The Italian's Vengeful Seduction. Bella Frances
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reckon it kind of fits the bill,’ he said, smiling.
‘Okay, so hitch-hiking wasn’t my best plan—but how was I to know that my mother would mobilise everyone with a torch and a conscience. I was only gone three days.’
‘I know. I was there. Torch. Conscience. Ticket to Rio burning a hole in my back pocket.’
Stacey cringed, remembering. It had been the worst weekend of her life. She’d bounced like a boomerang from one disaster to another. Her hare-brained scheme about finding her dad had spectacularly backfired and she’d come home with no money and absolutely no illusions that he was anything other than a sorry, selfish excuse for a man.
‘Sorry I delayed your trip. But you made it to Rio in the end, right?’
He shook his head.
‘Not that year—change of plan. But it didn’t matter. I would have gone anywhere as long as it wasn’t Montauk.’
Stacey nodded. She knew exactly what he meant.
‘If I never see the End of the World, Long Island, again it’ll be too soon,’ she said.
They travelled for the next few minutes in silence, to the outskirts of town and the start of more exclusive addresses. Places where Marco would be right at home and where Bruce’s name probably wouldn’t cut it.
He turned the car into a lushly planted car park. A red cross and the words ‘St Bartholomew’s Medical Center’ in deeply etched silver writing warned in hushed tones that this was the domain of the elite. Exclusively. The building itself was solid and secure, white stone, and for a moment a sense of calm descended. She felt it. She sat. Still. Silent.
‘I don’t think this will take too long. Then you can be on your way. But if there is any damage don’t worry—I’ll cover it.’
‘Thanks,’ she managed to say. ‘Good of you.’
She reached for the handle.
‘Stacey. A moment.’
She swallowed, then turned—carefully. He was sitting back in his seat, one elbow on the armrest, one hand on his knee. The picture of easy, moneyed charm. Like a warm, sunny welcome after the grim, gritty night. Sure and solid and secure. Exactly how she’d once felt in his company. Safe from the never-ending stream of her mother’s suffocating worries.
Yes, he’d had it all back then—he’d even had a heart. Unlike most of his friends, she’d never thought him shallow. Or smug. Or arrogant. On the contrary. Somehow he’d made her feel—valuable. That she had as much to offer as any other human being. But it turned out that had all been in her imagination. Because at the end of the day as soon as he’d thought she was anything less than perfect he’d cast her aside faster than yesterday’s trash.
She took a second—took him in. God, but he was handsome. He had lost all the soft traces of boyhood and taken on the harder mantle of manhood. His eyes, dark and deep, were fixed onto hers. She’d always had a thing for dark-eyed men, and now she remembered this was where it had all begun. But no one had the full package like Marco—eyelashes short and thick, and long, wide brows that framed his dark, enigmatic look so perfectly. The blue-black shading of his stubble perfectly outlined his mouth and the blunt cut of his jaw.
She couldn’t draw her eyes away. The air in her lungs suddenly seemed to be completely lacking. His lips—those fabulous full lips that she remembered—parted. Then there was nothing but the shadow between them, the beat of her heart and the anticipation that rocketed all the way to throb between her legs.
‘Marco...’ she breathed.
He moved not a single muscle. There was just the flick of his eyes as they roamed across her face. He didn’t reach across to grab her, didn’t accidentally brush up against her leg—he even managed to keep his gaze above her jaw. He was completely and utterly impassive. And, worse, she felt that he was mocking her.
‘Put my jacket round your shoulders before we go inside. You’ll feel more comfortable.’
He opened the door and she hissed out the breath she’d been holding in. What a fool. What a fool! She had actually contemplated kissing him—kissing him! And—worse—she’d thought he was going to kiss her too. She must be out of her mind. After all this time? That bump had definitely gone to her head. She had to get her game on or she was going to let herself turn into a pile of mush.
And a woman with no home, no job and no money could not afford to be mushy.
Marco opened the door and stood there, ready to shield her with his jacket. She swung her legs out noting that the thigh-length split in the skirt of her dress was leaving even less to the imagination than the bodice. Another notch down in his estimation, no doubt. Ignoring the pain, she held on to the sides of the car and eased herself to her feet.
‘Too kind,’ she said, slipping her arms into the deep sleeves he held out and wrapping the navy silk jacket around her. He closed the door and clicked the remote key to lock it. Two beeps. One for every ten billion, she’d guess.
‘It’s not a problem,’ he said, every inch the uninterested chaperone.
She felt the weight of his world envelop her in heavy fabric and wide shoulders. It was as if gold had been spun into the cloth and wishes might fall out of the sleeves. Life was not fair. Not at all.
‘You’ve clearly done well for yourself, Marco. I think it was a beat-up farm truck I last saw you driving. Win a little on the slot machines?’
As soon as the words were out of her mouth she regretted them. His father had been a compulsive gambler. Damn. She scrunched her eyes closed, remembering.
‘I don’t gamble, Stacey—in fact I despise it.’
‘I’m sorry.’ It was all she could say, and she felt the thrust of his anger. ‘I forgot.’
‘I can’t forget. We lost everything due to my father’s gambling. Everything.’
She knew. It had been the very thing that had bound them together at one point—Marco’s rapid fall from the elite ranks of Montauk society all the way down to the gutter. All the way, but not quite. He was a Borsatto after all.
‘If I had my way I’d shut down every toxic casino in this town. And the others.’
‘I’m glad not everybody sees it that way. I’ve made a living from them one way or another these past ten years.’
‘You’re entitled to your view,’ he said, as if it was the most stupid thing he’d ever heard. Then he turned and began to walk towards the building.
She watched his retreating back, outlined against the white marble.
So what if he’d lost it all? She’d never had it in the first place.
She started after him, her heels dragging on the gravel of the car park.
‘Not everyone who gambles is a loser, you know.’ She fired the words into his back.
He paused. ‘I guess not,’ he said, turning slowly, judging her.
In the smallest slide of his eyes he was telling her that she had been found completely and utterly lacking. He stood there, framed in the white-pillared entrance. Sheets of black glass wrapped around the building behind him. Sunlight sparkled.
‘But in my experience there are a hell of a lot more sinners than saints.’
‘More whores than Madonnas? Is that what you’re saying? Because I’m dressed like this?’
His mouth curved a little. He shook his head.
‘I was talking about the customers, Stacey. Not the staff.’
There she went again—jumping to conclusions and shooting her mouth off like an unmanned artillery gun. She threw him her worst possible look but he didn’t flinch.
‘You told me you