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A Passionate Revenge
SARA WOOD
His vow of vengeance:Vido Pascali could never forget his impoverished childhood–or Anna Willoughby's part in it. He would have revenge!His settling of old scores:Vido became a millionaire and bought Anna's family home–hiring Anna as his cook! How convenient that an irresistible attraction still simmered between them….His passionate revenge:Anna soon discovered some harsh truths: Vido had seduced her as retribution–and she'd gotten pregnant!
“Anna. Welcome to my home.”
“Vido.” Her husky whisper ricocheted through some alarmingly sensitive parts of him. Crazily, he thought that seducing her promised to be one hell of a way to begin his vendetta.
“I knew we’d meet again, but I didn’t expect it to be like this,” he opened lazily.
Her chin jerked up to reveal a defiant mouth. “I thought I’d seen the last of you.” Her tone suggested that it had been her fervent hope, too. “I don’t even know why I’m still sitting here,” she muttered.
He admired her spirit—and again her honesty. The idea of having her working here ignited him.
“Curiosity and destiny, perhaps? We have unfinished business,” he drawled.
“That’s where you’re wrong,” she retorted. “The past is over and done with.”
If only, he thought. But he had scores to settle. A vow to fulfill. A delicious sense of triumph rolled through him.
There are times in a man’s life…
when only seduction will settle old scores!
Pick up our exciting series of revenge-titled romances—they’re recommended and red-hot!
Available only from
Harlequin Presents
A Passionate Revenge
Sara Wood
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER ONE
‘NOW tell me. Why the secrecy?’ Vido’s PA demanded. ‘Why was I forbidden to mention your name during the purchase of this house? And why did you want it so badly that you paid over the odds?’
More than a little petulant, Camilla Lycett-Brown swung her long legs into his car and tried to make sense of the extraordinary tension that ran through Vido’s entire body.
Injustice! he wanted to snarl, with a bitterness that startled him. But he realised how powerfully his Italian blood burned in his veins, despite having an English father—whoever he was—and living in England for the first eighteen years of his life.
At that age he’d fled to Italy with his mother and ever since, the scouring injustice had clawed and chewed and nagged at him. Slowly and viciously it had taken over his life till he knew he had to take steps to seek a solution of his own—or lose his sanity.
‘My late mother worked here,’ he said abruptly. ‘As a cook.’
The memories of that time flooded back, tearing at him cruelly. The insults. The humiliation and betrayal.
His jaw tight, he took one last look at the historic Elizabethan building in the small village of Shottery. He had owned Stanford House for the past two weeks but this had been his first visit since it had been purchased from the bankrupt George Willoughby.
For you, Mama, he said in silent offering. One of his goals achieved. Two more to come and then he could rest easy.
‘And?’ Camilla was astute enough to know there was more to it than he was saying.
Wondering how much to tell her, he drove away, towards the elaborate wrought-iron gates. But when they hummed smoothly shut behind the car, he found his hands shaking so much that he had to switch off the ignition.
Turning his head, he glowered back at the house. The early-April sunshine illuminated the stately façade with a welcoming warmth. This belonged to him now! A sudden explosion of excitement made it hard for him to breathe. Such a building, such a lifestyle, had once seemed utterly beyond his reach.
Acquiring Stanford meant more to him than turning around the family business in Italy and putting it into profit. More, too, than his formidable reputation in Milan as the only conceivable man to call in whenever a company teetered on the brink of extinction.
Because this little triumph was deeply personal.
‘Mother was sacked. Unfairly.’
His voice was quiet, his eyes hard and unforgiving. The specialist had confided that his beloved mother’s ME had initially been triggered by the stress of Willoughby’s impossible demands. It saddened Vido that she had died before she could enjoy the luxuries he could provide. He mourned her deeply and would fulfil his vow to her, whatever it took.
‘That started off a chain of events that soured her life and mine.’ His eyes narrowed. ‘We went through hell. I was still at school but I took night-shift work in a factory owned by the same man who lived in Stanford House.’ He hesitated. What the hell. It might help to confide in her. ‘Then he threw me out of the factory for theft—even though he knew his daughter had framed me. They caused me to be vilified as a thief!’
He spat out the word, still incapable of containing his horror at the sickening shame he’d felt. The proud lines of his face were riven with a grim anger and Camilla cringed back in her seat, suddenly afraid of this unknown, dark side to Vido’s nature.
‘I intend,’ he continued grimly, ‘to make them apologise for what they did. I promised my mother I would clear our name. I need closure on Willoughby and his shrew of a daughter. That’s all you need to know.’
‘This…isn’t like you,’ Camilla ventured uncertainly.
‘You don’t know the humiliation they put me through. It was like a physical pain to be treated like a leper. The people I’d worked with spat at me.’ He took a moment to get himself together. This was screwing him up, big time. ‘The daughter was clever. She made sure that the stolen money came from a fund that the workers had saved for a works outing.’
‘So how did the daughter frame you?’ Camilla asked, round-eyed.
‘She planted the cash in my locker.’
‘Why would she do that?’ His PA’s cut-glass accent was more pronounced than ever.
There was a tightening of his jaw. ‘Spite. We’d had a row. She accused me of sleeping around while I was dating her. And of planning to marry her for her inheritance.’ His eyes gleamed and his mouth was savage.
‘I imagine you weren’t.’
He gave her a filthy look. ‘I was so shocked I could hardly speak. Now do you understand how passionate I feel about this?’
‘Oh, yes. Was she beautiful?’ Camilla asked a little shakily.
With a jerk of rogue emotion in his chest he recalled the sixteen-year-old Anna; long-legged and lissom with a sexuality that had given him dreams at night. And of her nose that had been so large and deformed that she’d been called a witch from nursery school onwards.
He shrugged. ‘I loved her. God knows why. She’d seemed sweet and innocent and made me laugh. But underneath she was a heartless little bitch.’
The more he thought of Anna’s malice, the angrier he became. But she’d get her comeuppance too. He didn’t know where she was, but he’d find her. And make her life a living nightmare till he had what he wanted.
His eyes gleamed like pan-warmed chocolate beneath the arrowed arches of his fair brows. It was ironic that Willoughby had lost both his fortune and Stanford House. Whilst he, the illegitimate son of the old man’s cook, was no longer dirt poor and starving, but rich beyond his wildest childhood dreams—and still two years short of thirty.
He gave a sardonic laugh, his head tipping back and catching the sun that glinted on his flowing hair, turning it to a rich pale gold. His teeth shone pearly in an olive skin that had been deepened to a dark honey shade from ten years of Italian sunshine.
A little curl of desire rippled through Camilla’s shapely body because Vido was breathtakingly beautiful. Her elegant hand turned his chin. Her lips were on his before he could draw away and he suffered the kiss in silence, even making a half-hearted attempt at deepening the embrace.
So his appetite for women was still subnormal. He fumed in frustration. Anna’s fault. She’d all but castrated him where love was concerned. His wounded heart had hardened and no woman had melted even a little corner in all his years in Italy.
He wanted to love Camilla and had tried his very best to do so. She was a brilliant hostess, witty and clever and an asset to his business. He longed for a wife and children. But these—and peace of mind—were unattainable unless he felt he had dealt with his demons in his own, inimitable way.
‘Let’s go,’ he said huskily and felt guilty when Camilla looked pleased, perhaps assuming his choking emotion was due to a different passion.
Dark eyes stone-cold with ruthless intent, he started up the car and swung out into Cottage Lane, heading for his office in London.
Anna knelt on the garden path, her capable fingers busily tweaking out weeds from the colourful herbaceous borders of the typically English cottage garden.
Sitting back to review the results of her labours, she couldn’t help but be struck by the contrast with the magnificent gardens of Stanford House, where she’d once lived. This little patch in the front garden was all she had now. Ten feet by six. A far cry from the acres where she’d once roamed, a lonely, unloved—and unlovely—girl.
Almost unthinkingly, her muddy fingers went to her nose. Now it was a normal size and fitted her face properly. She smiled with gentle pleasure.
But being ugly had left her a lasting legacy. She was even more careful not to reveal her feelings to anyone. The episode with Vido had cured her of that.
Anna frowned and tackled a stubborn dock root with grim determination, pushing back the pain that had leapt to squeeze her heart like a vice. Why open old wounds? Sure she’d loved him, madly, wildly, deeply, although she hadn’t dared say so in case he’d laughed at her temerity. After all, he’d been the most popular boy in school and she’d been—what had those girls said?—a hideous little bat.
OK, he’d kissed her several times, and she’d hardly been able to believe her luck. But her grandfather and the girls at school had told her why he was dating her. He was ambitious as hell and she was an heiress. Why else would an Adonis suck up to someone as hideous as her?
She bit her lip, suffering once again the hard nails of painful truth. Her world had come crashing about her ears that day when she’d been forced to accept that Vido was just a callous fortune-hunter. She’d been a means to an end. Nothing more.
Anna frowned. He was yesterday’s news. Soon she’d be married and she’d be able to forget her hurt and the lack of self-esteem that still haunted her.
Thankfully, her fiancé, Peter, liked her silences and her quiet reserve. He hated emotional, demonstrative women. And she was lucky to have found someone who appreciated her qualities. A matter-of-fact and rather cool man, who was very attentive but didn’t arouse horrible, uncontrollable longings that scared her with their raw intensity.
A screech of brakes came from the lane and then the sound of a reversing car, but she paid no attention. When Stanford House had been sold, precipitating her grandfather’s stroke, she’d taken over the nearby cottage that in better times had belonged to their gardener.
It was situated only two hundred yards from the beautiful old farmhouse where Shakespeare’s wife, Anne Hathaway, had been born. Passing tourists often stopped to admire and photograph her tiny black and white timbered cottage with its picturesque thatched roof, too.
Wistfully she mused that it would be nice if her grandfather could appreciate the cottage’s charm. But it was unlikely. He had railed against his bankruptcy and hated what he called ‘coming down in the world’.
It wasn’t surprising that he’d had a stroke. Her heart went out to him. He’d changed from being a gruff and domineering man and now looked helpless and frightened. She decided to pick him some flowers. Hopefully there would be better news about him when she next visited.
Tensely Vido glowered at the woman’s slender back and the mass of gleaming black hair. Even after ten years, Anna’s spectacular body was unmistakable. So were his conflicting emotions.
He felt shaken by his reaction at seeing Anna. A devastating mix of need and loathing had hurtled unchecked through his body, filling him with fury that he could actually lust after such a mean-spirited woman. He shouldn’t feel like this. Not after all this time.
‘Ogling the local peasantry isn’t your style,’ murmured Camilla in amusement.
He took in a long breath to steady the cascading waterfall of feelings that had knocked him off balance. Hell. Why should his guts melt at the sight of the woman? Had Anna’s blistering scorn turned him into a masochist? Or a pervert? Was he really aroused by a woman who despised him? He scowled. He just wanted to be normal. To fall in love. Have kids.
‘I think that’s Anna,’ he said, managing to find a clipped tone.
‘Oh. Well, if you’re going to give her a tongue-lashing, make it quick.’
Camilla looked at him fondly and touched his arm. It took all his will-power not to push her hand away and he was appalled by his irrational response to her affectionate gesture.
‘I just want a word or two,’ he pushed out.
With difficulty he conquered the evil little voice in his head that told him he wanted a devil of a lot more than that. Seeing Anna had kick-started his dormant libido into life. And how! Every bone he possessed ached to have Anna sighing beneath him. For that fabulous body to be arching with pleasure.
His eyes blazed with an intense anger as he sought to crush the sexual hunger that had hit him like a hammer blow. Common sense told him that his emotional wires had become crossed. It was said that you never forgot your first love and, hell, was that true with him.
This was the spiteful little cat who’d called him promiscuous and asked coldly if he intended to infect every female in the county with some sexual disease. She’d hurled insults at him till he’d reeled. And had deliberately made him into a criminal in everyone’s eyes. Maledizione!
With his malevolent gaze on her, his body fired with lust and loathing, he made himself saunter slowly to the picket fence. Oblivious of him, she continued to weed the handkerchief-sized front garden.
After a moment she straightened, still with her back to him. His stomach cramped. Her figure was even more womanly than before. Long, slender legs, tanned to a soft gold, the skin gleaming and flawless. Curvy hips. Tiny rear squashed temptingly in a pair of too-tight shorts that defined each buttock. Neat waist…
All too vividly he remembered being teased by his amused friends who’d suggested he put a bag over her head so he could enjoy the rest of her admittedly great body.
But because of her reserve, she had never let him anywhere near those proud, high breasts. The sublime length of those smooth legs had never wrapped around him seductively, as they had in his wild dreams.
Impatiently he struggled to master his destructive passions. His priority was to deal with the cloud that was hanging over the Pascali name. She was living yards from where he meant to set up his business. That could mean trouble. If word got around that his character was suspect, it would seriously affect his business. She could do a great deal of harm with her wicked little tongue.
The liquid sound of birdsong filled the air. He could feel the atmosphere thickening as his simmering hatred continued to pour out in her direction.
After a moment his aggression imprinted itself on her. He wasn’t surprised. His loathing could have pulverised a tank.
Stiffening, she turned around warily. Her response was all that he could have wanted.
