A Passionate Revenge. SARA WOOD
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Seeing that she didn’t understand, he elaborated slowly. ‘Why are you living here?’
Oh, he’d love this, she thought. ‘We’ve sold the house.’
‘Money trouble,’ he purred with evident satisfaction.
Brute. Her mouth tightened. Why was he hanging around? To crow? To leer? She controlled a shiver of apprehension.
‘Rather small, after the Big House, isn’t it?’ came Vido’s warm, honeyed silk of a voice. ‘If I remember, there’s just one living room and one bedroom. I’ve been inside. I knew your gardener, you see.’ His eyes became cynical. ‘He was servant class, like me.’
She wouldn’t be riled by his sarcasm. Contemplating a haughty retreat into the cottage, she decided that he’d see that as a victory. So she stuck it out, wishing her shorts weren’t so threadbare—and short—and that her T-shirt and face weren’t streaked with dirt. All that put her at a distinct disadvantage.
‘It’s fine.’ For a midget, she thought.
‘Really? Where does your grandfather sleep?’ Vido drawled, horribly persistent. ‘On the sofa?’
Fixing him with Arctic eyes, she replied with deliberate bluntness.
‘He’s in hospital. He’s had a stroke. Selling the house devastated him. Satisfied?’ she flung.
But she was surprised to see the arrogance of his expression switch to something like dismay. It was several seconds before he commented curtly, ‘I’m sorry.’
‘Like hell you are!’ she scathed.
A frown drew his black brows hard together. He seemed to be thinking rapidly. ‘How is he?’
‘He can’t speak properly and he’s partially paralysed.’ Not wanting any sympathy from him, she fought to control her shaky voice. ‘He’s tough, though.’
He nodded. ‘I think the word is hard. So you’ll be the one on the sofa,’ he taunted.
She felt irritated. Of course. Where else was there? And she dreaded the moment when she and her grandfather lived together in the tiny cottage. Since his souvenir factory had closed, he wasn’t the easiest person to be with.
Tension made her voice scratchy when she stared back at him over her shoulder.
‘I’m sure you’re not interested in my sleeping arrangements. Rescue that blonde from boredom and get out of my hair.’
His mouth twitched slightly at the corners, but he stayed his ground.
‘Interesting how fate can change people’s lives so dramatically. I am rich and you are poor.’
Suddenly hearing his husky murmur in her ear, she almost lost her balance. He’d come to crouch down beside her, his hot, hungry body alarmingly close to hers. Quickly she jumped up and moved away to the end of the border.
‘Fate? In your case, I imagine it was some dodgy deals that bought you that flashy car and designer clothes,’ she retorted, stabbing the trowel into the soil and wishing it were Vido’s evil heart.
‘Careful, Anna,’ he said softly. ‘You’re straying close to slander. I made my money by my own talent and hard work.’
‘Good looks? Charm? Beautifully purred lies?’ she scorned. ‘Or,’ she added, spitting tacks, ‘a more direct route like conning some stupid rich female into funding you?’
‘You are one hell of a vindictive woman!’ he bit.
‘Does the truth hurt, Vido?’ she slammed back.
She shot a glance at the woman in the car, who was yawning with obvious boredom. That was one high-maintenance female. The car must have cost a fortune. Thoughtfully she studied Vido, ignoring his blistering scowl and tight jaw.
His clothes were expensive and he gave off an air of a man who spent a lot of money on being immaculately groomed and turned out. She wondered if the woman was the source of his income. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d been prepared to sell himself for money. She felt sick at the thought.
‘Get out of here,’ she muttered in loathing.
‘When I’m good and ready. I want to know… How does it feel to be poor, Anna?’ he enquired.
‘You should know,’ she clipped, deadheading an early rose and wishing she could eliminate him with the same ease.
She hated feeling like this. All churned up and tense. Any minute now and she’d really lose her cool. That would really make him smirk in triumph, she thought grimly.
‘Poverty is unnerving, isn’t it?’
The soft and menacing passion in his voice made her twist around to see his face. His eyes had darkened ominously and yet despite his anger there was still that blatantly sexual aura about him. A delicious shudder made her nerve endings vibrate.
‘Yes,’ she admitted in a husky whisper. Why was he here? Why torment her like this? He was enjoying her reduced circumstances. The man was sick.
‘I remember the sleepless nights,’ he muttered as if on a white-hot tide of anger. ‘I’d lie awake worrying about where the next penny was coming from. I’d have a sense of panic when the bills came in. And I knew that however hard I worked, I was in a trap I’d never escape.’
She shut her eyes briefly, his words reverberating in her head, and it occurred to her that he had painted her circumstances exactly. Being overwhelmed by the day-today struggle to make ends meet, she was beginning to understand—though still to condemn—his means of escaping poverty.
‘Well, it looks as if you managed to get out.’ She pushed back the black satin strands of hair that had fallen to half-conceal her face. She wanted him to see the depths of her contempt. ‘But then,’ she said steadily, ‘you weren’t too proud to take the money my grandfather offered for you to leave the village and me before the police caught up with you. He saved your mother from shame—and he gave you a start in life. You should be grateful to him.’
‘Che Dio mi aiuti!’ A terrifying fury swept his expressive features and made her shrink back in alarm. ‘Grateful?!’
The rawness of his hostility filled the air with its crackling venom. Anna felt profoundly shaken that he should hate her so much. It was clear that he didn’t appreciate being reminded of his crime, she thought grimly. It didn’t fit with his inflated opinion of himself.
Vido’s fists clenched so hard that his nails dug sharp crescents into his palms. She didn’t know. Willoughby had only told her half the story. He hadn’t explained that despite being threatened with the police, he’d refused the money and told the old man to go to hell in a dustcart.
It was then that Willoughby had told him that it had been Anna who had taken the money from the factory workers’ holiday fund and planted it in his locker to teach him a lesson. The old man had reminded him that it had been easy for her since she had worked every Saturday as a junior cashier in the souvenir factory.
That would have been that. Except that he’d discovered his mother weeping inconsolably. Her sister in Italy had offered them a home. For his mother’s sake he had swallowed his pride and accepted Willoughby’s offer of money so they could fly out and start a new life.
Going back to the old man, cap in hand, was one of the lowest moments in his entire life and he wanted to wipe it from his memory.
For a split-second he contemplated telling her all this, but he decided not to bother. She’d find out in time. Then he checked himself, frowning as he remembered Willoughby’s stroke.
Dannazione! He’d wanted Anna to hear what Willoughby had said from the old man’s own lips. Now what chance did he have?
He scowled in frustration. One way or another, he’d find a means to make her confess that she’d planted the money. Then he’d explain why he’d