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The Italian's Passionate Revenge
Lucy Gordon
He will bed her. . .Elise Carlton is looking forward to having her freedom. Years as a trophy wife have left her wary. But there is one man to whom she is not immune. . . . For revenge and for pleasure!Vincente Farnese is rich and devastatingly handsome, his own special brand of dark Italian temptation! But it is no coincidence that Vincente has sought out Elise. What will she do when she discovers he wants her only for revenge?
Welcome to the new collection of Harlequin Presents!
Don’t miss contributions from favorite authors Michelle Reid, Kim Lawrence and Susan Napier, as well as the second part of Jane Porter’s THE DESERT KINGS series, Lucy Gordon’s passionate Italian, Chantelle Shaw’s Tuscan tycoon and Jennie Lucas’s sexy Spaniard! And look out for Trish Wylie’s brilliant debut Presents book, Her Bedroom Surrender!
We’d love to hear what you think about Harlequin Presents. E-mail us at Presents@hmb.co.uk or join in the discussions at www.iheartpresents.com and www.sensationalromance.blogspot.com, where you’ll also find more information about books and authors!
There are times in a man’s life…
when only seduction will settle old scores!
Pick up our exciting series of revenge-filled
romances—they’re recommended, and red-hot!
Available only from Harlequin Presents
.
Lucy Gordon
THE ITALIAN’S PASSIONATE REVENGE
TORONTO • NEW YORK • LONDON
AMSTERDAM • PARIS • SYDNEY • HAMBURG
STOCKHOLM • ATHENS • TOKYO • MILAN • MADRID
PRAGUE • WARSAW • BUDAPEST • AUCKLAND
All about the author…
Lucy Gordon
LUCY GORDON cut her writing teeth on magazine journalism, interviewing many of the world’s most interesting men, including Warren Beatty, Richard Chamberlain, Roger Moore, Sir Alec Guinness and Sir John Gielgud. She’s also camped out with lions in Africa, and had many other unusual experiences that have often provided the background for her books. She is married to a Venetian, whom she met while on holiday in Venice. They got engaged within two days.
Two of her books have won Romance Writers of America Rita
Awards, Song of the Lorelei, in 1990, and His Brother’s Child, in 1998, in the Best Traditional Romance category.
You can visit her Web site at www.lucy-gordon.com
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER ONE
WHOis he? Why has this stranger come to my husband’s funeral and why does he stand there, staring at me across the grave?
‘Ashes to ashes, dust to dust—’
In a corner of a London cemetery the preacher intoned the words over the open grave, while the mourners shivered in the cold February drizzle and the dead man’s widow wished it could all soon be over.
Ashes and dust, she brooded. A perfect description of my marriage.
Elise ventured a glance around the others and saw only blank faces, just as she’d expected. Ben Carlton had had business associates, but no friends. His life had been a litter of shady deals and shabby relationships.
Including ours, Elise thought. A wretched marriage, for wretched reasons, brought to a wretched end.
Many of the people here were unfamiliar. Some she’d met at the lavish dinner parties Ben had enjoyed giving, and she vaguely recalled their faces. Some she’d seen at functions hosted by his firm. Others she’d never seen. They all looked alike, except for one man.
He stood on the other side of the grave, his lean face expressionless, his eyes hard as they watched her. As the last rites dragged on, Elise realised that he never looked at the coffin, only at herself. He had a fixed gaze, with something unyielding about it, as though by staring her down he could find the answer to a question.
She tried to tear her eyes away, but she couldn’t. It was almost as though he was ordering her to look at him, refusing to release her. She fought him but, to her dismay, she could feel her will yielding to his.
He was in his late thirties, tall, dark-haired, with a commanding air that seemed to reduce everyone else to insignificance. He spoke briefly as he stepped aside to let a lady pass. It was only a few words, but Elise heard the Continental accent and wondered if he was attached to Farnese Internationale, the great Italian-based firm that had recently hired Ben, an act that still baffled her.
Elise hadn’t known much about her late husband’s business affairs, beyond a vague suspicion that others considered him an oaf. Nothing had surprised her more than seeing him head-hunted by a powerful multinational corporation.
Ben had told her about it, smirking with self-congratulation. He’d known about her poor opinion of him and had relished the chance to prove her wrong.
‘You just wait until we’re living in Rome, in the lap of luxury,’ he crowed. ‘The apartment will make your eyes water.’
That was how she discovered that he’d already bought the apartment, without consulting her. Worse, he’d even sold their London home, behind her back.
‘I don’t want to go back to Rome,’ she told him furiously. ‘And I’m amazed that you do. Do you think I can forget—?’
‘Don’t talk rubbish. That business was over long ago. I’ve got an important job and we’ll have to do a lot of entertaining. You should be looking forward to it. It’ll give you a chance to use your Italian again. You always spoke it well.’
‘You said yourself, that was a long time ago,’ she reminded him.
‘Look, I’m going to need you,’ he said in the brusque way he always used to end arguments. ‘I don’t speak the damned language and you do, so don’t give me a hard time.’
‘Plus you got one jump ahead by getting our money out of the country before I found out.’
He looked pleased.
‘Just in case you were getting any ideas about divorce—’ he chuckled ‘—I know what’s been flitting through your head.’
‘Perhaps I’ll decide to go my own way and earn my own living,’ she mused.
How that had made him hoot with laughter!
‘You? After all these years of living the good life? Never! You’ve gone soft.’
Elise had ignored his rudeness and selfish complacency, being used to it. Perhaps he was right and she could no longer function independently. It was a dispiriting thought.
With their house sold, they’d moved into The Ritz Hotel until the day of departure. But that day had never come. Ben had died of a heart attack while enjoying an assignation in another hotel with a woman who’d called an ambulance, then vanished before it could arrive.
Elise shivered. It was late afternoon and the light had faded, turning the mourners into shadows. Still she sensed the stranger watching her in the gloom.
At last it was over and people began to move, reminding her to perform her duties as hostess.
‘I do hope you can come to the reception,’ she said again and again. ‘It would have meant so much to Ben.’
‘I trust your invitation includes me,’ said the man. ‘You don’t know me, but I’d been looking forward to your husband joining my firm. My name is Vincente Farnese.’
She knew the name at once. She’d heard it often from Ben’s lips—one of the most powerful men in Italy—had the ear of government ministers—influential—rich—
‘And he wants me to join him,’ Ben had rejoiced. ‘He searched for me, said only the right man would do for the position—offered me a fortune—said it was worth anything to get me—’
Elise had smothered her astonishment that anyone should actually seek out this overblown windbag, never mind pay him over the odds. Now she stared at Vincente Farnese, searching for some clue to help solve the mystery.
She found none. He was in the prime of life, with the air of a man of sense. It was inexplicable.
‘I’ve heard of you from my husband,’ she said. ‘It was good of you to take the trouble to attend his funeral. Of course you’re welcome at the reception.’
‘You’re too kind,’ he said smoothly.
A man who was never at a loss, she thought, ready with the right words, the right attitude, always ahead.
So why had he bothered to come here? What could he hope to gain now Ben was dead?
Suddenly she didn’t care any more, about anything. There was only a weary longing for all this to be over. She closed her eyes, swaying slightly, then felt strong hands steadying her.
‘Not much longer,’ said Vincente’s quiet voice.
The words echoed her thoughts so exactly that she opened her eyes sharply and found him standing close, holding her gently.
‘Don’t give up now,’ he murmured.
‘I wasn’t—that is—’
‘I know,’ he said, and she had the strangest feeling that he did.
He began to guide her towards the car, waving away the chauffeur to open the door for her himself. Just before she got in, Elise glanced up at someone else who’d caught her eye in the cemetery. This was a woman in her thirties, attractive in a flashy way, wearing expensive black clothes that somehow managed to look blowsily overdone.
It occurred to Elise that this stranger too had been regarding her oddly, with a kind of belligerence, hating her and sizing her up at the same time. But Signor Farnese had occupied her thoughts, leaving her little attention to spare.
‘Who is that lady?’ he asked, getting in beside Elise.
‘I don’t know. I’ve never seen her before.’
‘She seems to know you, if the looks she’s been giving you are anything to go by.’
It was a short journey to The Ritz, where a lavish buffet had been laid on in the grandiose suite Ben had insisted on occupying. Elise would have preferred a quiet affair, but she’d splashed out on Ben’s funeral out of a kind of guilt. Now he was dead she felt uneasy about her hostility, no matter how much he’d deserved it. She couldn’t grieve but she could give him the kind of send-off he would have wanted, suitable for a wealthy, important man, even if the wealth had often been a conjuring trick and the importance had existed only in his head.
As she entered the room a mirror told her that she looked perfect for the role of elegant widow in her neatly fitting black dress, small black hat over blonde hair, styled severely. She was an expert in the art of appearance, having once dreamed of being a clothes designer. Events had ended her training abruptly, but her skill remained.
Without conceit, Elsie knew that she was beautiful. For the last eight years she’d had nothing to do except be lovely, elegant and sexy, because that was what Ben had wanted. She had been his property and he’d expected his property to be perfect. Her life had become a round of gym sessions and beauty parlours.
Nature had given her the good looks to start with, a figure that was easy to keep slim, hair that was naturally blonde and luxuriant, eyes that were large and deep blue. The arts of the coiffeur and masseuse had been employed to great effect, until she’d turned into the perfect finished article.
She was everything the world expected—graceful, chic, always uttering the right words. Only she knew how empty she was inside. But she did not care.
There was another truth about her, but she’d lost sight of it so long ago that she’d almost forgotten it. In that hidden place there was wild feeling, death-defying emotion, passionate desire. She’d shut those away when she’d married Ben and now she could no longer find the key.
Elise made her rounds, ensuring that everyone had enough to eat and drink and the proper attention. But proper for what? She no longer had any connection with these people. Soon she would be completely free.
Just a little longer, she promised herself.
Signor Farnese was occupying himself talking with the other guests.
Networking, she thought, remembering Ben at similar gatherings.
But this was different. Ben had always been trying to attract the attention of the others, seeking to impress them. With Vincente Farnese it was the opposite. Everyone knew who he was and wanted to catch his eye. If it pleased him he acknowledged their presence, otherwise he dismissed them with a brief nod, courteous but final.
He was everything that Ben had wanted to be, she thought—a handsome, healthy animal, with a face that, despite its strength and good looks, was also shrewd and wary, giving him an edge of danger. His eyes were the darkest she had ever seen, yet an all-seeing light came from their depths. He looked as if he’d mastered life, and intended to go on mastering it.
The chief lion in the pack, she thought. So why is he here?
He was abstemious—eating nothing and making one glass of wine last for two hours—and, to her heightened imagination, there seemed something ominous even in that.
