Surrendering To The Vengeful Italian

Still dangerous.

Eyes, he reminded himself, that could strip a man of his senses.

They glittered at him as she raised her chin.

‘Water, please.’ She gave him a tight smile. ‘You can hold the aspirin.’

* * *

Helena reached for the glass Leo had placed on the table in front of her and sipped, focusing on the cold tickle of the carbonated water on her tongue and throat and nothing else. She would not faint. Not in front of this man. Shock on top of an empty stomach had left her woozy, that was all. She simply needed a moment to compose herself.

After a third careful sip she put the glass down and folded her hands in her lap. She mustn’t reveal her turmoil. Mustn’t show any hint of anxiety as her mind darted from one nauseating scenario to the next. Had her father hit the bottle in the wake of this news? Was her mother playing the devoted wife, trying to console him? And how long before the lethal combination of rage and drink turned him from man to monster? To a vile bully who could lavish his wife with expensive trinkets and luxuries one minute and victimise her the next?

Helena’s insides trembled, but it wasn’t only worry for her mother making her belly quiver. Making her pulse-rate kick up a notch. It was an acute awareness of the man sitting opposite. An unsettling realisation that, no matter how many days, weeks or years came between them, she would never be immune to this tall, breathtaking Italian. She would never look at him and not feel her blood surge. Her lungs seize. Her belly tighten.

No. Time had not rendered her immune to his particular potent brand of masculinity. But she would not let her body betray her awareness of him. If her father’s endless criticisms and lack of compassion had taught her anything as a child it was never to appear weak.

She laced her fingers to keep them from fidgeting. ‘What are your plans for my father’s company?’

A muscle in his jaw bunched and released. Bunched again. He lounged back, stretched out his long legs, draped one arm across the top of the sofa. ‘I haven’t yet decided.’

She fought the urge to scowl. ‘But you must have some idea.’

‘Of course. Many, in fact. All of which I’ll discuss with your father, once he overcomes his aversion to meeting with me.’ He paused. ‘Perhaps he’s hoping his daughter will offer his new shareholder some...incentive to play nice?’

Heat rushed her cheeks, much to her annoyance. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

‘Oh, come now. There’s no need to play the innocent for me.’

Leo’s hand moved absently over the back of the sofa, his fingers stroking the soft black leather in slow, rhythmic patterns. Helena stared, transfixed, then hastily averted her eyes. Those long, tanned fingers had once stroked her flesh in a strikingly similar fashion, unleashing in her a passion no man had unleashed before or since.

She pulled in a breath, tried to focus on his voice.

‘You needn’t look so worried, Helena. You won’t have to dirty your hands with the likes of me again.’ His fingers stilled. ‘I have no interest in anything you could offer.’

As though emphasising his point, his gaze travelled her length, from the summit of her blushing hairline to the tips of her inexpensive shoes. ‘As for the company,’ he went on, before she could muster an indignant response, ‘if your father continues to decline my invitations to meet, my board will vote to sell off the company’s subsidiaries and amalgamate the core business with my own. A merger will mean layoffs, of course, but your father’s people will find I’m not an unreasonable man. Those without jobs can expect a fair severance settlement.’

Her jaw slackened. ‘Dismantle the company?’ The one thing guaranteed to bring her father to his knees. ‘You would tear down everything my father has worked his entire life to build?’

He shrugged. ‘As a minority shareholder he’ll benefit financially from any asset sales. He’ll lose his position at the head of the company, of course, but then your father’s no longer a man in his prime. Perhaps he’ll welcome the opportunity to retire?’

She shook her head. For Douglas Shaw it wasn’t about the money. Or retirement. It was about pride and respect and status. About winning. Control.

‘You don’t understand.’ Her voice trembled. ‘This won’t hurt only my father. It will hurt others, too—my family. Is that what you want, Leo? To see innocent people suffer?’

His eyes narrowed, his gaze hardening under his dark slanted brows. ‘Do not talk to me about suffering. You and your family don’t know the first meaning of the word.’

Not true! she wanted to shout, but she held her tongue. Another habit deeply ingrained from childhood, when she’d been taught to avoid such indiscretions—to lie, if necessary, about her less than perfect home life.

She stifled a frustrated sigh.

Why did people think growing up with money meant a life filled with sunshine and roses? That might have been the case for some of her friends, but for Helena it had been nothing more than a grand, sugar-coated illusion. An illusion her mother, the ever-dutiful society wife, still chose to hide behind.

Leo lunged his powerful shoulders forward, planted both feet firmly on the floor. ‘This is business. Your father knows that. Better than most.’

He rose to his full impressive height: six feet four inches of lean, muscled Italian.

‘I could have made things much worse for him. You might remind him of that fact.’

For a moment Helena considered telling him the truth—that she’d not seen or spoken with her father in years. That she worked as a secretary and lived in a rundown flat in North London and visited her family only when her father was absent on business. That Douglas Shaw was a domineering bully and she didn’t care a jot for the man, but she did care for those who would suffer most from his downfall. That she held no sway with her father and could offer Leo nothing in return for leniency except her eternal gratitude.

But caution stopped her. The man who stood before her now was not the Leo she’d once known. He was a tough, shrewd businessman, bent on revenge, and he would use every weapon in his arsenal to achieve it. Knowledge was power, and he had plenty of that without her gifting him extra ammunition.

Besides, he’d already accused her of lying—why should he believe the truth?

She unlaced her hands and stood.

‘There must be other options,’ she blurted. ‘Other possibilities that would satisfy your board and keep the company intact?’

‘My board will make their decisions based on the best interests of my business. Not your father’s interests and not his family’s.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Now, if you have nothing else to discuss, there are more important matters requiring my attention.’

She stared at him.

More important matters?

A bitter laugh rose and died in her throat.

Really, what had she expected? Understanding? Forgiveness? A friendly chat over a cup of tea?

Humiliation raged through her. She was a fool, wasting her time on a fool’s errand. She snatched up her handbag. ‘Next time you look in the mirror, Leo, remind yourself why you despise my father so much.’ She returned his stony stare. ‘Then take a hard look at your reflection. Because you might just find you have more in common with him than you think.’

His head snapped back, an indication that she’d hit her mark, but the knowledge did nothing to ease the pain knifing through her chest. Head high, she strode to the door.

The handle was only inches from her grasp when a large hand closed on her upper arm, swinging her around. She let out a yelp of surprise.

‘I am nothing like your father,’ he said, his jaw thrusting belligerently.

‘Then prove it,’ she fired back, conscious all at once of his vice-like grip, the arrows of heat penetrating her thin jacket-sleeve, the faint, woodsy tang of an expensive cologne that made her nostrils flare involuntarily. ‘Give my father time to come to the table. Before your board makes any decisions.’

Leo released her, stepped back, and the tiny spark of hope in her chest fizzed like a dampened wick. God. She needed to get out. Now. Before she did something pathetic and weak—like cry. She pivoted and seized the door handle. At the same instant his palm landed on the door above her head, barring her escape.

‘On one condition.’

His voice at her back was low, laced with something she couldn’t decipher. She turned, pressed her back to the door and looked up. ‘Yes?’

‘Have dinner with me.’

She blinked, twice. Three times.

‘Dinner?’ she echoed stupidly.

‘Si.’ His hand dropped from the door. ‘Tomorrow night.’

Her stomach did a funny little somersault. Was he fooling with her now? She narrowed her eyes at him. ‘Is that an invitation or a demand?’

The shrug he gave was at once casual and arrogant. ‘Call it what you like. That is my condition.’

‘Tomorrow’s Friday,’ she said, as if that fact bore some vital significance. In truth, it was all she could think to say while her brain grappled with his proposition.

His nostrils flared. ‘You have other plans?’

‘Uh...no.’ Brilliant. Now he’d think she had no social life. She levelled her shoulders. ‘A minute ago you couldn’t wait to get rid of me. Now you want us to have dinner?’

His lips pressed into a thin line. Impatience? Or, like most men, did he simply dislike having his motives questioned?

He jammed his hands in his trouser pockets. ‘You wanted an opportunity to talk, Helena. Take it or leave it. It is my final offer. I return to Rome on Saturday.’

Helena hesitated, her mind spinning. This could be her one and only chance for a calm, rational conversation with him. An opportunity to appeal to his sense of reason and compassion—if either still existed. The takeover was beyond her control and, if he spoke the truth, a fait accompli, but if she had even a slim chance of dissuading him from stripping the company’s assets, convincing him to settle on a strategy more palatable to her father, she had to take it. Had to try, no matter how daunting the prospect.

She nodded. ‘All right. Dinner. Tomorrow night. Where shall I meet you?’

‘I will send a car.’

Her stomach nose-dived. The thought of Leo or anyone in his employ seeing where she lived mortified her. Her neighbourhood was the best she could afford right now, but the area was far from salubrious.

She fished in her handbag for pen and paper, jotted down her work address and her mobile number. ‘You can pick me up from here.’ She handed him the slip of paper. ‘And my number’s there if you need to contact me.’

‘Very well.’ With scarcely a glance at it, he slipped the note into his trouser pocket and pulled open the door. ‘Be ready for six-thirty.’

With a nod, she stepped into the vestibule and pressed the elevator call button, having briefly considered then dismissed the stairs.

She would not bolt like an intimidated child.

The man who’d stolen her heart and left behind a precious gift she’d treasured and lost might be gone, the stranger in his place more formidable than she’d imagined, but she would not be cowed.

Ignoring the compulsion to glance over her shoulder, she willed the elevator to hurry up and arrive. When it did, her knees almost buckled with relief. She started forward.

‘Helena.’

Leo’s voice snapped her to an involuntary halt. Without turning, she braced her arm against the elevator’s door jamb and tilted her head fractionally. ‘Yes?’

Silence yawned behind her, turning the air so thick it felt like treacle in her lungs.

‘Wear something dressy,’ he said at last.

And then he shut the door.

CHAPTER TWO

LEO PICKED UP the half-empty water glass and studied the smudge of pink on its rim. Had Douglas Shaw sent his daughter as a honey trap? The idea was abhorrent, yet he wouldn’t put it past the man. What Shaw lacked in scruples he more than made up for with sheer, bloody-minded gall.

He crossed to the bar, tossed out the water and shoved the glass out of sight along with the whisky bottle. Then he smashed his palms down on the counter and let out a curse.

He should have let her go. Should have let her walk out of here and slammed the door—physically and figuratively—on their brief, discomfiting reunion.

But standing there watching her strut away, after she’d stared him down with those cool sapphire eyes and likened him to her father; seeing the haughty defiance in every provocative line of her body...

Something inside him had snapped and he was twenty-five again, standing in a different room in a different hotel. Watching the girl who’d carved out a piece of his heart turn her back and walk out of his life.

Bitterness coated his mouth. He opened the bar fridge, reached past a black-labelled bottle of Dom Perignon and a selection of fine wines and beers and grabbed a can of soda.

At twenty-five he’d considered himself a good judge of character—a skill honed during his teens, when looking out for his sister, taking on the role of parent during their father’s drink-fuelled absences, meant learning who he could trust and who he couldn’t. Over the years he developed strong instincts, avoided his father’s mistakes and weaknesses, but Helena remained his one glaring failure. For the first and last time in his life he’d let his feelings for a woman cloud his judgement.

He would not make the same mistake twice.

Just as he would not be swayed from his purpose.

Douglas Shaw was a bully who thought nothing of destroying people’s lives and he deserved a lesson in humility. Leo didn’t trust the man and he didn’t trust his daughter.

He drained the soda and crumpled the can in his fist.

Shaw wanted to play games? Leo was ready. He’d been ready for seven years. And if the man chose to use his daughter as a pawn, so be it. Two could play at that game.

He threw the can in the wastebin, a slow smile curving his lips.

Si. This might be fun.

* * *

‘Go home, Helena.’

Helena looked up from the papers on her desk. Her boss stood holding his briefcase, his suit jacket folded over one arm, a look of mock severity on his face. It was after six on Friday and their floor of the corporate bank was largely deserted.

‘I’m leaving soon,’ she assured him. ‘I’m meeting someone at six-thirty.’

David gave an approving nod. ‘Good. Enjoy your weekend.’

He started off, but paused after a step and turned back. ‘Have you thought any more about taking some leave?’ he said. ‘HR is on the use-it-or-lose-it warpath again. And if you don’t mind me saying...’ he paused, his grey eyes intent ‘...you look like you could do with a break.’

She smiled, deflecting his concern. David might be one of the bank’s longest-serving executives and knocking sixty, but the man rarely missed a beat. He was sharp, observant, and he cared about his staff.

She made a mental note to apply more concealer beneath her eyes. ‘I’m fine. It’s been a long week. And the rain kept me awake last night.’

Partly true.

‘Well, think about it. See you Monday.’

‘Goodnight, David.’

She watched him go, then glanced at her watch.

She had to move.

The car Leo was sending was due in less than twenty minutes, and earning a black mark for running late was not the way she wanted to start the evening.

Shutting herself in David’s office, she whipped off her trouser suit and slipped on the little black dress she’d pulled from the bowels of her wardrobe that morning, then turned to the full-length mirror on the back of the door and scanned her appearance.

She frowned at her cleavage.

Good grief.

Had the dress always been so revealing?

She couldn’t remember—but then neither could she recall the last time she’d worn it. She seldom dressed up these days, even on the rare occasions she dated. She tugged the bodice up, yanked the sides of the V-neck together and grimaced at the marginal improvement.

It would have to do.

There was no time for a wardrobe-change—and besides, this was the dressiest thing she owned. She’d sold the last of her designer gowns years ago, when she’d had to stump up a deposit and a month’s advance rent on her flat. Keeping the black dress had been a practical decision, though she could count on one hand the number of times it had ventured from her wardrobe.

She turned side-on to the mirror.

The dress hugged her from shoulder to mid-thigh, accentuating every dip and curve—including the gentle swell of her tummy. Holding her breath, she pulled in her stomach and smoothed her hand over the bump that no number of sit-ups and crunches could flatten.

Not that she resented the changes pregnancy had wrought on her body. They were a bittersweet reminder of joy and loss. Of lessons learnt and mistakes she would never make again.

She snatched her hand down and released her breath. Tonight she needed to focus on the present, not the past, and for that she would need every ounce of wit she could muster.

Outside the bank a sleek silver Mercedes waited in a ‘No Parking’ zone, its uniformed driver standing on the pavement. ‘Ms Shaw?’ he enquired, then opened a rear door so she could climb in.

Minutes later the car was slicing through London’s chaotic evening traffic, the endless layers of city noise muted by tinted windows that transformed the plush, leather-lined interior into a private mini-oasis. Like the luxury suite at the hotel, the car’s sumptuous interior epitomised the kind of lifestyle Helena had grown unused to in recent years—unlike her mother, who still enjoyed the baubles of wealth and couldn’t understand her daughter’s wish to live a modest life, independent of her family’s money and influence.

She dropped her head back against the soft leather.

She loved her mother. Miriam Shaw was a classic blonde beauty who had moulded herself into the perfect society wife, but she was neither stupid nor selfish. She loved her children. Had raised them with all the luxuries her own upbringing in an overcrowded foster home had denied her. And when they’d been packed off to boarding school, at her husband’s insistence, she’d filled her days by giving time and support to a long list of charities and fundraisers.

Yet where her husband was concerned Miriam was inexplicably weak. Too quick to forgive and too ready to offer excuses.

Like today, when she’d called to cancel their prearranged lunch date. A migraine, she’d claimed, but Helena knew better. Knew her mother’s excuse was nothing more than a flimsy veil for the truth, as ineffectual and see-through as the make-up she would use to try to hide the bruises.

Denial.

Her mother’s greatest skill. Her greatest weakness. The impregnable wall Helena slammed into any time she dared to suggest that Miriam consider leaving her husband.

A burning sensation crawled from Helena’s stomach into her throat—the same anger and despair she always felt when confronted by the grim reality of her parents’ marriage.

She massaged the bridge of her nose. Over the years she’d read everything she could on domestic abuse, trying to understand why her mother stayed. Why she put up with the drinking, the vitriol, the occasional black eye. Invariably, when the latter occurred, a peace offering would ensue—usually some priceless piece of jewellery—and then Miriam would pretend everything was fine.

Until the next time.

Helena had seen it more times than she cared to count, but now the stakes were higher. Now her father stood to lose everything he held dear: his company, his reputation, his pride.

If Leo got his way the ShawCorp empire would be carved up like twigs beneath a chainsaw, and Helena had no doubt that if—when—her father went down, he would take her mother with him.

‘Miss Shaw?’

She jolted out of her thoughts. The car had stopped in front of Leo’s hotel and a young man in a porter’s uniform had opened her door. Lanky and fresh-faced, he reminded Helena of her brother, prompting a silent prayer of gratitude that James was in boarding school, well away from all this ugly drama.

She slid out and the porter escorted her through the hotel to a grand reception room with a high vaulted ceiling and decorative walls. The room was crowded, filled with tray-laden waiters and dozens of patrons in tailored tuxedos and long, elegant evening gowns.

‘Have a good evening, miss.’

The young man turned to leave.

‘Wait!’ She clasped his arm, confusion descending. ‘I think there’s been some mistake.’

He shook his head, his smile polite. ‘No mistake, miss. Mr Vincenti asked that you be brought here.’

* * *

Leo stood at the edge of the milling crowd, his gaze bouncing off one brunette after another until he spied the one he wanted, standing next to a wide marble pillar just inside the entrance. Weaving waiters, clusters of glittering guests and some twenty feet of floor space separated them, but still he saw the flicker of uncertainty in her eyes. The twin furrows of consternation marring her brow.

Satisfaction stirred. Last night the element of surprise had been hers. How would the minx cope when the tables were turned?

He lifted two champagne flutes from a passing silver tray and carved a path to her side.

‘Buona sera, Helena.’

She spun, her startled gaze landing on the flutes in his hands, then the bow tie at his throat, before narrowed eyes snapped to his.

‘This is dinner?’

Score.

He smiled. ‘You look very...elegant.’

The look she gave him might have sliced a lesser man in half. ‘I look underdressed.’

She smoothed an invisible wrinkle from the front of her short and exquisitely low-cut black dress.

‘The other women are wearing ball gowns.’

‘Your dress is fine,’ he said—an understatement if ever he’d uttered one. The dress wasn’t fine. It was stunning. No eye-catching bling or fancy designer frills, but its simple lines showcased her lithe curves and long, toned legs better than any overblown creation could.

She stole his breath. As easily as she’d stolen his breath the first night he’d laid eyes on her. Her dress that night, however, aside from being a daring purple instead of black, had been less revealing, more...demure. By comparison, tonight’s figure-hugging sheath was sultry, seductive, the tantalising flash of ivory breasts inside that V of black fabric enough to tempt any man into secret, lustful imaginings.

‘It’s a plain cocktail dress,’ she said, fretting over her appearance as only a woman could. ‘Not a gown for an event like this.’ She pressed a hand to the neat chignon at her nape. ‘And you’re sidestepping the question.’

He extended a champagne flute, which she ignored. ‘This—’ he gestured with the glass at their lavish surroundings ‘—is not to your liking?’

‘A charity dinner with five hundred other guests? No.’

He feigned surprise. ‘You don’t like charity?’

She glanced at a wall banner promoting the largest spinal injury association in Europe and its twentieth annual fundraiser. ‘Of course I do.’ Her eyebrows knitted. ‘But I thought we’d be dining in a restaurant. Or at least somewhere... I don’t know...a little more...’

‘Intimate?’

Her eyes flashed. ‘Private.’

‘There’s a difference?’

She glared at the flute in his hand, then took it from him. ‘Do you make a habit of attending charity dinners at the hotels where you stay?’

‘Si. When I’m invited to support a worthy cause.’ He watched her eyebrows arch. ‘There are better ways to spend an evening, admittedly, but this event has been a long-standing commitment in my diary. And it coincides with my need to do business in London.’

‘Ah, well...’ She paused and sipped her champagne. ‘That’s convenient for you. You get to mark off your social calendar and wreak revenge on my family—all in a week’s work.’ Her mouth curled into a little smile. ‘There’s nothing more satisfying than killing two birds with one stone. How eminently sensible for a busy man such as yourself.’