His Wedding Ring of Revenge Page 6

  His mouth moved on hers like velvet—softest, smoothest velvet—and the drowning rain dissolved through her, taking her into a realm where she had never thought to walk again.

  It was bliss, it was paradise, it was a heaven so exquisite she could not think, could not move, could only…succumb. Succumb to the wordless, timeless bliss of being kissed by Vito Farneste. She felt her body lose all its strength, and start to sink forward against his. Surrendering to everything, everything that was Vito, that was his beauty, his thrall and his temptation.

  His kiss deepened, his tongue gliding inside her mouth, shooting through her such strong sensations that she felt she must swoon like some Victorian maiden overcome by something far beyond her experience.

  But she was no Victorian maiden. No maiden at all—thanks to Vito Farneste. Thanks to the man who was standing here, one hand curved around her neck, the other holding her mouth up to him, while he took his pleasure in her…

  Except that it would not be pleasure to him.

  No answering bliss would be dissolving his nerves. No sensuous helplessness would be holding him motionless while he gave himself to this endless, exquisite sensation…

  For him this would be something quite, quite different.

  It means nothing to him—nothing at all! He’s just doing it for the same reason he did it the last time—to make use of me.

  Last time he wanted to use me to wound my mother.

  This time he wants the Farneste emeralds…

  With a strength she did not know how she’d found, Rachel pulled sharply away.

  ‘No!’

  She pushed his arms from her, stepping backwards. Her heart was racing, her limbs shaking, and she had to fight for control.

  For a second something moved in Vito’s eyes, then it was gone. In its place was a familiar look—a mocking look.

  ‘No? Well, that’s a new word for you, cara mia. It was always, “Please, Vito—please!” All through the night!’

  A smile twisted at his mouth—as mocking as the expression in his eyes.

  She whitened.

  This time it was not sexual humiliation that scalded in her memory—the vile humiliation of being told that she’d been ‘gagging for it’.

  This memory was worse.

  So much worse.

  She remembered, with vivid, hideous clarity, the last time she had said those words to Vito.

  It hadn’t been the time he was thinking of now, when she’d begged him for his touch, his caress.

  It had been a quite, quite different occasion.

  She had spoken the words over the phone, the impersonal, distancing phone, which was all that he had permitted. She had pleaded with his secretary to put her through, and maybe something in her abject distress and despair had softened the woman’s well-trained heart, for she had indeed put her through. She hadn’t announced her, knowing full well, Rachel had realised, that Vito would not want the call. So he had picked up his phone not knowing she was on the other end.

  She heard again his curt, accented voice saying, ‘Who is this?’

  Her own trembling voice saying, ‘It’s Rachel—please, Vito—please—’

  He had hung up. Not letting her say another word.

  Let alone what she had steeled herself so desperately to tell him.

  He had never let her get through to him again. From then on his secretary had been unswervingly adamant—Signor Farneste would take no calls from her.

  As for Rachel’s letter to him—a last, pitiful resort to get in touch with him—it had been returned to her inside another envelope, unopened, with a typed notice from his secretary saying that Signor Farneste would not accept any future attempt at communication from her, by whatever means.

  And Rachel, in that moment, had accepted that to Vito she had ceased to exist.

  Now, seven years later, he stood in front of her again.

  Taunting her.

  Her face shuttered, blocking out every emotion she felt about him, keeping them locked inside her, where they could do the least damage. She did not need them when it came to Vito Farneste and what she wanted from him—or what he wanted from her.

  ‘Well, I’m saying no now, Vito,’ she answered, her throat tight. ‘I’m afraid the Farneste emeralds are worth a bit more than a quick tumble with the fabulous Vito Farneste. You’re not getting them back that cheaply!’

  His face hardened, the mocking look intensifying.

  ‘The emeralds may be worth more—but you are not.’

  It was one blow too many—but nothing in comparison with the other verbal blows he had struck her with in the past.

  She did not flinch this time.

  ‘Tough,’ she said. Her voice was hard. It had to be. She took a sharp intake of breath. ‘So, if that was your best offer, it’s no sale. Along with the million euros.’

  His attention was riveted at that.

  ‘Why?’ he shot at her. ‘You live in a dump. A million euros would get you out of here—and then some!’

  He was looking at her, narrow-eyed, intent. Trying to read her. Danger fluttered around her. Not the danger she had faced—faced down—a moment ago. A different danger.

  A surge of protectiveness went through her, for her vulnerable, dying mother. He wanted to understand why she demanded such a ludicrous price for returning the emeralds.

  He must never know.

  She wouldn’t expose her mother—even remotely—to this man.

  Instinctively she led him away from the truth of why she had uttered such an outrageous demand. Marriage in exchange for the Farneste emeralds.

  ‘So would marrying you. Get me out of here.’

  Her voice was flat, her eyes holding his. Willing him to take that as her reason.

  She watched his expression change, taking on that mocking, derisive look.

  ‘So that is your ambition, is it?’ His voice was a drawl. ‘Being a mistress, like your mother, isn’t enough for you. You want respectability…’

  It was so close to the truth that he could see it in her eyes, she knew. Her chin lifted.

  ‘Why not? As Signora Farneste I would be received everywhere.’

  She didn’t know why she’d said that, continuing with this farce. Vito Farneste would no more marry her than fly her on wings to the moon.

  His laugh was derisive.

  ‘Oh, ambitious indeed! And tell me, Little Miss Golddigger, do your ambitions extend to getting your share of the Farneste money, courtesy of a lavish divorce settlement?’

  She didn’t let that jibe hit her either.

  ‘No,’ she said in the same flat voice.

  ‘No? So you would be prepared to marry me even if I threw you out after six months without a penny in alimony?’

  His disbelief was evident.

  ‘Yes,’ she answered doggedly.

  ‘Why, cara mia, how flattered I should be—you prefer me to a million euros hard cash, and you want me so much you’ll even forgo your alimony!’

  His mockery snapped something in her—something she’d been holding on to tightly.

  Never, never again would she let him mock her stupid, helpless, gullible desire for him!

  ‘This isn’t about you, Vito! I don’t give a damn about you!’

  His eyes darkened.

  Recklessly she went on, unable to stop herself, unwilling to bear the thought that Vito Farneste thought she was so desperate for him she was prepared to use the Farneste emeralds to get him.

  ‘There’s someone far more important to me than you! Someone—’

  She stopped dead, appalled at what she had nearly burst out with.

  For a second there was total silence, and then, in a voice that made her flesh shrivel, Vito spoke.

  ‘Finally I see what game you’re trying to play. This sudden craving for respectability.’

  Hurriedly, desperately, she tried to claw back what she had so stupidly blurted out.

  ‘No—I—’

  A hand slashed through the
air.

  ‘Too late, cara mia. I can see now what you’re up to. This isn’t about marrying me—it’s about marrying someone else. Or rather him refusing to marry you. Your lover refuses to marry you—a prudent man, given your background!—so you think you can get your own back on him by suddenly becoming Signora Farneste! You don’t want a million euros, and you don’t want alimony—you want revenge! How does the saying go? Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned. That’s what this is all about. You getting your own back on a man who’s scorned you. Who wants you as a mistress—not a wife.’

  She stared, trying to take in what he was saying. Adding two and two and coming up with a number so bizarre she could not at first work out what he was saying.

  Vito was still speaking.

  ‘Finally I get the picture. Now it makes sense. For such a prize—revenge: the sweetest dish of all!—you were willing to come sliming into my office today! Thinking that dangling my emeralds in front of me would lure me to the altar!’

  The scorn dripped from him like acid. His eyes flicked over her contemptuously.

  ‘You were really going to do a number on him, weren’t you? Make him think you’d found a rich man willing to marry you—and enjoy you in bed, too! And to get me to go along with this delightful scheme you offered me back my own emeralds and the dubious pleasures of your body.’

  His contempt stung her into words. From somewhere—she did not know where—she found a scorn to equal his own. Her head tilted slightly, and she eyed him tauntingly.

  ‘Actually, no. It was only the emeralds you were going to get, Vito.’ Biting indifference infused her voice. ‘Sex with you wasn’t going to be part of the deal. Once was enough, you know? Been there, done that, got the Vito Farneste T-shirt. I don’t want another one. I’ve moved on.’

  She knew she hadn’t the weapons to fight him with. Only this one. All she had. It was frail, and it was pathetic, but it was all she could do. Feign indifference to him. God alone knew where he’d come up with the idea that she wanted to marry him in order to punish some mythical lover who wouldn’t marry her. But she wasn’t going to refute it. It would serve to protect the truth about her real reason.

  And the lie about her indifference to him would protect her further.

  Since this entire conversation was pointless, and all she desperately wanted was for Vito Farneste to walk out of her life again, as he had walked out once before—with no looking back, none, not once—it didn’t matter what she said. So long as it got rid of him.

  And left her with something—anything—the barest shreds of her pride.

  Like a beggar searching for scraps, she took refuge in another insult.

  ‘I know you think you’re God’s monumental gift to women, Vito, but I’m afraid as far as I’m concerned you’re a bit of a yawn. I only wanted your ring on my finger, that’s all. Not your stud services—magnificent as you consider them.’

  He was looking at her. Eyes resting on her. Expressionless. His face expressionless.

  She shifted uneasily. What was happening? Why was he looking at her like that? Without any expression in his face at all?

  She’d expected a flash of anger, something that would show her just how much he objected to having his sexual irresistibility insulted.

  But he was just looking at her, his face completely closed. Uneasiness snaked through her again. Then she realised what he was doing—he was deliberately not responding to her feeble little jibe just to show her how trivial it was. What did Vito Farneste care about what Rachel Vaile thought of his prowess in the bedroom? Her opinion was of no value. It never had been.

  And it certainly wasn’t now. She was like some pathetic little gnat, buzzing at him.

  A dart of anger went through her. She was of little account to Vito—had always been of little account—nothing but his father’s whore’s bastard daughter…

  She provoked him again. Something compelled her to get a reaction from him—any reaction! To show that she could have some effect on him, even if it were only a hundredth of a hundredth of the kind of effect he could have on her just by glancing at her with those dark, devastating eyes.

  ‘I suppose you think I was besotted with you when I was eighteen, don’t you?’ She gave a light laugh. God knows how she dug it out of herself, but she did all the same. ‘Well—’ she gave a little shrug ‘—this time around you can see I’m not besotted! The big Latin Lover act is wasted on me. Oh,’ she conceded, knowing she had to outface him all the way down the line or shrivel to ashes, ‘I was curious just now, letting you kiss me, but as for anything more… I don’t think so. And now, if you don’t mind, I have things to get on with.’

  She walked to the door, feeling amazed, disbelieving, that her legs were still working. She had to get him out of here—she was desperate for that. She just wanted him gone. So she could collapse alone. In private. In safety.

  She pulled back the automatic lock on the door and yanked it open, standing aside.

  Then she looked back at Vito.

  He hadn’t moved.

  He was just standing there with that same expressionless face. A silent shiver went through her. How had she dared say such things to him as she just had? Where had such lies come from? And what use had they been anyway? she thought bitterly. She could have stabbed a carving knife in him and he wouldn’t have reacted to her! A few stupid, sarcastic insults from her weren’t even worth him getting angry over.

  ‘Do you think you could shift yourself?’ she prompted.

  She stared at him, not understanding why he wasn’t moving.

  His face was closed. Quite blank. His body seemed very still. Then, abruptly, he started to stroll towards the door. She felt herself tense as she readied herself for him walking past her, so close. But when he was a metre or so from her he halted, reached out a hand, and casually pushed the door she was holding shut.

  ‘What—?’

  Her start of consternation was cut off. Vito spoke right across her. His blank, unreadable eyes rested on her quite expressionlessly. His voice was a drawl.

  ‘You had better contact your bank tomorrow and instruct them to release the emeralds. Phone my PA with the bank’s location so she’ll know where to send the courier.’

  Rachel stared disbelievingly.

  ‘I have no intention,’ she bit out, ‘of letting you have the emeralds!’

  He raised an eyebrow.

  ‘Every Farneste bride wears the emeralds on her wedding day. Do you imagine I’m going to let you be an exception?’

  There was mockery in his eyes, cold, hard mockery, as they rested on her.

  Her mouth opened, then closed, her throat moving. Her brain seemed to have stopped working. Her heart had stopped beating.

  ‘It will be a civil wedding, as soon as the law permits, and will be dissolved again as soon as legally feasible. Oh, there’ll be a pre-nup you’ll have to sign, and the emeralds must be around your neck when I marry you so that you can return them to me afterwards.’ He reached for the door and drew it open again.

  He smiled into her shock-frozen face—a smile completely devoid of pleasure.

  ‘You should be looking happy, cara mia—your girlish dreams have just come true… I’m going to marry you.’

  He strolled past her, out of the flat, down the stairs. He looked relaxed, stepping with lithe grace down the shabbily carpeted staircase, his Latin elegance totally out of place in the run-down house.

  Numbly Rachel watched him let himself out of the front door, heard it thud shut behind him.

  After a long, long while she felt her heart start to beat again.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  VITO eased himself into the back seat of the car, and his driver pulled away from the kerb.

  Anger iced through him.

  So, Rachel Vaile—alias Rachel Graham!—thought she could use him as a patsy. Twist him to her purposes the way her cursed mother had twisted his father! Right up to the moment of his death.

  A hard, v
icious knot tugged deep inside him. Arlene Graham had killed his father as sure as if she’d held a gun to his head. His fatal heart attack had been triggered, so the cardiac specialist at the hospital had informed him, avoiding eye contact, by the strain of strenuous coitus.

  Or, to put it in the vernacular, over-active sex with his mistress.

  The paparazzi and the Italian gutter press had had a fieldday! Gloating over every last tasty morsel of a high-life scandal that combined sex, wealth, adultery and death all in one rich package. His mother’s humiliation had been complete.

  He had got what satisfaction he could from having Arlene ejected from the Rome apartment and then from the villa.

  And in revenge she’d taken the emeralds.

  The anger iced through him again.

  Well, he was getting them back now—but that was not why he was marrying Rachel Vaile. She could have rotted in hell before she’d manipulate him like that!

  His brow darkened.

  No, getting the emeralds back was just a bonus.

  The real meat was a quite different dish.

  And, like revenge, best eaten cold.

  Rachel Vaile. Delectable. Desirable.

  And very, very beddable.

  A slow, hard smile slid across his mouth. She really shouldn’t have tried to challenge him like that, telling him she wasn’t interested in him sexually. Not when he had been able to see her whole body vibrating with a sensual pulse that had made his own body surge, even before she had dissolved into that kiss.

  He was going to take great pleasure in demonstrating to her, quite consummately, how totally wrong she was…

  That was why he was going to indulge her by marrying her.

  To taste one more time the honey that she promised.

  And when he had tasted it to the full he would do what he had done last time around.

  Let her rot in hell.

  He owed her that much, at least.

  Rachel stared out of the porthole. Fluffy white clouds made the scene look like something out of a children’s cartoon. A bright white sun blazed down over the cloudscape, dazzling her eyes.

  She wondered what she was feeling, and decided in the end that she wasn’t feeling anything—except a numbed stunnedness that she was actually sitting here, on a privately hired executive jet, winging towards the Caribbean.