Sweet Revenge. Эбби Грин
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heaven. It was like coming home as he shaped her mouth with his own, encouraging her response, taking her with him in an evocative tasting that became more … and promised much.
Her breasts firmed against his chest, their sensitive peaks hardening in need … for the touch of his hand, his mouth, and she whimpered, totally lost in the moment.
The hardness of his erection was a potent force, and warmth raced through her veins, activating each pleasure pulse until she felt so incredibly sensually alive, it was almost impossible not to beg.
It was the slide of his hand over the curve of her breast, the way he shaped it, then slid to loosen the buttons that gave her a moment’s pause for thought.
It would be so very easy to link her hands behind his neck and silently invite him to rekindle the flame.
And she almost did. Almost.
Except sanity and the dawning horror of where this was going provided the impetus to pull away.
What was she doing?
Was she out of her mind?
‘I hate you.’ The words came out as a tortured whisper as she dropped her arms and attempted to move back a pace.
For what seemed an age Marcello examined her features, the dilated eyes so dark, almost bruised, with passion. The soft, swollen mouth trembling from his possession.
The shocked dismay.
‘Perhaps you hate yourself more,’ he offered quietly.
For losing control? Enjoying his touch?
And, dear lord … wanting it all.
He watched as she straightened her shoulders, tilted her chin and summoned a fiery glare.
‘I’m done. And that,’ she flung recklessly, ‘was a ridiculous experiment.’
Marcello let her go, watching as she moved towards the door and exited the room.
Experiment? Far from it.
A mark of intent.
And he was far from done.
The photograph had been taken with a telephoto lens. Had to be, for Shannay couldn’t recall seeing a photographer anywhere as they’d disembarked from Marcello’s private jet.
Marcello Martinez with a woman and child in tow had sent the news-hounds into a frenzy. How long would it have taken to filch out archival data and discover the woman was Marcello’s estranged wife … and determine the child was his own?
Not long.
The caption, even in Spanish, was unmistakable.
How difficult was it to interpret reconciliacón?
Or resurrect her knowledge of the language sufficiently to comprehend Señor Martinez’ remark, upon being requested to comment?
Anything is possible.
Really?
Anger suffused her body, coalescing into one great tide of fury, taxing her control to the limit.
With care she tore out the offending page, then folded it a few times and slid it into the pocket of her jeans, determined to initiate a confrontation.
He was home … but where?
His home office would be the best place to begin.
She sought out Maria, who took one look at the clenched jaw, the blazing eyes, and immediately caught hold of Nicki’s hand.
‘Come, pequena, we will go into the kitchen and bake some biscuits, si?’
Shannay even achieved a tense smile. ‘Thank you.’ She smoothed a hand over Nicki’s hair. ‘Be good for Maria. I’ll check with you soon. OK?’
‘OK.’
Marcello’s home office was situated in the far corner of the first level, overlooking the gardens and pool area. Two adjoining rooms whose dividing wall had been removed and refurbished to hold a large executive desk, hi-tech computers, a laptop and the requisite office equipment in one half of the room, while floor-to-ceiling bookcases lined the walls of the remaining half, together with a few comfortable leather chairs, lamps and side-tables.
A very male domain, and one she entered with barely an accompanying knock to announce her presence.
Marcello glanced up from a computer screen, caught the gleaming anger apparent in her dark eyes and settled back in his chair to regard her with thoughtful speculation.
Attired in black jeans and a watermelon-pink top, her hair pulled back into a careless pony-tail and no make-up he could discern, she looked little more than a teenager. Harbouring self-righteous anger he was tempted to stir into something more.
Her honest emotions had always intrigued him, for she rarely held back … a quality lacking in many women of his acquaintance. Sophisticated women who played a false seductive game with both eyes on the main chance.
Shannay had been different. She hadn’t known who he was, and didn’t appear to care when she did.
Four years ago he hadn’t been able to prevent her leaving. Hadn’t fought for her as he should have done, erroneously supposing all he needed to do to soothe some of the hurt and pain inflicted by Estella and his widowed aunt was provide evidence of his love by gifting sex.
Exceptional lovemaking, he reflected, and felt his body tighten in remembered passion.
‘There’s something you want to discuss?’
He looked so damned laid-back, controlled. Even, she decided furiously, faintly amused.
With studied calm she extracted the folded newsprint from her pocket, opened it out and tossed it down onto his desk.
‘Perhaps you’d care to explain?’
He merely gave it a glance. ‘I’m sure your knowledge of the Spanish language is sufficient to provide a reasonably accurate translation.’
The fact he was right didn’t sit well. ‘That isn’t the issue here.’
His eyes never left her face. ‘What is the issue, Shannay?’
‘A reconciliation was never on the cards.’ Her eyes flashed gold sparks, and her fingers curled into her palm in frustrated anger. ‘There’s no way in hell it’s going to happen.’
‘You think not?’
‘I demand you order a retraction.’
‘No.’ His voice was dangerously soft, his expression an unyielding mask. ‘You deny it would be advantageous for Nicki to have two parents, a stable family life, and thus negate custody arrangements in two countries on the opposite sides of the world?’
‘With a mother and father constantly at war? Please.’
‘Would there necessarily need to be dissension?’ He made an encompassing gesture with one hand. ‘You would enjoy every social advantage and as my wife, be gifted anything you want.’
Marcello watched the fleeting expressions, divined each and every one of them, and moved in for the kill.
‘Not even to please a very ill old man with only a short time to live?’
Conflicting emotions tore at her emotional heart and lent shadows to her eyes.
‘Ramon has a very progressive form of cancer,’ he relayed quietly. ‘Various surgical procedures have delayed the inevitable. However, the brain tumour is inoperable, and the medical professionals predict it will only be a matter of weeks before he lapses into a coma.’
Shannay was unable to hide the shock, or her genuine regret. ‘I’m so sorry. Why didn’t you warn me?’
‘I thought