The Italian's Vengeful Seduction. Bella Frances
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on my own too long.’
She pulled out a chair and eased herself onto it, cradling the cup between her hands. And, dammit, he was drawn to her. Even though she should have her own ‘Wanted’ poster for crimes against humanity, there was something hugely seductive about her. It was all sex appeal, of course. Something in the way she wore his jacket. Something about how the shoulders dwarfed her and enveloped that body. Something that suggested ball-breaker Stacey was a vulnerable little girl underneath all that attitude. Despite what he knew about her.
‘Living on your own? Oh, come on,’ she said, taking a sip and watching him over the rim, those huge blue eyes underscored with the inky remnants of her tears. ‘I bet you’ve been beating them off with a stick, Marco. A hottie like you.’
He looked at her—looked at the highlighting of her breasts in the shadow between his lapels.
‘I can’t say I’ve ever had to beat off a woman, no,’ he said.
There was a very slight pause. A shared moment when he knew and she knew that there was another agenda at work between them. There had been back then and it was just as strong now.
She took another sip and put the cup down—slowly.
‘Yeah, well,’ she said. ‘I’m not really interested in your bedroom antics.’
He nodded. ‘Maybe we should clear that up now. So there’s no doubt.’ He held her gaze across the table.
‘Meaning...?’
‘Meaning that I didn’t invite you here for anything other than a place to stay until you’re in the clear. It’s my duty—I’m responsible for your accident.’
Her eyes suddenly blazed.
‘Are you suggesting that I’m trying to seduce you?’
‘Stacey, would you get off your high horse for one goddamn moment? I’m not suggesting anything. I want you to know that while you’re here I won’t take advantage. That’s all. We had a thing once, but we’re both adults now and we can stay overnight in the same house without you worrying that I’m going to make a pass.’
She smirked her lopsided smile and hid behind the curtain of her hair in that way that she did.
She pushed her cup away. ‘That’s very noble of you, Marco. It hadn’t crossed my mind that you might want to—to go back there, if I’m honest. But it’s mature of you to make sure there are no misunderstandings.’
She chose that moment to ease the jacket from her shoulders and twist round to place it over the back of the chair. It might have been complete coincidence, but as she raised her arms his eyes slid all by themselves to the satiny gleam of her breasts, caught in the criss-cross of black fabric across the bodice of her dress. And of course his body reacted.
‘You can count on it,’ he said, still watching as she rearranged herself on the seat.
Then she looked pointedly at him and feigned a look of surprise.
‘I’m sorry—have I spilled something?’ she said, looking down at her chest. Then she took her time readjusting those goddamn straps over one breast and then the other, wriggling and jiggling her flesh and flicking at little flecks of invisible dust. It was a car crash. He couldn’t look away. She was teasing him out of his mind. Just as she’d used to. Teasing but never giving out. At least not to him.
‘So, how is your mother? Did she remarry?’
He lifted her cup and turned away to the coffee machine. A few minutes making coffee and talking about Montauk ought to do the trick.
‘No, thankfully she made a lucky escape. But there are so many assholes in the world. I’m sure you know what I mean.’
He smiled and refilled her coffee cup, put it down in front of her, noting the way she shifted in her chair. She couldn’t resist.
‘She’s still in Montauk, right?’
‘Yes, still there. Same house. New curtains.’
He frowned. ‘Sorry—what?’
‘Doesn’t matter. What about you?’ she said, changing the subject with another forced smile. ‘Is the old gang all back in touch now that you’ve got all that bullion to sell? Or buy? Or whatever it is you do nowadays?’
He nodded. ‘Something like that.’
He could go into it—tell her about his years spent in penury following the humiliation of being tossed out on his ass, the journey south, then east, bumming across Europe, then India, until he landed his first break exporting gold. Then his time in Italy, picking up what he could about winemaking from his extended family. Finally thinking that there might be a way back home.
But—no. There would be nothing to gain in sharing any of that. He’d drawn a line.
He drained the last of his coffee. So much caffeine, so much adrenaline. So much stress...
Maybe he should go easy for the rest of the day. There was a lot still to do.
‘So, been here long?’
She was looking round the kitchen, her eyes landing quickly on different things and then dancing on and moving back to his face. With that smirk.
‘A while. A year.’
‘Really?’ She nodded contemplatively. ‘Don’t you hang out here much, then?’
‘Not sure what you’re getting at, Stacey...’
‘Your villa. It’s pretty vanilla—almost as sterile as that hospital. No offence. Just not how I remember the Meadows at all.’
He lifted the two cups and walked to the dishwasher.
The Meadows. It had been years since he had heard his home called that. It was the name the locals had given it and it harked back to the first white settlers who’d come from England. But it had been Sant’Angelo’s since the Borsattos had taken up residence there. And it would be Sant’Angelo’s again soon.
‘None taken. As I said—the spare bedroom is down the hall.’
She took the hint and stood up.
‘I’m sure I’ll find it,’ she replied. ‘And, hey, thanks again for the jacket.’
She patted it and—dammit—his eyes landed there again.
‘And the trip to the hospital. I—appreciate it.’
She smiled softly and for the first time it looked genuine.
‘As I said...least I could do.’
She nodded and picked up her purse, then started to make her way down the hallway. Her long brown hair sank down over the nape of her neck in a silken sweep, landing an inch above where the straps of the dress slashed across her back and a good six inches above where her perfect backside sashayed. He found himself watching, mesmerised. Hypnotised. It was as flawless as he remembered.
As a kid, every single thing about Stacey Jackson had caused some kind of chain reaction in him from brain to body. The way she’d walked into a room, the way she’d swung her eyes round to look at people, or more often to ignore them completely. The way she’d give nothing away to the world, but had somehow made people feel as if they knew all about her and wanted to know more.
Thank the Lord he was immune to everything now—apart from the primordial reaction in his brain telling him he still found her attractive. He was a man...she was made the way she was. It was just a mental process firing off. So she still made him hard? So what. It didn’t mean he had to act on it.
She was halfway down the hall now—taking her time, taking up his time.
She stopped. The prints on the wall there were huge, brightly coloured inks that represented the Southern Hemisphere sky that he’d stared up at for all those months on the road. Months when all he’d