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Surrendering To The Vengeful Italian
Angela Bissell
One step from surrenderFor seven years formidable Leonardo Vincenti has planned his vengeance on Douglas Shaw—and nothing will stop him. Not even Shaw’s stunning but treacherous daughter Helena, who—right now—is pleading for leniency.Grim satisfaction spreads through Leo, because he knows she would willingly never take up his challenge to return to his side. But he has greatly underestimated Helena. Secrets drive her as if the very devil were on her heels. And suddenly the passion that left them undone years before is forcing them both to the brink of surrender…Don’t miss Angela Bissell’s dramatic debut for Mills & Boon Modern Romance!
One step from surrender
For seven years, formidable Leo Vincenti has planned his vengeance on Douglas Shaw and nothing will stop him. Not even Shaw’s stunning but treacherous daughter, Helena, who—right now—is pleading for leniency. Grim satisfaction spreads through him as he knows she would willingly never take up his challenge to return to his side.
But he has greatly underestimated Helena. Secrets drive her as if the very devil were on her heels. And suddenly the passion that left them undone years before is forcing them both to the brink of surrender...
‘What if we don’t convince them?’
‘That we are lovers?’
‘Yes.’ The word came out slightly strangled.
Leo straightened from the table. ‘You assured me you could handle it. Are you getting cold feet already, Helena?’
She almost laughed at his choice of expression. Cold? Oh, no. No part of her felt cold right now. Not even close. Not when the prospect of playing lovers with Leo for an entire week had her blood racing so hot and crazy she feared her veins might explode.
He stepped towards her. ‘There is one way to ensure we’re convincing.’
‘Oh?’ She tamped down the urge to scurry to the other side of the room. ‘How?’
‘Drop the pretence.’
Her brain took several seconds to register his meaning. She blinked, a bubble of incredulous laughter climbing her throat. ‘You’re kidding, right?’
‘You find the prospect of sex with me abhorrent?’
The question—so explicit, yet so casually delivered—triggered a fresh wave of heat that burned all the way from her hairline down to the valley between her breasts. Abhorrent? No. Dangerous? Yes. Terrifying? Utterly. Though not for any reason she was fool enough to admit.
Irresistible Mediterranean Tycoons (#u6db8780b-6dac-593f-999f-b30eca389f16)
Impossibly arrogant, overwhelmingly sexy...
Meet the men you can’t say no to!
Gorgeous, powerful and darkly brooding, Leo Vincenti and Nicolas César have dominated their fields—not only in their home countries of Italy and France, but across the globe.
Now it’s time for them to turn their unwavering focus on a different challenge: conquering two defiantly delectable heroines of their own!
But have these billionaires bitten off more than they can chew?
Find out in:
Surrendering to the Vengeful Italian
December 2016
Defying her Billionaire Protector
January 2017
Don’t miss this fabulous debut duet by Angela Bissell!
Surrendering to the Vengeful Italian
Angela Bissell
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
ANGELA BISSELL lives with her husband and one crazy Ragdoll cat in the vibrant harbourside city of Wellington, New Zealand. In her twenties, with a wad of savings and a few meagre possessions, she took off for Europe, backpacking through Egypt, Israel, Turkey and the Greek Islands before finding her way to London, where she settled and worked in a glamorous hotel for several years. Clearly the perfect grounding for her love of Mills & Boon Modern Romance! Visit her at angelabissell.com (http://www.angelabissell.com/).
This is Angela’s stunning debut for Mills & Boon Modern Romance—we hope you enjoy it!
Look out for the next part of her
Irresistible Mediterranean Tycoons duet!
Defying Her Billionaire Protector
Available January 2017
For Tony. Because you never stopped believing. And you never let me quit. Love you to infinity, Mr B.
And for Mum. The memories have left you but our love never will. You are, and always will be, our real-life heroine.
Contents
Cover (#ua0e082fc-ee24-5b9a-8469-0f31affc5117)
Back Cover Text (#ub75faed3-4da3-51a4-8fcc-a2e5fbfa8ad3)
Introduction (#u80dd967e-5140-5d81-be5b-453d4a80bdc8)
Irresistible Mediterranean Tycoons (#u38da2b44-a000-5d9a-a722-9bb959672827)
Title Page (#ua8795e97-547b-5bb3-9bc3-af1366b001b3)
About the Author (#u7ba6de0d-6801-5b4f-99d7-864a413c6125)
Dedication (#u572b2149-16f4-58b2-a1a5-902e209aa9ae)
CHAPTER ONE (#ue4593305-acc3-56d4-b95c-3d902591167d)
CHAPTER TWO (#u131ec306-eb9d-574c-833f-f5066c1c6970)
CHAPTER THREE (#u9164104b-6369-56c5-9808-0b324219c1a1)
CHAPTER FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo)
EPILOGUE (#litres_trial_promo)
Extract (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ONE (#u6db8780b-6dac-593f-999f-b30eca389f16)
HELENA SHAW HAD been sitting in the elegant marble foyer for the best part of two hours when the man she had trekked halfway across London to see finally strode into the exclusive Mayfair hotel.
She had almost given up. After all the effort she had devoted to tracking him down, she had almost lost her nerve. Had almost let cowardice—and the voice in her head crying insanity—drive her out of the plush upholstered chair and back into the blessed obscurity of the crowded rush-hour streets.
But she had not fled. She had sat and waited—and waited some more.
And now he was here.
Her stomach dropped, weightless for a moment as though she had stepped from a great height into nothingness, and then the fluttering started—a violent sensation that made her belly feel like a cage full of canaries into which a half-starved tomcat had been loosed.
Breathe, she instructed herself, and watched him stride across the foyer, tall and dark and striking in a charcoal-grey two-piece that screamed power suit even without the requisite tie around his bronzed throat.
Women stared.
Men stepped out of his way.
And he ignored them all, his big body moving with an air of intent until, for one heart-stopping moment, his footsteps slowed on the polished marble and he half turned in her direction, eyes narrowed under a sharp frown as he surveyed the hotel’s expansive interior.
Helena froze. Shrouded in shadows cast by soft lighting and half hidden behind a giant spray of exotic honey-scented blooms, she was certain he couldn’t see her, yet for one crazy moment she had the unnerving impression he could somehow sense her scrutiny. Her very presence. As if, after all these years, they were still tethered by an invisible thread of awareness.
A crack of thunder, courtesy of the storm the weathermen had been promising Londoners since yesterday, made Helena jump. She blinked, pulled in a sharp breath and let the air out with a derisive hiss. She had no connection with this man. Whatever bond had existed between them was long gone, destroyed by her father and buried for ever in the ashes of bitterness and hurt.
A hurt Leonardo Vincenti would soon revisit on her family if she failed to stop him seizing her father’s company.
She grabbed her handbag and stood, her pulse picking up speed as she wondered if he would see her. But he had already resumed his long strides towards the bank of elevators. She hurried after him, craning her neck to keep his dark head and broad shoulders in her line of sight. Not that she’d easily lose him in a crowd. He stood out from the pack—that much hadn’t changed—though he seemed even taller than she remembered, darker somehow, the aura he projected now one of command and power.
Her stomach muscles wound a little tighter.
Europe’s business commentators had dubbed him the success of the decade: an entrepreneurial genius who’d turned a software start-up into a multi-million-dollar enterprise in less than ten years and earned a coveted spot on the rich list. The more reputable media sources called him single-minded and driven. Others dished up less flattering labels like hard-nosed and cut-throat.
Words that reminded Helena too much of her father. Yet even hard-nosed and cut-throat seemed too mild, too charitable, for a man like Douglas Shaw.
She shouldered her bag, clutched the strap over her chest.
Her father was a formidable man, but if the word regret existed in his vocabulary he must surely rue the day he’d aimed his crosshairs at Leonardo Vincenti. Now the young Italian he’d once decreed unsuitable for his daughter was back, seven years older, considerably wealthier and, by all accounts, still mad as hell at the man who’d run him out of town.
He stopped, pushed the button for an elevator and shoved his hands in his trouser pockets. Behind him, Helena hovered so close she could see the fine weave in the fabric of his jacket, the individual strands of black hair curling above his collar.
She sucked in a deep breath. ‘Leo.’
He turned, his dark brows rising into an arch of enquiry that froze along with the rest of his face the instant their gazes collided. His hands jerked out of his pockets. His brows plunged back down.
‘What the hell...?’
Those three words, issued in a low, guttural growl, raised the tiny hairs on her forearms and across her nape.
He’d recognised her, then.
She tilted her head back. In her modest two-inch heels she stood almost five foot ten, but still she had to hike her chin to lock her gaze with his.
And oh, sweet mercy, what a gaze it was.
Dark. Hard. Glittering. Like polished obsidian and just as impenetrable. How had she forgotten the mind-numbing effect those midnight eyes could have on her?
Concentrate.
‘I’d like to talk,’ she said.
A muscle moved in his jaw, flexing twice before he spoke. ‘You do not own a phone?’
‘Would you have taken my call?
He met her challenge with a smile—if the tight, humourless twist of his lips could be called a smile. ‘Probably not. But then you and I have nothing to discuss. On the phone or in person.’
An elevator pinged and opened behind him. He inclined his head in a gesture she might have construed as polite if not for the arctic chill in his eyes.
‘I am sorry you have wasted your time.’ And with that he swung away and stepped into the elevator.
Helena hesitated, then quickly rallied and dashed in after him. ‘You’ve turned up after seven years of silence and come after my father’s company. I hardly think that qualifies as nothing.’
‘Get out of the elevator, Helena.’
The soft warning made the skin across her scalp prickle. Or maybe it was hearing her name spoken in that deep, accented baritone that drove a wave of discomforting heat through her?
