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‘You want to find yourself?’ she tossed at him flippantly.
He laughed. It gave his striking face even more charismatic appeal. Jenny privately bet he was a devil with women and wished she could inject that appeal into his portrait, but the vibrant expression was gone before she could even begin to play with it on paper. The sparkle in his eyes gave way to a look of serious intent—a look that bored into her as though determined on penetrating any defensive layer she could put between them.
‘I came for you, Isabella.’
His soft and certain use of her friend’s name shocked her into staring at him. How could he know it? She signed her portraits Bella, not Isabella. Her mind reeled back over this whole strange encounter with him; the fact that he didn’t fit her kind of clientele, his too-acute observation of her, his curiosity about her work, the personal questions. A sense of danger clanged along her nerves. Was she about to be unmasked as a fraud?
No!
He thought she was Bella. Which meant he hadn’t known her friend. He must have got the name from one of the stall-holders who knew her as Isabella Rossini. Was he playing some supposedly seductive pick-up game with her? But why would he?
‘I beg your pardon!’ she said with as much indignation as she could muster, hating the idea of him digging for information about her, and thinking he could get some stupid advantage from it.
He gestured an apology. ‘Forgive me for not being more direct in my approach. The estrangement in our family makes for a difficult meeting and I hoped to ease into it. My name is Dante Rossini. I’m one of your cousins and I’m here to invite you back to Italy for a reunion with all your other relatives.’
Jenny was totally stricken by this news. Bella had told her she had no family. There’d been no talk of any connections in Italy. But if there had been an estrangement, perhaps she’d never heard of them, believing herself truly orphaned by the plane crash which had killed her parents. On the other hand, was this man telling the truth? Even if he was, how would Bella have responded to it? No one from Italy had cared about her all these years. Why bother now?
Fear fed the burst of adrenaline that drove her to her feet. Fear chose the words that sprang off her tongue. ‘Go away!’
That jerked him out of his air of relaxed confidence.
Jenny didn’t wait for a response to her vehement command. She slammed down the stick of charcoal, ripped the half-done portrait off the easel, crumpled the sheet of paper up in her hands and threw it in the waste-bin to punctuate an emphatic end to this encounter.
‘I don’t know what you want but I want no part of it. Just go away!’ she repeated, her eyes stabbing him with fierce rejection as he rose from the chair, suddenly taking on the appearance of a formidable antagonist.
‘That I cannot do,’ he stated quietly.
‘Oh, yes you can!’ Her mind wildly seized on reinforcements. ‘If you don’t I’ll go to the forum management, tell them you’re harassing me.’
He shook his head. ‘They won’t act against me, Isabella.’
‘Yes, they will. They’re very tight with security.’
He frowned at her. ‘I thought you knew the Rossini family owns all the Venetian Forums. That you chose to buy one of our apartments here in Sydney because of the family connection.’
Her mind completely boggled. Had Bella known this? She had never mentioned it. And what did he mean … all the Venetian Forums? Was there a worldwide network of them? If so, the Rossini family had to be mega-wealthy and no one was going to take her side against this man. She was trapped on his territory.
‘I’ve already spoken to the management here about you,’ he went on. ‘If you need them to identify me, assure yourself that I am who I say I am, I’m happy to accompany you to the admin office …’
‘No! I’m not accompanying you anywhere!’ she almost shouted at him in panic.
Her raised voice attracted the attention of passers-by, including Luigi, the photographer, who dropped his hustling for clients to stroll over and ask, ‘Having trouble here, Bella?’
She couldn’t rope him in to help her, not against the man who had the management in his pocket. Luigi depended on his job here. The two men were eyeing each other over—both macho Italian males—and the bristling tension told her neither one of them was about to back down.
‘It’s okay, Luigi. Just a family fight,’ she said quickly. He would understand that. Her experience of working in the forum had taught her that all Italian families got noisy over a dispute and were best left to themselves to sort out the problem.
‘Well, tone it down,’ he advised. ‘You’ll be scaring customers away.’
‘Sorry,’ she muttered.
He shrugged and moved off, tossing an airy wave at Dante. ‘Make him take you to lunch. He looks as though he can afford it. A bit of vino…’
‘Excellent idea!’ her nemesis agreed. ‘I’ll help you pack up, Isabella.’
He turned and collected the folding chair he’d been sitting on before Jenny could say a word. She felt totally undermined by his arrogant confidence, helpless to fight the situation, yet desperate to escape it. He wasn’t family to her, and what had seemed a harmless deception—a temporary lifeline that would help her and not hurt anyone—was turning into a murky mess that she didn’t know how to negotiate.
‘Why turn up now? Why?’ she demanded of him as he carried the chair over to where she stood beside the easel.
‘Circumstances change.’ He flashed that smile again. At close quarters it probably made every woman go weak at the knees and Jenny was no exception. Dante Rossini had megawatt sex appeal. ‘Let me explain over lunch,’ he added, his dark-chocolate eyes warm enough to melt resistance, his voice a persuasive purr.
Her spine tingled. Her heart pounded in her ears. Her mind screamed danger. No way could she give in to the charm of the man. If she didn’t somehow extricate herself from this situation, it would lead to terrible trouble.
‘You’re too late,’ she blurted out. It was the truth. Bella was dead. But she couldn’t reveal that. ‘I don’t need you in my life. I don’t want you,’ she threw at him, wildly hoping he would accept that his mission was futile.
‘Then why set yourself up in the Venetian Forum?’ he shot at her, his eyes hardening with disbelief at her hysterical claims.
Bella had set her up. Confusion roared through Jenny. Had there been some artful plan behind her friend’s kindness in inviting her to share the apartment, getting her employed here by using the Rossini name? Had Bella imagined it might catch the attention of the forum management enough to mention it to the Rossini family?
Was I bait?
Her first meeting with Bella … the offer that had seemed too good to be true … wanting to believe luck had smiled on her for once. Jenny shook her head. It was all irrelevant now. She shouldn’t have stayed on, using Bella’s name, getting herself in this awful tangle.
‘Think what you like,’ she snapped at the cousin who’d come too late. ‘I’m out of here.’
She instantly busied herself, packing up the easel, her inner agitation making her hurry so much she fumbled and dropped the box of charcoal sticks. He swooped and picked it up, holding it out to her, making it impossible to completely ignore him. He was still holding her fold-up chair, as well.
‘Thanks,’ she muttered, snatching the box from him, stowing it in the carry-case.
‘I’m not about to go away, Isabella,’ he warned.
Her nerves quivered, sensing the relentless force of the man. With all that wealth and power behind him, he was undoubtedly used to people falling in with him. Being rebuffed and rejected would sting his ego, make him more persistent. It was imperative now to plan a disappearing act, get back to the apartment, pack only essentials, catch a bus, a train, a plane … anything that took her away. He wouldn’t look for Jenny Kent. She was of no interest to him.
The carry-case was ready to go. She folded up the stool she used when sketching, tucked it under one arm, then steeled herself to face Dante Rossini and put an end to this danger-laden meeting. It took all her willpower to lift her gaze to his and hold it steady as she spoke to him, pouring a tone of flat finality into her voice.
‘Don’t waste any more of your time. Isabella Rossini has not occupied any place in your family all these years and that isn’t about to change because you suddenly want it to.’ She held out her hand. ‘Just give me the chair and let me go.’
He shook his head, unable to come to grips with her stance, not about to accept it, either.
Jenny panicked at the thought of having to endure more argument from him. ‘Keep it then,’ she cried, her hand jerking in a wave of dismissal as she turned away and forced her trembling legs to march across the forum, heading for the elevator that would shut him out and take her up to the apartment he couldn’t enter.
The chair didn’t matter.
It would have to be left behind anyway.
The only way to disappear was to travel lightly, go fast and far, leaving no trace for anyone to pick up.
CHAPTER FOUR
DANTE had never failed to deliver what his grandfather asked of him. Failure in this instance was unthinkable. He had to get Isabella Rossini to Capri.
He followed her determined walk away from him, staying a few steps behind, not attempting to catch up with her. He needed time to process her reaction, make some sense of it before tackling her unreasonable negativity again. He had anticipated a pleased response. The fact that she’d chosen to live and work at the Sydney forum after losing her parents had suggested a wish for contact with the family. He now had to get his head into gear to deal with something entirely different.
Angry pride?
A fierce independence, grown out of being left to fend for herself for so long?
There’d been fear in her eyes just before she’d turned her back on him. Fear of what? Change? The unknown?
Beautiful eyes. Even without any artful makeup they were stand-out eyes, their amber colour quite fascinating, shaded by long, thick curly lashes. He liked her wide, generous mouth, too, another stand-out feature in her rather angular face. Her hair was an unruly mop, but take her to a good stylist, get it shaped right, hand her over to a beautician to polish up the raw material, put her in some designer clothes—her figure was thin enough under that shapeless black gear to wear them well—and Lucia would be as jealous as sin over her newly discovered cousin.
And spitting chips over another grand-daughter to inherit some of Marco’s estate.
The money …
He could use that as a bargaining tool. Isabella’s parents had left her enough to buy the apartment but little more than that. She wouldn’t have to work another day in her life if she pleased Marco. She could live like Lucia, being pampered in the lap of luxury. No woman in the world would knock that back. He just had to lay it on thickly enough for Isabella to take the bait.
Confidence renewed, Dante quickened his pace. She was heading into the passageway where the elevator to the south bank of apartments was housed. He glanced up, smiling at the colourful concoction the architect had designed—pink, lemon, green, red, blue, orange, purple—reminiscent of the brightly painted houses on the islands of Murano and Burano, a short ferry ride from Venice. Isabella’s apartment was the purple one on the third floor. She had pots of pink geraniums on her balcony, a nice homely touch.
I don’t need you in my life.
Dante’s chest tightened as he remembered those vehement words. Maybe she didn’t, but she could give up two months of it for Marco. Especially when the reward would be substantial. He’d pay her himself—upfront—if she doubted there was a pot of gold at the end of this trip. He’d spent thousands on Anya Michaelson to keep her sweet while he wanted her. He didn’t care how much it cost him to give his grandfather the solace of making some peace with the past before he died.
Her finger jabbed the elevator button—an action of haste and anxiety. In her fast flight across the square, she hadn’t once glanced back to check on what he was doing. Nor did she acknowledge his presence when he stood beside her, waiting for the elevator doors to open. She stared rigidly ahead as though he didn’t exist.
Dante was not accustomed to being ignored. As much as he told himself not to be piqued by her behaviour—it would change soon enough with the lure of wealth—it took a considerable effort not to reveal any vexation when he spoke.
‘I’m sorry I’ve upset you, Isabella. That wasn’t my intention,’ he assured her quietly.
No reply. Her jaw tightened. Dante imagined her clenching her teeth, denying the possible spilling of any more words to him. The stubborn stance irked him further. She was throwing out a challenge he’d take great satisfaction in winning, if only to see that rude rigidity wilt.
‘I’d appreciate it if you’d listen to a proposition which is very much to your advantage,’ he said, wondering if the blank wall she was holding was actually a negotiation tactic. Resistance virtually guaranteed being offered more.
The elevator doors opened. Her head jerked towards him. Her eyes slashed him with a cut-throat look. ‘I’m not interested!’
Having punched out those decisive words, she stepped into the small compartment and hit the button for her floor.
Dante stepped in after her.
She glared at him, clearly seething with frustration. ‘I told you …’
‘I’m carrying your chair up for you,’ he said blandly. ‘You are rather loaded down with the rest of your working gear.’
She rolled her eyes away. The doors closed and she pointedly watched for the floor numbers to flash up, once again set on ignoring him. He noted that every line of her body was tense, fighting the pressure of his presence. She might be ignoring him but she was acutely aware of him.
A pity she was his cousin. He’d like nothing better than to have her at his mercy on a bed, begging him to do whatever he wanted with her. Now that would be very satisfying—seeing her stiff body quivering, surrendering to his will! But a bit too incestuous, given the close blood link. His grandfather wouldn’t approve of that tactic.
The sexual scenario raised the possibility that her love life might be a barrier. ‘Is Luigi your boyfriend?’
The question startled her from her fixation on the upward journey of the elevator. ‘No.’ Worry carved a line between her brows. ‘So don’t pester him on my behalf. He’s just a fellow worker. And don’t go looking for other boyfriends, either, because there isn’t one.’
‘Good! No one to object to your coming to Italy with me.’
‘Will you get it through your head I’m not going anywhere with you!’ she cried in exasperation.
‘Why not? There’s nothing that can’t be put on hold here. Why not satisfy a natural curiosity about the family you’ve never met?’
A frantic, cornered look in her eyes.
Was it a daunting prospect for her? Did she see herself being critically examined by a bunch of strangers?
‘My grandfather … your grandfather … wants you with him, Isabella,’ he pressed, then played his trump card. ‘Marco is a very wealthy man. If you grant his wish, he will shower riches on you, give you access to more money than you’ve ever dreamed of. Financially your future—’
‘I don’t want his money!’
Horror on her face. Her whole body shuddered in recoil from the idea. Dante was so stunned by her reaction, he was totally at a loss to know what line of persuasion to try next. This woman was impossible. It was utter madness to be repulsed by the promise of financial security for the rest of her life.
The elevator came to a halt. She rushed out of it the moment the doors were open enough to make an exit, pelting along the corridor to her apartment as though the hounds of hell were snapping at her heels. Dante followed, grimly determined to get to the bottom of this crazy conundrum.
She shoved the key in the lock, was pushing against the door even before it opened. Dante knew she’d whirl inside and shut him out, given half a chance. He barged straight in after her before she could do it, not caring how outraged she’d be by the action. He’d run out of patience with trying to reason with her. If he had to tie her up and gag her, he would force her to listen to him long enough to be convinced that a trip to Capri was the best course for her to take.
‘This is home invasion!’ she yelled at him, her chest heaving in agitation. Nice breasts, Dante couldn’t help noting.
‘No reasonable person would think so. You didn’t object to my carrying up the chair for you,’ he calmly reminded her. ‘Perfectly natural for me to step into your apartment with it.’
She dropped the carry-case containing her easel. The stool which had been tucked under her arm clattered to the floor. She reached out, grabbed the folded chair from him, and pointedly let it fall on top of the carry-case. Clenched hands planted themselves aggressively on her hips. Her eyes blazed rejection of any excuse he could give for entering her apartment without permission.
‘Now get out!’ she hurled at him.
‘Not until I get satisfaction.’
He pushed the door shut and stood against it, blocking any move she might make to open it again. Dante wondered if she was going to fly at him and try to punch him out. Her eyes were wildly measuring his physique. Maybe she sensed that she’d stirred a dangerous male savagery in him, a savagery that would take pleasure in forcefully restraining any physical attack she made. His own hands were itching to demonstrate some mastery over her. She stepped back from the simmering flashpoint, lifted her chin to a defiant angle and spat out her next line of action.
‘If you don’t go right now, I’ll call the police.’
‘Go ahead. Call them,’ he challenged without a flicker of care, confident of justifying his presence here.
She visibly dithered over the decision.
‘While we’re waiting for them to come, you can do me the courtesy of listening to why your grandfather wants you to visit him.’
She flinched at the mention of Marco, as though the idea of a grandfather wanting her was painful. Dante wished he knew what was going on in her head. He hated dealing blindly. But listening to him was a lot less bother for her than answering to the police, so he expected to win this round.
‘Promise me you’ll leave when you finish talking,’ she demanded, hating him for forcing the choice.
He held up his hand. ‘Word of honour.’ He wasn’t about to finish talking until she agreed to come with him.
She heaved a sigh, then with a much put-upon air, moved into the sitting room and settled herself in a bucket chair, hands folded in her lap, looking at him stony-faced. She reminded Dante of a rebellious student having to endure an unfair lecture from a headmaster before she could escape.
