His Wedding Ring of Revenge Page 9

‘I know you think you’re God’s monumental gift to women, Vito, but I’m afraid so 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.’

  His mouth twisted. By morning Rachel Vaile would be begging for his stud services.

  Gagging for them.

  It was all she deserved from him.

  Rachel took another sip of the champagne. There was no point feeling bad about what she had done. She just had to keep going, count the hours until she was back in London and could get to the hospital to tell her mother the glad tidings…

  She felt her lips twist. Glad tidings? Forcing a man to marry her who loathed her, whom she loathed?

  Involuntarily her head turned slightly towards the man standing only a few feet away from her—and yet a world away. In the tropical dusk his skin tone seemed darker, his features edged with shadow.

  Like chiaroscuro. Light and dark.

  Just like Vito himself. But the light was fake, all fake. Only the darkness in him was real.

  Again, those two lines from that most bitter of all Shakespeare sonnets haunted her.

  For I have sworn thee fair and thought thee bright

  Who art as black as hell, as dark as night.

  She knew—dear God, she knew!—what had driven the poet to write those lines.

  I can’t stand this, she thought. It’s agony. Exquisite agony.

  She took a deep, unsteady breath and deliberately, determinedly, swallowed a large mouthful of champagne. Her feelings for Vito Farneste were a total irrelevance.

  With a sharp movement she put her champagne glass down on the table. Her hands went to the back of her neck. As she fiddled with the clasp of the necklace, trying to get her fingers into position on it, she twisted her head towards Vito.

  She must be brisk about this. Brisk, efficient, emotionless.

  This was, after all, a business transaction—nothing more, despite the beauty of the island, the deliberate romanticism of the setting. Whatever she had once felt for Vito was dead. Killed outright in the moment he’d got out of that bed and informed her mother she’d been gagging for it…

  Deliberately she forced the vile memory to the front of her mind. It would give her the courage to keep going. To ignore the fact that Vito Farneste was here, in the flesh, looking more breathtaking than she had ever seen him, the sight of him churning through her, devastating her.

  She spoke tersely. ‘As soon as you have the emeralds I want the certificate.’ There was an edge to her voice she did not bother to soften.

  ‘Don’t take them off!’

  Astonishment made her pause, hands stilling at her nape.

  ‘Why not?’ she demanded.

  He gave a smile. ‘The night is young, cara mia.’

  She gazed at him warily. What was going on?

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ she countered, her hands lowering slowly.

  ‘It means that I believe we are awaited for dinner.’

  He cocked his head towards the hotel.

  ‘I’m not hungry.’

  Something glimmered in his eye. ‘But I am. And besides, you need food to keep your strength up. And to keep your bella figura.’ His gaze flickered over her.

  It felt like fire, licking at her.

  He was doing it on purpose, she knew.

  ‘Stop it!’ she said sharply. ‘Vito, what the hell do you think you’re doing? If I’m hungry I’ll order room service. You can eat in the dining room if you want.’

  He shook his head.

  ‘Uh-uh. No deal.’ His eyes rested on her. ‘We’ve aroused quite enough suspicions as it is by our attitude. After all…’ his voice took on a caustic note ‘…we are hardly behaving as the typical romantic couple, are we? And although Antillian law permits instant weddings, it likes them to be genuine ones. Antillia doesn’t want to get a reputation for tolerating false marriages for legally dubious purposes.’ His eyes glinted. He was clearly enjoying her discomfort. ‘Which means we do our best to behave in a manner calculated to set their minds at rest about us. By indulging in a candlelit romantic dinner à deux.’

  She felt colour flush along her cheekbones at his words. She knew he was baiting her, and that she should not react, but she coloured all the same.

  ‘Well, why can’t we both have room service, then?’ she countered.

  He shrugged. ‘If you prefer, cara mia. Though, of course, to avoid arousing suspicions about us we would need to dine together, in the privacy of our suite, completely a` deux…’

  The baiting look came again, and her mouth thinned.

  ‘Very well. We’ll dine in the dining room. I’ll go and change.’

  She spoke shortly and made to turn. A hand reached out and stayed her. She froze. She didn’t want Vito touching her. Not anywhere.

  ‘A bride should always dine in her wedding gown—and with all her finery.’

  Again his gaze swept over her, and again the colour flared out along her cheekbones.

  ‘I’d have thought you’d want me to take off the emeralds as soon as possible!’ she bit back. ‘That’s why you just married me after all! To get them back!’

  Something lit in his eye, and she knew she had touched a nerve.

  ‘I’ll take them off later,’ he replied. ‘Do you doubt it?’

  Her lips pressed together.

  ‘No. And in exchange I want the wedding certificate. It’s all I want from you!’

  That light came into his eye again, and she felt the blood in her veins swirl in disturbing little eddies. It must be the champagne, she thought.

  It couldn’t be anything else.

  It mustn’t be.

  As they headed back along the path to the hotel, Vito strolling beside her as if, she thought with stinging animosity, he had not a care in the world, half-full champagne bottle swinging gently from his fingers, she found memories stealing through her mind. Unwanted memories. Memories of Vito strolling through the dusk across the Roman Forum. Walking through time, he’d told her. And they’d tried to imagine themselves as ancient Romans, and all the sights and sounds that would have been around them, to rebuild in their imaginations the buildings they were passing.

  Talking together. Laughing together. Being together.

  Pain laced through her at the memories.

  I thought we were so close.

  But it was fake. All fake.

  As fake, she knew, some minutes later, as Vito’s solicitous attitude to her now.

  She was ushered up the shallow wooden steps onto the wide veranda that ran the whole length of the front of the hotel.

  Last time it was me he was fooling—this time it’s just the hotel staff and guests.

  She walked through the double doors into a beautiful high-ceilinged, mahogany-panelled dining room.

  Speaking of guests…where were they?

  There was only one table in the dining room, groaning with silverware and crystal, lit by candles floating in a beautiful silver bowl at the centre, in which fragrant petals floated. The whole bowl was surrounded by a beautiful floral arrangement. A single red rose rested by one of the two place settings.

  For a second so brief it was hardly there Rachel remembered her dream on the plane—running up the Spanish Steps in Rome, a street vendor proffering a single red rose.

  Memory fused with the dream. Memory of being utterly, incandescently happy, secure in the knowledge that the most beautiful man in the world had singled her out, had sought her company, taken her to his bed.

  Oh, God, I was such a fool…

  Someone was gliding towards them—the white-gloved butler, André, beaming with pleasure and ushering them to the table.

  Rachel stalled.

  ‘I don’t want a private dining room,’ she announced baldly. ‘I want to be in the main dining room, please.’

  The man looked confused. A voice behind Rachel spoke, dry and accented.

  ‘There is no ma
in dining room, cara mia.’

  She frowned. ‘So do the other hotel guests all have private dining rooms?’ she asked, bewildered.

  ‘Other guests?’ echoed André. ‘Madam—there are no other guests. This is not a hotel. It is a villa that your husband has hired—Honeymoon House.’

  Rachel stared, then twisted around towards Vito.

  ‘There’s nobody else here?’

  But she didn’t need an answer—she knew it was true. This was some kind of private house set up to arrange weddings for couples rich enough to have the place to themselves. She opened her mouth to protest—she could not stay here, all on her own with Vito and no other guests—then shut it again as she saw the warning light in his eye, reminding her not to arouse suspicions. Stiffly she took the seat being held for her, and allowed the butler to deferentially shake out the pristine white linen table napkin and lay it across her lap, then go to perform the same office for Vito.

  There followed a whirl of highly professional, superbly executed activity, as their champagne glasses were refilled, a carafe of iced water was placed on the table, warmed bread rolls were presented to them in a silver filigree basket, with curls of butter in iced water dishes, and salvers of tiny, delicious-looking crudités were proffered. A silver-printed menu card was placed in front of Rachel, and one in front of Vito, and she gazed at the ornate embossing of wedding bells and hearts surrounding the copperplate descriptions of the meal ahead. For his part, Vito was in deep discussion with André over a leather-bound wine list.

  Clearly the staff were determined that this was going to be a wedding night dinner to beat all others hands down.

  A sense of complete unreality settled over Rachel. This might be the world’s most hypocritical meal, but there was nothing she could do about it. As her second glass of champagne slipped down her throat she felt a blessed sense of dissociation float over her. The ordeal of the wedding was over—whenever she moved her fork, the gold of her wedding ring glinted in the candlelight.

  It’s done. I can relax now. Nothing can undo what has been achieved. I’ve carried out my mother’s dying wish and I can be content.

  Little by little she felt the strain begin to ease from her shoulders. It was as if the heavy, crushing burden that she had been carrying was slipping from her. There was no need to carry it any longer. She could let it slide to the ground.

  The net of tension that had been wound so tightly around her began to dissolve.

  I feel free, she thought. And it seemed a wondrous, strange idea.

  As she ate the delicious food washed down by the rich, expensive wine, the last of the tension slipped from her.

  She wasn’t sure how, but somehow the meal passed more easily than she could have dreamt possible. Because of the hovering attendance of the staff Vito made a point of making innocuous conversation with her, and although her replies were stilted and awkward she realised it was all only for show, and therefore meant nothing.

  The wine helped too, and there seemed to be a lot of it. After the champagne white wine was served with seafood, then a vintage red with the lamb, and sweet wine with the dessert.

  And all the time, as the tension dissolved away from her with every mouthful of wine, so her heightened awareness of Vito’s presence mounted.

  She tried hard not to look at him, but her eyes kept going to him. Never to meet his gaze openly, but just tiny, irresistible flickers that caught glimpses of him, time after time. She knew she should not, understand she was being insanely foolish, and yet the knowledge that after tonight she would never set eyes on him again for the rest of her life was piercing.

  A slow, terrible yearning began to run through her like a silent, flowing river, cutting through the levees of resistance she had constructed so uselessly to contain the flooding of wanting, yearning. Desiring.

  I want him so much. And I can never have him. Never. After tonight there will be nothing…

  Vito let his gaze flicker over the woman sitting opposite him. Her awareness of him had been growing throughout the long meal. She might be trying to suppress it, but she could not conceal it from him. The covert looks from beneath those long, beautiful lashes licked over him, increasing not just her awareness of him, but his of her.

  He wanted her badly.

  And he wanted her to want him even more.

  That would be exquisitely satisfying. As satisfying as sinking deep, deep within that satined flesh.

  He felt his own flesh respond even at the thought of what was yet to come, so soon now, and reached for his wine glass to distract himself. The meal was nearing its end, and he was glad of it. Because, for him, the night was only just beginning.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  RACHEL rested her hands on the balustrade of the veranda and gazed out into the warm Caribbean night. She could hear the soft soughing of the sea breeze in the palm tops, and the faint susurration of the waves breaking gently on the beach. Her eyes adjusted to the night and she began to make out shapes, shadows. The moon rode high in the heavens.

  A night for lovers, she thought.

  But not for her.

  A sense of exile overcame her. She could stand here, in these beautiful, fairytale surroundings, and not be here at all. It was as if everything around her were real and she was not.

  The wine in her veins made her feel even more distanced from the reality around her.

  She tried to think of her mother, tried to work out what time it must be in London now. To think of what the doctors were telling her now—that it was time to start thinking of hospice care for her mother…

  But her mother seemed very far away.

  Only here, now, seemed real.

  And yet she was not part of this beautiful romantic setting. Could never be. The one man she wanted—had ever wanted—was beyond her reach.

  That he was here, now, in the flesh, a few metres away from her, only made her anguish more exquisite, her torment more painful. It didn’t matter whether Vito Farneste were ten metres from her or ten thousand miles—she did not exist for him.

  Had never existed.

  I should go to bed. Go to sleep.

  And pray not to dream…

  She would go in a moment. Just a moment.

  She lifted her face a little. The fresh, sweet breeze played over her cheeks, lifting a few delicate strands of hair loose from her chignon, moving along her bare arms and shoulders.

  That terrible, anguished sense of longing swept over her again, of wanting so much, so much, something that could never be. The ache, welling through her whole body, seemed to consume her utterly.

  There was a soft footfall behind her.

  And a presence.

  A presence she would recognise blindfolded and in the depths of a cavern. A presence she was so attuned to that her whole body vibrated subliminally to it.

  She turned. She could not help it.

  And he was there. As beautiful as when she had first set eyes on him, his face limned by shadow.

  She stood, backed against the balustrade, and all she could hear was the beat of her heart.

  He moved towards her. She felt the breath catch in her throat. Her eyes widened. He was coming towards her.

  Purpose in his tread.

  She couldn’t move. Not a muscle. Her whole existence seemed suspended, floating in insubstantiality.

  And yet she had never been more aware of her body in her life. She could feel her gown grazing along her hips, her legs, feel the soft swell of her breasts against its satin folds. Feel the blood pulse slowly, languorously, in her veins.

  Her heartbeat slowed.

  He came up to her.

  She gazed at him. She could not help it. Eyes drinking him in. So beautiful.

  Why was he coming to her? What did he want?

  For a brief, singing moment she thought that he was intent on her—her—as he once had been. So many years ago. To touch her, kiss her, caress her and possess her…

  Her lips parted.

  He
smiled.

  A wry, knowing smile. The long lashes of his eyes swept down, grazing her mouth as if he had already kissed her.

  He would kiss her now, she knew—any moment he would lower his head to hers and take her lips with his…

  Yearning filled her. Yearning and wanting and desiring.

  ‘Vito…’ She breathed his name, her eyes beseeching.

  He reached out a hand.

  He would cup her cheek, fold her to him, embrace her…

  But all he did was let his forefinger rest on the pendant emerald nestling almost in the valley of her breasts.

  ‘Time to give me the emeralds, cara mia.’

  There was amusement in his voice. Even as he spoke his other hand reached into his jacket pocket, withdrawing the folded marriage certificate.

  ‘You give me the emeralds, I give you this,’ he told her.

  His eyes were dark in the night. They played over her face.

  Her stricken, anguished face.

  He looked down at her.

  ‘This is what we came here for, no? To make this trade? There was no other reason, was there, cara mia?’

  The smile on his mouth mocked her pain. Her yearning.

  Her eyes were full. Agonised.

  ‘Give me the necklace,’ he said softly.

  He dropped his hand away.

  She felt her hands move numbly, as if they were no part of her, reaching to the nape of her neck. The clasp gave way in her fingers and she felt the weight of the emeralds slide from her. She caught them in a pool of darkness, cupping them in her hands. She held them out to him.

  He took them from her and slid them into his jacket pocket. Then, never taking his eyes from her face, he folded the wedding certificate into a thin column and slipped it into her bodice, between her breasts.

  ‘You have what you came for, cara mia.’ His voice was still low. ‘Because that is all you came here for—nothing else.’ For one long, endless moment he let his eyes hold hers. ‘Nothing else,’ he repeated softly. Then his finger slid under her chin and tilted it up. ‘You did not come for this, did you?’

  His mouth lowered to hers, brushing it like silk.

  Heaven sighed through her.