The Ultimate Revenge. Victoria Parker
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the creator.
‘Not particularly.’
Mouth pursed, his friend nodded grudgingly. ‘And how do you intend to meet the mysterious, reclusive, notorious Zeus?’
Nic tossed back another mouthful of vodka as his gaze flickered to the petite q he’d been wooing since he’d arrived the night before. There she was, standing near the doors, unobtrusive as always, yet only a hand-motion away. All it had taken was one look into her heavy-lashed slumberous gaze and he’d thought, Piece of cake.
One romantic midnight stroll along the beach and he’d had a thumbprint lifted from her champagne flute. One lingering caress of his hand round her waist and he’d slipped the high-security access card from the folds of her red sheath. What remained was one promise of seduction in her suite that he’d fail to keep and would ensure she was gone from his side.
Narciso followed his line of sight and huffed out a breath. ‘Should’ve known a woman would be involved. I like your style, Carvalho, even if I do think that vodka you drink has pickled your brain.’
Nic laughed, riding high on the narcotic mix of anticipation and exhilaration lacing his veins. That was until he looked into his friend’s eyes and the mirth died in his throat.
What would Narciso and their buddy Ryzard think of him when Nic whipped the Q Virtus rug from beneath their feet? When he lost them the chance of schmoozing with the world’s most powerful men, creating contacts and thriving on the deals that cultivated their already vast wealth. They would understand, wouldn’t they? Narciso was the closest thing to a best friend he’d ever had and Ryzard was a good man. Surely he was doing them a favour of sorts—he knew what Zeus was capable of; they hadn’t a clue.
‘Speaking of rumours,’ Narciso murmured, in a tone that made Nic’s guts twist into an apprehensive knot. ‘I hear Goldsmith made you an offer.’
He practically choked on his vodka. ‘How do you know that?’
Narciso looked at him as if he’d sprouted a second head. ‘Do you honestly think Goldsmith could keep the possibility of the mighty Nicandro Carvalho, an unequalled dominant force in real estate, becoming his son-in-law a secret for one second? He told my father. Who told me. And I told him that Goldsmith is delusional.’
Nic checked an impatient sigh. This was the last thing he wanted to discuss. Except his silence pulled the air taut, pinching Narciso’s brow and turning his smart mouth into a scowl.
‘Do not tell me you are seriously considering marrying Eloisa Goldsmith.’
No. Maybe. ‘I am considering it, yes.’
‘You’ve got to be joking, Nic!’
‘Keep your voice down! Just because you’ve been blinded by good sex and emotion—ah, sorry—I mean to say just because you’ve found everlasting bliss,’ he muttered, with no small amount of sarcasm, ‘it doesn’t mean I want to sign my own death warrant. A business marriage is perfect for me.’
‘You’re as jaded as I was. Heaven help you if you meet a woman strong enough to smash your kneecaps and drop you at her feet.’
‘If that ever happens, my friend, I’ll buy you a gold pig.’
Narciso shook his head. ‘Eloisa Goldsmith. You’re insane.’
‘What I am is late for a rendezvous.’ He downed the last of his drink as he bolted upright, the lock of his knees thrusting his chair backwards with an emphatic scrape.
‘Why would you even consider it? She’s a country mouse—you’ll be bored within a week.’
Exactly. He could never fall in love with her and he’d have a sweet, gentle, caring woman to be the mother of his children. As to the why—there was only one reason Nic would walk down the aisle at twenty-nine years old. The final goal in his grand slam.
Santos Diamonds.
The business phenomenon that had taken generations to build: his great-grandfather’s love affair, his avô’s pride and joy, the legacy Goldsmith would only gift to Nic along with his daughter’s hand.
He wasn’t enamoured of the idea, but he’d promised himself he’d consider it while he whisked up a vengeful hurricane for Zeus to flounder within. So consider it he would. If only for Avô to see Santos Diamonds back where it belonged. It was the least he could do for the old man.
‘I will be content. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have an appointment with pleasure.’
The pleasure of the ultimate revenge.
* * *
PRIVATE. NO ENTRY.
Blood humming with a lethal combination of exhilaration and eagerness, Nic swiped his nifty keypad over the high-access security panel. While he’d loathed those early days in New York when he’d been lured to the streets of Brooklyn, he’d met some interesting if a smidgeon degenerate characters walking on the more dangerous side of life, who had always been willing to teach him a trick or two.
Still, his heart slammed about in his chest like a pinball machine until the fingerprint recognition flashed green and he was standing in Zeus’s inner sanctum.
Moroccan-style ironwork lanterns cast eerie shadows down the long corridor and painted the white stucco walls with a brassy wash. The floor was a continuation of the small intricate mosaic that ran through the hotel but here, in Zeus’s lair, the colours were richer—deep amber, bronze and heavy gold, as if gilded by Midas’s touch. And that touch had embellished every scrolled door handle, fingerplate and urn.
Arched double doors, elaborately carved, encompassed the entire wall at one end of the floor, and as he drew closer faint murmurs slithered beneath the gap like wisps of smoke unfurling to reach his ears. Someone having unpleasant dreams, if he guessed right. Definitely female.
Mistress? Wife? The man was reclusive and malevolent enough to hoard a harem as far as he knew.
Gingerly Nic curled his hand around the gold handle and smirked when the lever gave way under the pressure of his palm. This was just too easy.
Door closed behind him, he stifled a whistle at the vast expanse of opulence.
Ochre walls were punctuated with arched lattice screens, allowing the shimmering light of the ornate candelabra to spin from one room to another and dance over every gilt-edged surface almost provocatively. But it was the heady scent of incense that gave the atmosphere a distinctly sultry feel, heating his blood another few degrees and coaxing his eyes towards the bed.
Mosaic steps led up to a raised dais, at least eight feet square. The entire structure was shrouded by a tented canopy made with the finest gold silk—the weighty drapes closed on all four sides, with only a small gap at the bottom edge. Clearly an invitation to take a peek as far as he was concerned.
Nic slipped off his shoes by the door and stepped closer on sock-clad feet, his pulse thrumming with the devilry of being somewhere he shouldn’t and half hoping, half anxious that he’d be caught.
The sudden bolt of lightning that flashed through the room, followed by a sonorous crack of thunder didn’t help. His heart leapt to his throat.
Sumptuous cushions and layers upon layers of super-fine silk in white and gold embraced the still mound of a woman veiled by the caliginous shadows.
He watched, waiting to ensure she slept on, frowning at the odd sizzle of electricity that ran beneath his skin. If he were the suspicious sort who believed in Brazilian claptrap he’d think his ancestors were trying to tell him to get the hell out of here. As if.
Nic shook himself from the bizarre trance and skulked round the rest of the palatial suite, prowling between overstuffed sofas in a rich shade of cocoa, towering fern trees that plumed from barrel-wide bronze urns and the ritzy copper-toned spa tub raised on another dais in the bathing room.
The entire effect was stunning, but it had a homely feel—as if the guest was in fact