Читать книгу The Italian's Passionate Revenge - Lucy Gordon - Страница 9

LOOKING round in strong indignation, Elise realised that Vincente Farnese had made a fool of her—teasing her expectations, then leaving her stranded. But the next moment there was a knock on the door and she opened it to find him there.

‘I went upstairs to my own room to change for the evening,’ he explained.

‘You’re staying here?’

‘Certainly. I don’t have a base in London. This seemed the best idea. May I say that you look magnificent? Each man there will envy me.’

‘Don’t talk like that,’ she said sharply.

‘Why not? Isn’t it what every woman likes to hear?’

‘I’m not every woman. I’m me. Ben used to say things like that, as though all that mattered was how he seemed to other people. It was horrible, and if you’re the same the whole thing’s off. In fact—’

‘Forgive me,’ he said, interrupting her quickly. ‘You’re right, of course. I shall say no more about your beauty. My car is waiting.’

Vincente took the velvet wrap that she’d brought out, placing it delicately around her shoulders.

The limousine stood by the entrance, the chauffeur holding open the rear door. Elise slid gracefully into place in the back seat and he followed her.

It was a short journey to a street in Mayfair, and a door that seemed to fade unobtrusively into the wall. Set into it was a small plaque that said ‘Babylon’.

Elise raised her eyebrows at one of the most exclusive nightclubs in London. Only members were admitted and membership was almost impossible to obtain. Ben’s application had been refused, much to his fury.

But Vincente Farnese, despite having no base in London, was a member who received an immediate respectful greeting.

‘We’re a little early,’ he said as they descended the long stairway, ‘so we can eat in peace and talk quietly before the music starts.’

He was a skilled host, with a connoisseur’s knowledge of exquisite food and wine. Elise had thought she wasn’t hungry, but when she tried the miniature crab cakes with sauce rémoulade she discovered otherwise.

For a few minutes they paid the food the tribute of silence, but she smiled and nodded in recognition of his choice. She was beginning to relax. Somehow it no longer seemed bizarre to be here on such a day, as though these hours existed in a cocoon, away from real life. Tomorrow the problems would be there, but tonight she could float free of them.

‘Why did you tell that woman I had a heart of stone?’ she asked. ‘You know nothing about me.’

‘We needed to convince her that you were formidable.’ After a moment he added, ‘And every woman can turn her heart to stone when she needs to. I think you’ve sometimes needed to.’

‘True. She wasn’t the only one.’

‘Was he ever faithful to you?’

‘I doubt it. He must have taken up with her pretty soon after our marriage.’

‘Does that surprise you?’

‘Nothing I discover about Ben surprises me any more.’ She shrugged. ‘Even the way he died.’

‘I heard some strange rumours about that.’

‘You mean the woman he was with when he had the heart attack? She vanished so nobody knows who she was.’

‘A ship that passed in the night.’

She gave a wry smile. ‘There was a whole flotilla of those.’

‘That must have been very hard for you.’

‘I feel sorry for him more than anything, being left alone like that. I may not have been a very good wife, but I’d have stayed with him when he was ill.’

‘Weren’t you a good wife?’

‘No,’ she said shortly. ‘I wasn’t.’

‘Surely you must have loved him at some point?’

‘I never loved him,’ she said simply, wondering why she was telling so much to this man.

‘That’s very interesting.’

‘I see. You’re another who thinks I married Ben for what I took to be his vast wealth. Give me patience!’

‘I don’t—’

‘Listen, you said yourself, I don’t care what people say about me. You’re right, and “people” includes you. Think what you like.’

Silence.

‘I apologise,’ he said quietly.

‘No, I suppose I should apologise,’ she said wryly.

‘Don’t spoil it. I’m impressed—almost as impressed as I was when you dealt with Mary. I made a note then not to get on your wrong side. Can’t you tell that I’m shaking in my shoes?’

‘Oh, stop it,’ she said, laughing unwillingly.

‘It’s natural that your nerves should be on edge after what you’ve been through.’

‘And stop being sympathetic and understanding. It doesn’t suit you.’

‘How shrewd of you to have spotted that!’

Another silence, until Vincente said in a voice full of relief, ‘Ah, here’s our main course.’

It was roast tenderloin of beef with sauce Béarnaise, served with red wine, which he poured for her.

Suddenly he spoke in Italian. ‘Ben told me you’d be valuable to him in Rome. He said you’d been there and spoke Italian pretty well.’

She replied in the same language. ‘I studied fashion in Rome before I married him. My Italian really isn’t that good. I haven’t spoken it for a while.’

‘It’s not bad,’ he said, reverting to English. ‘You’d soon become fluent again. How long were you there?’

‘Three months.’

‘And in that time you must have had many admirers.’

He spoke in a mischievous voice and she laughed in return.

‘I had flirtations. After all, you know—Italian men…’ She shrugged, keeping it light.

‘I know that no true Italian man could look at you without wanting to become your lover,’ he said in the same tone.

‘Maybe it wasn’t just what they wanted. Perhaps my own wishes came into it as well,’ she said with a touch of irony.

‘And you’re telling me that not one young man managed to make himself agreeable to you? Ai-ai-ai! The men of my race are losing their touch. Not a single one?’

‘I forget,’ she riposted. ‘There was such a crowd.’

He laughed aloud, his eyes gleaming with appreciation, and raised his wineglass in salute.

‘Truly you are a cold-hearted goddess. All that youthful ardour at your feet and not one young man stands out in your mind?’

‘Not one,’ she lied.

‘How long after returning from Rome did you marry Ben?’

‘Almost at once.’

‘Then the mystery is solved. You were in love with him all the time and abandoned your design course to marry him.’

‘I’ve already told you I didn’t love him.’

‘Just why did you marry him?’ Vincente demanded abruptly. The humour had gone from his voice.

‘Why, for his money, of course,’ Elise said with a shrug. ‘I thought we settled that earlier.’

‘Somehow that doesn’t convince me. There must have been another reason.’

Suddenly the air seemed to shiver.

‘Signor Farnese,’ Elise said coolly, ‘please stop interrogating me. None of this is your business, and I will not discuss my private affairs with you.’

‘I’m sorry,’ he said quickly. ‘I was only making small talk.’

‘Really? It was almost like being interviewed for a job.’

‘Then I blame myself. I assess many people for jobs and I’m afraid it creeps into my manner in the rest of life. Forgive me.’

It was said charmingly and she let it go at that. She still sensed that there was something else going on, but it wasn’t worth pursuing. After tonight she would never meet him again.

‘What do you plan to do now?’ he asked.

‘I’m not really sure. Ben’s death was so sudden, and there’s been so much to do that I haven’t had time to think.’

‘Come back to Rome with me.’

‘What for? Ben won’t be working for you now.’

‘But you own an apartment there.’

‘An agent can sell it for me. I don’t need to be there.’

‘Can’t you simply treat yourself to a holiday?’ When she hesitated he said urgently, ‘When you were there as a young girl, did you ever visit the Trevi Fountain?’

‘Of course,’ she murmured.

Elise had been to the great fountain in the company of a young man with a bright face and a merry laugh.

‘You must toss a coin in and make a wish,’ he told her.

She’d taken out a coin, musing, ‘What shall I wish for?’

‘There’s only one wish—that you will return to Rome.’

‘All right.’ She tossed her coin into the water and cried aloud to the sky, ‘Bring me back.’

‘Come back for ever,’ he urged.

‘For ever and ever!’ she cried ecstatically.

‘Never leave me, carissima.’

‘Never in life,’ she vowed.

‘Love me always.’

‘Until my last moment.’

A month later she’d left Rome, had left the young man, had never seen either of them again.

‘And like all visitors you tossed a coin in and wished to return to Rome?’ Vincente said now. ‘It is now the time to make that wish come true. Come with me and see if it’s still the city of your memories.’

She shook her head. ‘Memories are never the same. You can’t go back.’

‘Are the memories so terrible that you’re afraid to confront them?’

‘Perhaps they are.’

‘Maybe the truth will be better than your fears?’

She shook her head. ‘That never happens,’ she said with soft violence. ‘Never!’

‘So you’ve discovered that, have you?’ he asked sombrely.

‘Doesn’t everyone, sooner or later?’

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I suppose you’re right.’

The heaviness in his voice made her look up quickly and for a moment she caught an unguarded expression in his eyes. It vanished at once, but it showed her something he was trying to keep hidden. Her interest grew.

‘Why are you here?’ she murmured.

‘I came to a funeral.’

‘But why? You’re here for a purpose.’

‘To pay my respects.’

‘I don’t believe you. I don’t think you “do” sweetness and light. You wouldn’t head that corporation if you did.’

‘Even in business some of us manage to behave like civilized human beings,’ Vincente observed with a slight edge to his voice.

‘But why?’ she asked, apparently wide-eyed with wonder. ‘There’s no money in it.’

‘There can be,’ he said incautiously and was startled by the glint of mischief in her eyes.

‘Now there’s an admission!’ she said with wicked delight.

‘No admission at all. We’ve already agreed that I don’t “do” sweetness and light; we should add—unless it suits me.’

‘One should always add that,’ she agreed solemnly.

‘You think you’ve got me sussed,’ he asked, amused.

‘You and all men. I go by a simple rule. Just think the worst. I’m never wrong.’

‘You might be wrong about me,’ he suggested.

Elise leaned back in her chair and considered him. The lights in the clubs were low, constantly changing from green to blue to red. By chance it was red that bathed him now, giving him the look of a handsome devil.

Elise shook her head. ‘No, I’m not wrong. What brought you here? Revenge?’

It was a word she ventured to choose and it made him eye her sharply.

‘What did you say?’

‘Revenge. Did Ben put one over on you in a deal? Was that why you wanted him in Rome?’

‘Him?’ Vincente gave a bark of harsh laughter. ‘He never put one over on anyone. The man was a fool. Didn’t you know that?’

‘I’m surprised you knew it since you hired him. What use could a fool be to you? This gets curiouser and curiouser.’

‘Not at all.’ He gave a sardonic grin. ‘For “fool” read “donkey”. I can always find a use for a donkey.’

‘There must be plenty of donkeys in Rome. Why Ben?’

The sound of music gave him an excuse not to answer. The musicians were in place, a young woman glided on to the stage and began to sing in a soft, throaty voice. Suddenly the floor was alive with gently swaying dancers.

‘Haven’t we talked enough?’ he asked.

Elise nodded and dismissed the argument, which didn’t really interest her anyway. She took the hand he held out to her, letting him lead her on to the floor. It would have been wiser to stay in her seat, but she was beyond wisdom. She wanted to dance with him because she wanted to be held by him, held against him. That was the plain truth. And tonight she was going to please herself for the first time in years.

She braced herself for the feel of his hand in the small of her back, but it was still a shock through the thin material. He drew her close so that she could feel his body, his legs moving powerfully against hers, and there was no protection against that.

Had she been crazy to agree to this? Four years ago she’d thrown Ben out of her bed, and even before that her body had slept. She’d thought it was the sleep of the dead, forgetting that the dead could awaken. Now every part of her was becoming alive and the pleasure was almost painful.

She resisted it, knowing that this was one man she had to confront on equal terms. But she also sensed that she had the power to catch him off guard, which could be the best way to face him down.

The singer was crooning smoochy words of passion and pleasure.

‘Remembering—all the things we’ve done together—wanting you—wanting everything—’

She felt his arm tighten, silently insisting that she look up, and when she did so she found his mouth so dangerously close that for a moment they were exchanging breath. The hot whisper across her lips strained her control so that she almost reached up and kissed him.

In the event, he made the first move. Or did he? His lips brushed hers so lightly that she couldn’t be sure what was dream and what was reality.

Wanting everything. It was almost indecent to want everything with this stranger, but it was happening, despite her denials. His mouth was on hers, pressing lightly, then more urgently. She closed her eyes, yielding to the pure sensation, wanting more and more of it, shutting out the world.

His hand moved slowly—upwards to caress the bare skin of her back, sideways to feel the flare of her hips, lower to enjoy the soft swell of her behind moving in the dance.

For too long she’d lived like a nun, knowing there was no place in her life for desire. But now it came dancing out of the darkness, dazzling and overwhelming her with the lure of the strange and almost unknown. Inside, she was aching to be returned to life after the long sleep that had been more like a coma.

Why now? she wondered. With him?

Because he was made for seduction, her senses replied. His body was designed for sex—long, lean, hard, pared down, subtly powerful. With every touch it whispered what it could do for her, what they could do together. His movements blended with hers so that they seemed to be making love right there on the dance floor.

‘What are you doing?’ she whispered.

‘Surely you mean what are we doing?’ Vincente murmured almost against her lips. ‘There’s no mystery about it.’

‘But—no—we ought to stop this now.’

‘Are you sure that’s what you want?’ He spoke softly and his warm breath whispered against her face.

‘Yes…yes, it’s…what I want.’

She was lying and they both knew it. She didn’t want him to stop. She wanted him.

Elise didn’t even like Vincente Farnese particularly. What little she knew of his mind stimulated her and they had formed an alliance of convenience, but she’d also sensed a watchfulness in him, a carefully preserved distance that precluded any warmth. There was no tenderness, no meeting of the emotions.

Despite this, or perhaps because of it, she felt a desire that was liberated from all feelings—raw, basic, uncomplicated. She ached to be in his arms, in his bed. She wanted to undress before his hungry gaze, making a delicious performance of it. But she also wanted him to remove her clothes slowly—so slowly—heightening her excitement with every leisurely movement.

She longed to join her nakedness to his, feeling his fingers explore her gently, then urgently, with passionate desire ever mounting until at last his control was destroyed and he claimed her with fierce abandon.

Yes, she thought with sudden understanding, that was what she wanted most: to see this man, so sure of himself and his powers of command, lose all control because of her. That would be satisfying as nothing else would be.

Everything was there in her head, tingling along her nerves, the anticipation of what he would do and what she would do. She tried to shut off the thought, fearful lest he sense it. But, of course, he’d already sensed it. That was what made him dangerous.

‘Why deny us what we both want?’ he asked, reading her thoughts again in the way he did with such terrifying ease.

‘I don’t always take what I want,’ she said slowly.

‘That’s a mistake. You haven’t had enough pleasure and satisfaction in your life. You should take it now that you’re free.’

‘Free,’ she echoed longingly. ‘Will I ever be free?’

‘What should stop you?’

‘So much…so much…’

He drew her closer and laid his lips against the tender skin of her neck.

‘Take what you want,’ he whispered. ‘Take it, pay the price, but don’t waste time on regrets.’

‘Is that how you live?’

‘Always,’ he said, turning to guide her off the dance floor. ‘Let’s go.’

On the journey they didn’t speak, but sat together in the back of the car, watching the light and darkness flicker over each other’s faces.

Conscious of eyes upon them, they walked sedately through the hotel lobby and up to her suite. Only when the door had closed behind them did he toss aside the velvet wrap and take her into his arms, raining kisses all over her neck and shoulders.

Elise threw back her head, yielding herself up to the sweet sensation, welcoming it. Each touch of his lips sparked off tremors that flowed down over her skin, between her breasts, creating life where there had been only desolation before. A deep, shuddering breath escaped her and she reached for him.

She didn’t know how they got into the bedroom, but she was lying down and he was beside her, casting his jacket aside, then reaching for her dress, pulling it down to uncover her breasts.

For a moment his face, suffused with passion, loomed over her. She reached up, meaning to pull him down to her, but her hand seemed to have a will of its own. Instead of drawing him closer, it tensed to fend him off.

‘Wait,’ she whispered.

He became still, frowning as though not sure he’d heard her properly.

‘Wait,’ she repeated. ‘What’s happening to me?’

It was the worst possible moment for an attack of common sense, but it had leapt on her without warning, freezing her blood, filling her with dismay at herself.

‘I can’t tell you that,’ Vincente said. ‘Only you know what you really want. If you’ve changed your mind, you have only to tell me to leave.’

He was breathing harshly, but he was in command of himself.

‘I’m not sure—not any more. Please let me go.’

For the briefest moment he was disconcerted, but then his eyes gleamed with respect.

‘Very clever—very subtle.’

‘No, you’re wrong. I’m not playing tricks. It’s just that—’ She sat up and moved away from him. ‘Good grief! Today was my husband’s funeral.’

‘Suddenly you remember that?’

‘I guess I’m more conventional than I thought I was. I’m sorry. I just can’t do this.’

He too got up, retrieving his jacket from the floor.

‘You may be right,’ he observed. ‘It will keep until we meet again.’

‘I doubt that we’ll ever meet again.’

In the darkness she couldn’t see his face well or read its expression, couldn’t see the bafflement, admiration and sheer blazing hatred that chased each other in swift succession through his eyes.

‘You’re wrong,’ he said softly. ‘This isn’t the end between us. There’ll come a day when you’ll remember what I told you—take what you want. And then you’ll take it because, in that, we’re the same.’

Now her thwarted passion was punishing her, making her tremble with the violence she’d done to herself. But from somewhere she found the strength to give him a challenging look and say, ‘You left something out. I’ll take it when I’m ready, and not before.’

‘Then there’s nothing more for me to say. I will bid you goodnight.’

Before her astonished eyes, he walked calmly out of the room without a backward glance.

Vincente was just closing his suitcase the next morning when his cellphone shrilled.

‘Yes?’

‘It’s your driver. You said to let you know if I saw her. She’s just got into a taxi. I heard her tell the driver to go to the cemetery.’

‘I’ll be right there. Have the engine running.’

He was downstairs in a moment. As they found their way through the streets, he asked tensely, ‘Are you sure you heard her correctly?’

‘She definitely said St Agnes Cemetery, where she buried her husband yesterday. It’s natural enough if she’s grieving for him.’

Vincente didn’t answer this. His eyes were fixed on the road.

By good luck he saw Elise as soon as he reached the cemetery. She’d left her taxi and was walking away. A twist in the path gave him a sideways glimpse of her, revealing that she was carrying a bouquet of glowing red roses.

Red roses. The symbol of love. It defied belief that she was putting them on her husband’s grave.

He followed, taking care to remain among the trees that would hide him, and managed to get close enough to see her drop to one knee before a modest grave, contrasting with the swaggering mausoleums that littered the place. She was facing him and he could see her face well enough to detect its look of unutterable sadness as she spoke to some unseen presence.

He’d come to England seeking her, hating her, determined to make her pay for a long ago act of cruelty. He’d so nearly secured her through her husband, but the greedy fool had died and Vincente had to think of a new plan, fast.

He’d been so sure of the kind of woman he would find, but she had been different—softer, more vulnerable, more honest. But he quickly reminded himself that this was bound to be an act. She’d had years to practise it by now.

By sheer force of will he managed to keep his hatred alive.

Her passion was harder to explain away. He was no stranger to feigned desire. Attracted by his wealth, women had always put themselves out to seduce him, and everything in Elise’s past warned him that she was one of that kind. But she’d turned out to be different. He’d felt her trembling in his arms and his deepest instincts had told him that she wasn’t feigning. At almost any moment he could have stripped her naked and taken her with her full-hearted consent.

Until the end, when she’d fended him off with real intent, filling him with astonishment. For a moment he’d been on the verge of losing control, but he’d forced himself to calm down and leave her. He’d spent the rest of the night racked with unsatisfied desire and anger. But there had also been the dawning of respect, and that disconcerted him more than anything.

Vincente stayed hidden as she rose to go, and only came out from among the trees when she was out of sight. Then he crossed quickly to where she had been and studied the graves. He spotted the red roses at once and dropped down on one knee to read the inscription.

‘George Farnaby,’ he read. He had died two months ago, in December, aged sixty-four.

Frowning, Vincente reached into his pocket and drew out a small notebook. Flipping through the pages, he came to the entry he was looking for.

One final note. Her father died just before Christmas. Ben Carlton’s extensive entertaining was unaffected. A guest at one of his parties says she went through the motions of being a good hostess, but looked terrible.

Vincente looked at the roses that lay, fresh and blooming, against the hard stone. At last he went away.

Elise had slept badly and awoken early. In the shower she’d turned the water down cold, trying to refresh herself enough to view her life clearly, but the world was still a confused place.

After a light breakfast she slipped out and took a taxi to the cemetery, but not to go to Ben’s grave. He was already in the past, but the man who’d died two months earlier still seemed with her. As she laid her flowers on the grave she looked sadly at the headstone.

‘Dad,’ she whispered, ‘why did you have to die now? I put up with Ben for eight years, to stop you going to gaol. “Just a little fiddle”, you said. Only Ben got his hands on the evidence and he made it look not so little.

‘I should have left him when you died, but I was stunned. I needed time to make plans, and then everything caught up with me. Now he’s dead, I’m free, and you’d have been free too. But it’s too late. Oh, Dad, I miss you so much.’

She stayed a few minutes before walking away and getting a taxi back to the hotel. A plan was forming in her mind. First she would leave the extravagant suite Ben had insisted on hiring and move into a smaller, cheaper room for a week, while she finished tying up loose ends. Then she would find a less expensive place to live while she waited for the Rome apartment to be sold.

But first she must talk to Vincente Farnese and make it clear that what had happened between them the night before had been an aberration. After that, she would refuse to see him again, no matter how long he remained in England. It would be hard to make him understand that because he knew now that he could bring her under his spell, at least for a while. But she was resolved to be firm against all the persuasions he could muster.

Upstairs in her suite, she chose with care the words she would say to him, then stretched out her hand to the phone. But, before she could make the call, there was a knock at the door. Outside stood one of the hotel bellboys, holding out an envelope.

‘This was left for you, Mrs Carlton.’

Tearing it open, she found a page scrawled in a confident, masculine hand.

I fear urgent business calls me back to Rome with no time to say goodbye to you. Forgive me this discourtesy.

I wish you well for the future.

Vincente Farnese

There was silence, broken only by the sound of a piece of paper being torn to shreds.