The Italian's Vengeful Seduction

What women didn’t get, of course, was that he was the most committed guy he knew. Commitment was the reason he got out of bed in the morning. But it wasn’t anything to do with pledging his troth to a woman—after the upbringing he’d had, pledging his troth was the last thing that was ever going to happen. Why not just give his legal team a million-dollar retainer and cut straight to the divorce?

It baffled him. Completely.

No, commitment was all about getting things back to the way they should be. And right now he was this close to getting it all back. This close.

Yes, only these next two days to get through and then he’d be back in Montauk, lounging in the Polo Club and watching Preston Chisholm slide the vellum deeds of Sant’Angelo’s—the final part of the Borsatto estate—across the table for him to sign.

Ten long years he had waited for this moment. Ten years of being in hock to poverty, to shame, and worst of all to pity. He could handle almost everything, but the twisted compassion that some of the Montauk natives dished out amounted to nothing short of blackmail.

He reached for the coffee machine, thinking of the women who had held their breath, hoping that poverty would reduce him to becoming some sort of gigolo. Women who’d been so-called family friends. Young and old alike. And the men who’d relished watching Vito Borsatto’s son lose every last cent, every brick, every blade of grass that the most influential family in the Hamptons had ever owned. Generations of Borsattos had built it up. And in one short year it had all gone.

That was when he’d truly known who his friends were. Finding out his father was a philandering compulsive gambler and his mother was a vain, narcissistic drunk hadn’t given him a lot of cachet. He had watched them destroy themselves and then one another and had been able to tell no one. Because the shame had been almost the worst thing of all.

Watching as first the gangsters and then the banks had rolled in to take the estate in chunks. And then the biggest gangster of all: Chisholm Financial Management. Gangsters in three-thousand-dollar suits with fewer scruples than any of the rest. Standing in the dilapidated summerhouse that last day, when the devil himself, Mr Chisholm Senior, had arrived personally to evict him. The pleasure he’d taken in marching him off his own land—the last of the Borsattos. Mother and father long gone. Nothing left but dirt and dust.

Marco drained the last dregs in his cup and poured another.

‘You get through a lot of coffee. Anybody ever tell you that?’

She’d been there that day. Stacey Jackson. She’d turned the town upside down with her attitude and her disappearance. And then she’d swanned back in as if nothing had happened. As if she’d expected some kind of welcome committee...

Was it any wonder he had a jaded view of women? They were after you for your money or your body. Your house or your head. All of them wanted a piece of something. He hadn’t met a woman yet who hadn’t let him down. Including his own mother. Women equalled trouble—especially this one.

‘Maybe I could have one, if it’s not too much trouble?’

He kept his back to her, pulled another cup from the cupboard and poured.

‘Not at all,’ he said, slowly turning to hand it to her. ‘Sorry. Maybe I’ve been living on my own too long.’

She pulled out a chair and eased herself onto it, cradling the cup between her hands. And, dammit, he was drawn to her. Even though she should have her own ‘Wanted’ poster for crimes against humanity, there was something hugely seductive about her. It was all sex appeal, of course. Something in the way she wore his jacket. Something about how the shoulders dwarfed her and enveloped that body. Something that suggested ball-breaker Stacey was a vulnerable little girl underneath all that attitude. Despite what he knew about her.

‘Living on your own? Oh, come on,’ she said, taking a sip and watching him over the rim, those huge blue eyes underscored with the inky remnants of her tears. ‘I bet you’ve been beating them off with a stick, Marco. A hottie like you.’

He looked at her—looked at the highlighting of her breasts in the shadow between his lapels.

‘I can’t say I’ve ever had to beat off a woman, no,’ he said.

There was a very slight pause. A shared moment when he knew and she knew that there was another agenda at work between them. There had been back then and it was just as strong now.

She took another sip and put the cup down—slowly.

‘Yeah, well,’ she said. ‘I’m not really interested in your bedroom antics.’

He nodded. ‘Maybe we should clear that up now. So there’s no doubt.’ He held her gaze across the table.

‘Meaning...?’

‘Meaning that I didn’t invite you here for anything other than a place to stay until you’re in the clear. It’s my duty—I’m responsible for your accident.’

Her eyes suddenly blazed.

‘Are you suggesting that I’m trying to seduce you?’

‘Stacey, would you get off your high horse for one goddamn moment? I’m not suggesting anything. I want you to know that while you’re here I won’t take advantage. That’s all. We had a thing once, but we’re both adults now and we can stay overnight in the same house without you worrying that I’m going to make a pass.’

She smirked her lopsided smile and hid behind the curtain of her hair in that way that she did.

She pushed her cup away. ‘That’s very noble of you, Marco. It hadn’t crossed my mind that you might want to—to go back there, if I’m honest. But it’s mature of you to make sure there are no misunderstandings.’

She chose that moment to ease the jacket from her shoulders and twist round to place it over the back of the chair. It might have been complete coincidence, but as she raised her arms his eyes slid all by themselves to the satiny gleam of her breasts, caught in the criss-cross of black fabric across the bodice of her dress. And of course his body reacted.

‘You can count on it,’ he said, still watching as she rearranged herself on the seat.

Then she looked pointedly at him and feigned a look of surprise.

‘I’m sorry—have I spilled something?’ she said, looking down at her chest. Then she took her time readjusting those goddamn straps over one breast and then the other, wriggling and jiggling her flesh and flicking at little flecks of invisible dust. It was a car crash. He couldn’t look away. She was teasing him out of his mind. Just as she’d used to. Teasing but never giving out. At least not to him.

‘So, how is your mother? Did she remarry?’

He lifted her cup and turned away to the coffee machine. A few minutes making coffee and talking about Montauk ought to do the trick.

‘No, thankfully she made a lucky escape. But there are so many assholes in the world. I’m sure you know what I mean.’

He smiled and refilled her coffee cup, put it down in front of her, noting the way she shifted in her chair. She couldn’t resist.

‘She’s still in Montauk, right?’

‘Yes, still there. Same house. New curtains.’

He frowned. ‘Sorry—what?’

‘Doesn’t matter. What about you?’ she said, changing the subject with another forced smile. ‘Is the old gang all back in touch now that you’ve got all that bullion to sell? Or buy? Or whatever it is you do nowadays?’

He nodded. ‘Something like that.’

He could go into it—tell her about his years spent in penury following the humiliation of being tossed out on his ass, the journey south, then east, bumming across Europe, then India, until he landed his first break exporting gold. Then his time in Italy, picking up what he could about winemaking from his extended family. Finally thinking that there might be a way back home.

But—no. There would be nothing to gain in sharing any of that. He’d drawn a line.

He drained the last of his coffee. So much caffeine, so much adrenaline. So much stress...

Maybe he should go easy for the rest of the day. There was a lot still to do.

‘So, been here long?’

She was looking round the kitchen, her eyes landing quickly on different things and then dancing on and moving back to his face. With that smirk.

‘A while. A year.’

‘Really?’ She nodded contemplatively. ‘Don’t you hang out here much, then?’

‘Not sure what you’re getting at, Stacey...’

‘Your villa. It’s pretty vanilla—almost as sterile as that hospital. No offence. Just not how I remember the Meadows at all.’

He lifted the two cups and walked to the dishwasher.

The Meadows. It had been years since he had heard his home called that. It was the name the locals had given it and it harked back to the first white settlers who’d come from England. But it had been Sant’Angelo’s since the Borsattos had taken up residence there. And it would be Sant’Angelo’s again soon.

‘None taken. As I said—the spare bedroom is down the hall.’

She took the hint and stood up.

‘I’m sure I’ll find it,’ she replied. ‘And, hey, thanks again for the jacket.’

She patted it and—dammit—his eyes landed there again.

‘And the trip to the hospital. I—appreciate it.’

She smiled softly and for the first time it looked genuine.

‘As I said...least I could do.’

She nodded and picked up her purse, then started to make her way down the hallway. Her long brown hair sank down over the nape of her neck in a silken sweep, landing an inch above where the straps of the dress slashed across her back and a good six inches above where her perfect backside sashayed. He found himself watching, mesmerised. Hypnotised. It was as flawless as he remembered.

As a kid, every single thing about Stacey Jackson had caused some kind of chain reaction in him from brain to body. The way she’d walked into a room, the way she’d swung her eyes round to look at people, or more often to ignore them completely. The way she’d give nothing away to the world, but had somehow made people feel as if they knew all about her and wanted to know more.

Thank the Lord he was immune to everything now—apart from the primordial reaction in his brain telling him he still found her attractive. He was a man...she was made the way she was. It was just a mental process firing off. So she still made him hard? So what. It didn’t mean he had to act on it.

She was halfway down the hall now—taking her time, taking up his time.

She stopped. The prints on the wall there were huge, brightly coloured inks that represented the Southern Hemisphere sky that he’d stared up at for all those months on the road. Months when all he’d had was his health and his will to survive.

Stacey swung her head over her shoulder and eyed him with that profile that packed as much punch as any Hollywood starlet.

‘Now, these are interesting,’ she said. She stared at the prints, moved her head this way and that. Made a little face. Cut him a glance. ‘Original. A little more flavoursome.’ She licked her lips.

He looked away. Anything but be faced by the curve of almost completely bare breast that he could now see so clearly as she lifted her arm up to touch the frame. He had to get her the hell out of his sight.

‘Thanks. We’ll eat at seven. I suggest you shower and make a few calls. Or walk about quietly. Or something. And do me a favour—don’t lie down and fall asleep. I don’t want to add to the drama.’

She opened her mouth to give him another smart remark but he put his hand up, turned his head to the side.

‘And another favour? Get some damn clothes on. It’s three in the afternoon, for God’s sake. The time for putting it all out on display is well past.’

Her face, already tense and tearstained, turned away. Silence fell around the bitter words he’d just thrown. From the glass roof above daylight flooded in, landing around her outline for all the world as if she was an angel in a chapel.

A woman less like an angel he had never met, but in that moment he felt angry—with himself. And as she stood there, regarding him, she almost looked ephemeral. It stopped him dead in his thoughts. Stacey Jackson was the one who’d got away. She was the one who’d shaped his view of women for ever. She was both his adolescent fantasy and the rock it had perished on. And he was damned if he would fall under her spell again.

He took the few steps up the corridor past her, shaking his head.

‘I’m going to be busy for the next hour or so. Just try—try not to get into any trouble. Okay?’

He made it to his study, shut the door and breathed.

Three paces across the room and he turned on the huge monitor. Instantly his emails appeared. He scanned them, looking for the one he knew was on its way. And there it was. From the realtor representing Chisholm Financial Management.

Marco leaned down on the desk and grabbed at the mouse, sliding it quickly to bring it to life. He clicked on it. Words appeared.

The door sounded across the hall. Good—she was inside, out of sight and out of mind. He skimmed the email. Yep, the offer had been acknowledged. And everything was in order. It was all coming together perfectly.

There was the sound of the shower starting up. Great. That would keep her busy for a while. Give him time to fully digest this. Adrenaline was flooding his body. He was closer than he’d ever thought possible.

Instantly his mood lifted. Instantly he could see blue skies again. He’d been coiled like a spring all day. And there had been no need. Preston Chisholm Junior was going to deliver it all back—just as his father had taken it all away.

Well, well, well. Preston Chisholm. How life turned around. It seemed like only yesterday that he’d been sitting opposite to him in Betty’s, watching him as he watched Stacey wait on tables. The look in his eyes had been predatory. A look that had wound up with him landing a punch on the guy.

Nobody had liked Preston Chisholm back then. And fewer liked him now. Still, as CEO of the bank that both bankrolled and mortgaged half the properties in town, people were cautious in showing it.

Not someone like Stacey, though. She’d still give it to him both barrels. Just like that day when she’d found out that he’d punched Preston because of what he’d said about her. She’d been furious. The same afternoon Preston had practically salivated all over his polo shirt, he’d dragged him by its pristine collar out back and sunk his fist into his stomach.

A great noise had gone up, raising the dust in the car park, and then out had come Stacey in that little yellow dress and white apron the girls wore at Betty’s. Preston had been curled up like a shrimp, bawling like a baby. He had been standing over his handiwork and Stacey had completely overreacted.

Who did he think he was? She could defend her own name, thank you very much. He could mind his own business or go and play the hero for someone else.

Marco smiled at the memory. For about the tenth time today. For all she’d made his stress levels rocket, she’d made him laugh too. All that personality in one perfect package.

He listened to the noises she was making across the hallway. Normally he hated the intrusion of a woman in his home. God knew he’d tried, but he couldn’t get used to it. Moving his stuff, asking for closet space, filling the air with nonsensical chatter. The first day it was fine. It was okay. After a week he’d be finding problems with his offshore businesses that he had to solve personally. After two weeks he’d quit making excuses and get the jewellers on speed dial.

Was he going insane, or was he smiling at the cute little noises Stacey was making?

He might be smiling now, but five seconds together and their sparks would be flying right into a fireworks display that could light up the entire eastern seaboard.

* * *

What a Fortune 500 per cent bore Marco had turned out to be, thought Stacey as she wound her hair in a towel and rubbed some fancy cream into her puffy pink face. She would never have pegged him as vanilla, but that was the only flavour she could scent from him now. His safe suit, his ‘right’ car, his hair trimmed just along his shirt collar line. He probably used shoe trees.

She stepped into the guest bedroom and looked around. Pale walls, wood floors, dark rugs. She’d choke to death in a place like this. It was as sterile as St Bart’s. Nothing with any character except for the prints in the hallway. And her outrageous dress draped across the bed.

She could hardly put that back on.

Not after his strict instruction to cover up.

She wasn’t imagining the chemistry—was she? He was looking. She’d caught him looking a thousand times. But he sure wasn’t acting on it. That was the biggest change of all. He’d never let his class or his money guide his actions before. He’d played it straight down the line. He’d even played it over the line. Defending her honour from the creepy Preston Chisholm. She’d laid into Marco for sticking his nose in, but secretly she’d loved it. He’d been ridiculously overprotective—right in front of the whole crowd. And she’d relished their shock and awe at their poster boy being gallant for white trash Stacey.

But he was playing with a different deck now. He couldn’t have been clearer that he was finding her a turn-off rather than a turn-on. But she was smarter than that. It wasn’t about biology—it was all about class. Turned out he was exactly the same as the Montauk snobs after all.

She couldn’t wait to get out of here and away from every memory of that place.

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