Bedroom Bargains of Revenge: Bought for Revenge, Bedded for Pleasure / Bedded and Wedded for Revenge / The Italian Boss's Mistress of Revenge. Trish Morey
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more by a sense of excitement than curiosity. His eyes were examining her in a very detailed fashion—vivid blue eyes—making her extremely conscious of how she looked and raising a silly hope that he found her attractive.
It was silly because it was obvious he was too old for her. In his twenties, she judged. At fourteen she had the height and the figure of a young woman but not the years to match this man. There was something in his eyes—a knowingness that came from a lot of hard learnt experience.
“Who are you?” she asked, feeling a compulsion to learn everything she could about him.
His mouth quirked into a dryly amused little smile, making her wonder how it would feel to have such beautifully sculptured lips kissing hers. Would they be gentle and sensitive to her response or hard and ravishing? He was the kind of man who could have stepped out of one of the romance books she’d read, making her wish for things that weren’t yet part of her life.
“Who are you?” he countered, surprising her with his American accent. Nice voice, though, deep and manly.
“I’m Sally Maguire,” she answered with a touch of pride, wanting to impress him with her status as daughter to a man who was virtually an Australian legend.
“Ah …” he said, but it wasn’t an admiring Ah, more a mocking one that told her he wasn’t impressed at all.
Had she seemed snobby about who she was?
“Fine horse,” he remarked. “You handle him well. Have you been riding long?”
She nodded, suddenly feeling ill at ease with him. “Dad gave me a pony when I was five.”
“No doubt he bought this one for you, too.”
The mocking tone was more pronounced this time.
“Who are you?” she repeated more sharply. “What are you doing here?”
He shrugged. “Just looking around.”
“This is private property. If you have no business here, you’re trespassing.”
“Oh, I have business to be done. Very personal business.” His eyes stabbed into hers like blue lasers, scouring her soul. “I’m waiting for my father to come home.”
None of the employees had a son like him. She was sure of it. “Who’s your father?”
“The same as yours.”
Shock rendered her speechless for a moment. Was it true? A bastard son who’d never been publicly acknowledged? He didn’t look like her father, though he did have blue eyes, a much sharper blue though.
“I know nothing about you,” she blurted out, seized by the fear that whoever he was, he’d come to make trouble.
“Not surprising,” he drawled derisively. “I’m sure Lady Ellen prefers to pretend I don’t exist.”
He hated her mother. She could see it, hear it, feel it.
“She probably doesn’t know about you, either,” Sally threw at him defensively, fretting over his attitude.
He shook his head. “What a protected little cocoon you live in, Sally Maguire!” There was a wicked challenge in his eyes as he added, “Why don’t you ask Lady Ellen about the marriage she busted up and the boy she wanted no part of?”
“What marriage?”
“Leonard Maguire’s marriage to my mother,” he tossed at her, obviously confident that he was dealing with irrefutable fact.
Sally could only stare at him, her mind struggling to take this stunning information on board. If what he said was true, he wasn’t a bastard son. He was her father’s natural-born heir, not adopted like her and her younger sister. Her very safe world suddenly felt very shaken.
“Have you been up to the house?” she asked in a burst of panic, feeling that everything she’d thought she’d known was about to change.
“Not yet.”
“Does my mother know you’re here?”
“She knows I’ve come. Lady Ellen was not inclined to put out the welcome mat for me. In fact, she had me turned away at the gate. What do you think of that, Sally Maguire?” He cocked his head to one side, mockingly assessing her reaction to this information. “Here you are on prime horseflesh, revelling in having your love of riding indulged and completely catered for—” he gestured towards the stables, obvious evidence for his viewpoint “—and I am turned away from setting foot on my father’s land.”
It wasn’t fair.
It wasn’t right.
A sense of guilty shame sent a gush of heat flooding into her cheeks. Yet she had only this man’s word that what he was telling her was true. She had no idea of what had happened with these relationships in the past, before she was born and adopted into this family. Maybe her mother had good reason to block his entry to this property. Hadn’t she just felt her own world being threatened by him?
“What do you want?” The words spilled out of the fear that was curdling her stomach. He wouldn’t have come if he didn’t want something.
“I had my father for seven years. You’ve had him for fourteen. Wouldn’t you say there should be a better balance to be struck?”
“Like what? You’re grown up now. There’s no way of getting back years that are gone,” she argued anxiously. He knew her age. It felt all wrong that he had information about her and she had none about him.
“True,” he agreed. His eyes went flint hard. “But there’s the future to be reckoned with.”
He was going to make trouble. “What about your mother?” Sally threw at him, trying to mitigate the situation he’d spelled out. “She must have taken you with her. Where is she now?”
“Dead,” he stated bluntly, his voice flat, showing no emotion at all.
Somehow that was more frightening than anything else. “I’m sorry,” she said defensively. “Sorry you feel—” Her mind sought frantically for the right word “—displaced.”
Which was what she would have felt if she hadn’t been adopted. Having no parents, no sense of belonging to a family … it would be awful, an empty life. She’d been so lucky, while he …
“I wasn’t displaced,” he corrected her savagely. “I was replaced by you and the other adopted daughter.”
“I didn’t know. Jane doesn’t know, either,” she pleaded.
It wasn’t her fault. Yet he was making her feel horribly guilty.
“I’ll go and talk to my mother,” she offered, feeling too churned up to stay talking to him, and needing to know why he had been turned away.
“That should be an interesting conversation,” he mocked. “Pity I can’t be a fly on the wall.”
The taunt spurred her into nudging Blaze into a canter. She rode quickly to the exit from the enclosure, intensely conscious of those laser-blue eyes boring into her. Forced to pause while opening the gate, she couldn’t stop herself from looking back at him. He hadn’t moved. His gaze was fixed on her. It felt hard, relentless, accusing.
“You haven’t told me your name,” she called out, wishing he could be more … brotherly.
“It’s Maguire,” he reminded her with derisive emphasis. “Jack Maguire. Commonly known as Blackjack in some circles. It’s a name that darkens other people’s dreams.”
It was a name that would haunt Sally for a long time to come. Ten years would pass before she would meet him again—ten years before he would once more set foot on this land, bringing with him the bitter harvest of the wrongs that were being enacted today.
Jack