The Italian's Passionate Revenge

‘Wait,’ she repeated. ‘What’s happening to me?’

It was the worst possible moment for an attack of common sense, but it had leapt on her without warning, freezing her blood, filling her with dismay at herself.

‘I can’t tell you that,’ Vincente said. ‘Only you know what you really want. If you’ve changed your mind, you have only to tell me to leave.’

He was breathing harshly, but he was in command of himself.

‘I’m not sure—not any more. Please let me go.’

For the briefest moment he was disconcerted, but then his eyes gleamed with respect.

‘Very clever—very subtle.’

‘No, you’re wrong. I’m not playing tricks. It’s just that—’ She sat up and moved away from him. ‘Good grief! Today was my husband’s funeral.’

‘Suddenly you remember that?’

‘I guess I’m more conventional than I thought I was. I’m sorry. I just can’t do this.’

He too got up, retrieving his jacket from the floor.

‘You may be right,’ he observed. ‘It will keep until we meet again.’

‘I doubt that we’ll ever meet again.’

In the darkness she couldn’t see his face well or read its expression, couldn’t see the bafflement, admiration and sheer blazing hatred that chased each other in swift succession through his eyes.

‘You’re wrong,’ he said softly. ‘This isn’t the end between us. There’ll come a day when you’ll remember what I told you—take what you want. And then you’ll take it because, in that, we’re the same.’

Now her thwarted passion was punishing her, making her tremble with the violence she’d done to herself. But from somewhere she found the strength to give him a challenging look and say, ‘You left something out. I’ll take it when I’m ready, and not before.’

‘Then there’s nothing more for me to say. I will bid you goodnight.’

Before her astonished eyes, he walked calmly out of the room without a backward glance.

Vincente was just closing his suitcase the next morning when his cellphone shrilled.

‘Yes?’

‘It’s your driver. You said to let you know if I saw her. She’s just got into a taxi. I heard her tell the driver to go to the cemetery.’

‘I’ll be right there. Have the engine running.’

He was downstairs in a moment. As they found their way through the streets, he asked tensely, ‘Are you sure you heard her correctly?’

‘She definitely said St Agnes Cemetery, where she buried her husband yesterday. It’s natural enough if she’s grieving for him.’

Vincente didn’t answer this. His eyes were fixed on the road.

By good luck he saw Elise as soon as he reached the cemetery. She’d left her taxi and was walking away. A twist in the path gave him a sideways glimpse of her, revealing that she was carrying a bouquet of glowing red roses.

Red roses. The symbol of love. It defied belief that she was putting them on her husband’s grave.

He followed, taking care to remain among the trees that would hide him, and managed to get close enough to see her drop to one knee before a modest grave, contrasting with the swaggering mausoleums that littered the place. She was facing him and he could see her face well enough to detect its look of unutterable sadness as she spoke to some unseen presence.

He’d come to England seeking her, hating her, determined to make her pay for a long ago act of cruelty. He’d so nearly secured her through her husband, but the greedy fool had died and Vincente had to think of a new plan, fast.

He’d been so sure of the kind of woman he would find, but she had been different—softer, more vulnerable, more honest. But he quickly reminded himself that this was bound to be an act. She’d had years to practise it by now.

By sheer force of will he managed to keep his hatred alive.

Her passion was harder to explain away. He was no stranger to feigned desire. Attracted by his wealth, women had always put themselves out to seduce him, and everything in Elise’s past warned him that she was one of that kind. But she’d turned out to be different. He’d felt her trembling in his arms and his deepest instincts had told him that she wasn’t feigning. At almost any moment he could have stripped her naked and taken her with her full-hearted consent.

Until the end, when she’d fended him off with real intent, filling him with astonishment. For a moment he’d been on the verge of losing control, but he’d forced himself to calm down and leave her. He’d spent the rest of the night racked with unsatisfied desire and anger. But there had also been the dawning of respect, and that disconcerted him more than anything.

Vincente stayed hidden as she rose to go, and only came out from among the trees when she was out of sight. Then he crossed quickly to where she had been and studied the graves. He spotted the red roses at once and dropped down on one knee to read the inscription.

‘George Farnaby,’ he read. He had died two months ago, in December, aged sixty-four.

Frowning, Vincente reached into his pocket and drew out a small notebook. Flipping through the pages, he came to the entry he was looking for.

One final note. Her father died just before Christmas. Ben Carlton’s extensive entertaining was unaffected. A guest at one of his parties says she went through the motions of being a good hostess, but looked terrible.

Vincente looked at the roses that lay, fresh and blooming, against the hard stone. At last he went away.

Elise had slept badly and awoken early. In the shower she’d turned the water down cold, trying to refresh herself enough to view her life clearly, but the world was still a confused place.

After a light breakfast she slipped out and took a taxi to the cemetery, but not to go to Ben’s grave. He was already in the past, but the man who’d died two months earlier still seemed with her. As she laid her flowers on the grave she looked sadly at the headstone.

‘Dad,’ she whispered, ‘why did you have to die now? I put up with Ben for eight years, to stop you going to gaol. “Just a little fiddle”, you said. Only Ben got his hands on the evidence and he made it look not so little.

‘I should have left him when you died, but I was stunned. I needed time to make plans, and then everything caught up with me. Now he’s dead, I’m free, and you’d have been free too. But it’s too late. Oh, Dad, I miss you so much.’

She stayed a few minutes before walking away and getting a taxi back to the hotel. A plan was forming in her mind. First she would leave the extravagant suite Ben had insisted on hiring and move into a smaller, cheaper room for a week, while she finished tying up loose ends. Then she would find a less expensive place to live while she waited for the Rome apartment to be sold.

But first she must talk to Vincente Farnese and make it clear that what had happened between them the night before had been an aberration. After that, she would refuse to see him again, no matter how long he remained in England. It would be hard to make him understand that because he knew now that he could bring her under his spell, at least for a while. But she was resolved to be firm against all the persuasions he could muster.

Upstairs in her suite, she chose with care the words she would say to him, then stretched out her hand to the phone. But, before she could make the call, there was a knock at the door. Outside stood one of the hotel bellboys, holding out an envelope.

‘This was left for you, Mrs Carlton.’

Tearing it open, she found a page scrawled in a confident, masculine hand.

I fear urgent business calls me back to Rome with no time to say goodbye to you. Forgive me this discourtesy.

I wish you well for the future.

Vincente Farnese

There was silence, broken only by the sound of a piece of paper being torn to shreds.

CHAPTER THREE

FINDING a small hotel was easy enough and suited her mood. Elise was content to slip out of sight, unnoticed by any of the people she’d associated with during her marriage. They were acquaintances, not friends.

She found a job in a shop. By day she sold flowers, in the evening she walked without worrying much where she was going. It was good to be alone. She’d been so long without peace.

At the same time she was in limbo, unable to move in any direction until the Rome apartment was sold. But that should have happened before now.

‘The Via Vittorio Veneto is the heart of luxury in Rome,’ the agent had told her. ‘Anything there gets snapped up.’

But he’d been wrong. Three months had passed and for some reason there were still no takers.

‘I’ve had plenty of people to see it,’ he’d said, puzzled. ‘They say they like it, then back off. One man definitely wanted it. I tried to call to tell you but I couldn’t reach you and, by the time I could, he’d withdrawn his offer.’

‘I just don’t understand this.’

‘Perhaps you should come over here and move in for a while. If the place looked warm and lived in, people might like it more.’

‘I’ll think about it,’ she said. ‘But I’m sure it’ll sell soon.’

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.

‘Every time I see you,’ he observed, ‘you seem to be disposing of some enemy with an efficiency that makes me nervous. Last time it was that woman; this time it was—?’

‘My boss’s fiancé.’

‘It’s nearly six o’clock,’ he added. ‘Will you soon be finished for the day?’

‘Yes, I’m just closing the shop.’

‘Then let’s go for a coffee.’

She fetched her coat, locked up and led him down the street, which was inexpensive and functional, rather than elegant. They found a cheap coffee house.

‘Not your normal style, I’m afraid,’ she said. ‘Is this a chance meeting?’

‘I never leave anything to chance,’ he said simply. ‘I got your address from the hotel, who had it for sending on your mail. I went to your home first.’

‘Really!’ she said wryly, trying to picture him looking at the shabby little hotel. ‘What did you think of it?’

‘I can’t imagine what you’re doing there.’

‘It’s all I can afford. I keep getting bills that Ben should have settled, and I have to work to pay them.’

‘You need to escape.’

‘So I will when I’ve sold the apartment.’

‘How is that going?’

She eyed him cynically, her lips twitching.

‘This is the man who just told me he never leaves anything to chance. It would be easy for you to find out that it’s still on the market.’

‘You’re right. I really meant—why is it still for sale?’

She sighed. ‘You tell me. Everyone says it’s in a desirable location, but either people don’t offer, or they do but it falls through.’

‘Well, you know my advice. Come and sell it yourself. Make it look like a home.’

‘That’s what the agent said.’

‘And he knows his business. You should heed him.’

‘Maybe I should,’ she said with a brief laugh. ‘I’m probably out of a job.’

He grinned. ‘Good. We leave tomorrow.’

‘Not so fast—’

‘What’s to keep you here?’

Vincente’s words brought the truth home to her starkly. There was nothing for her here any longer.

‘All right,’ she said softly. ‘I’ll come.’

‘Excellent. Where shall we dine tonight?’

‘I’m staying at home. I have loose ends to tie up. I’ll be waiting for you tomorrow morning.’

He gave her a curious look.

‘Will you? Or will I arrive to find that you’ve slipped away like a phantom?’

But it was he who’d slipped away like a phantom last time; she nearly said so, but checked herself. That would be admitting that she minded, conceding a point, which her instincts warned her not to do. He was handsome, charming and more dangerous than ever.

‘If I say I’ll be there, I’ll be there.’

She spoke in a cool tone that set him at a distance. She felt safer that way, especially now that she knew she was doing what he had always meant her to do. Just as everyone did.

He walked back to the hotel with her, where they were met by Elise’s boss, who’d been sitting there in a fury.

‘Ivor told me how you’ve been throwing yourself at him,’ she seethed. ‘What have you got to say for yourself?’

‘Well, “goodbye” is a nice word,’ Elise said. ‘Especially if you say it to Ivor. Here’s the key of the shop. But give him the boot, Jane. You can do better than Ivor. In fact, anybody can do better than Ivor.’

Jane scowled and walked out.

‘Splendid!’ Vincente said. ‘That’s the last of your old life.’

‘Until I come back and start a new one,’ she reminded him. ‘Goodnight, I’ll see you tomorrow. What about the flights?’

‘I’ll take care of them.’

‘Well, what time is take-off?’

‘Just be ready.’

Vincente was there the next morning at nine o’clock, to find the desk manned by a bored-looking lad.

‘Please inform Mrs Carlton that I’m here,’ Vincente said.

The lad lifted the phone, called the room and said, ‘Hello, Vi. Is Mrs Carlton there….? It’s a bit early for her to have left, isn’t it? Oh, checked out last night. OK.’

‘Where is she?’ Vincente demanded sharply as the boy replaced the receiver.

‘Gone. That was the cleaner, getting the place ready for the next person.’

Vincente’s face was dark. ‘But where has she gone?’

‘Dunno. I’ve only just come on duty. She must have been in a rush to get away though, to have left so early.’

With a sense of shock, Vincente realised that the worst had happened. He’d made the foolish mistake of trusting her and she’d given him the slip. As he turned towards the door his face was very ugly.

‘Ah, here you are!’

Lost in his furious thoughts, he almost didn’t hear the words or see the young woman who had just come in from the street. Then the black haze cleared and he grasped her wrist.

‘Where the devil have you been?’ he snapped.

‘I beg your pardon?’

Her outrage startled him and he let his hand fall.

‘Don’t ever speak to me like that again,’ she said softly. ‘I’m not accountable to you for my movements.’

‘They said you’d checked out.’

‘I did. I paid my bill last night to speed things up this morning. Today I cleared out of the room and put my bags in the downstairs cloakroom. I just slipped out for half an hour to say goodbye to someone.’

Too late it dawned on him that she was talking about her father. He wanted to ask her about him, but controlled himself. Everything must wait until he’d got her to Italy. Then, and only then, could he be sure of arranging matters to suit himself.

And she wouldn’t be able to stop him. On that he was determined. He had waited too long for this to weaken now.

‘I thought you’d gone,’ he said harshly.

‘I told you I’d be here, and I’m here. Why are you acting as though it was the end of the world?’

He forced a smile. ‘If it seems that way I apologise. I have a strict sense of time.’

‘Then let’s stop wasting it and go,’ she said lightly.

Vincente’s chauffeur fetched her bags from the cloakroom and put them in the boot of the waiting car.

‘Only two bags?’ Vincente queried as they headed for the airport. ‘I thought you’d have more.’

‘You mean what about my wardrobes full of fancy clothes? I sold them for whatever I could get.’

‘Money has really been as tight as that?’

‘Yes, but that’s not the only reason. I didn’t want memories of my marriage. It’s as though I’m a different person, and I like it.’

‘You like living in that place?’

‘It’s peaceful,’ she said unexpectedly.

‘But doesn’t poverty come a little hard on you?’

‘I can pay for my air ticket,’ she said defensively.

‘There’ll be no need for that. I have my own plane.’

Of course! She should have thought of that.

The twin turbojet aircraft was waiting for them, engines running. Inside, it was more like a luxury hotel than a plane. The seats had safety belts, but in all else they were plush armchairs, upholstered in pale grey velvet. After take-off, a steward appeared from the well-appointed kitchen, bearing champagne, and contriving to give her a curious look without being too obvious. Amused, Elise wondered how many women had been invited on to Vincente’s plane, and how she compared to the others.

They clinked glasses.

‘To your new life,’ he said. ‘And your new freedom.’