A Passionate Revenge. SARA WOOD
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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.
‘Vido!’ she gasped in horror.
Stunned at seeing him, she shrank back, thrown almost off balance by the sheer physical threat that emanated from his angry body. And something else even more devastating. He was projecting a raw and primitive sexuality that slammed into her gut and left her weak and breathless.
But it meant nothing. He’d always been testosterone on legs. A highly sexed male who treated women as objects for his pleasure. Her fear turned to scorn and the fine bones of her face grew taut with contempt.
Shock went through him too in violent waves, though for a different reason entirely. Expert plastic surgery had transformed her face and now she looked heart-stoppingly beautiful. All he wanted to do was to gaze at her as if he were still a lovesick fool, until the dizziness in his head subsided.
Her skin glowed with a healthy tan, her huge grey eyes sparkled. A blast of heat shot through him. A delicious feeling and one he’d forgotten.
And then her hand covered her nose as it always had whenever anyone had looked at her. His heart jerked. The gesture made him feel profoundly protective of her again, all the old sympathies crowding in on him in a swell of compassion. Grimly he reminded himself that they were wasted on her.
Once he’d believed that she’d been a poor little rich girl with no one to love her. With her parents dead and her grandfather showing her no affection, he’d felt anger on her behalf. But not for long.
His lip curled. It had been her unlovable temperament that had left her bereft of friends. She’d inherited her grandfather’s cold and unfeeling nature; his hatred of his fellow man—and woman. He scowled. Whatever physical alterations Anna had made on the outside, she wouldn’t have changed her malicious inner nature.
‘Anna,’ he said, his voice harsh with dislike. ‘What a surprise.’
She gulped visibly and couldn’t find anything witty or pithy to say. ‘Yes.’
Vido folded his arms, adopting a dominant pose. Anna found it hard not to be intimidated. Harder still to ignore the fizz of excitement that had ripped through her in response to the simmering darkness of his hot, assessing eyes. But she couldn’t prevent the worrying throb of pulses in a place she’d believed to be immune to stimulation.
It was the memories, of course. Good and bad. But why was she only recalling the good moments they’d shared? Holding hands, the laughter and companionship that had transformed her lonely life, the precious, stolen kisses…
Sternly she made herself remember the humiliation that had torn at her like a ravening tiger. When she’d realised that she was just a potential source of income to him, it had felt as if he’d crushed her vulnerable heart in his fist.
In the tense silence, she studied him warily, waiting for him to speak. His hair was a paler gold than before and beautifully cut. He looked more Italian than ever, perhaps because of the stylish linen suit and air of prosperity. His clothes seemed to murmur ‘expensive’ and ‘classy’ in hushed and reverential tones.
And yes, he was still the same as in her restless dreams. As beautiful as a young Roman god, the same golden male with that extraordinary combination of fair hair and dark, soulful eyes with their curtains of black lashes. But now there was a new air of menace about him that made her tremble.
Nervously she remembered his fury when they’d parted. It would be wise to heed her grandfather’s warning about Vido’s twisted, criminal mind. Her heart began to thump in time with her deep pulses.
‘What are you doing here?’ she asked coolly.
‘Travelling to London,’ he drawled.
Relief washed in waves through to her very bones. This was a chance meeting, then. For one awful moment, she’d been afraid that he’d returned to Shottery in order to plague her life!
Following the arrogant jerk of his honey-haired head, she saw a stunning blonde in a wickedly gleaming silver car, its lines almost as voluptuous as those of the woman inside it. The blonde gave a rather mocking smile, which unsettled her, and by force of habit she immediately retreated into her shell of cold reserve.
‘I suggest you keep going. Your friend is waiting,’ she said in pointed dismissal.
Half turning, she tried to block out the rush of emotions beginning to fill her head. She cursed the fact that he could arouse her passions as if he’d never deceived her, had never latched on to her as his route to idle riches. She burned with anger. He’d believed that she was so ugly she’d be glad of his attentions. But she’d sussed him out.
His mother had lost her job at Stanford House because of insolence. Vido had gone off the rails, staying out all night with women—according to the girls at school—and coming home in the early hours too exhausted to bother with school work. He’d been certain to win a university place but his grades had suffered because of his preoccupation with sex.
And then he’d set his sights on an easy path to riches—a pathetically grateful, love-starved idiot who’d inherit a fortune one day. What a fool she’d been.
‘Camilla will wait as long as necessary,’ he growled.
Arrogant chauvinist! She glared at him and wished she hadn’t. The scouring desire in his eyes was unsettling. The sensual curve of his mouth, his totally sexual stance and the way the tip of his tongue touched his lips, all were deeply disturbing to her senses.
It infuriated her that she knew all his faults but her body was disregarding them. Without consulting her it had ignited with a shameful desire.
Appalled at herself, she tightened every inch and willed herself to remember the pain he’d caused her, and how because of him she’d lost even the little self-esteem she’d possessed. His betrayal had turned her into a nun, a hermit, and a crushed cabbage of a woman who’d slunk about living only half a life.
‘I pity your friend. You haven’t changed your attitude to women, have you?’ she observed, sweeping scornful eyes up his too-perfect body. Lean and honed, she noted, then pulled herself together. A velvet-tongued, slippery Casanova, she amended. ‘Women are still playthings to you,’ she added in disgust.
Anger heated his blood and made it boil. She still came out with wild accusations, totally without foundation. He’d make her crawl. His mouth curved at that pleasurable thought.
‘One patient and understanding woman in a car doesn’t make me a chauvinist,’ he clipped.
‘I’m really not interested,’ she said icily.
‘You will be,’ he muttered. ‘Dunque. You live here now?’ he drawled.
Anna flung him a look that made no effort to hide the fact that she despised every hair on his sun-bleached head. She didn’t know how he had the nerve to stand there, so sublimely sure of himself, when he’d cheated and lied and was nothing better than a common criminal.
Unsettled by the potentially explosive passion and rage that hurtled through her, she buttoned her mouth and crouched down again to tug viciously at a weed, only to discover that she’d pulled out one of her favourite aquilegias. She stared at it in dismay.
‘You do live here?’ he persisted in a horribly pleased murmur.
He wasn’t going to go away. Biting back an ‘obviously!’ in answer to his question, she replied in purposely stilted tones, ‘I do.’
And thought suddenly of her fiancé. Of her wedding day, when she would say those very words. Peter’s gentle face swam before her eyes mistily, only to be replaced by