The Italian's Passionate Revenge

But it hadn’t, and the day she must return to Rome was growing closer. Elise flinched from the thought. She didn’t want to see that beautiful city again, with its memories of Angelo that would be everywhere—haunting her, torturing her with what might have been.

She’d told Vincente that she’d been there as a fashion student but she’d left out everything that mattered, especially the wild beauty of her love for Angelo Caroni.

She could have studied in England but she’d fled abroad to get away from the overbearing Ben Carlton and for a short glorious time she thought she’d escaped him.

Angelo had been as young and passionate as herself. They’d been like two kids, revelling in their first experience of love, giving each other silly nicknames. She was Peri and he was Derry. He’d lived in two rooms in Trastevere, the colourful, least expensive part of town. She’d moved in with him so that they could be together, away from the world.

Then Benjamin had arrived at her college, with the evidence that could have sent her beloved father to gaol. In a frantic phone call to her father she’d begged him to deny it, but he’d tearfully admitted that it was true.

At the sound of his weeping her own tears had dried. One of them had to be strong.

When she’d told Angelo that it was over there was a violent quarrel, for he was hot-blooded. He’d stormed out and for two days she hadn’t seen him. Then a hand on the door had made her heart leap. But it had been Ben, who’d tracked her down in Trastevere, had come to claim her, tired of waiting.

Even then, she realised, he hadn’t guessed how much he disgusted her. He’d acted like the hero of a bad movie, dragging her to the window and covering her with kisses for the world to see.

But the one who’d seen was Angelo, returning to plead with her, watching in horror as he’d looked up at the window from the garden below.

Ben had been exultant, yelling down at him, ‘She’s made her choice. Look!’

As long as she lived she would remember the scream Angelo had uttered before running away into the darkness. That was the last time she had ever seen him, as Ben had hustled her away and back to England that same night.

She knew that to the world it would look as if she was abandoning a charming young lover for an older man who could give her a wealthier lifestyle. She cared nothing for the world’s opinion, but Angelo’s condemnation broke her heart.

Her marriage had followed quickly. In the devastation of her honeymoon she had written a long impassioned letter to Angelo, telling him that she would always love him, giving him the number of her new cellphone, praying for him to call when she was alone.

He never did. After two weeks she’d called his cellphone. But it wasn’t Angelo who had answered. From the other end of the line came the tearful, desperate voice of a woman, screeching, ‘Angelo e morte—morte…’

Then she’d shut off the phone.

Angelo was dead.

Frantically Elise had tried to call back, to find out how and when he’d died, but she’d got the engaged signal, again and again.

With Ben’s jealous eyes on her, there had been no chance to discover more. Angelo had been dead for years now and still she did not know how it had happened, or why. But her fears were terrible and after Ben’s death they had been partly confirmed. Going through his possessions, she’d been horrified to discover the letter she had written long ago. Somehow he had contrived to steal it. Angelo had died without ever reading her passionately contrite words.

When she’d realised that her heart had broken all over again. Feelings that had slept for years had awoken to vivid, painful life. She had loved him as only the very young know how to love, and she knew it had been the same with him.

Gone for ever. For him there had been death, for her the inner death of a frozen heart.

Now Elise seemed to have no energy to do anything but wait while her life was on hold. Going to Rome might have seemed sensible, but she couldn’t make herself do it. The apartment would sell, her last tie with that brilliant, painful city would be cut, and both Angelo Caroni and Vincente Farnese would be out of her life.

Not that Vincente had ever been in her life.

She had made a brief foray on to the Internet to learn something about his background.

Farnese Internationale was a conglomerate of many firms, with branches in several countries, but all sheltering under one umbrella in the Viale Dei Parioli in Rome.

At the centre of this web of power sat Vincente Farnese, who owned the largest single block of shares and had controlling power over so many others that he was almost impossible to challenge.

He was the grandson of a man who had started from nothing and built a financial empire from pure genius.

There were pictures of the Palazzo Marini—dilapidated, as it had been when he’d bought it, and then later, when he’d spent another fortune restoring it to glory. Its magnificence was breathtaking and she guessed he’d enjoyed showing the world how far he’d come.

But it seemed to Elise that Vincente had paid the price, inheriting the empire while still in his twenties. Since then he’d devoted every moment to its preservation and increase, never finding the time to take a wife, although his name had been linked with many society beauties.

Another click showed her a collection of glamorous women, sometimes alone, sometimes on his arm.

She considered them, thinking that they were more interested in him than he in them. Their eyes caressed him, gloated over him. His expression was often wry, if he was looking at them at all.

Suddenly she made a sound of exasperation at herself, clicked away from the site. Why was she bothering to study him?

She closed down the computer. After a minute she returned to it and disconnected the electricity. She couldn’t have said why she did that, but it made her feel better.

Then her job, once so pleasant, grew burdensome. Jane, the owner, became engaged to a young man called Ivor, an idler who planned to live off his wife. After his first meeting with Elise, he took to dropping in to the shop when he knew he would find her alone. Soon she was slapping his hands out of the way every few minutes.

‘I can’t help it,’ he excused himself, with an attempt at charm. ‘You’re really stunning, you know that?’

‘And I’m not available.’

‘Don’t give me that.’ He smirked knowingly. ‘Some women are available, even when they’re “not available”, if you know what I mean.’

She knew exactly what he meant. Ben had said much the same.

‘Sexy as hell but still a lady,’ he’d drooled. ‘That’s what gets them going.’

Elise had put up with it from him. She was damned if she was going to put up with it again.

‘Out!’ she said to him when he finally went too far.

‘You don’t mean that.’

‘I mean exactly that.’

‘You know your eyes sparkle when you’re angry. Come here! Ow!’

Ivor jumped back, rubbing his face where her palm had caught it. He flinched as her arm shot out again, but this time she gripped his ear between finger and thumb, propelling him ruthlessly out of the shop and depositing him on the pavement.

‘Don’t come back,’ she raged.

‘Now, look—’

‘Beat it,’ said Vincente Farnese, hauling him to his feet.

Ivor took one look at him and fled. Elise stared at the man who seemed to have appeared out of nowhere.

‘Good afternoon,’ Vincente said.

It was unforgivable of him to take her unawares, so that the rush of pleasure caught her off guard before she could brace herself. She even found herself smiling, which made her really cross with him.