Taken for Revenge: Bedded for Revenge / Bought by a Billionaire / The Bejewelled Bride

‘Because…because…’ Because he knows the history between us. But that was the trouble. Rupert didn’t. No one did. Not really. They had kept it pretty much hidden, and afterwards she certainly hadn’t confided that there had been a proposal of marriage. She suspected that they would have looked at her as if she was crazy to turn a man like Cesare down.

So she had locked it away, thinking that the less said, the sooner it would be mended. And in theory it should have worked. A summer squall of a love affair should have just blown over—but Cesare’s legacy had been to leave an unerasable memory of him stubbornly lurking in her mind.

‘Rupert wouldn’t have done something like that without asking me first.’

‘Are you sure, cara?’ he questioned cynically. ‘I suggest you ask your brother.’

Sorcha’s throat dried, because there was something in his eyes which told her that he was telling the truth. And she knew then that her instincts had been right after all. He hadn’t just shown up at the wedding to join in the celebrations, hand over an exquisite present and say hi to all his adoring fans. ‘No,’ she whispered.

‘Yes,’ he said grimly.

‘But why?’

‘Is that a serious question?’ he demanded. ‘Surely you must know that if something is not done soon, then Whittakers will cease to exist.’

Sorcha shook her head. ‘That’s not what I mean, and you know it. I don’t believe you’re operating out of the goodness of your heart. This can’t just be because you’ve seen an ailing company and you want to increase its profitability.’

‘Why else could it be?’

‘Because…’ She thought of the way he’d been looking at her, the things he’d been saying to her, the sense of something dark and sensual and unfinished between them. ‘Because I think you want to sleep with me.’

He laughed softly. ‘Oh, Sorcha,’ he murmured. ‘Of course I do. And how refreshing of you to acknowledge it so early on. I’ve heard of performance-related bonuses, but this puts a whole new slant on the subject!’ He started laughing. ‘Tell me, cara—are you offering me what in business terms is known as a golden hello?’

Her fingers were itching. She would have liked to rake them down his rugged olive cheek or to curl them around a glass of sticky liqueur and hurl it all over his pristine white shirt.

He glanced down at them. ‘Don’t even think of it,’ he warned quietly. ‘We don’t want a scene at your sister’s wedding, do we? Or do you want to grapple with me in order to get me to kiss you?’

He rose to his feet and looked down at her with eyes which had suddenly grown hard as jet, and Sorcha stared at him, realising that beneath all the civilised veneer there was nothing but coldness in his face.

‘You’re going?’ she questioned, her heart pounding painfully in her chest.

‘I’m expecting a call.’

‘Don’t you know it isn’t done to just disappear from a wedding breakfast before the toasts?’

‘Thanks for the etiquette lesson,’ he said softly. ‘But I’ve squared it with Rupert. Just make sure you’re in the office tomorrow morning first thing. Eight o’clock. I like to start early, so don’t be late.’

Sorcha wanted to say something cutting and brilliant—to tell him that he had no right to order her around as if she was his subordinate. But he was right—they didn’t want a scene at her sister’s wedding. She was forced to endure the sight of him leaving, while the brunette in yellow made an unseemly scramble to her feet and followed him out of the marquee.

CHAPTER FOUR

‘WHAT do you mean you had no alternative?’ demanded Sorcha, raking her fingers distractedly through her hair, which was already rumpled.

She turned to face Rupert, the morning sun bright on his face as it flooded into the boardroom which was lined with framed posters advertising the famous Whittaker Sauce. Each one featured an apple-cheeked old lady stirring a steaming pot, a look of satisfaction on her face, and the splash line was: JUST LIKE GRANDMA USED TO MAKE!

Sorcha’s green eyes sparked accusatory fire at her brother, but inside she was hurting. ‘You mean that someone was holding a gun to your head and telling you that you had no alternative but to hire Cesare di Arcangelo to save the company?’

‘No, of course not—’

‘Well, why, then?’

‘You’ve seen for yourself how bad things are, Sorcha. And Cesare has a reputation for turning things around—look what he did for the Robinsons. Their profits went through the stratosphere! I gave him a call, not really thinking that he’d have the time available, and when he offered to come over straight away I couldn’t believe it.’

‘Couldn’t you?’ Sorcha shook her head. How naïve Rupert sounded—but then he just saw Cesare for what he thought he was, without understanding the complexity of the man’s nature or the deviousness of his mind. ‘But I’m here, now, Rupes. I came back here specially, to be Marketing Director. Shouldn’t you at least have discussed it with me first?’

There was a silence.

‘But, Sorcha, you’ve only just started with the company,’ said Rupert gently. ‘What with the wedding and all—I simply haven’t had the chance to tell you before now, that’s all. And there’s nothing really to discuss, is there? You know that Cesare’s reputation is legendary. So who in their right mind would throw up an opportunity to have him work for them?’

Who indeed? Women who’d had their hearts broken didn’t count—or rather, their feelings weren’t up for consideration in the big, brash world of finance.

She had been caught on the back foot—feeling not only cheated but shocked by her near-lover’s reappearance. But even if she’d known that Cesare was about to dramatically reappear in her life would it have actually changed anything, other than allowing her time to prepare her response to him?

And would that response have been any different? Could it have been? Even if she had been the greatest actress in the world and pinned the brightest smile to her lips that wouldn’t have changed the uncomfortable cocktail of emotions he had stirred up, would it?

Rupert sighed. ‘I’m sorry, Sorcha—but, whatever your private opinion of Cesare, nobody can deny the man’s reputation as a sharpshooter.’

‘Don’t you mean an egotistical control freak who can’t keep it in his trousers?’ she questioned bitterly.

‘Rule one of business,’ drawled a velvety voice from behind her, and Sorcha whirled round to see Cesare walking into the room, a briefcase under his arm and a glint in his black eyes. ‘Never badmouth your colleagues within earshot. Didn’t they teach you that at business school, Sorcha?’ He put the briefcase down on the vast desk. ‘What else is it that you English say? Walls have ears? Ciao, Rupert.’

Sorcha wanted to scream—feeling as if she’d just been given a walk-on part in someone else’s life. That this couldn’t really be happening. There was nowhere to look but at Cesare, but even if there had been she wondered if she’d be able to keep her eyes off him.

He was dressed to look as if he meant business, which meant a suit—but something in the way he wore it transformed it from the mere everyday garment which other men wore to work.

It looked cool enough to be linen and fine enough to be silk, exquisitely cut in the Italian style—loose-fitting and utterly modern, yet hinting at the pure, hard muscle beneath. She found herself searching his face for dark shadows, wondering if he had gone home with the brunette last night, and it bothered her that she should even think about it—that it could make her heart contract with jealousy.

‘You underhand swine!’ she accused.

‘Sorcha!’ choked her brother.

There wasn’t a flicker of reaction on Cesare’s face. ‘Rupert—would you mind going on ahead to the factory?’ he said evenly. ‘I’ll join you just as soon as I can.’

‘Sure thing,’ said Rupert, who seemed glad of the escape route.

‘Oh, and Rupert?’

‘Mmm?’

‘I may be a little time,’ Cesare murmured, his black eyes fixed unwavering on Sorcha.

‘Yeah.’

There was a pin-drop silence while Rupert left the room and closed the door behind him, and Cesare put his hands on his narrow hips and looked at her.

Way back he had vetoed mixing business with pleasure, and he wouldn’t usually have been turned on by a woman wearing severely cut office clothes, but in Sorcha’s case it was different. He felt a nerve flicker in his cheek.

Two top buttons of her plain silk shirt were unbuttoned, showing a sliver of a gold chain with a pearl attached which dipped invitingly towards the shadow of her cleavage. A classic pencil skirt clung to the pert line of her bottom and skated down over her thighs. Cesare wondered how he could have forgotten the slender curve of her hips, or how long and rangy her legs were—especially in those high heels.