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Clarissa closed her eyes again on another eruption of fury.
How dare that arrogant jerk!
Castaldini was not only acknowledging him, it was offering him the incalculable honor and privilege of becoming its future king, and he had terms? What more did he want? A binding contract adding the island to his real estate acquisitions?
Not that that was too far-fetched. Among her shocking discoveries, she found out that he’d long ago purchased a huge chunk of Castaldinian soil. Three hundred square miles of the six thousand that made up the island. It didn’t matter that this was the south eastern area that was said to be unreclaimable for being too mountainous, it was still five percent of the whole damn kingdom.
And why negotiate with her? She was the most junior Council member. Wasn’t really even that, yet. She’d been made a member the day before she embarked on her trip to the States, a training mission that had been cut short, too.
But she knew why.
Now that Ferruccio was in a position of unprecedented power, he wanted to lord it over the D’Agostinos, the royal family, maybe over the whole nation he felt had spurned him. He wanted to lord it over her, too, the only female, she believed, who hadn’t fallen flat on her face at his approach, quaked at his every glance, melted when he beckoned.
Well, she had…But he didn’t know that. She hadn’t let him know, and she thanked God for that daily. She hated to think what would have happened if she hadn’t been forewarned of his true nature and intentions and had succumbed to the dictates of her desires that first time he’d expressed interest.
His ruthless reputation proclaimed him to be an overendowed, overprivileged, overeverything boor who believed people’s—especially women’s—only use was to throw themselves at his feet, follow his orders and satisfy his appetites before being discarded. He’d lost no sleep over her rejection, as evidenced by the constant stream of interchangeable hotties who’d been flitting in and out of his bed ever since.
Not that he’d taken no for answer. Her dismissal seemed to have roused the conqueror in him, and he’d continued to approach her despite her consistent refusals.
After she dared to decline his first invitation, she’d seen him everywhere she went during the week he spent on Castaldini. She hadn’t been able to breathe until he left. Then he’d come back within a month to issue another invitation and had continued to do so whenever he returned, and even more when he hadn’t. He kept asking her to hop over to Milan, Monaco or Madrid, to join him for a meal, Hong Kong or Tokyo or Rio De Janeiro to join him for the weekend, among a party or alone.
She turned him down every time, with one excuse or another, struggling to observe formal politeness and neutrality, since he was such an important man to her father and Castaldini.
But he’d left her that first night with the augury that there would come a time when she’d have no option but to do his bidding.
That time was finally here.
She wondered how he’d justified his demand to her father. He must have said something convincing, or her father wouldn’t have been so matter-of-fact about it.
So he’d finally have his laugh. That had to be his objective. If there’d been a shadow of a doubt that he’d been pursuing her to freshen his image with a coat of legitimacy, it had evaporated. He was a D’Agostino, would be proclaimed the future king of Castaldini. There was no higher status or recognition he could aspire to.
The limo slowed down, and with it her streaking thoughts.
That only made her anger gain momentum again. She’d been fuming since he’d sent his aides to summon her. She’d grudgingly let them escort her to his jet. She hadn’t found him onboard as she’d expected, had been stunned to find the jet taking off, whisking her away to his private part of the island without so much as an explanation or request for her token agreement.
And here she was. Approaching the only man-made construction and landscaping she’d seen in the last twenty minutes since the jet had landed at what was clearly a private airport.
There were no fences anywhere. The limo passed through a gate made by an opening in a row of towering cypress trees.
As they cruised down the driveway she realized the estate must cover hundreds of acres and the mansion at its middle must be over thirty thousand square feet. It sprawled in many levels, crouching over the highest point in the landscape, surrounded by manicured, mature gardens that on one side gave way to a mile-deep, golden beach, on another to the terrain where the road ended, and on the remaining sides to densely verdant groves ripe with fruit.
It felt like she was forging deeper into a tranquil paradise as they passed acres of oranges and tangerines, the fresh, tangy scent filling her.
The moment they stopped at the beginning of a stone path, she disembarked, more than usual unable to bear the pomp of ceremony.
Her chauffeur hurried to lead her on the path flanked by magnificent palms and a plethora of other Mediterranean flora to the entrance of the mansion. Her eyes wandered over its neo-Gothic stone facade as they neared. It looked as if it had been built centuries ago and transported through time the moment the last touch had been applied. The most characteristic features were the arched motif to all its windows, passageways and doors and the central tower.
She squinted up at the elaborate coat of arms that decorated the tower’s top. She wondered what it was, if it had any significance, or if it was just something that had appealed to him. It did bear resemblance to the D’Agostino family’s crest. Had he meant it that way, to express his affiliation, yet not wanted it to be the same, as he considered himself an outsider?
Her futile conjectures came to an end when the chauffeur opened the huge, arched antique oak door for her. She preceded him inside, but rather than following her, he closed the door behind her. She heard his steps receding quickly. Her lips tightened.
He’d delivered his master’s package and ran away as if he were being pursued by some malevolent force. It seemed everyone who must populate this place, who took care of all the immaculateness she’d seen, had the same orders. She hadn’t seen a soul so far.
She waited for Ferruccio to appear, her heart thudding. She’d never been totally alone with him. Even that first night when he’d followed her out to the seclusion of the verandah, masses of people had been within reach. She made sure he never found her alone from then on. Here in his domain where he ruled supreme, she felt cut off from the world. As she was sure he’d meant her to be. Another wave of resentment crashed over her.
And the worst part? She couldn’t act on her antipathy. More than ever she had to observe the dictates of diplomacy. Her position on the Council demanded that she strip her demeanor of any personal reaction, save only what would serve her mission.
But with every second that he didn’t appear, he was transforming that task from difficult to impossible.
Her hearing sharpened until every heartbeat was amplified to thunder in her ears. But she didn’thear approaching footsteps. There was only the distant drone of the waves and the tranquility of the internal courtyard in which she stood. It was at least two thousand square feet, paved in lava stones, lit with the impending sunset’s red-gold beams, which filtered from arched and round windows inset in the walls just below its domed ceiling.
He wasn’t coming. Not yet, at least. He must be letting her stew. She exhaled, moved. Might as well take a look around.
She strolled to the end of the courtyard, opened doors, her surprise rising as she found an olive press and wine-processing rooms. She wouldn’t have thought he’d go to the trouble of making his own oil and wines.
Mulling over this discovery, she headed to the other side of the courtyard where a corridor of arched columns ended in five stone steps. These led down to an arrangement of expansive sitting rooms with a unique take on Roman décor, in a combination of stucco and stone walls, and strewn with luxurious couches and low tables.
She wondered if he entertained a lot, if one of his many unspecified-destination invitations had been to come join him here. She wondered how she would have reacted to this place if she’d come here ignorant of the truth of his intentions, breathless with anticipation, ready to be swept away by the spell of his domain, to sink into its sensory decadence.
Shaking her head at the pointlessness of her musings, at the stupidity of letting them depress her with what ifs, she crossed into an amazing dining room with a round bronze table and a circular stone platform for chairs, with pillow seating.
This section had a medieval feel, with wall torches and large white cushions abounding in every corner. The floors were layered in old Sicilian pottery tiles, the designs flowing into variations as she progressed through the rest of the ground floor. Huge stone fireplaces sprouted in strategic spots, though subtle evidence of state-of-the-art electric heating was also present.
But what really amazed her was some of the most ingeniously placed and painted trompe-l’oeil she’d ever seen in the walls and ceilings. The murals’ optical illusions were almost indistinguishable from the three-dimensional imagery they depicted in depth and realism. They felt like portals into alternate realities.
She stopped in front of one, a tableau of a pigeon on a ferforgé windowsill, the glass behind it reflecting it and a distant sea and sky. It looked so real she almost thought the glass was there, did reflect that vista, that she could pet the gleaming feathers of the bird, that it would take flight if she tried.
Ferruccio must have spent untold millions here, from acquiring the land, to equipping it with a private airport and silksmooth roads, to building that incredible edifice that must be maintained year-round so he’d find it in perfect condition whenever he hopped over, maybe a few days each season.
It was clear to her why he brought her here, and why he hadn’t appeared yet. He was flaunting his wealth and power, giving her time for every detail to sink in, make its mark.
He’d picked the last woman on earth to be awed by affluence.
She lived in a palace, and she’d come to associate the grandeur that had surrounded her since birth with the anxiety and despair that had tainted her turbulent childhood. In fact, she’d been almost relieved that the opulence had long faded, with her father barely maintaining the parts of the palace that were national monuments. She sure wasn’t about to swoon over pretentious extravagance.
But she grudgingly had to hand it to Ferruccio. This place wasn’t pretentious. Or extravagant. It was a masterpiece of architecture and attention to detail but every article and line of design spoke of taste and discernment, everything so simple and unobtrusive it amalgamated into a retreat that promised enjoyment and ease to both mind and body.
Suddenly, ever fiber of her mind and body seemed to become a compass needle, obeying the magnetism that mushroomed at her back. She spun around.
And there he was. The man who’d ruled her every thought since the night she’d laid eyes on him, who’d manipulated her reactions and emotions with the slightest tug here, nudge there, just because he could.
He was standing at the mezzanine level gallery that overlooked the courtyard she’d wandered back to, looking down on her like a Roman deity would on a supplicant coming to beg his mercy.
She thought he’d stand there until she begged for real, for him to just come down and get this over with. Then, without a word, his eyes maintaining their lock on hers, he started moving toward the stone stairs. He descended soundlessly, effortlessly, his long legs turning the movement of taking each wide step into a performance of predatory grace.
Then he was striding toward her, his every step like an expanding shock wave, rattling her bones with reaction.
Was it possible that he had become more vigorous, more virile, that every time she saw him she’d find new things to marvel at, that his effect on her would keep intensifying? She’d thought him magnificent in the formal outfits she always saw him in. But in faded jeans and a partially unbuttoned denim shirt, he was…unfair.
She looked up at him, praying that her inner turmoil wouldn’t be translated into an outward manifestation that he could read and exploit.
He stopped a breath away, took the rest of her breath away as his gaze sliced through her like a steel blade. Then his lips spread in the first smile he’d ever trained on her.
“Principessa Clarissa,” he murmured, low and lethal, “It’s such a delight to see your…situation has finally allowed you to…be with me.”
Chapter Two
He remembered. What she’d said that first night.
Of course he did. And he was throwing it back in her face.
She bet the injury to his pride had been the prod that had kept him issuing those invitations, intent on breaking her resistance so that he could avenge what he must have considered a colossal insult—so that he’d keep his perfect score.
And he’d kept it. He’d made her bow to his will. She should have known he would. He’d gotten where he had by being inexorable.
She’d known that, yet thought there’d be no way he could prevail in this. She couldn’t have imagined the developments that had led her here.
But even without them, she now believed he would have won eventually. Hadn’t she studied his methods at length, both on her own and where they were taught in business school—to demonstrate the ultimate model of long-term, unrelenting, undetectable planning?
Even if she’d been dead wrong about her safety from his octopoid reach, she’d been spot on about another thing: He was gloating. And there was not a thing she could do about it.
Not only that, but she had to be on her best behavior, answer with something unrelated, divert the dialogue away from personal hostilities. In short, she couldn’t rise to his bait.
Then she opened her mouth. “What can I say? Life takes such…regrettable twists and turns. And downward spirals.”
She almost groaned out loud. What was she saying? And in that long-suffering, condescending tone, too? He’d take it as provocation. And he’d be right. It was.
Sure enough, his lips tugged wider, the cool smile heating, the assessing, dispassionate eyes sparking. “Indeed. But I don’t know about regrettable. I’m quite the fan of roller coasters.”
She should keep her mouth shut, hope he’d take the conversation to safer areas. Even if he didn’t and kept poking at her, she should nod and agree. Let him have his victory, let him rub her nose in it, shove its bitterness down her throat. She’d bet that was the “negotiations” he wanted to conduct—an extended session of having her here on his “terms,” in a position where she couldn’t say no or walk away. She should let him have his fill, get it over with.
Then she opened her mouth, and it seemed someone willful and inflammatory had hijacked her voice, which taunted in its husky tones, “You would be. It has taken a twisting, turning spiral upward with you. Apparently with no drop in sight.”
His lips twitched as he pretended to suppress his mockery. “I should hope not. Can you imagine a fall from such heights?”
Dio, he was giving her more rope. She duly took it and secured it around her neck. Then she kicked the bucket. “Oh, how I can.”
His mouth lost the fight with the sobriety he’d been forcing on it and spread wide, almost blinding her with a flash of white teeth and brutal charisma. “I see you’ve given it some serious thought. Seems you enjoyed the detailed visualization of such an event.”
She gave up trying to rein in her responses, gave in, admitted her acrimony. “Enjoyment would be a mild term if such an event came to pass. It would be—how did you put it—such a delight.”
She heard the fervent venom in her voice, knew he’d heard it, too. Everything stilled as he stared at her, probably unable to believe that anyone dared talk to him that way, princess or not.
Then suddenly, he threw his head back and guffawed.
It was her turn to stare, feeling as if one move now would snap the last tatters of tension holding her up.
She’d never seen him laugh. She hadn’t known he was capable of such a human indulgence. She should have known he’d do it like he did everything else. Overridingly.
The sight and sound of his unbearably male amusement hit her between her eyes and forked a downward path through her heart and gut to lodge in her loins. The semiarousal that burned inside her just because he existed roared higher. Along with the blaze of her anger.
He was goading her into even more catastrophic antagonism, into giving him enough incriminating evidence to report back to her father and the Council that their newest addition was a disgrace to the body of power she represented and should be banned from public service forever.
And she didn’t give a damn. Not anymore. He’d won. Six years of dangling himself before her, of pricking and prodding her periodically until she was inflamed and perpetually on the verge of an explosion, had taken their toll. She thought she’d been far from the breaking point. She was clearly way past it.
Ferruccio still chuckled, rich, dark reverberations from deep in his chest, annihilating what remained of her restraint. “Wouldn’t your conscience prick you if you felt ‘such a delight’ in my downfall? Now that you know I’m a newfound family member?”
Clarissa rolled her eyes. “Don’t remind me.”
He hooted on another surge of amusement. “Si. There she is. I always knew that beneath all that impassive decorum you had the temper of a lioness. I kept wondering what could rile you enough to get you to unsheath your claws and slash away.”
She harumphed, disgusted at her pathetic excuse for self-control, at his ability to peel it away. “Congratulations. You’ve succeeded in finding out. I hope you’re enjoying your success.”
“I’ve never enjoyed anything more. Ever.”
“‘Never’ got the point across. Don’t be redundant.”
He laughed again. “What a cruel cousin you are.”
“A very distant cousin.”
His eyes seemed to turn to molten steel. “Si. In every way.”
He was referring to her keeping him at an arm’s to a continent’s length all those years. As if he’d really cared.
“But you’re not distant now, at least not in one sense.” He took a step closer, his thigh almost touching her hip. She stumbled backward two steps. He lowered his gaze for a moment—as if debating closing the gap again—before raising his eyes. This time he almost did knock her off her feet. And that was before he added, deeply, smoothly, “See how easy it turned out to be?”
“What did? Being flown in to you like a package? One that you had dropped on your doorstep, to be left untended and unacknowledged until you stirred from your beauty sleep and puttered down to reluctantly receive it? Yeah, that sure didn’t involve any effort on my part.”
“You think there was any reluctance involved in my…receiving you? After I’ve gone to the trouble of insulting all the senior Council members by refusing to negotiate with anyone but you?”
“That’s my proof that you welcomed my arrival? Try another one, Signore Selvaggio. The only insult you hurled was at me. The others must be thinking you asked for me because I’m the only Council member who’s a young woman, the demographic where you reign supreme, and you think me the pushover who’ll promise you rights to every Castaldinian citizen’s immortal soul in return for your acceptance.”
He snorted. “Now those are rights that might be worth my while to investigate acquiring.” Before she gave in to the urge to smack him, he added, “But if anyone thinks you a pushover, they need to be declared mentally incompetent. Whatever else you think of me, you know my mental faculties aren’t among my dodgy areas.”
She huffed. “Then they’ll think something even worse. That you’re exploiting the situation for a personal purpose, which must again have something to do with my being a woman, devaluating my position within the Council even more.”
As the word “position” left her mouth, his gaze traveled down her body. Her throat closed at what she saw there, in her own mind’s eye. His gaze finally burned a path back up to her eyes, the hewn planes of his face simmering as they had that first night. When she thought she’d imagined it. She wasn’t imagining it now.
“Your…position is quite safe, I assure you. You should know by now that no matter what the textbooks they stuffed your mind with in business school said, in the real world, the personal factor is what ends up making or breaking business deals. If the Council thinks I’m being personal about you being a woman, they’ll think it only natural, even logical. After all, what kind of a businessman would I be if I didn’t maximize on my opportunities? If I didn’t use my stones to hit as many birds as possible?”
“I should have known you wouldn’t even bother to deny it.”
He gave her an enigmatic look. “I’m not admitting it, either. So it’s all open to interpretation. And here’s a third one: That I asked for you because I want to talk to someone close to my own age, rather than with men my absentee father’s age or older.”
Her chest suddenly felt as if it had caved in. It was that distress again, the one thing that had always stopped her from despising him completely. The knowledge that he’d grown up without a father, or any parents at all.
How many times had she imagined him as a young boy desperately in need of the firm and loving guidance and protection of a father figure, and knowing he’d never have that? How many times had she woken up with tears in her eyes imagining the fear and loneliness he must have suffered until he’d grown that impenetrable shell of capability and ruthlessness that had seen him through his meteoric rise? How hard had she struggled to separate her empathy with the tormented child he’d been from her antipathy toward the man he’d become?
