Читать книгу Surrendering To The Vengeful Italian - Angela Bissell, Angela Bissell - Страница 9
ОглавлениеHELENA SHAW HAD been sitting in the elegant marble foyer for the best part of two hours when the man she had trekked halfway across London to see finally strode into the exclusive Mayfair hotel.
She had almost given up. After all the effort she had devoted to tracking him down, she had almost lost her nerve. Had almost let cowardice—and the voice in her head crying insanity—drive her out of the plush upholstered chair and back into the blessed obscurity of the crowded rush-hour streets.
But she had not fled. She had sat and waited—and waited some more.
And now he was here.
Her stomach dropped, weightless for a moment as though she had stepped from a great height into nothingness, and then the fluttering started—a violent sensation that made her belly feel like a cage full of canaries into which a half-starved tomcat had been loosed.
Breathe, she instructed herself, and watched him stride across the foyer, tall and dark and striking in a charcoal-grey two-piece that screamed power suit even without the requisite tie around his bronzed throat.
Women stared.
Men stepped out of his way.
And he ignored them all, his big body moving with an air of intent until, for one heart-stopping moment, his footsteps slowed on the polished marble and he half turned in her direction, eyes narrowed under a sharp frown as he surveyed the hotel’s expansive interior.
Helena froze. Shrouded in shadows cast by soft lighting and half hidden behind a giant spray of exotic honey-scented blooms, she was certain he couldn’t see her, yet for one crazy moment she had the unnerving impression he could somehow sense her scrutiny. Her very presence. As if, after all these years, they were still tethered by an invisible thread of awareness.
A crack of thunder, courtesy of the storm the weathermen had been promising Londoners since yesterday, made Helena jump. She blinked, pulled in a sharp breath and let the air out with a derisive hiss. She had no connection with this man. Whatever bond had existed between them was long gone, destroyed by her father and buried for ever in the ashes of bitterness and hurt.
A hurt Leonardo Vincenti would soon revisit on her family if she failed to stop him seizing her father’s company.
She grabbed her handbag and stood, her pulse picking up speed as she wondered if he would see her. But he had already resumed his long strides towards the bank of elevators. She hurried after him, craning her neck to keep his dark head and broad shoulders in her line of sight. Not that she’d easily lose him in a crowd. He stood out from the pack—that much hadn’t changed—though he seemed even taller than she remembered, darker somehow, the aura he projected now one of command and power.
Her stomach muscles wound a little tighter.
Europe’s business commentators had dubbed him the success of the decade: an entrepreneurial genius who’d turned a software start-up into a multi-million-dollar enterprise in less than ten years and earned a coveted spot on the rich list. The more reputable media sources called him single-minded and driven. Others dished up less flattering labels like hard-nosed and cut-throat.
Words that reminded Helena too much of her father. Yet even hard-nosed and cut-throat seemed too mild, too charitable, for a man like Douglas Shaw.
She shouldered her bag, clutched the strap over her chest.
Her father was a formidable man, but if the word regret existed in his vocabulary he must surely rue the day he’d aimed his crosshairs at Leonardo Vincenti. Now the young Italian he’d once decreed unsuitable for his daughter was back, seven years older, considerably wealthier and, by all accounts, still mad as hell at the man who’d run him out of town.
He stopped, pushed the button for an elevator and shoved his hands in his trouser pockets. Behind him, Helena hovered so close she could see the fine weave in the fabric of his jacket, the individual strands of black hair curling above his collar.
She sucked in a deep breath. ‘Leo.’
He turned, his dark brows rising into an arch of enquiry that froze along with the rest of his face the instant their gazes collided. His hands jerked out of his pockets. His brows plunged back down.
‘What the hell...?’
Those three words, issued in a low, guttural growl, raised the tiny hairs on her forearms and across her nape.
He’d recognised her, then.
She tilted her head back. In her modest two-inch heels she stood almost five foot ten, but still she had to hike her chin to lock her gaze with his.
And oh, sweet mercy, what a gaze it was.
Dark. Hard. Glittering. Like polished obsidian and just as impenetrable. How had she forgotten the mind-numbing effect those midnight eyes could have on her?
Concentrate.
‘I’d like to talk,’ she said.
A muscle moved in his jaw, flexing twice before he spoke. ‘You do not own a phone?’
‘Would you have taken my call?
He met her challenge with a smile—if the tight, humourless twist of his lips could be called a smile. ‘Probably not. But then you and I have nothing to discuss. On the phone or in person.’
An elevator pinged and opened behind him. He inclined his head in a gesture she might have construed as polite if not for the arctic chill in his eyes.
‘I am sorry you have wasted your time.’ And with that he swung away and stepped into the elevator.
Helena hesitated, then quickly rallied and dashed in after him. ‘You’ve turned up after seven years of silence and come after my father’s company. I hardly think that qualifies as nothing.’
‘Get out of the elevator, Helena.’
The soft warning made the skin across her scalp prickle. Or maybe it was hearing her name spoken in that deep, accented baritone that drove a wave of discomforting heat through her?
The elevator doors whispered closed, cocooning them in a space that felt too small and intimate despite the effect of mirrors on three walls.
She planted her feet. ‘No.’
Colour slashed his cheekbones and his dark eyes locked with hers in a staring match that quickly tested the limits of her bravado. Just as she feared that lethal gaze would reduce her to a pile of cinders, he reached into the breast pocket of his jacket and pulled out an access card.
‘As you wish,’ he said, his tone mild—too mild, a voice warned. He flashed the card across a sensor and jabbed the button labelled ‘Penthouse Suite’. With a soft whir, the elevator began its stomach-dropping ascent.
Helena groped for the steel handrail behind her, the rapid rising motion—or maybe the butterflies in her belly she couldn’t quell—making her head swim.
It seemed her ex-lover could not only afford the finest digs in London...he could afford to stay in the hotel’s most exclusive suite.
The knowledge made her heart beat faster.
The Leo she’d known had been a man of understated tastes, stylish in that effortless way of most Italian men but never flashy or overt. She’d liked that about him. Liked his grit and drive and passion. Liked that he was different from the lazy, spoilt rich set her parents wanted her to run with.
And now...?
Her hand tightened on the railing. Now it didn’t matter what she felt about him. All that mattered was the havoc he’d soon unleash on her family. If he and her father went head to head in a corporate war and Douglas Shaw lost control of his precious empire the fallout for his wife and son would be dire. Her father didn’t take kindly to losing; when he did, those closest to him suffered.
‘Has your father sent you?’ The way he ground out the word father conveyed a wealth of hatred—a sentiment Helena, too, wrestled with when it came to Daddy Dearest.
She studied Leo’s face, leaner now, his features sharper, more angular than she remembered, but still incredibly handsome. Her fingers twitched with the memory of tracing those features while he slept, of familiarising herself with that long, proud nose and strong jaw, those sculpted male lips. Lips that once could have stopped her heart with a simple smile—or a kiss.
Emotion rose and swirled, unexpected, a poignant mix of regret and longing that made her chest ache and her breath hitch.
Did Leo smile much these days? Or did those lines either side of his mouth stem from harsher emotions like anger and hatred?
Instinctively Helena’s hand went to her stomach. The void inside where life had once flourished was a stark reminder that she, too, had suffered. Leo, at least, had been spared that pain, and no good would come now of sharing hers.
Some burdens, she had decided, were better borne alone. She let her hand fall back to her side.
‘I’m not my father’s puppet, Leo. Whatever your misguided opinion of me.’
A harsh sound shot from his throat. ‘The only one misguided is you, Helena. What part of “I never wish to see you again” did you not understand?’
She smothered the flash of hurt his words evoked. ‘That was a long time ago. And I only want an opportunity to talk. Is that asking too much?’
A soft ping signalled the elevator’s arrival. Before he could answer with a resounding yes, she stepped through the parting doors into a spacious vestibule. She stopped, the sensible heels of her court shoes sinking into thick carpet the colour of rich chocolate. Before her loomed an enormous set of double doors. It was private up here, she realised. Secluded. Isolated.
Her mouth went dry. ‘Perhaps we should talk in the bar downstairs?’
He brushed past her and pushed open the heavy doors, his lips twisting into a tight smile that only made her heart pound harder.
‘Afraid to be alone with me?’
Helena paused on the threshold. Should she be afraid of him? In spite of her jitters she balked at the idea. Leonardo Vincenti wasn’t thrilled to see her—that was painfully clear—but she knew this man. Had spent time with him. Been intimate with him in ways that marked her soul like no other man ever had.
Yes, she could sense the anger vibrating beneath his cloak of civility, but he would never lose control and lash out at her. He would never hurt her the way her father hurt her mother.
She smoothed her palm down the leg of her black trouser suit and assumed a lofty air. ‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ she said, and strode into the room.
* * *
Leo closed the penthouse doors, strode to the wet bar and splashed a large measure of whisky into a crystal tumbler. He knocked back the potent liquid, snapped the empty glass onto the bar and looked at the woman whose presence was like a blowtorch to his veneer of calm.
‘Drink?’
‘No.’ She reinforced her refusal with a shake of her head that made her auburn curls bounce and sway. ‘But...thank you.’
Shorter, he noted. Her hair was shorter, the dark silky ribbons that had once tumbled to her waist now cropped into a sophisticated cut above her shoulders. Her face, too, had changed—thinner like her body and more striking somehow, her cheekbones strong and elegant, her jaw line firm. Bluish crescents underscored her eyes, but the rest of her skin was toned and smooth and free of imperfections. It was a face no man, unless blind, would pass by without stopping for a second appreciative look.
Helena Shaw, he reluctantly acknowledged, was no longer a pretty girl. Helena Shaw was a stunningly attractive woman.
Scowling, he reminded himself he had no interest in this woman’s attributes, physical or otherwise. He’d been blindsided by her beauty and guise of innocence once before—a grave error that had cost him infinitely more than his injured pride—and he’d vowed his mistake would not be repeated.
Not with any woman.
And especially not this one.
‘So, you want to talk.’ The last thing he wanted to do with this woman. Dio. He should have bodily removed her from the elevator downstairs and to hell with causing a scene. He banked the flare of anger in his gut and gestured towards a duo of deep leather sofas. ‘Sit,’ he instructed, then glanced at his watch. ‘You have ten minutes.’
She frowned—a delicate pinch of that smooth brow—then put her bag on the glass coffee table and perched on the edge of a sofa. She drew an audible breath.
‘The papers say you’ve launched a hostile takeover bid for my father’s company.’
He dropped onto the opposite sofa. ‘An accurate summary.’ He paused. ‘And...?’
She puffed out a sigh. ‘You’re not going to make this easy for me, are you?’
Easy? That simple four-letter word made him grind his molars. This girl’s entire life had been easy. Her family’s excessive wealth, her father’s connections, had ensured she wanted for nothing. Unlike Leo and his sister who, after their mother’s death, had survived childhood in a murky world of poverty and neglect. For them, nothing came easy.
‘You want me to make this easy for you?’
Like hell he would.
She shook her head. ‘I want to understand why you’re doing this.’
So she could talk him out of it? Not a chance. He’d waited too many years to settle this score with her father. He returned her gaze for an extended beat. ‘It’s business.’
She laughed then: a short brittle sound, not the soft, sexy laughter that resided in his memory. ‘Please—this isn’t business. It’s...payback.’
Her voice conveniently wobbled on that last word, but her ploy for sympathy, if that was her angle, failed to move him.
‘And if I said this is payback, what would you say?’
‘I’d say two wrongs don’t make a right.’
He barked out a laugh. ‘A quaint sentiment. Personally, I think “an eye for an eye” has a more appealing ring.’
She dropped her gaze to where her fingers fidgeted in her lap. Her voice was husky when she spoke again. ‘People aren’t perfect, Leo. Sometimes they make mistakes.’
His gut twisted. Was she talking about her father? Or herself? ‘So you’re here to apologise for your mistakes?’
She glanced up. ‘I tried that once. You didn’t want to listen. Would it make any difference now?’
‘No.’
‘I was trying to protect you.’
He bit back another laugh. By driving a blade through his heart? Leaving him no choice but to watch her walk away? A bitter lump rose in his throat and he swallowed back the acrid taste.
Seven years ago he’d come to London to collaborate with a young software whiz on a project that, if successful, would have guaranteed his business unprecedented success.
As always, he was focused, dedicated, disciplined.
And then he met a girl.
A girl so beautiful, so captivating, she might have been one of the sculptures on display at the art gallery opening they were both attending in the West End.
He tried to resist, of course. She was too young for him, too inexperienced. Too distracting when he should be focused on work.
But he was weak and temptation won out. And he fell—faster than he’d ever thought possible—for a girl who, five weeks later, tossed him aside as if he were a tiresome toy she no longer wanted or needed.
He curled his lip. ‘Remind me not to come looking for you if I ever need protection.’
She had the good grace to squirm. ‘I had no choice. You don’t understand—’
‘Then explain it to me.’ Anger snapped in his gut, making him fight to stay calm. ‘Explain why you walked away from our relationship instead of telling me the truth. Explain why you never bothered to mention that your father disapproved of us. Explain why, if ditching me was your idea of protection, I spent the next forty-eight hours watching every investor I’d painstakingly courted pull their backing from my project.’
He curled his fingers into his palms, tension arcing through his muscles. Douglas Shaw had dealt Leo’s business a significant blow, yet his own losses had barely registered in comparison to the impact on his younger sister. Marietta’s life, his hopes and dreams for her future, had suffered a setback the likes of which Helena could never appreciate.
Sorry didn’t cut it.
‘Perhaps you wanted an easy out all along—’
‘No.’
‘And Daddy simply gave you the perfect excuse.’
‘No!’
There was more vehemence behind that second denial than he’d expected. She threw him a wounded look and he shifted slightly, an unexpected stab of remorse lancing through him. Hell. This was precisely why he’d had no desire to see her. Business demanded a cool head, a razor-sharp mind at all times. Distractions like the beautiful long-legged one sitting opposite him he could do without.
A lightning flash snapped his gaze towards the private terrace overlooking Hyde Park and the exclusive properties of Knightsbridge beyond. His right leg twitched with an urge to rise and test the French doors, check they were secure. He didn’t fear nature’s storms—on occasion could appreciate their power—but he didn’t like them either.
Didn’t like the ghosts they stirred from his childhood.
A burst of heavy rain lashed the glass, drowning out the city sounds far below. Distorting his view of the night. He waited for the rumble of thunder to pass, then turned his attention from the storm. ‘How much has your father told you about the takeover?’
‘Nothing. I only know what I’ve read in the papers.’
Another lie, probably. He let it slide. ‘Then you are missing one important detail.’
Her fidgeting stilled. ‘Which is...?’
‘The word “successful”. In fact...’ He hooked back his shirt-cuff and consulted his watch. ‘As of two hours and forty-five minutes ago my company is the official registered owner of seventy-five percent of ShawCorp.’ He offered her a bland smile. ‘Which means I am now the controlling shareholder of your father’s company.’
He watched dispassionately as the colour receded from her cheeks, leaving her flawless skin as white as the thick-pile rug at her feet. She pressed her palm to her forehead, her upper body swaying slightly, and closed her eyes.
A little theatrical, he thought, the muscles around his mouth twitching. He shifted forward, planted his elbows on his knees. ‘You look a touch pale, Helena. Would you like that drink now? A glass of water, perhaps. Some aspirin?’
Her lids snapped up and a spark of something—anger?—leapt in her eyes, causing them to shimmer at him like a pair of brilliant sapphires.
Leo sucked in his breath. The years might have wrought subtle differences in her face and figure, but those eyes...those eyes had not changed. They were still beautiful. Still captivating.
Still dangerous.
Eyes, he reminded himself, that could strip a man of his senses.
They glittered at him as she raised her chin.
‘Water, please.’ She gave him a tight smile. ‘You can hold the aspirin.’
* * *
Helena reached for the glass Leo had placed on the table in front of her and sipped, focusing on the cold tickle of the carbonated water on her tongue and throat and nothing else. She would not faint. Not in front of this man. Shock on top of an empty stomach had left her woozy, that was all. She simply needed a moment to compose herself.
After a third careful sip she put the glass down and folded her hands in her lap. She mustn’t reveal her turmoil. Mustn’t show any hint of anxiety as her mind darted from one nauseating scenario to the next. Had her father hit the bottle in the wake of this news? Was her mother playing the devoted wife, trying to console him? And how long before the lethal combination of rage and drink turned him from man to monster? To a vile bully who could lavish his wife with expensive trinkets and luxuries one minute and victimise her the next?
Helena’s insides trembled, but it wasn’t only worry for her mother making her belly quiver. Making her pulse-rate kick up a notch. It was an acute awareness of the man sitting opposite. An unsettling realisation that, no matter how many days, weeks or years came between them, she would never be immune to this tall, breathtaking Italian. She would never look at him and not feel her blood surge. Her lungs seize. Her belly tighten.
No. Time had not rendered her immune to his particular potent brand of masculinity. But she would not let her body betray her awareness of him. If her father’s endless criticisms and lack of compassion had taught her anything as a child it was never to appear weak.
She laced her fingers to keep them from fidgeting. ‘What are your plans for my father’s company?’
A muscle in his jaw bunched and released. Bunched again. He lounged back, stretched out his long legs, draped one arm across the top of the sofa. ‘I haven’t yet decided.’
She fought the urge to scowl. ‘But you must have some idea.’
‘Of course. Many, in fact. All of which I’ll discuss with your father, once he overcomes his aversion to meeting with me.’ He paused. ‘Perhaps he’s hoping his daughter will offer his new shareholder some...incentive to play nice?’
Heat rushed her cheeks, much to her annoyance. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’
‘Oh, come now. There’s no need to play the innocent for me.’
Leo’s hand moved absently over the back of the sofa, his fingers stroking the soft black leather in slow, rhythmic patterns. Helena stared, transfixed, then hastily averted her eyes. Those long, tanned fingers had once stroked her flesh in a strikingly similar fashion, unleashing in her a passion no man had unleashed before or since.
She pulled in a breath, tried to focus on his voice.
‘You needn’t look so worried, Helena. You won’t have to dirty your hands with the likes of me again.’ His fingers stilled. ‘I have no interest in anything you could offer.’
As though emphasising his point, his gaze travelled her length, from the summit of her blushing hairline to the tips of her inexpensive shoes. ‘As for the company,’ he went on, before she could muster an indignant response, ‘if your father continues to decline my invitations to meet, my board will vote to sell off the company’s subsidiaries and amalgamate the core business with my own. A merger will mean layoffs, of course, but your father’s people will find I’m not an unreasonable man. Those without jobs can expect a fair severance settlement.’
Her jaw slackened. ‘Dismantle the company?’ The one thing guaranteed to bring her father to his knees. ‘You would tear down everything my father has worked his entire life to build?’
He shrugged. ‘As a minority shareholder he’ll benefit financially from any asset sales. He’ll lose his position at the head of the company, of course, but then your father’s no longer a man in his prime. Perhaps he’ll welcome the opportunity to retire?’
She shook her head. For Douglas Shaw it wasn’t about the money. Or retirement. It was about pride and respect and status. About winning. Control.
‘You don’t understand.’ Her voice trembled. ‘This won’t hurt only my father. It will hurt others, too—my family. Is that what you want, Leo? To see innocent people suffer?’
His eyes narrowed, his gaze hardening under his dark slanted brows. ‘Do not talk to me about suffering. You and your family don’t know the first meaning of the word.’
Not true! she wanted to shout, but she held her tongue. Another habit deeply ingrained from childhood, when she’d been taught to avoid such indiscretions—to lie, if necessary, about her less than perfect home life.
She stifled a frustrated sigh.
Why did people think growing up with money meant a life filled with sunshine and roses? That might have been the case for some of her friends, but for Helena it had been nothing more than a grand, sugar-coated illusion. An illusion her mother, the ever-dutiful society wife, still chose to hide behind.
Leo lunged his powerful shoulders forward, planted both feet firmly on the floor. ‘This is business. Your father knows that. Better than most.’
He rose to his full impressive height: six feet four inches of lean, muscled Italian.
‘I could have made things much worse for him. You might remind him of that fact.’
For a moment Helena considered telling him the truth—that she’d not seen or spoken with her father in years. That she worked as a secretary and lived in a rundown flat in North London and visited her family only when her father was absent on business. That Douglas Shaw was a domineering bully and she didn’t care a jot for the man, but she did care for those who would suffer most from his downfall. That she held no sway with her father and could offer Leo nothing in return for leniency except her eternal gratitude.
But caution stopped her. The man who stood before her now was not the Leo she’d once known. He was a tough, shrewd businessman, bent on revenge, and he would use every weapon in his arsenal to achieve it. Knowledge was power, and he had plenty of that without her gifting him extra ammunition.
Besides, he’d already accused her of lying—why should he believe the truth?
She unlaced her hands and stood.
‘There must be other options,’ she blurted. ‘Other possibilities that would satisfy your board and keep the company intact?’
‘My board will make their decisions based on the best interests of my business. Not your father’s interests and not his family’s.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Now, if you have nothing else to discuss, there are more important matters requiring my attention.’
She stared at him.
More important matters?
A bitter laugh rose and died in her throat.
Really, what had she expected? Understanding? Forgiveness? A friendly chat over a cup of tea?
Humiliation raged through her. She was a fool, wasting her time on a fool’s errand. She snatched up her handbag. ‘Next time you look in the mirror, Leo, remind yourself why you despise my father so much.’ She returned his stony stare. ‘Then take a hard look at your reflection. Because you might just find you have more in common with him than you think.’
His head snapped back, an indication that she’d hit her mark, but the knowledge did nothing to ease the pain knifing through her chest. Head high, she strode to the door.
The handle was only inches from her grasp when a large hand closed on her upper arm, swinging her around. She let out a yelp of surprise.
‘I am nothing like your father,’ he said, his jaw thrusting belligerently.
‘Then prove it,’ she fired back, conscious all at once of his vice-like grip, the arrows of heat penetrating her thin jacket-sleeve, the faint, woodsy tang of an expensive cologne that made her nostrils flare involuntarily. ‘Give my father time to come to the table. Before your board makes any decisions.’
Leo released her, stepped back, and the tiny spark of hope in her chest fizzed like a dampened wick. God. She needed to get out. Now. Before she did something pathetic and weak—like cry. She pivoted and seized the door handle. At the same instant his palm landed on the door above her head, barring her escape.
‘On one condition.’
His voice at her back was low, laced with something she couldn’t decipher. She turned, pressed her back to the door and looked up. ‘Yes?’
‘Have dinner with me.’
She blinked, twice. Three times.
‘Dinner?’ she echoed stupidly.
‘Si.’ His hand dropped from the door. ‘Tomorrow night.’
Her stomach did a funny little somersault. Was he fooling with her now? She narrowed her eyes at him. ‘Is that an invitation or a demand?’
The shrug he gave was at once casual and arrogant. ‘Call it what you like. That is my condition.’
‘Tomorrow’s Friday,’ she said, as if that fact bore some vital significance. In truth, it was all she could think to say while her brain grappled with his proposition.
His nostrils flared. ‘You have other plans?’
‘Uh...no.’ Brilliant. Now he’d think she had no social life. She levelled her shoulders. ‘A minute ago you couldn’t wait to get rid of me. Now you want us to have dinner?’
His lips pressed into a thin line. Impatience? Or, like most men, did he simply dislike having his motives questioned?
He jammed his hands in his trouser pockets. ‘You wanted an opportunity to talk, Helena. Take it or leave it. It is my final offer. I return to Rome on Saturday.’
Helena hesitated, her mind spinning. This could be her one and only chance for a calm, rational conversation with him. An opportunity to appeal to his sense of reason and compassion—if either still existed. The takeover was beyond her control and, if he spoke the truth, a fait accompli, but if she had even a slim chance of dissuading him from stripping the company’s assets, convincing him to settle on a strategy more palatable to her father, she had to take it. Had to try, no matter how daunting the prospect.
She nodded. ‘All right. Dinner. Tomorrow night. Where shall I meet you?’
‘I will send a car.’
Her stomach nose-dived. The thought of Leo or anyone in his employ seeing where she lived mortified her. Her neighbourhood was the best she could afford right now, but the area was far from salubrious.
She fished in her handbag for pen and paper, jotted down her work address and her mobile number. ‘You can pick me up from here.’ She handed him the slip of paper. ‘And my number’s there if you need to contact me.’
‘Very well.’ With scarcely a glance at it, he slipped the note into his trouser pocket and pulled open the door. ‘Be ready for six-thirty.’
With a nod, she stepped into the vestibule and pressed the elevator call button, having briefly considered then dismissed the stairs.
She would not bolt like an intimidated child.
The man who’d stolen her heart and left behind a precious gift she’d treasured and lost might be gone, the stranger in his place more formidable than she’d imagined, but she would not be cowed.
Ignoring the compulsion to glance over her shoulder, she willed the elevator to hurry up and arrive. When it did, her knees almost buckled with relief. She started forward.
‘Helena.’
Leo’s voice snapped her to an involuntary halt. Without turning, she braced her arm against the elevator’s door jamb and tilted her head fractionally. ‘Yes?’
Silence yawned behind her, turning the air so thick it felt like treacle in her lungs.
‘Wear something dressy,’ he said at last.
And then he shut the door.
