health and his will to survive.

Stacey swung her head over her shoulder and eyed him with that profile that packed as much punch as any Hollywood starlet.

‘Now, these are interesting,’ she said. She stared at the prints, moved her head this way and that. Made a little face. Cut him a glance. ‘Original. A little more flavoursome.’ She licked her lips.

He looked away. Anything but be faced by the curve of almost completely bare breast that he could now see so clearly as she lifted her arm up to touch the frame. He had to get her the hell out of his sight.

‘Thanks. We’ll eat at seven. I suggest you shower and make a few calls. Or walk about quietly. Or something. And do me a favour—don’t lie down and fall asleep. I don’t want to add to the drama.’

She opened her mouth to give him another smart remark but he put his hand up, turned his head to the side.

‘And another favour? Get some damn clothes on. It’s three in the afternoon, for God’s sake. The time for putting it all out on display is well past.’

Her face, already tense and tearstained, turned away. Silence fell around the bitter words he’d just thrown. From the glass roof above daylight flooded in, landing around her outline for all the world as if she was an angel in a chapel.

A woman less like an angel he had never met, but in that moment he felt angry—with himself. And as she stood there, regarding him, she almost looked ephemeral. It stopped him dead in his thoughts. Stacey Jackson was the one who’d got away. She was the one who’d shaped his view of women for ever. She was both his adolescent fantasy and the rock it had perished on. And he was damned if he would fall under her spell again.

He took the few steps up the corridor past her, shaking his head.

‘I’m going to be busy for the next hour or so. Just try—try not to get into any trouble. Okay?’

He made it to his study, shut the door and breathed.

Three paces across the room and he turned on the huge monitor. Instantly his emails appeared. He scanned them, looking for the one he knew was on its way. And there it was. From the realtor representing Chisholm Financial Management.

Marco leaned down on the desk and grabbed at the mouse, sliding it quickly to bring it to life. He clicked on it. Words appeared.

The door sounded across the hall. Good—she was inside, out of sight and out of mind. He skimmed the email. Yep, the offer had been acknowledged. And everything was in order. It was all coming together perfectly.

There was the sound of the shower starting up. Great. That would keep her busy for a while. Give him time to fully digest this. Adrenaline was flooding his body. He was closer than he’d ever thought possible.