Читать книгу The Italian's Vengeful Seduction - Bella Frances - Страница 9
ОглавлениеSTACEY JACKSON WAS nobody’s plaything. She reminded herself of that as she pressed a knuckle to the corner of her left eye and stopped dead the spring of hot, fat tears that swelled there. She was nobody’s plaything and she was nobody’s fool. And she was not going to apologise to any man—best customer included—for saying so.
So she’d lose her job. Again. But she was getting tired of Decker’s Casino anyway. The late nights, the long shifts, the Perma-smile—being a croupier was exhausting.
And if that wasn’t bad enough, being made to wear this stupid dress was the last straw.
If you could even call it that. Some strips of fabric held together by luck and pulled apart by filthy imaginations.
It made her look more like a hooker than Bruce’s private dancers—which she’d told him as soon as she’d seen it. He’d told her to shut her mouth and get on with it. Which she had—she needed the money. But the minute she’d leaned across the roulette wheel, right in front of him and his sleazy customers, she’d seen their hungry glances and felt a prickle of anger race up her spine. And then her mouth had gone into gear.
Didn’t it always? And it always ended the same way.
Stacey lifted her finger and saw that her cats’ eye liquid eyeliner was blurred now. She fished in the purse that dangled from her wrist, pulled out the pencil and slicked it back into place like the expert she was. Lipstick next—and then she stared at her face. The one that had got her into so much trouble over the years. She was twenty-six, and the hard times still weren’t showing, but how much longer could she really expect to cash in on it? It had got her the job here at Decker’s—and every other job before that. It wasn’t that she wanted to look bad! But would it hurt for people to take her a little more seriously and see more than just a piece of ass and a pair of double Ds?
Her blue eyes flashed defiantly. Her father’s eyes.
‘You have to love yourself before anyone else will love you,’ he had said. Easy for him. His last act of love had been to ruffle her hair, hop up into his trailer and take the interstate to As Far Away from Here as Possible.
Stacey bit down on her lip to scorch the memory. The last thing she could afford was any sentimentality. She was going to clear out right now. She wouldn’t wait around to be fired. Bruce could roll his own damn dice. She’d walk out, collect her stuff from that crummy apartment and get a bus to New York City.
Why not? She’d tried her hand at Atlantic City, and she’d tried her hand on the cruise ships. There had to be somewhere in this world she’d fit in. Because one thing was for sure—there was no way she was going back to the End of the World, Long Island, until she’d done something to put the gossips in their place.
She pressed her lips together and checked her teeth for lipstick.
Yep, when she rolled back into Montauk she was going to be settled, sorted and sane. She was going to have a great job and a nice apartment. And a boyfriend, maybe. A nice, ordinary guy who worked hard and had good values. Dependable and decent. A man who would cherish her and look after her. No big car, no big money. No hotshot, no over-achiever. Definitely no high-roller.
But first she needed to get out of here.
She rubbed her teeth with her finger, smoothed and patted her hair, and readjusted the straps across her chest. She opened the door and took five steps across the dark cabaret floor.
Glasses were piled up at the corner of the bar, the gantry was lit from below, and the stark scent of booze and despair was all around. It seemed so rancid now, but she’d be the first to admit that she’d ignored the truth about Bruce running things in ‘a certain way’. To him, everything and everyone was a commodity. Nobody and nothing mattered. There had to be more to life than rolling dice for a man like him.
She tiptoed past the door of the private casino, where he was waiting, and caught sight of her reflection in the mirrored doors. At least the dress had a designer label—she would be able to sell it in a heartbeat. And she would—as soon as she got to New York. It would make up for some of the back pay and pooled tips she was owed, because she sure wasn’t going to get any of that now.
Ahead was the sunken black mat that declared its seedy welcome to Decker’s Casino. She stepped on it and consciously ground the ball of her foot into his name. The automatic doors slid open and she slipped out and down the short flight of steps onto the street.
It had been a crisp, cold night when she’d entered and now it was a hot, clear day. She held a hand up to shield her eyes and felt sunbeams dance on her skin. The sensation of heat warmed more than just her bare arms—being out in the air, in the light, felt...free. But she wasn’t dumb enough to imagine she was anywhere close to being in the clear. Not with no job and a twenty grand debt to pay off, courtesy of one Marilyn Jane Jackson—her mother.
She couldn’t criticise her—not in a million years. Her mother was proud. She’d never ask for help. And Stacey knew all she’d have been trying to do was put on a show for ‘those mean-mouthed gossips’. New curtains and new clothes. Stacey knew exactly where all those crazy ideas had come from. With no man in her life her mother had lost sight of the important things. She didn’t judge her. God knew there were enough judges sitting on their porches in Montauk.
‘Hey, where do you think you’re going?’
Damn, her five-minute window of opportunity was closed. She glanced back and there was Bruce himself, like a raging pink-faced bull, standing at the top of the steps.
She spun round.
‘Get back here now—you’ve got to earn that dress.’
Despite all her big talk, Stacey felt her heart thunder. Bruce was a scary guy, and no one ever spoke back to him—least of all a woman. She’d given him both barrels in front of everybody before she’d run off to the bathroom. Staff. Customers. His horrible henchmen. No, this was not good at all.
She didn’t need to look to know that he had started down the steps. The pedestrian light flashed its Don’t Walk warning, but what else could she do?
She ran.
Horns sounded and cries went up. Her heel caught in the black jersey of the gown. Fleetingly she wondered how much she’d lose off the resale value, but then the gleaming black hood of a limousine seared her vision and the sense of impact crashed like cymbals in her mind.
Her thigh... Her knee... But miraculously as she slid down to the ground nothing else seemed to have been hit. She stumbled forward through more horns and cries and lines of cars revving and moving, and only then did she see the man.
From the limo’s driver’s door, emerging to stand tall and dark and incredibly like sweet salvation, a figure appeared and moved two paces into her path.
‘Here,’ was all he said.
And all she did was step forward and into his arms. There was no alternative. Some primeval part of her brain told her so.
She was aware of the cars, and she was aware of Bruce, but she was most aware of warmth and strength, of the opening of a car door and the sensation of leather, before all noise was extinguished and the door closed, sealing her in.
‘Drive,’ she breathed. ‘Please.’
‘The least I can do,’ the guy said, and he put his foot to the floor. She felt a wrench as the force of acceleration pulled her back. She let out a gasp and automatically grabbed the seat belt.
‘It’s okay. You’re safe with me,’ he said, looking round at her as he put more distance between them and Decker’s.
I’m safe with no man, she thought to herself, but she said nothing, only stared out of the passenger window at the blurry urban scenery. Her mind ran with possibilities—maybe Bruce had taken the car’s registration. If he had it was only a matter of time before some dirty cop was blackmailed into revealing its owner. No matter how much this guy thought he was leaving them behind, Bruce wouldn’t be that easy to shake off.
‘All right?’ he asked.
Stacey tried to calm her mind and shifted her gaze from the passing neon outside to the dust-free rows of knobs and dials inside. Now that she’d left Bruce on the pavement she had to make some decisions—and fast.
She glanced at the guy’s hand, resting easily on the steering wheel. His skin was the caramel colour of winter in Barbados. The fabric of his suit was the dark silk of merchant banks and private members’ clubs. And his scent was pure unadulterated Fortune 500.
She sat up a little in her seat, twisted her neck—which hurt—and tried to catch a few more details. It had been a long time since she’d been this close to this kind of wealth, but she’d been around money growing up, so she could grade men in order of the zeros in their bank account at thirty paces. This one had zeros galore. She’d bet he was thoroughbred—townhouse in Manhattan, ranch in Montana, villa in Barbados.
That didn’t faze her. Give her dirt-poor and decent any day of the week. Some people seemed to think money was their passport to be downright mean. She felt her hackles rise at the memory and twisted round further to get a better look, but the pain in her neck caused her to flinch.
‘It’s okay. Try to relax. I’m taking you to hospital—to get checked out.’
Stacey stared out of the window anxiously. She didn’t have the money for medical bills and, whatever people might say about her, she wouldn’t take a dime she wasn’t owed from anybody.
‘I don’t think so,’ she said. ‘Just drop me at the bus station.’
‘Sure. But first you’ll be checked out. I’m taking you to St Bart’s. I’ll have you looked over by my physician. Once you’ve got the all-clear I’ll drop you off. Wherever.’
Stacey squeezed her eyes shut and shook her head. Why did men always think they knew best?
‘Seriously, I don’t want to go to any hospital. I don’t need a bunch of X-rays.’
‘You don’t know what you need, Stacey Jackson. You never did.’
She jolted as if she’d been hit by the car all over again. She turned to face the guy. One of his eyebrows had shot up in a way she knew so well. And then it all fell into place. Her heart pulsed right up into her throat.
As if she were watching an old reel of film, Stacey looked on helplessly as scene after scene of sunshine, pleasure and then hard, dark pain flashed through her mind. Marco Borsatto. The boy from the right side of the tracks. The boy she’d fallen helplessly in love with. The boy she’d thought had fallen helplessly in love with her.
Silly, trusting little fool that she’d been.
‘Marco. Well. Wow. What a small world.’
Her eyes widened now—she was back in the present. She tried to shift in her seat, away from him, but all she could feel was the jarring handle of the door and the pain that now seared through her body.
‘Indeed,’ he replied, turning back to the traffic as the Atlantic City scenery passed by in a blur. ‘I wasn’t sure it was you at first. But with a dramatic entrance like that—who else could it be?’
‘Dramatic?’
He raised that brow and slanted her a glance.
‘Dramatic,’ he said emphatically.
‘I guess you’re right,’ she said. ‘I was never much good at playing the shrinking violet.’
She looked at his profile as he chuckled. Wow. He looked better than she remembered. And he’d been the hottest guy ever back then.
Marco Borsatto. What could she say? How ironic that the last time she’d seen him had been the first time she’d staged one of her great escapes. The very reason she’d staged it. The day that the tear in her heart had become a gaping hole of hurt. Marco had been her one source of strength. The one person in that town of gossips and snobs she’d trusted. And he’d ended up being the one who drove her away.
‘So, apart from running dramatically into traffic, is it safe to say that life’s been good to you? You look—well...’
He tilted her another glance that took in the whole show. She looked down to see that the dress which had started out as barely decent was now bordering on the barely legal. She squirmed, and this time when she looked up his eyebrow had shot up again and his lip was distinctly curled.
‘Life’s been all right—thanks. I get by,’ she said, tugging the dress back into place as best she could.
‘You could have stopped the traffic even without throwing yourself at it. Good job the lights were just changing.’
‘I don’t normally dress like this—I was leaving work,’ she added defensively, but her words were muffled in a gasp of pain as the car hit a pothole.
‘No need to explain yourself to me,’ he said quickly. His voice was calm—and all that quiet control that she remembered was now laced with deep overtones of firm command.
‘And don’t worry—I’ll take care of anything that needs taking care of.’
Let me take care of you.
Stacey turned quickly to the window. The jolt of memory jarred like whiplash. Marco had been so kind to her once. He’d said those words. But she’d taken the kindness he’d offered and thrown it back in his face. Because girls like Stacey didn’t mix with the Marcos of this world. She wasn’t dumb enough to believe in fairy tales. In her world handsome princes disappeared, or turned into lazy, abusive, beer-swilling toads.
‘How long has it been?’ she asked. ‘You were—what?—nineteen last time I saw you in Montauk?’
‘Yes. Nineteen. Just before I hit the road. And you—you were still in high school?’
‘Yes, I was sixteen. Thought I knew it all.’
She’d been sixteen. She’d been a mess. She’d come home that night to find that her mother had sold the car—their last remaining luxury. She’d been fired from her part-time job for using her mouth against a customer who’d insulted her, and she’d learned she’d been given the Tramp of the Year award by her classmates. Yeah, she’d been a mess, all right. So when Marco had caught up with her and asked her if the rumours were true she’d laughed in his face.
Of course they were true. Did he think he was special?
He’d turned his back on her and she’d done what any abandoned daughter would have done. She’d gone looking for Daddy.
‘We all thought we knew it all,’ Marco said. ‘Comes with the territory. Refusing to listen and making the wrong choices. Isn’t that what growing up is all about?’
She rolled her eyes, remembering.
‘Are you talking about the night I left home?’
‘Not especially. But I 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 don’t normally dress like that. So I assume it’s your “uniform” if you were working today?’
Before she got a chance to answer an immaculately presented woman in a sleeveless tailored dress and heels, with the most perfect hair Stacey had ever seen, clicked across the marble entrance, hand extended, smiling her Ivy League best.
‘Mr Borsatto, how pleasant to see you.’
‘Thank you, Lydia, nice to see you too. I’m afraid I haven’t got a scheduled appointment today, but I’d be obliged if you would arrange urgent scans for this lady.’
Stacey eyes flashed to the name badge which read ‘Executive Administrator’, whatever that was, even as the lovely Lydia arched her eyebrows then swept her with an all too familiar look. The one that said, What’s the likes of you doing with the likes of him? That said, You don’t belong here. The one that she’d endured over and over in her youth. That always ended with her losing her temper—because what gave them the right?
But then she looked at Marco, and for a moment she was right back in Montauk. Right back in the little café where she’d worked and where ‘the crowd’ had hung out. Where he’d keep his eyes on her in a long, intense stare, telling her he had her back.
Back then.
‘And we’ll need the best possible St Bart’s welcome, Lydia. Miss Jackson and I have had a minor traffic accident, unfortunately. But she’s kindly agreed to get herself checked out. Just to reassure me that she hasn’t done any lasting damage.’
Was she imagining it? Or was there a warning in those tones?
Whatever—the cold, calculating eyes of the other woman told Stacey that it didn’t make one blind bit of difference what Marco said. They both knew that she was a little plastic flower in his otherwise perfect garden. Here today, gone tomorrow. So don’t go getting any big ideas.
Stacey pulled Marco’s jacket round her shoulders. If the pink-faced, bull-headed Bruce Decker couldn’t get to her, there was no way on this earth that this pristine princess was going to.
‘Did you catch that, Lydia?’ she said, stalking right past her and slipping her a little of her best acid. ‘The. Best. Possible. St Bart’s. Welcome.’
