His Wedding Ring of Revenge Read online

  A shaky breath exhaled from her.

  ‘But in the end—’ She took another breath, a brief inhalation. ‘In the end I had to use them. They were, as you told me so clearly when I came to see you in your office, my only asset.’

  She turned her flat, expressionless gaze on him.

  ‘I’m sorry I made you marry me to get them, Vito. It was the only way I could make my mother’s dying wish come true. So I had to do it. But you’ve got them back now, and you can return them to your mother and divorce me and it will be as if this all never happened. Everything is over. The end. Finito.’

  She watched him get to his feet. Felt something start to run inside her. An emotion, that was what it was—very thin, very fine, but an emotion, running through the strange, blank deadness that was filling her brain. She wondered what the emotion was.

  He reached down and cupped her elbow, drew her up.

  ‘Get your things,’ he said quietly. ‘We’re going.’

  She looked at him uncomprehendingly. Sudden fear flared.

  ‘I’m not going to the clinic! You’re not seeing my mother! I won’t allow it! I—’

  He cut across her. ‘We’re going to my apartment.’

  She stared.

  ‘I want out of this dump,’ he said. ‘And we still need to talk. But not here.’

  CHAPTER TEN

  SHE went with him docilely. She didn’t know why she did. There was no reason to. But she did it all the same. She let him take her downstairs, out to the car—a swish silver-grey saloon—parked at the kerb. He opened the door at the passenger seat and she got in meekly, feeling nothing. He drove through the traffic, westwards across London, through Chiswick and out the other side to the business park, and drew up outside the Farneste Industriale building. He didn’t speak, only concentrated on the driving.

  She sat beside him, hands in her lap, the memory of his driving her around Rome in his fabulous car etched in her mind.

  She did not look at him, only stared ahead, eyes bleak, unseeing.

  It was strange to go back inside the Farneste building, so very strange. The faint mist of water from the fountains brushed her face, and she felt time revolve very slowly.

  At this hour of the evening the place was almost deserted. Vito simply nodded at the security guard on Reception and crossed to his private lift on the far side of the lobby. It glided upwards, silently and swiftly. Again Rachel felt time shift.

  But this time the bronzed doors did not open on the executive office level that Mrs Waters had taken her to. This time she stepped out into what was clearly a private hallway.

  ‘In here.’

  She walked in, silently looking around.

  The flat was luxurious, with a pearl-grey carpet soft underfoot and an array of sofas in a slightly darker shade of grey.

  ‘Would you like to freshen up?’

  There was nothing in his voice beyond polite neutrality.

  But that in itself was strange enough.

  She nodded. Vito showed her to a guest bathroom off the hallway and left her to it. It was as luxurious as the lounge—white marble with stark black fittings. She looked at her reflection. Her eyes were still smeared and bloodshot; her face was drawn. She filled the basin with water and washed with soap, then took a moment to moisturise her skin with the travel kit from her handbag.

  What am I doing here? Why did I come?

  The questions went round in her head and she had no answers.

  She emerged from the bathroom and went back into the lounge.

  Vito was there, standing by an opened drinks cabinet. He was pouring out a glass of white wine. He held it out to her.

  ‘Drink it. You need it.’

  She took it in nerveless fingers and sat down on one of the huge sofas.

  ‘I’ve ordered dinner. You need to eat.’

  Vito’s voice cut through years of memory.

  She blinked, dragged back to the present.

  ‘I’m not hungry,’ she replied listlessly.

  But when the food arrived, delivered almost immediately by a team of professional caterers, she found to her surprise that she was hungry after all. It was not difficult to eat the delicious, expensive food, beautifully presented in the vast dining room with its glass and chrome table and high-backed chairs.

  They ate in silence, with the catering staff hovering attentively, always on hand to whisk empty plates away, refill glasses.

  She was still feeling very strange, as if part of her had been cut away and was floating free in the atmosphere, bizarrely dissociated from the rest of her. She watched her knife and fork cut up the delicate folds of smoked salmon, followed by tender noisettes of lamb. She could see herself doing it, and yet it didn’t seem to be her who was eating.

  Her mind flowed along on its separate drifting track. She was not thinking, not feeling, just watching her hands cut up the food and fork it to her mouth, lower again and, at intervals, pause to reach for her glass—sometimes water, sometimes wine.

  In the end she finished her meal and simply sat there, hands in her lap—waiting, as if she were a child, for her place to be cleared and to be told she could leave the table.

  ‘Coffee in the lounge,’ announced Vito, and Rachel wasn’t sure if he was telling her or the caterers. But she slipped off her chair obediently and headed out of the dining room, sitting down docilely on the large grey sofa again. A tray of coffee appeared, its fragrance strong, with a silver dish of mints and tiny white chocolate truffles. She took one absently and bit into its tender surface.

  ‘Cream?’

  She looked at Vito, who had placed a large coffee cup in front of her and was now poised with a cream jug in his hand. He was watching her bite into the truffle and she wondered why. There was no expression on his face, but there was tension in his jaw, she noticed, and wondered about that too.

  She shook her head. After so rich a meal she preferred her coffee black.

  Vito put back the cream jug and picked up his own coffee. Then he crossed to the sofa she was sitting on and sat down at the far end. His weight depressed the soft cushions and she had to steady her saucer. A look of apprehension crossed her face.

  She watched warily as Vito took a mouthful of coffee and then, almost with an air of decision about him, set it down on the coffee table.

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me about your mother’s illness when you came to my office last week?’

  She paused in lifting her coffee cup, staring incredulously at him.

  She did not answer immediately. Did not know why he had asked a question to which the answer was so obvious it obviated the question in the first place.

  ‘It was the last thing I wanted you to know!’

  Her voice was vehement.

  ‘So you let me think the worst of you instead,’ he said tightly.

  Her face tightened.

  ‘I don’t care what you think about me, Vito. You’ve thought the worst of me since the very first time you set eyes on me. Do you think I haven’t forgotten the first words you ever said to me? You called me “the bastard daughter of my father’s whore”! Not much of a glowing opinion, was it?’

  Her voice was bleak.

  A faint flush flared out along his cheekbones.

  ‘I was angry that day. My mother had had another of her attacks, and yet my father had insisted on staying at the coast with…with Arlene. Nothing I could say would persuade him to go back to Turin.’

  Rachel looked away. Her stomach had started to churn, and she didn’t want it to. She wanted the numbness back. It was so much easier that way.

  Vito was saying something else. What he said made her move her head around to him again, the same incredulous expression in her face.

  ‘Was that why you agreed to plot with your mother to trap me into marrying you at eighteen? To get your own back on me for what I called you that day?’

  His voice was taut and there was a guarded look in his eyes.

  Here we go again, she though
t wearily. Twisting the truth time again. Making Vito look squeaky clean time again. Making me out to be some manipulative slapper time again.

  ‘We’ve had this conversation before, Vito, and it didn’t get us anywhere,’ she said tightly, the numbness creeping back over her. ‘And there’s nowhere for us to get to anyway. Just the divorce court, that’s all—as fast and as painlessly as possible.’

  A shuttered look came down over his face.

  ‘I don’t want to divorce you yet.’

  The words fell into the air between them and Rachel just stared.

  ‘What?’

  His eyes were resting on her. Something was in them that quickened her flesh…

  Suddenly she realised just how close, how very close, she was to Vito Farneste.

  The numbness vanished.

  ‘I…I don’t understand,’ she said faintly.

  There was a look in his face she could not read.

  ‘Don’t you? Then let me show you.’

  He leant forward slightly and took the coffee cup from her, setting it back on the table. In the same movement his hand slipped up around her neck, gliding smoothly over her skin. The churning in her stomach intensified.

  His eyelids drooped. She had a second, maybe less, to realise his intent.

  And then it was too late.

  His mouth had lowered to hers, and like velvet on ice his lips eased across hers, his tongue effortlessly opening her to him.

  The blood surged in her veins, drowning her…

  Drowning everything—her sense, her reason, her resistance.

  She let him kiss her, let him taste her mouth, feast upon it, fingers working in the hair at the back of her head, his other hand closing around her spine, drawing her towards him. She felt arousal flare like a flame within her, hot and urgent and irresistible.

  Everything vanished. Nothing existed except this—Vito kissing her.

  Wanting her.

  Desiring her.

  And she wanted him too—wanted desperately the feel of his mouth on hers, his tongue twining with hers, his body pressing against hers, skin to skin, flesh to flesh, assuaging a hunger that would never die.

  She heard her voice, deep in her throat, giving a low, helpless moan, and it seemed to inflame him. She felt him tilt her back—back against the sofa cushions—his hand easing down along her spine, cupping her hips, lifting the rounded swell of her bottom.

  She could feel—shockingly, excitingly, arousingly—his hard, straining response to her, and she pressed against him more, another low, urgent moan escaping her. Her eyes were shut, tight shut, and all that existed was sensation…utter, blissful sensation, as Vito aroused her body for his possession.

  His hand was lifting her top, sliding underneath, splaying out over the bare skin beneath, and then—bliss—curving, cupping around the aching swell of her breasts, sheathed in their bra, filling the fine material, straining against it. His fingers were cupping, stroking, and his palms were circling against the swollen, aching peaks of her nipples.

  Oh, God, she wanted him so much! Ached for him.

  No! Dear God, she must not let this happen!

  She pushed him away. She could not, could not be so stupid yet again!

  ‘No! Vito, please—please don’t do this to me again! You know I lied to you! Telling you I didn’t want you! I had to tell you that! I had to! I couldn’t have borne it, forcing you to marry me as I did and then having you think I wanted you! You know I’m helpless over you! You don’t have to prove it just to humiliate me again! I might have hated the words you used about me all those years ago—but I know, I’ve always known, that I couldn’t deny it! The words might be ugly but it was true—dear God, it was true! I was gagging for it, for you, just like you said! I wanted you desperately! I made up dreams about you—stupid, childish dreams. Making you out to be Prince Charming, magically picking me out to be your Cinderella! Taking me round Rome like I was in the middle of some kind of fairytale!

  ‘It was only when my mother held the truth up to me that I realised how incredibly stupid I’d been! If only I hadn’t been so stupid I’d have seen what you were doing—I’d have realised that you were using me to hurt Arlene, and that I was playing right into your hands. She told me—she told me! Told me how stupid I’d been—thinking a man like you could ever be interested in a boring little English schoolgirl when you had an army of supermodels queuing up for you! They were the kind of women you were interested in—not an inexperienced virgin who didn’t know one end of a man from another! I must have bored you stupid that night—even if I was gagging for it!’

  He had gone completely and absolutely still.

  Then, in a strange, emotionless voice, he said, ‘Is that what Arlene told you?’

  ‘Pathetic, isn’t it?’ she answered bitterly. ‘That I had to have it pointed out to me? You’d been so convincing, you see, Vito. So wonderful, so beautiful, so gorgeous—and I really was very, very stupid at eighteen. I’m still stupid—totally stupid—weak and stupid—but at least now I know I am. At least now I realise you’re just mocking me when you come on to me. Why do you think I told you I wanted a no-sex marriage?’ she asked bleakly. ‘I was trying, in my pathetic little way, to protect my pride—the pride you can shatter with one single touch! The way you did on Ste Pierre. Well, you know it now, so you can leave me alone. Please leave me alone…’

  Her voice trailed off, everything drained from her.

  He looked at her, his face closed, and then abruptly walked to the drinks cabinet, yanked it open. Rachel heard the chink of glass and then the glugging sound of liquid being poured. He turned and faced her, lowering his glass after having taken a slug of the whisky which gleamed like amber dew in the crystal tumbler.

  ‘Do you know why I married you?’

  The question came out of nowhere, and seemed to make no sense.

  ‘Do you think it was to get the emeralds back?’ he went on, his voice harsh. ‘Do you? I’d have seen you in hell before I got them back on those terms! No one manipulates me—no one! I married you simply and solely to get you into bed. Because you’d stipulated a no-sex marriage! You stood there in your fancy outfit, looking cool as ice, and told me my stud services would not be required for the duration!’

  She could feel her heart start to pound, slowly and heavily.

  ‘So you took your revenge on our wedding night,’ she said in a low voice.

  He took another slug of whisky, then lowered the glass.

  ‘No,’ he said, and his voice sounded very strange to her suddenly. ‘You did.’

  She stared.

  ‘I don’t understand…’

  He gave a sudden savage laugh. ‘No, you don’t, do you, Rachel? You don’t seem to understand anything! And now I know why! Because your mother did such a number on you when you were eighteen.’ He put his whisky glass down on the cabinet and started to walk towards her again.

  ‘You’ve told me twice now that you didn’t collude with your mother when you were in Rome with me. That the two of you didn’t plan the whole thing together. I haven’t believed you—I’ve refused to believe you. But now, finally, I think I do.’

  He was still walking towards her, and her head flew up at his words.

  ‘Well, that’s big of you, Vito! That’s really big of you! So you admit at last that you were a total bastard to me seven years ago! That you deliberately sought me out, knowing who I was at that party, and swept me off my feet. Remember, I was just a stupid, gullible, impressionable eighteen-year-old English schoolgirl virgin. I must have been a total pushover for you! And you deliberately, cold-bloodedly seduced me so you could hurt my mother!’

  ‘No—no, I don’t admit that.’

  He was still walking towards her, with a long, steady pace, and suddenly, jerkily, she got to her feet. She backed away, edging around the low coffee table.

  ‘You don’t admit that it took a total bastard to tell my mother that I’d been gagging for it?’

  ‘I th
ought I’d been set up. Trapped. I was angry.’

  ‘Angry that she was daring to denounce you for what you’d done to me, you mean! Seducing me just to get at her!’

  He shook his head, his relentless advance never slowing. She stumbled back and felt the closed doors of the lounge halt her retreat. She fumbled desperately with her fingers, feeling for the handles. She didn’t want to turn her back on Vito—didn’t dare…

  ‘No. That’s not why I seduced you.’

  His voice was blank.

  Her spine pressed into the door panels. He reached her, standing right in front of her. Blocking all escape.

  Her heart was thumping like a sledgehammer, her breathing rapid.

  He was too close. Far, far too close.

  He put his hands out, one on either side of her head, caging her. She twisted her head to the side, panic-stricken, and then looked back at him.

  He was looking at her. There was something in his eyes. Something that made her breath catch. Her legs weaken.

  ‘You keep thinking,’ he said, with that same strange, intent look in his dark, long-lashed eyes, the same tension along his high, sculpted cheekbones, the same tightness in his beautiful, sinful mouth, ‘that there are only two possible explanations for what happened seven years ago in Rome. That either I set you up or you set me up. That one of us was the knave and one the fool.’

  ‘Well, it wasn’t me who set you up, Vito, so that only leaves you who set me up!’

  ‘No—there’s a third explanation. And it is the true one. I know that now.’ He paused a moment, and his eyes were searching her face. ‘One evening, seven years ago, I turned up at a party, having just disposed of a girlfriend who had started to bore me—as, after a while, all my girlfriends started to bore me. And while I was there I met someone who was like no one else I’d ever known. Someone who took my breath away! She was young—too young for me. And not my kind. Not my kind at all. I liked sophisticated women who were chic, and sexy, who flaunted their bella figura and knew they were desired and desirable. Who fell into my bed very easily and knew exactly what to do when they were there. And knew just when to get out when I got bored of them. But the girl I saw at that party that evening wasn’t like that. Not at all.’