Legacy Of Shame

She could sense his withdrawal, the deliberate remoteness he was using like a shield, but it didn’t really bother her. Why should it, when he could have turned back to the house, refused to go along with the pretext of seeing the grounds? But he hadn’t refused, beat a tactical retreat, she exulted. He kept right beside her, not even brushing her hand away from his arm, slowing his long-legged stride to accommodate her shorter steps.

So he could look as remote as he liked. She smiled softly to herself as she glanced at the proud, stern lines of his profile; he wasn’t fooling her! She had witnessed the awakening of something far more than cousinly interest when he’d made that thorough appraisal of her body, and she’d felt the magic chemistry that had made her feel they were one flesh when he’d briefly held her in his arms. It had been too strong, too blindingly insistent for him to have been unaware of it.

‘Nearly there,’ she said, her voice smoky, breaking the silence, reflecting that he’d been right when he’d said she wasn’t dressed for out of doors. Short, tight skirts and impossible heels were hardly suitable for traversing even the most carefully raked gravelled paths or the most smoothly kept lush green lawns. ‘How long will you be staying?’ she asked, her fingers tightening around his iron-hard arm as they descended mossy stone steps beneath a deep arch in the high yew hedge which separated the grounds.

‘One week. Two. Who knows?’ The upward shift of his wide shoulders was eloquently, fluidly dismissive, but she ignored it. If he was pretending he wasn’t aware of her then she could pretend she hadn’t noticed the subterfuge!

‘Plenty of time for me to show you around,’ she stated, her eyes gleaming up at his impassive features as she pictured long walks into the countryside, intimate dinners for two at secluded restaurants, maybe even a drive into the Welsh mountains where she could successfully lose them in all that wildness, maybe for long enough to necessitate an overnight stay at some remote farmhouse...

‘You are not studying, at school maybe? Or working?’

He waited politely as she hopped down from the final and deepest stone step and, that obstacle negotiated, she answered airily, ‘School? Good lord, no!’ She managed to convey that her schooldays were a dim and distant memory, not prepared to tell him that her final term had ended a scant three weeks ago and so remind him of her age. ‘Look—we’re here,’ she told him unnecessarily as they entered the grotto filled with the scent and sound of water.

But he didn’t appear to be remotely interested in the water garden. His dark eyes gave her a cool glance as he questioned, ‘Do you plan a career? Within the company, perhaps?’

‘Oh, who knows?’ Venetia frowned, biting down on her full lower lip. ‘Let’s not talk about that.’ Why waste time discussing the possibility of a career in her father’s business when all she wanted to do was spend the rest of her life with him? And she did want that, want it with a sudden desperation that left her feeling devastated.

Hesitantly, she searched his eyes and found nothing there but cold disinterest. A pain, like a splinter of ice, stabbed at her heart. He didn’t even like her. Had she lived through her life, effortlessly receiving everything she’d ever wanted, only to be denied the most important, the thing she craved above all else?

Venetia shivered, cold to her bones as shameful tears stung the backs of her eyes. And Carlo stated, a curl of cynical amusement playing around his mouth, ‘This place is dank. You should have worn your mink. I take it you do own a couple, at least?’

‘Half a dozen at last count!’ she snapped back at him, stung to immediate, hurting rage by his patronising, cynical, coolly mocking attitude. She wouldn’t demean herself by explaining she wouldn’t be seen dead in a fur, that she passionately believed they looked better on the animals they were designed to grace!

The emotional turmoil she’d experienced since setting eyes on him had turned to passionate hatred. She wanted to hit him, but contained the violence, curling her fingers into her palms until the painted nails dug deeply into the soft flesh. And she met the intimidating censure of his narrowed eyes with open hostility until raw pain sliced through her, the sensation of the wounding mirrored in the translucent depths of her eyes as she lowered them, blinking back the scalding flow of tears.

She hadn’t meant it to be like this. Oh, she surely hadn’t! And she was cold again now. So cold. Nothing really to do with the moist, shaded air, the watery silence of the quiet pool, the moss-grown rocks, the still, heavy leaves of the gunnera and ornamental rhubarb—nothing to do with them at all.

Venetia turned quickly, the silky fall of her hair flying around her shoulders as she tottered as rapidly as she could back towards the steps, her heart leaping inside her, her throat closing with solidified breath as he stopped her, his large hands on her shoulders swinging her round to face him.

‘You’ll break your neck if you go at that pace, or, at the very least, spoil your pretty shoes.’ His voice went husky as he watched the play of emotions cross her pale features, saw them spring to tumultuous life in the translucent depths of her beautiful eyes.

‘I...’ Venetia tried to speak, but couldn’t. And her lashes lowered as his hands gentled, the pads of his fingers lightly massaging the tender, responsive flesh below her collarbone.

‘I didn’t mean to upset you,’ he said, his voice rough, his mouth compressed. His fingers slid upwards, slowly, resting against the long, pure line of her throat. And she felt the tremor take hold of his lean body, ripple through him, and the words she would have said dried again in her throat.

Fluttering, her long lashes drifted upwards, and what she saw in those dark, hooded eyes made her heart stand still. Slowly the tip of her tongue moistened her parched lips, and she saw him close his eyes, heard the raw sound he made deep in his throat, and melted towards him instinctively, her hands splaying against his chest, nudging aside the elegant jacket to feel the warmth of his body beneath the thin covering of crisp linen, feel the heavy beat of his heart. Then she heard the rough intake of his breath as he gently set her aside and said unevenly, ‘We’ll be late for dinner. Come along, now, there’s a good girl.’

And Venetia tilted her head and gave him a long, lancing glance of triumph, gave him her bewitching smile before demurely falling in step beside him. He might treat her as if she were a child. But that wasn’t the way his body reacted to her at all!

And soon, very soon now, she would insinuate herself beneath his guard and make him admit that he wanted her just as much as she wanted him!

CHAPTER TWO

BUT it wasn’t easy. Carlo Rossi had a will of iron. Days passed, and then a full week had gone by, and he had turned down all her sightseeing suggestions with that slight, ironic smile, preferring, obviously, to spend time with her father at head office, returning with him in the evening, leaving Venetia kicking her heels at home, fuming.

And over the long, unhurried dinners that had lasted well into the amethyst evenings he’d kept his conversation with her to a polite minimum, and when he wasn’t discussing business with her father he talked of his homeland, reminding the older man of his forsaken roots.

But Venetia hadn’t given up hope. On a few occasions she’d turned and surprised the hooded, hungry look in his eyes, and known that he was deliberately erecting a wall between them, and set herself the problem of how to break through it.

On some deeply primitive masculine level he did want her, she knew it. She’d seen the need smouldering darkly in his fantastic eyes, catching him unawares, her own need leaping to match his before he’d pulled the shutters down, locking her out with a tiny derisive smile, the hunger masked by a blank indifference that made her want to throw back her head and howl, stamp her feet with frustration.

Because every day that passed, every hour, reinforced her love, her wanting. Nothing else mattered; her need of him had bitten deep into her psyche, expanding until it filled her whole being. And for the first time in her life she was not being given what she wanted!

‘Phone, for you.’ Potty trundled out on to the terrace, where Venetia was kicking her heels, furious because, early as she had risen, pulling on a pair of shorts and a sleeveless T-shirt, Carlo had beaten her to it.

Today was Saturday and he wouldn’t be going in to the office with her father, and she’d been determined to persuade him to spend time with her, walking, making use of the swimming-pool, anything.

But when she’d arrived downstairs the housekeeper had told her that Carlo had set out on foot an hour ago to ‘see something of the countryside’, and she’d been out here ever since, cursing herself for sleeping until seven when, if she’d surfaced an hour earlier, she could have set out with him. The man was impossible! How could she break down that wall if he refused to stay still long enough to give her the opportunity to try?

Her mind, as usual, totally preoccupied with thoughts of Carlo Rossi, she took the call in the library, frowning impatiently as Simon said in his light, pleasant voice, ‘Sorry to call you at the crack, but I wanted to confirm the time for tonight.’

‘Tonight?’ Venetia echoed blankly, hooking a strand of long silky hair behind a small, perfectly shaped ear, and Simon reminded amusedly,

‘Your friend’s eighteenth birthday party, remember? What time shall I pick you up?’

‘Oh, that.’ She had forgotten all about Natasha’s coming-of-age celebrations. Normally, she wouldn’t have missed it for a king’s ransom. But circumstances weren’t normal. Nothing could drag her away, no matter how glittering the party, while there was the remotest chance of spending time with Carlo. ‘I’ve changed my mind,’ she said. ‘I’m not going.’ Then, because the silence on the other end of the line was speaking volumes, she tacked on, ‘I’m sorry, I should have let you know earlier. But we have a house guest. I’m fully occupied keeping him entertained...’ Oh, would that that were true! ‘You must have met him. Carlo Rossi...’ Even the sound of his name on her tongue sent hungry yearnings skittering through her, and she went on breathlessly, ‘He’s been following my father to the office each day.’

‘Hardly following.’ Simon gave a short, humourless laugh. ‘Dragging everyone behind him is more like it! He’s turned the distribution network upside-down, gone through the accounts with a magnifying glass, and got everyone working in top gear.’

‘Can he do that?’ Venetia queried, her eyes shining. She didn’t doubt his ability to take complete and total charge wherever he was. His aura of domination, of utter self-assurance, had been one of the many characteristics that had made such an immediate impact on her. But she asked the question all the same because, apart from feasting her eyes on him, talking about him was her favourite occupation.

‘You’d better believe it,’ Simon told her drily. ‘His father handed over his forty-nine per cent of the shares in Ross UK to him, and that gives him a whole lot of clout. But, that apart, he’s a natural top dog; one look at him is enough to make anyone with any sense toe the line! Mind you,’ he added grudgingly, ‘his organisational abilities come out of the top drawer, you can’t argue with that. He sees solutions to problems before the rest of we lesser mortals recognise there’s a problem at all.’

Venetia could have listened to this kind of thing for hours, but Simon had other ideas.

‘Are you sure about tonight? It could be a whole load of fun, and we could go on to a nightclub later, just the two of us,’ he coaxed. ‘The old man doesn’t need to know what time we leave your friend’s birthday party.’

‘Get lost!’ Venetia pulled a face at the receiver before crashing it down.

Simon was getting too uppity. He must know she tolerated his sexual come-ons, parrying them with firm good humour, only because to refuse to have anything more to do with him socially would mean she’d be stuck at home missing out on all the fun until her father came up with a replacement escort he felt he could trust with his precious offspring!

But if he was starting to refer to her father as ‘the old man’ in that disrespectful tone, suggesting they deceive him, then she was prepared to slap him down in no uncertain manner and stay home every night into the foreseeable future!

Besides, she thought as she hunched her shoulders and wandered listlessly out of the room, Carlo was the only man she wanted to be with. The trouble was, he was making it clear that he had no wish to be with her!

And then she stopped right in the middle of the huge hall as the perfect idea hit her. It was so perfect—it couldn’t be faulted!

A smile curved her full lips, her eyes sparkling with the resurgence of the confidence that had gone missing for days. And she turned as the housekeeper walked in through the front door, leaving it open so that the warm morning sunlight streamed in. She had been cleaning the lion’s head doorknocker, dusters and metal polish in her hands, and Venetia bit back a bubble of excitement and asked, ‘Did Carlo say what time he’d be back?’

‘He didn’t say and I didn’t ask,’ the older woman said drily. ‘But I dare say he’ll show up in time for lunch.’ She drew level, settling the wooden box that held her cleaning materials more securely under her arm. ‘So I shouldn’t waste the morning hanging around for him, if I were you. And a word of advice—’ her round face went as stern as it was possible to get ‘—don’t make your crush on him so obvious. You’ll soon get over it and when you do you’ll feel a fool. You’ll regret the way you’ve been hanging around him.’ Then, at the flash of pure fury in Venetia’s pale eyes, her expression softened as she added, ‘It’s your pride that will hurt most in the end, pet. I can understand the attraction; what woman couldn’t? But apart from him being too old for you, he’s probably got half a dozen or so elegant ladies waiting for him back home. Now—’ the lecture over, she glanced at the long-case clock on the wall ‘—it’s gone half-past nine; has your father come down yet? It’s not like him to lie in this late, is it?’

‘I haven’t seen him,’ Venetia responded icily. How dared Potty call what she felt for Carlo a crush! She wasn’t a child. She loved Carlo and always would. And what would Potty know about it? She was fifty if she was a day!

Swinging round on her heels, her shoulders huffily rigid, she marched to the main door, dragging the summer-scented air through pinched nostrils. No one understood how she was hurting, how her need to get close to Carlo both spiritually and physically was an ache that grew larger every day because he simply wouldn’t let her through the wall he had deliberately erected around himself.

It was going to be hot, she decided, feeling the sun burn against her exposed skin as she wandered out on to the drive. Normally, on a day like today was going to be, she would have happily idled away several hours in or beside the outdoor swimming-pool. But she was too restless to even contemplate it, even though the heat seemed to be growing more sultry with every moment that passed.

Besides, she needed to see Carlo; she couldn’t run the risk of missing him on his return. She had formulated the perfect plan to get him to herself, and he couldn’t refuse, surely he couldn’t?