Читать книгу The Revenge Collection 2018 - Кейт Хьюит, Эль Кеннеди - Страница 32
ОглавлениеWAKING ALONE IN Gabriele’s Florence home, a penthouse apartment spread over two floors overlooking Palazzo Tornabuoni, Elena wandered from the bedroom in search of coffee.
Even larger than his Manhattan apartment, it managed to be lavishly decorated and adorned yet remain homely. It had touched her to find he’d hung a Giuseppe Arcimboldo painting in the room he’d designated as her office.
Since their visit to his mother there had been a definite shift in their attitudes to each other. Family was a word no longer uttered between them. But it was constantly on Elena’s mind.
How had her father been able to denounce Alfredo in such a way? And Gabriele, his own godson too. Why hadn’t he helped their defence? Of course he hadn’t been involved himself, but loyalty should have counted for something. Family loyalty was the crux of her father’s personal philosophy and the Mantegnas had been family to him. She’d seen the photographic evidence with her own eyes.
And how could she not have known the full extent of their families’ ties?
These were all questions she could not bring herself to ask him.
She had just settled on the balcony with a caffè e latte and fresh pastries made for her by Gabriele’s housekeeper when he walked through the open French doors.
Her heart did that familiar little skip to see him.
‘Good morning, tesoro,’ he said, putting his hands on her shoulder as he leaned down to brush his lips against hers. ‘You’re up early.’
‘Not as early as you.’ She turned her cheek so he couldn’t kiss her mouth.
In the ten days since they’d married her refusal to kiss him had become an unspoken rule. She would only allow him to kiss her when there were people around to witness it.
It was the only measure of control she had to hold on to. He never said anything to the contrary but she knew it got under his skin.
He hadn’t been joking when he’d said they would spend the flight from New York getting to know each other better. Half an hour after take-off and they’d been locked in his jet’s private bedroom. By the time they’d landed he’d made love to her so thoroughly and so often her legs had struggled to remain upright.
He’d kissed every part of her. He’d discovered erogenous zones on her body she hadn’t known could be erogenous zones.
Every touch, every kiss, every murmur, every breath against her skin sent her senses into orbit and she had to fight to keep her responses contained.
As this was their so-called honeymoon period they spent nearly every waking minute together. They’d settled into a rhythm where the first hours of the day were spent working on issues for their respective businesses, then they would head out into Florence, or take a drive through the Tuscan hills. They’d visited museums, galleries and vineyards, eaten at a variety of restaurants and simple cafés, all the things Elena had never done before.
Growing up in the Ricci household, culture and days out were things people did on the television. Her father’s idea of culture was a night out at the greyhound races.
While she and Gabriele didn’t always agree on what made great art, often their views did concur. Arcimboldo wasn’t the only artist they both admired.
She had to admit, she enjoyed his company. Their debates were always lively when they disagreed. He was opinionated and arrogant but he listened to her without the smug ‘humouring you’ look she was so used to seeing from her male family.
And they spent more time in bed than she had dreamed it was possible to spend. Only a fraction of that time was spent sleeping.
Gabriele was insatiable and, though she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of vocalising it, her desire for him was equally acute.
The only thing she wouldn’t allow him to do in the privacy of their bedroom was kiss her on the mouth. That would be a betrayal to her family too far.
Because she had to remind herself frequently that the only reason she was there with him was to save her family. She was not with Gabriele for herself. Gabriele was her enemy and she would not allow herself to forget it, no matter how much she might enjoy his company or how much she secretly looked forward to going to bed with him every night.
Now he flashed her with a gleam of white teeth and helped himself to a banana.
‘Have you been for a run?’ she asked, taking in his workout attire. The apartment had a gym but neither of them had used it in the time she’d been there.
He nodded. ‘I went down the Arno and up to Ponte Vecchio.’
‘Sounds nice. When I’m at home in Rome I like to jog along the Tiber.’
‘You’re welcome to join me.’
An automatic refusal formed on her lips but she found herself saying, ‘I might take you up on that.’
‘I run every morning. Name your day.’
‘I’ll get back to you on that.’
He grinned. ‘Don’t worry—I’ll slow down enough so you can keep up with me.’
‘You don’t think I can keep up with you?’
‘You’re half my size,’ he pointed out, amusement lurking in his eyes, ‘and I run every day. There’s no question I’ll have more stamina than you.’
If there was one thing Elena never backed away from it was a physical challenge. ‘Tomorrow morning. What time do you want to leave?’
‘I normally go as soon as I wake but I’m happy to wait until you get up.’
‘No, no, you can wake me when you’re ready.’
He fixed her with a wolfish grin and swallowed the last of his banana. ‘It will be my pleasure to wake you up.’
* * *
Gabriele had known exactly what to say to get Elena out running with him. From everything she’d said about her childhood, the competition between her and her brothers had been fierce. Tell Elena she couldn’t do something on account of being a woman and she would work twice as hard to prove she could.
It was a quality he admired.
He’d woken her at five, knowing to leave it much longer would mean losing the tranquillity of the early morning sunrise. While he loved Manhattan in the early hours, no city on earth could match Florence for beauty.
Apart from a tiny yelp when she’d seen the time, she’d thrown a pair of running shorts and a plain white T-shirt on without speaking. They’d set out at a gentle pace, jogging down Via degli Strozzi and on to Via della Vigna Nuova. Now, as they crossed Ponte alla Carraia, one of the bridges over the Arno River, she finally seemed to be waking up, continually scanning the skies to watch the sun make its first peeks.
‘The best view to watch the sunrise is Piazzale Michelangelo,’ he said.
‘Can we go there now?’
‘There isn’t time—we’d need to leave at least an hour earlier than we did today.’
She made a noise under her breath that sounded remarkably like a curse.
‘Early mornings not your thing?’
‘Not that early.’ Suddenly she turned to look at him, still keeping her stride. ‘Have you been running every morning since we arrived here?’
‘I told you, I run every day.’
‘So you go for a run, get home and have a shower, all before I’m up?’
‘Yes.’
‘Are you a masochist?’
He laughed. ‘The prison day starts early—I spent two years waking at four a.m. for the four-thirty cell-check. It became a habit.’
‘That’s barbaric,’ she said with a shudder.
‘You get used to it. Lights out was at ten-thirty so there was plenty of time to sleep.’
Elena fell silent, the only sound her breathing as she continued at the pace he’d set.
‘How did you cope?’ she finally asked.
‘Prison?’
She nodded.
‘I was fortunate that my lawyers were able to negotiate getting me into a minimum security prison so it could have been a lot worse. I won’t lie; when I first walked through the doors I was sick with fear of the unknown but you adapt and it becomes...normal. But you know what kept me going?’
She didn’t answer. Probably she knew what he was about to say.
‘It was the thought of getting my revenge on your father. That’s what got me through each day.
‘But let’s not spoil our time together on a subject we’ll never agree on,’ he continued, suddenly feeling like a heel for spoiling the peace that had settled between them. ‘How are you finding the pace? Do you want to go slower? Faster? As we are?’
In reply, she accelerated, running ahead, her ponytail swishing behind her, her bottom swaying beautifully.
He laughed and increased his own pace to catch her. ‘One day we’ll have to have a proper race.’
‘You’ll beat me,’ she said with certainty.
‘That’s not like you to be so defeatist.’
‘It’s called realism. I’m as fit as you are but you’re more powerful. The only way I could beat you is if you were ill, which would make competing pointless.’ She threw him a sly look. ‘I’m certain I could beat you in a straight fight though.’
‘I thought you were being realistic.’
‘Wrestling and boxing were staples of our television viewing when I was a child. I copied their moves and used them on my brothers. They haven’t beaten me in a one-on-one fight since I was eight.’
‘You don’t think they were going easy on you?’
‘Not since the first time I beat them.’ She flashed an evil grin. ‘I wasn’t averse to using pinches and scratches in sensitive places when it suited me. In that respect I had an advantage—my father would have killed them if they’d used the same tactics back at me.’
He grinned at the image. ‘Didn’t your father mind you fighting?’
‘He thought it was funny to see his macho boys beaten by a girl. It’s how I gained his respect.’
‘You had to act like a boy to get it?’
By now they were crossing the Ponte Santa Trinita, back across to their side of the river.
‘It was all of them,’ she surprised him by saying. ‘Not just my father. My earliest memories are of my brothers treating me like a doll. It infuriated me. My father thought it was funny to see his little girl pounding her fist into his youngest son’s face. But it worked to his advantage.’
‘How?’
‘It gave him a legitimate reason to home educate me—he couldn’t send me to an all-girls private school if I was going to beat everyone up. My brothers went to school and had healthy social lives while I was kept locked away.
‘Do you think I’m exaggerating?’ she asked into his silence.
‘No. I’d already guessed as much.’
‘It was the excuse he needed. He wouldn’t have let me go to school however I behaved. I was still a female and even though I had proven myself physically, I needed protection from the big wide world.’
‘He wasn’t disappointed his princess turned into such a tomboy?’
‘Not in the slightest. There was no chance of me catching any boy’s eye if I was dressed in filthy ripped jeans and exchanging punches with them every five minutes.’
Gabriele laughed but he didn’t find it in the slightest bit funny.
‘If he kept you hidden away so much, why did he let you join the company?’
‘To keep me close and under his wing. My brothers and I always knew we would join the family company in one capacity or another and my father always knew he couldn’t wrap me up in cotton wool once I’d come of age.’ She stopped running and held a hand to her waist, kneading at a stitch with a pained face. ‘He does love me, you know.’
‘I know.’
‘And he’s changed a lot in his attitude towards me since I started working for him.’
‘That’s because he’d assumed you’re immune to men seeing as you hadn’t even had a boyfriend in twenty-five years,’ Gabriele said astutely. ‘Your father assumed his tomboy would be his princess for the rest of his life.’
‘It’s not like that.’
‘Isn’t it? Your mother died when you were a toddler. Your father closed ranks on all his children but especially with you. He kept you protected far beyond what any normal person would consider to be appropriate and all because you were a girl. If you’d been a boy your childhood would have been different and you knew it, so you became a boy to please him because you thought that’s what he wanted.’
She shrugged, gave the side of her belly one last massage and set off again.
‘Not quite. I saw that men were considered better than women and I would never be respected unless I made sure I never behaved like a girl. I didn’t want to be a whore and I knew I could never be a Madonna so I became something entirely different that could never be interpreted as one or the other.’
‘You do know that being a woman doesn’t make you subhuman?’ he said. He hated to think Elena had grown up believing that the only way she could have any respect was by being other than she was.
Did she even know who she was?
‘Of course I know that.’
‘Women are no more whores or Madonnas than men are misogynists or feminists. We all have our own capabilities and desires that are ours alone.’
She didn’t answer, seemingly concentrating on the pathway ahead of them.
Now that the sun was up, the streets were getting busier with workers bustling to their places of employment, dog walkers and other early birds.
‘We’re nearly home,’ he said, spotting a trattoria that was open for business. ‘Let’s get a coffee.’
They took a seat on an outside table and gave their order, both ordering a cappuccino and a chocolate pastry twist. The owner brought them a glass of water each with a, ‘You look like you need it.’
Elena wiped her forehead with the back of her wrist. As far as Gabriele could tell, it was the only sign of perspiration on her, whereas his T-shirt was damp.
‘How often do you see your father?’ he asked conversationally. She’d spoken to him daily since their first morning in Florence when Ignazio had offered to fly his jet to Florence and rescue her.
She’d played her part beautifully, insisting she didn’t need rescuing and that she was blissfully happy with her new husband.
When she’d hung up the phone, she’d looked at Gabriele and said, ‘I really hate you.’
‘I hope one day you understand that I’m not the monster you think I am,’ had been his entire response.
Other than that, for a couple who considered each other criminals, they got along surprisingly well.
Now she said, ‘I see my father about as much as you see your mother. I take care of Europe while he deals with Asia and South America with my brothers.’
‘Who runs the North American division?’
‘That’s only a minor aspect of the business now. We sell components to car manufacturers there but our design and manufacturing teams are based in other countries.’
‘They never used to be. When we emigrated your father created many divisions in the US. They’ve all been closed down and moved elsewhere—Brazil’s his favoured place of business now.’
‘And your point is?’
‘How often does your father visit the US? When was the last time he set foot on US soil? When did any of your brothers last visit?’
‘I don’t know. I don’t keep tabs on them.’
Their cappuccinos and pastries were brought out to them. As soon as they were alone again, Gabriele continued with the conversation.
‘Does your father ever mention visiting the US?’
‘No.’ She swallowed a bite of her pastry and fixed narrowed eyes on him. ‘What is it with all the questions?’
‘Has it never occurred to you that there may be a reason your father doesn’t visit the US any more?’
‘No, and I would appreciate it if you would stop trying to poison my mind against him.’
‘I don’t want to poison your mind,’ he said quietly. ‘All I want to do is open it.’
Her green eyes suddenly fixed on him. ‘Does this mean you believe that, whatever happened between our fathers, I had nothing to do with it?’
Her words resonated. ‘Does this mean you accept that I was innocent?’
‘I asked first.’
He took a long sip of his cappuccino, staring at the face that was becoming as familiar to him as his own.
‘I don’t know,’ he answered heavily. ‘It’s inconceivable to me that you could not know of your father’s criminality...’
She closed her eyes slowly, her shoulders slumping.
‘But,’ he continued, ‘the more I get to know you, the harder I find it.’
‘You have doubts?’
‘Many of them.’
‘I can’t persuade you either way, can I?’ she said sadly, then shook her head and looked back at him. ‘I believe in your innocence.’
He found his throat closing, making a response hard. ‘Why?’
‘The more I get to know you, the more I know you wouldn’t go on a vendetta for no good reason. You believe my father to be the guilty party and a part of you still thinks I’m involved too.’ Her eyes were steady as she said, ‘But it doesn’t excuse what you’ve forced me to do. Nothing will ever excuse that. I might believe in your innocence but don’t think for a minute that I forgive you because that will never happen.’
‘I haven’t asked for your forgiveness. If your innocence is proven then I will apologise and hope for it,’ he answered evenly. ‘But let us not get carried away—you yourself admit the proof of your innocence doesn’t exist.’
* * *
Elena stood under the hot stream of the shower and waited for the heavy pour to soothe her wounded heart. Until that morning, they’d both studiously avoided any conversation about her father or family in general and she wished she hadn’t risen to the bait. She didn’t want to spend their marriage at loggerheads and discussion simply opened raw wounds.
What she hated Gabriele for the most was the doubts he put in her mind.
The daily calls to her father had become excruciating. It didn’t matter how often she told him everything was great, he didn’t sound convinced.
What she hated hearing in his voice was the underlying panic. Because she couldn’t trust it. She appreciated her marriage had been a shock to him but she definitely had the impression it was more than that; that her marriage to Gabriele scared him.
And try as she might to think otherwise, she couldn’t help but wonder if he had been involved in Alfredo’s fraud.
He wouldn’t have set him up. She was certain of that. Not her father.
But what did she really know of his business dealings in South America and Asia? They were kept separate from the division she ran.
And Gabriele’s question of when her father had last visited the US...
She truly couldn’t remember. When she’d been a child he’d made regular trips there, often accompanied by one or other of her brothers, but she could not remember the last time any of them had mentioned a visit there for whatever reason.
Were they afraid to step foot on US soil? And if so, why?
Surely, she reasoned, if the US authorities suspected him of anything they could get an international arrest warrant?
But according to Gabriele, all the evidence was in the basement of the Nutmeg Island chapel, which the authorities couldn’t touch without hard evidence.
How would her father react if she were to ask him for the chapel code...?
God, she loathed herself for doubting him. Hated that she had to bite back the question every time she spoke to him. Hated that she feared his answers.
And she hated that the images of those photos played so greatly in her mind.
There was a whole history between the two families that had been all but erased. All she’d ever seen of it was a blurred outline; all the colour and vitality within the outlines faded into darkness.
And she really hated that it made her wonder what else she’d been kept in the dark about.
