The Italian's Blackmailed Mistress

Max turned a smiling face towards the open door and looked at Sophie. For a moment he was struck dumb. Her mass of blond hair was swept up in an intricate knot on top of her head. Her exquisite face was delicately made up to enhance her superb bone structure and fabulous green eyes. As for what she was wearing—the mid-thigh-length sheath of emerald-green silk outlined every feminine curve and lay straight across her high firm breasts. Damn it, he was getting aroused just looking at her.

‘You look amazing—and remarkably you’re ready,’ he said, thinking that she wasn’t the only one—he could have quite happily ravished her there and then.

‘Yes.’

She smiled at him and the breath left his body. Max had to remind himself once again that he had promised Alex he wouldn’t seduce her—but the trouble was, Sophie intrigued him on every level. She made him laugh, she was clever beyond her years and she was a great companion. As for her physical appearance—he only had to look at her to want her. He should never have asked her out tonight, he realised, because he did not trust himself to keep his hands off her.

Sophie sensed none of Max’s doubts, either during the short car ride or as he took her arm and led her into the restaurant—she was simply too excited.

Max ordered champagne, and when their glasses were filled he raised his and said, ‘To a beautiful girl and a beautiful night.’

Sophie’s face heated at his mention of night. Did he mean what she hoped he meant? Was he at last going to move their relationship to the next level? Kiss her and then make love to her? Yes, she decided as his deep, dark eyes smiled into hers and they touched glasses. With that simple exchange, the mood had been set for the evening.

Sophie let Max order for her, and as course followed course and the champagne flowed freely she fell ever deeper under his spell. They talked about everything and nothing, and Max punctuated their conversation with a smile or the touch of his hand on hers. He fed her morsels of food she had never tried before, watching her every reaction with amusement and something more. By the end of the meal Sophie knew she was totally in love with Max.

‘That was a perfect meal.’ She sighed happily as Max paid the bill.

Perfect food, maybe, Max thought. But pure torture for him. He was white-knuckled with the strain of keeping his hands off her. He must have been mad to think he could have just a mild flirtation with Sophie, and when he slipped an arm around her waist and led her out of the crowded restaurant it was nearly his undoing. She was tall, and when she leant into his side they were a perfect fit, her hip moving sexily against his thigh.

‘I am so glad you brought me here.’ She turned her head to smile up into his face. Her teeth were even and brilliant white against the light golden tan of her skin and he felt his body tighten another notch.

He was no masochist. This had to stop or he was in real danger of losing control—not something he ever did. Dropping his arm from her waist, Max opened the car door for her—but it did not stop his heart hammering in his chest. She looked so utterly exquisite and so damn naïve she hadn’t the sense to hide her feelings.

‘My pleasure,’ he said, and abruptly slammed the door.

By the time he slid behind the wheel and started the car he had his body under control. As he manoeuvred the vehicle along the winding road back to the hotel he glanced at Sophie and realised he had no right to be angry with her. It wasn’t her fault she had the looks and the body of a temptress and stopped men in their tracks, he thought dryly as he brought the car to a halt outside her chalet.

After their laughter and intimacy over the dinner table Sophie sensed Max’s mood had inexplicably changed, and when the engine stopped she glanced up at him and wondered what she had done wrong.

‘Home again,’ she said inanely, and blushed as she realised she was way out of his league in the sophistication stakes. But in the next moment he proved her wrong.

‘Ah, Sophie,’ he drawled huskily. ‘What am I going to do with you?’

She saw the sensual smile that curved his firm lips as he reached to slide his arm around her waist and pull her close to the hard wall of his chest. He growled something softly, something she did not understand, and then his mouth covered hers and she didn’t care.

It was as though a starburst exploded in her brain, sending shock waves to every nerve-ending in her body. He slid his tongue seductively between her softly parted lips, exploring the sweet, moist interior, and her hands involuntarily reached up to clasp around his neck. His kiss was more than she could ever have imagined, and Sophie closed her eyes and gave herself up to the wonder of his embrace. She felt his hand stroke up to cup her breast, and as his thumb grazed the silk-covered, suddenly taut peak, a fiery wave of desire scorched through her veins.

‘Dio! How I want you,’ Max groaned.

Sophie’s fingers were tangled in the sleek dark hair of his head, and her tongue—at first tentatively and then tenaciously—duelled with his as an ever-increasing hunger consumed her.

Max heard her moan when he finally lifted his head, and saw the passion in her dazzling green eyes. He knew she was his for the taking. He almost succumbed—after all, he was not made of stone, and denying his body was not something he was used to. But he had made a promise to Alex, so he had to rein in his carnal impulses.

Gently he pushed her back against the seat, and got out of the car, drawing in a few deep, steadying breaths as he walked around to open her door. ‘Come on, cara.’

Hazy-eyed, Sophie glanced at the hand Max held out. It took an enormous effort on her part to still the shaking in her own hand and take the help he was offering, and step out of the car.

She looked at the staff chalet and back at Max, her body still strumming with excitement, not sure what to do, what to say.

Sensing her uncertainty, Max curved an arm around her waist and led her to the door. Once there, he turned her in his arms and narrowed his dark eyes on her bemused face—he would make it easy for her.

‘Thank you for a lovely evening, Sophie. I won’t come in. I have some international calls to make—different time zones, you understand.’ He brushed his lips against her brow and said regretfully, ‘I am leaving tomorrow, but maybe we will dine out again the next time I am here?’

Max wanted her, but he had a growing suspicion that once with Sophie would never be enough. He didn’t believe in love, but he was astute enough to recognise that what he felt for Sophie and how he lost control around her could very easily become dangerous to his peace of mind.

‘Thank you—I would like that,’ she murmured.

Max saw the naked adoration and the hurt in her eyes, and much as he wanted Sophie he knew Alex was right—she wasn’t for him. He had watched her with the guests, the staff and with the children she quite happily looked after whenever she was asked. She was so caring and everyone adored her. Sophie deserved the very best, and he was far too much of a cynic to believe in love and happy ever after—whilst she was too young and too much of a romantic for the kind of affair he enjoyed. The timing wasn’t right. Maybe in a few years, when she had completed her studies, and if she was still single…who knew…?

‘Good night, sweet Sophie.’ Because he couldn’t resist touching her one last time, he lifted a finger and traced the outline of her lips, saw her smile. ‘That’s better. A young girl like you should always be smiling,’ he drawled softly, his dark eyes enigmatic on her beautiful face.

He opened the chalet door, and with a hand at her back urged her inside with a wry twist of his lips. She was temptation on legs, and far too responsive and eager for her own good—not every man had his self-control.

‘And be careful,’ Max warned her as frustration rose up in him. He spun on his heel and left. His decision was made. He would take a flying visit to Russia, to iron out a few problems with the manager of his Russian operation. As he recalled, the company’s receptionist, Nikita, was a very inventive lover. With the arrogant confidence of a wealthy man in his prime, he told himself the world was full of beautiful women more than willing to share his bed. He didn’t need Sophie, and he would dismiss her from his mind.

Sophie watched Max walk away, wishing he would at least look back and give her some sign that he cared. But it was in vain.

Later that night, when Marnie found her curled up on the sofa, red-eyed from weeping and looking miserable, she gave Sophie the benefit of her opinion.

‘What did you expect after one dinner date? An avowal of love? Cheer up, girl. Max Quintano can have any woman he wants and he knows it. You were a pleasant diversion while he was here.’ She shrugged. ‘Who knows? If he returns he might take you out again, and if he does just remember what I told you before: a brief affair is the best any woman can hope for from him.’

Marnie’s words didn’t help, but at least they made Sophie face up to reality. Her first ever crush on a man and it had to be on Max Quintano—a much older, super-rich mining tycoon, and a womaniser by all accounts. Where had her brain been? He was as far out of her reach as the moon. Her mistake had been in mistaking a teenage crush for true love, she told herself flatly, and she had to get over it. At least she hadn’t slept with him….

But somehow that thought gave her no comfort at all.

CHAPTER TWO

Seven years later

ON SATURDAY afternoon Sophie parked her ancient car on the drive and, taking her suitcase from the back she breathed a sigh of relief as she entered her old home. Timothy, her brother, ran down the hall to meet her and, dropping her suitcase, she swept him up in her arms and kissed him.

‘Hello, darling,’ she said as she carried him into the elegant living room to find his mother and their father.

Sophie looked at her stepmother, Margot, and then at her father. Immediately she sensed the tension in the atmosphere and wondered what was wrong.

‘Oh, good you have arrived,’ Margot said.

No, Hello—how are you? Sophie thought dryly, and sat down on the sofa, still holding Tim.

‘I suppose we should be honoured you can spare the time to visit your brother with your jet-setting lifestyle. Where is it this time?’

‘Venice, for a three-day international conference on global resources. But I don’t have to leave until tomorrow night, so I have more than enough time to babysit this little man.’ Sophie hugged Timothy closer on her knee and added, ‘Why don’t you and Dad make a night of it and stay at the hotel until tomorrow? I don’t mind.’ That should put a smile on Margot’s face, she thought.

Two hours later Sophie was sitting in the stainless steel kitchen of the house she had been born in, feeding Tim his favourite tea of fish fingers and mulling over how her life had changed.

Five years ago, when she had graduated from university, Sophie had taken a year off to go backpacking around the world. On her return she had discovered that her father’s new secretary was also his pregnant girlfriend. Marriage had followed, and Meg the housekeeper had departed at Margot’s request—much to Sophie’s disgust. And four months later her adorable young brother had arrived.

Sophie had been besotted with Tim ever since, and if she was honest he was the main reason she tended to go along with whatever Margot wanted. He was why she had agreed to Margot’s last-minute request for a babysitter so they could attend a glamorous charity ball at a top London hotel.

Sophie glanced around the ultra-modern kitchen. The family home in Surrey had been totally renovated by Margot, and she barely recognised the interior any more. But at least, with the help of a small legacy from her mother, Sophie had her own apartment, overlooking the sea in Hove. The commute into London was not something she would like to do every day, but then she didn’t have to. She was a brilliant linguist, and her work as a freelance translator took her all over the world. She had built up an impressive list of corporate and private clients.

She had spent the last eight weeks with a trade delegation, travelling around China, and before that six weeks working in South America. This weekend was the first time she had been home in months. It wasn’t that she disliked Margot—after all, she was only two years older than Sophie—in fact they should have had a lot in common, but unfortunately they didn’t. Margot was a social animal who loved the high life—the best restaurants and the right places to go and see and be seen. But to give her her due Margot, for all her love of society and designer clothes, was a good mother and would not leave Tim with anyone she didn’t know.

Much as she loved her brother, it was with a sense of relief that Sophie left the next afternoon to catch her flight to Venice. She wasn’t imagining it—the atmosphere between her dad and Margot really had been no better when they’d returned at lunchtime than it had when they’d left the evening before. Something was not right in their relationship. But as long as it didn’t affect Tim, she wasn’t going to worry.

She had enough to worry about going to Italy again for the first time in seven years. The very thought brought back a host of unwanted memories of her one and only love affair—and of what a complete and utter idiot she had been. She had fallen for Max Quintano like a ton of bricks, and when he had left the hotel in Sicily where she worked, she had been hurt. But when he had returned a week later she had fallen into his bed without a moment’s hesitation. After he had taken her innocence she had leapt at his proposal of marriage, and had even agreed to keep it a secret until he could meet her father.

For all of two days she had been deliriously happy—that was until she had discovered the kind of open marriage he had in mind….

A cynical smile twisted her lush lips. Still, she had learnt a valuable lesson from the experience—men were not to be trusted. That lesson had been reinforced over the years as she’d seen how a lot of them behaved as soon as they arrived at a conference well away from wife and family. Sophie had lost count of the number of times married men had hit on her, and she had developed an icy stare and a cool put-down to perfection.

The following Tuesday evening Sophie walked into the ballroom of a top Venetian hotel on the arm of Abe Asamov. Abe was a fifty-something, barrel-chested and bald-headed Russian who barely reached her shoulder. She had been delighted to see him arrive at the hotel this morning, for the second day of the conference, because his was a friendly face amongst a sea of strangers.

Abe was witty, and took great delight in fostering a ruthless reputation. Only Sophie knew he was devoted to his wife and family. In her last year at university she had spent her summer vacation in Russia, teaching his four grandchildren English.

When Abe had asked her to be his partner at this gala dinner-dance, she had agreed. The company she was temporarily contracted to had been overjoyed, because Abe Asamov was a billionaire oilman and owned a great deal of Russia’s resources. Sophie wasn’t sure she believed Abe’s claim that he spoke only Russian, but she didn’t care because she was glad of his company.

‘You realise, Sophie, that they will all think you are my lady-friend.’ Abe said in his native Russian, grinning up at her as the waiter showed them to their table. ‘No ordinary man could look at a beautiful blonde like you and imagine you have a brain.’ He chuckled. ‘I think I will enjoy fooling people tonight.’

‘Watch it, Abe.’ She grinned, knowing he was no threat to her. ‘Remember you are a married man—and if that was meant to be a compliment it was a bit of a backhanded one.’

‘You sound just like my wife.’ Abe grinned back, and they both laughed as they took their seats.

Seated comfortably and with a glass of champagne in her hand, Sophie glanced around the room, taking in the other guests there that evening. Many she knew through her work. There was the ambassador, Peter, and his wife Helen, and next to them a couple who worked for the Italian government—Aldo and his wife Tina. There were also two Spanish men—Felipe and Cesare—whom Sophie was seated next to. Very pleasant company, she decided, and, taking a sip of her drink, she began to relax and look at her surroundings.

The dinner tables were set around a small dance floor, and at one end on a raised dais a jazz band played background music. The evening was a glittering showcase of the powerful elite of Europe. The men looked immaculate in dinner suits, and the women were dressed in designer gowns and jewels worth millions. But Sophie did not feel intimidated. Over the years she had worked and mingled with some of the richest people from all around the world—even crowned heads of countries. As a result, she had acquired the social skills and sophistication needed in such company.

At home, jeans and a sweater were her favoured form of dress, but she had amassed what she called her ‘business wardrobe’. The black satin Dior gown she wore tonight was one of her favourites, as were the crystal necklace and earrings. She knew she looked good and could hold her own in any crowd.

Feeling relaxed, Sophie glanced across the dance floor as a group of late arrivals took their seats and her green eyes widened in appalled recognition…Max Quintano and his stepsister Gina. Her shocked gaze skimmed over his hard, handsome profile and moved swiftly away. She was almost sure he hadn’t seen her.

With her heart pounding, Sophie manoeuvred her chair so she could turn her back slightly towards his table and hopefully remain unnoticed.

She turned to Cesare, seated on her left, and asked in Spanish, ‘So, what do you do?’ On hearing his response she focused all her attention on him. ‘An earth scientist? How interesting.’

Fool that she was, Sophie could not believe she hadn’t made the connection between global resources and Max Quintano before now.

Across the other side of the room Max Quintano smiled at something Gina said, not having registered a word. He had recognised Sophie Rutherford the minute he had entered the room. Her blond head was unmistakable, with the fabulous hair swept up in an elegant pleat, revealing her long neck and the perfect set of her bare shoulders. The cut of her gown displayed the silken smoothness of her back and the slight indentation of her spine. A spine he had once trailed kisses down. His body tightened at the memory.

He saw the exact moment when she recognised him, and watched as the cold-hearted bitch turned away in fright. He had despised her with a depth of passion he had not known he was capable off when they had parted, and the way he had dealt with it had been to ruthlessly blot her out of his mind for many years. Then, on the death of his father four months ago, due to a massive heart attack, the name of Rutherford had reared its ugly head again in the shape of Nigel Rutherford. Surprisingly, two months later on a brief trip to South America, Sophie Rutherford had been the object of much speculation. Twice in as many months he had been confronted with the very name he had tried to forget.

As executor of his father’s estate, and with his stepmother distraught at her husband’s death and in no fit state to concentrate on the running of Quintano Hotels, naturally Max had stepped in to help. An audit of the family’s business had disclosed that it was running at a very healthy profit, but there were one or two bad debts outstanding. The largest one was the Elite Agency, London—Nigel Rutherford’s firm. Max had soon discovered that they were not just slow at paying their clients’ accommodation bills, they had not paid at all for almost a year.

How it had been overlooked Max could only surmise. Maybe his father had been in failing health for some time without believing it. He could relate to that feeling, because he had done the same thing seven years ago. When Max had been told he might have cancer he hadn’t wanted to believe it, and a couple of nights in the lovely Sophie’s bed had fed his illusion of invincibility. How wrong he had been…. So he could not blame his father for doing the same.

On further investigation into the bad debt he had discovered that Quintano Hotels was not the only firm owed massive amounts of money by Nigel Rutherford. Max had joined with the rest in calling for a creditors’ meeting, which was to be held next Monday in London. However, Max had no intention of going—he was leaving it to the lawyers and accountants to take care of. He could not care less if the Elite Agency went under, along with its owner, as long as Quintano Hotels got paid.

But now, with the beautiful but shallow daughter only thirty feet away, sipping a glass of champagne and smiling as if she hadn’t a care in the world, a different scenario sprang to mind. If he attended the meeting in London he knew he would have no trouble convincing the other creditors to bankrupt her father’s firm; he was a very persuasive man.

Sophie was occupied at the moment, but next week he would make it plain to Nigel Rutherford that he wanted to meet his daughter again! He had already waited years, so a week or two longer wouldn’t matter. With ruthless cynicism Max decided it would be interesting to watch Sophie squirm when she realised who was responsible for her father’s downfall, and very satisfying to see how far she would go to save him.

Sophie Rutherford was the only woman who had ever walked out on him, and it had taken him a long time to get over the insult. Now fate had once again put her back in his life—and in his power, if he wanted to use it. With his body hardening at the mere sight of her he knew he did, and the iniquitous plan took root in his mind.

It had been an appalling trick of fate that had sent Max dashing back to Sicily and Sophie seven years ago. He had returned from five days in Russia to his apartment in Rome still celibate, and still resolved to stay away from Sophie. He had called an old girlfriend and arranged to have dinner that night, and also arranged to have lunch with Gina the following day—Friday.

His date had not been a success, and he had gone to his office early the next morning and finally caught up with the personal items of mail his PA had not opened. A casual glance at the report from the medical he had taken a couple of weeks earlier had told him there was a query about one of his results and that he would need to contact a Dr Foscari.

Two hours later Max had been sitting numb with shock as Dr Foscari informed him that his urine test had revealed irregularities in his testosterone levels—a sign of testicular cancer. The doctor had gone on to explain that it was the most prevalent form of cancer in males between the ages of twenty and forty-four, but was easily treated. He’d told Max not to worry, because the test wasn’t certain, but as a precaution he had made an appointment with a top consultant at the best hospital in Rome for the following week.

Max had walked out of the clinic with fear clawing at his gut. But he had been furious at the mere suggestion he could be ill, and had determined to seek a second opinion. Gina was an oncologist; she would know the leading specialist in the field. He would talk to her over lunch, tell her his fears, knowing she would keep his confidence.

By the time lunch had been over Max had known more than he’d ever wanted to know about his suspected illness. Gina, in her forthright manner, had immediately called Dr Foscari, and after speaking to him had told Max not to panic. She had explained that there might be other causes for the irregular testosterone levels, and that anyway there was now a ninety-five per cent success rate in the treatment of testicular cancer. At Max’s insistence she had gone on to outline the worst-case scenario if it was cancer. She had asked him if he had noticed any little lumps, if he was feeling unusually tired or suffering any loss of libido—all of which he had vehemently denied.