Книга - Ruthlessly Bedded by the Italian Billionaire

Ruthlessly Bedded by the Italian Billionaire
Emma Darcy


Step into a world of sophistication and glamour, where sinfully seductive heroes await you in luxurious international locations.Billionaire Dante Rossini brings the secret Rossini heiress back to the family home to face her destiny… Hiding from her own past, Jenny Kent has been living her life as Bella Rossini. And this is the chance ruthless tycoon Dante Rossini has been waiting for…Holding her innocent deception against her, he forces Jenny to return to Capri, where only designer dresses and diamonds will do – after all, if she’s pretending to be a Rossini she’ll have a public role to play… As well as the private arrangement that Dante is ruthlessly demanding…







‘Maybe the best way to quell yourrebellion is to storm your defencesand seduce you,’ Dante said witharrogant certainty.

His mouth covered hers, and the shock of his kiss and the strength of his powerful body completely robbed Jenny of any resistance. His mouth ravished hers, his tongue sweeping over her palate, making it tingle with intense pleasure. He had read her character rightly. Submission was not in her nature. Every primitive instinct she had was suddenly triggered, dictating a need to do to him what he was doing to her.

The self-discipline that had ruled her life for so long broke into an angry passion. He held her body by force. She flung her arms around his head, hands burrowing fiercely into his thick hair.

His mouth was locked on hers, kissing with ravaging intensity. Only when he’d tumbled her backwards onto the bed did he break away, his eyes blazing with the desire to enslave her to his will.

Never, she silently shot at him.


Initially a French/English teacher, Emma Darcy changed careers to computer programming before the happy demands of marriage and motherhood. Very much a people person, and always interested in relationships, she finds the world of romance fiction a thrilling one and the challenge of creating her own cast of characters very addictive.

Recent titles by the same author:

BOUGHT FOR REVENGE, BEDDED FOR PLEASURE

THE BILLIONAIRE’S CAPTIVE BRIDE

THE BILLIONAIRE’S SCANDALOUS MARRIAGE




RUTHLESSLY

BEDDED BY

THE ITALIAN

BILLIONAIRE


BY

EMMA DARCY




www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


CHAPTER ONE

Sydney, Australia

‘MISS Rossini…’

Another voice calling to her, using Bella’s name.

Jenny struggled to understand. Her mind felt weirdly disconnected, taking in only snatches of what was said. She couldn’t make sense of what she heard. It was as if she was locked inside a fog that almost cleared sometimes but then swallowed her up into a blank nothingness. Was this a nightmare that kept coming and receding? She needed to wake up, get a grip on what was real, but her eyelids were so heavy.

‘Miss Rossini…’

There it was again. Where was Bella? Why did the voices use her friend’s name as though it belonged to her? It was wrong. Her head ached with trying to figure it out. The fog swirled. So much easier to slide back into oblivion where there was no painful confusion. Yet she wanted answers, wanted the torment of this nightmare to end. Which meant focusing all the energy she could summon on opening her eyes.

‘Oh, dear God! She woke up! She’s awake!’

The screech hurt her ears. The sudden glare of light made her want to close her eyes, but she fought the impulse, frightened of losing the strength to open them again. Her blurred vision picked up a flurry of movement.

‘I’ll get the doctor!’

Doctor…white bed…white screens…tubes stuck in her arm. This had to be a hospital. Some kind of sling was on her other arm. She couldn’t see her legs. The blanket on the bed was covering them. She tried to move them but couldn’t manage it. Dead weight. Her mind filled with a galloping fear. Was she paralysed?

A nurse appeared at the foot of her bed, a pretty blond woman with anxious blue eyes. ‘Hi! My name is Alison. I’ve paged Dr Farrell. He’ll be here in a minute, Miss Rossini.’

Jenny tried to say that wasn’t her name but her mouth wouldn’t co-operate. Her lips, her throat were so dry they felt cracked.

‘I’ll get you a cup of ice,’ Alison said, darting away.

When she returned she was accompanied by a man who introduced himself as Dr Farrell. Alison fed her a piece of ice which she rolled around her tongue, working moisture from it, grateful for the lubrication trickling down her throat.

‘Glad to have you with us at last, Miss Rossini,’ the doctor was saying, looking cheerful about it. He was a short stocky man, probably mid-thirties, dark hair given a buzz cut that seemed to defy the receding hairline, certainly no vanity about hiding it. His bright brown eyes twinkled approval of her wakeful state. ‘You’ve been in a coma for the past two weeks.’

Why? What’s wrong with me? Panic churned through her as she tried to telegraph the questions with her eyes.

‘You were in a car accident,’ he said, understanding her need to know. ‘For some reason you were not wearing a seat belt and you were thrown clear of the wreck. However, you suffered a severe concussion, and the bruising of the brain undoubtedly contributed to the coma. You also had three broken ribs, a broken arm, deep lacerations on one leg and you have a cast on the other, fixing up a broken ankle. However, you are mending nicely and it’s only a matter of time before you’ll be on your feet again.’

Relief whooshed through her. She wasn’t paralysed. However, her bruised brain wasn’t working so well. It couldn’t recollect any memory of a car accident. Besides, it didn’t make sense that she hadn’t been wearing a seat belt. She always did. It was an automatic action whenever she got into a car.

‘I see you frowning, Miss Rossini. Are you up to speaking yet?’ the doctor asked kindly.

I’m not Bella. Why didn’t they know that?

She licked her lips and managed to croak, ‘My name…’

‘Good! You know your name.’

No!

She tried again. ‘My friend…’

The doctor sighed, grimaced. His eyes softened with sympathy. ‘I’m sorry to tell you that your friend passed away in the accident. Nothing could be done for her. The car burst into flames before help arrived. If you had not been thrown clear…’

Bella…dead? Burnt? The horror of it brought a gush of tears. The doctor took her hand and patted it, mouthing words of comfort, but Jenny didn’t really hear anything but the tone. All she could think of was that being burned was a terrible way to die and Bella had been so kind to her, taking her in, giving her a place to live, even letting her borrow her name so she could work at the Venetian Forum since everyone employed there had to be Italian. Or of Italian heritage.

Was that how their identities had got mixed up?

The tears kept coming. The doctor left, appointing the nurse to sit at her bedside and talk to her. Jenny couldn’t speak. She was too overwhelmed by the shock of her situation and the dreadful loss of her friend. Her only friend. And Bella had had no one, either. No family. Both of them orphans—a bond that had given them immediate empathy with each other.

Who would bury her? What would happen to her apartment and all her things…the home she’d made, waiting for her to come back…except she never would return to it.

Eventually the exhaustion of grief drew her into sleep.

Another nurse had replaced Alison when she woke up.

‘Hello. My name is Jill,’ she said encouragingly. ‘Can I get you anything, Miss Rossini?’

Not Rossini. Kent. Jenny Kent. But there was no one to care about who or what she was now that Bella was gone.

Fear speared through the dark turmoil in her mind.

Where would she go when they finally released her from this hospital? Social Services would probably find some place for her, as they had throughout her childhood and early teenage years—places she’d hated—and if she was forced back into the welfare system because of her injuries, that sleazy abusive creep might hear of it.

Revulsion cramped her stomach. The officials hadn’t believed her when she had reported their highly experienced social worker for helping down-and-out girls in return for sexual favours. He was too entrenched in the system not to be trusted, and the other girls had been too frightened of his vengeful power to back up her report. She’d been painted as a vindictive liar for not getting what she wanted from him, and no doubt he would revel in victimising her again if he became aware of her present circumstances.

Yet what other choice was viable? Simply to survive she would have to be dependent on welfare until she could stand on her own two feet again and make her way, selling her sketches on the street as she had before meeting Bella. Impossible to stay on at the Venetian Forum without the Rossini name.

The wild thought flashed into her mind—did she have to give it up?

Everyone thought Jenny Kent was dead.

There was no one to care if she was, no one to come forward to claim her. If officialdom believed she was Isabella Rossini…if she found out why they did…would it be too terrible of her to take over her friend’s identity for a while…stay in the apartment…go on working at the Venetian Forum…build up some savings…give herself time to think, to plan out what to do when she felt up to coping on her own?

Wouldn’t her friend have wanted that for her instead of all of it just…ending?


CHAPTER TWO

Rome, ItalySix Months Later

DANTE Rossini unwound himself from Anya’s voluptuous charms and reached for his cell-phone.

‘Don’t!’ she snapped. ‘You can pick up the message later.’

‘It’s my grandfather,’ he said, ignoring the protest.

‘Oh, fine! He calls and you jump!’

Her burst of petulance annoyed him. He sliced her a quelling look as he flipped open the cell-phone, knowing it could only be his grandfather because no one else had been given this private number—an immediate link between them. He’d bought the phone for this specific use when Nonno had been diagnosed with inoperable cancer, and yes, he was ready to jump whenever it rang. Three months at most, the doctors had forecast, and already a month had gone by. Time was running out for Marco Rossini.

‘Dante here,’ he said quickly, aware of a tight knot of urgency in his chest. ‘What can I do for you, Nonno?’

Frustrated that her jeering words had had no effect on him, Anya flounced off the bed and strutted angrily towards the bathroom. Time was running out on Anya Michaelson, too, he decided. She always expected to be indulged, which he hadn’t minded in the past, given her fantastic body and her talent for erotic games, but her self-centred core was beginning to irritate him.

He heard his grandfather wheezing, gathering breath enough to speak. ‘It’s a family matter, Dante.’

Family? Usually it was a business issue he wanted resolved. ‘What’s the problem?’ he asked.

‘I’ll explain when you get here.’

‘You want me to come now?’

‘Yes. No time to waste.’

‘I’ll be there before lunch,’ he promised.

‘Good boy!’

Boy… Dante smiled ironically as he flicked the cellphone shut. He was thirty years old, already designated to take over the management of a global business, having met every challenge his grandfather had set for him from his teenage years onward. Only Marco Rossini had the balls to still call him a boy, and Dante excused it as a term of familial affection. He’d just turned six years old when his parents were killed in a speed-boat accident and he’d been his grandfather’s boy ever since.

‘What about me?’ Anya demanded as he rose from the bed.

She’d propped herself provocatively against the bathroom doorjamb, every lush naked curve jutting out at him, her long blond hair arranged in tousled disarray over her shoulders, her full-lipped mouth pouting. The desire she’d stirred earlier was gone. The only feeling she raised now was impatience.

‘I’m sorry. I have to leave.’

‘You promised to take me shopping today.’

‘Shopping is unimportant.’

She was blocking the way into the bathroom. He took hold of her waist to move her aside. She flung her arms around his neck, pressing herself against him, her green eyes sparking anger. ‘It is not unimportant to me, Dante. You promised…’

‘Another time, Anya. I’m needed on Capri. Now, let go.’

His voice was cold. His eyes were cold. She let go, infuriated by his command but obeying it. He stepped past her and walked into the shower stall, not glancing back.

‘I hate the way you switch off!’ she screeched. ‘I hate it!’

‘Then find yourself another man, Anya,’ he said carelessly and turned on the water, drowning out any extraneous noise. The last thing he wanted was to be subjected to a hissy fit, and he didn’t really care if Anya found herself another man. Let someone else buy her clothes and jewellery for the pleasure of her body. There were always other beautiful women, eager to share his bed.

She was gone when he emerged from the bathroom and he didn’t give her another thought. As he plunged into the business of getting ready to leave—calling the helicopter pilot to be on standby for a flight to Capri, dressing, grabbing some breakfast—his mind was sifting through the family positions, trying to work out who was causing his grandfather concern.

Uncle Roberto was currently in London, overseeing the refurbishing of the hotel, happily immersing himself in the kind of creativity he loved. He’d always managed his gay life with discretion and Marco tolerated his son’s homosexuality, with the proviso that it wasn’t paraded under his nose. Had something unacceptable happened?

Aunt Sophia had shed her third money-sucking husband a year ago, at the cost of several million dollars, causing Marco to gnash his teeth over his wayward daughter’s total lack of judgement. She had married in turn an American evangelist, a Parisian playboy and an Argentinian polo player, all of whom apparently exuded enough sexual charisma to woo and win themselves a very wealthy wife. Had she started another unsuitable liaison?

Then there was his cousin, Lucia, Aunt Sophia’s twenty-four-year-old daughter by the Parisian playboy, a sly little minx whom he’d never liked. Even as a child she’d had a habit of spying on people and tattling if she thought it would win her some advantage. But she was always sweetness itself to Marco. Dante couldn’t imagine her giving their grandfather a problem. Lucia would avoid that like the plague, especially when there was a hefty inheritance in sight.

Marco himself had only married once. His wife had died before Dante was born, and Marco had satisfied himself with a string of mistresses over the years. They’d been treated well and paid off handsomely at the end of each ‘arrangement.’ None of them should be causing trouble.

Mulling over the possibilities was probably pointless, though Dante liked to be mentally prepared to carry out any directive his grandfather gave. Marco had drilled into him that knowledge was power. Anyone who was surprised at an important meeting had not done their homework and was instantly at a disadvantage. Dante was rarely surprised these days. Though he had been surprised by his grandfather’s choice to spend his last months at the villa on Capri.

Why not the palazzo in Venice? The worldwide chain of Gondola Hotels, the Venetian Forums built in ‘little Italy’ sections of major cities…all were inspired by the place Marco called home. Of course, the air in Venice was not as sweet as on the island, the view not as clean, the sunshine not so accessible, not for a very sick man. Still, his grandfather had been born in Venice and Dante had expected him to want to die there.

He wondered again about that choice as the helicopter flew him towards Capri. His gaze swept around the high grey cliffs dotted with scrubby trees, the rocky outcrops spearing up from the sea, the predominantly white township sprawling around the top edge of the island, the water below a brilliant turquoise blue. There was nothing even faintly reminiscent of Venice.

The villa had always been a holiday place, mostly used by Aunt Sophia and Uncle Roberto. Dante had spent some of his school vacations there but his grandfather had only ever dropped in on them, not staying for long, certainly not ever demonstrating a fondness for the relaxed lifestyle it offered. He’d always seemed impatient to be gone about his business again.

The helicopter landed on the rear terrace of the villa grounds. It was almost noon and the sun was hot enough for Dante to be glad to reach the flag-stoned walkway, which was well shaded by pine trees and the profusion of bougainvillea spread over the columned pergola. He was not so glad to see Lucia at the other end of it, walking out to meet him.

She favoured her father in looks, more French than Italian, dark-brown hair cut in a very chic bob, her fine-boned face featuring a straight elegant nose, a full-lipped sensual mouth, bright brown eyes that were always keenly observant. She wore a coquettish, little-girl dress that shouted French designer class, geometrically patterned in brown and white and black, the miniskirt showing off her long slim legs.

‘Nonno is in the front courtyard, waiting for you,’ she said, turning to accompany him as he came level with her.

‘Thank you. No need for you to escort me, Lucia.’

She stuck to his side. ‘I want to know what’s going on.’

‘He called me, not you.’

She flashed him a resentful look. ‘I’m just as much family as you, Dante.’

She’d eavesdropped on the call. He kept walking, saying nothing for her to get her teeth into. They entered the villa, moving towards the atrium, a central gathering place that connected the wings spreading out from it and led to the front courtyard.

Frustrated by his silence, Lucia offered information to tempt some speculation. ‘A man came yesterday afternoon. He didn’t give a name. He brought a briefcase with him and had a private meeting with Nonno. It left Nonno looking even more ill. I’m worried about him.’

‘I’m sure you’re doing your best to brighten him up, Lucia,’ he said blandly.

‘If I know what the problem is…’

‘I have no idea.’

‘Don’t play dumb with me, Dante. You always have an idea.’ The bite in her voice softened to a sweet wheedle. ‘I just want to help. Whatever Nonno heard from that man yesterday has knocked the life out of him. It’s awful seeing him so sunk into himself.’

Bad news, Dante thought, steeling himself to deal with the fallout as best he could. ‘I’m sorry to hear it,’ he said, ‘but I can’t tell you what I don’t know, Lucia. You’ll have to wait until Nonno chooses to reveal what’s on his mind.’

‘You’ll tell me after you’ve talked with him?’ she pressed.

He shrugged. ‘Depends on whether it’s confidential or not.’

‘I’m the one here looking after him. I need to know.’

His grandfather had a private nurse and a whole body of servants looking after him. He shot his cousin a mocking look. ‘You’re here looking after your own interests, Lucia. Let’s not pretend otherwise.’

‘Oh, you…you…’ Her mouth clamped down on whatever epithet she would have liked to fling at him.

It was clear to Dante she hated him for seeing through her artifices, always had, but open enmity was not her game.

‘I love Nonno and he loves me,’ she stated tightly. ‘You might do well to remember that, Dante.’

An empty threat, but it probably gave her some satisfaction to leave him with it. They’d reached the atrium and she sheered off to the right, probably heading for the main entertainment room from where she could view what went on in the courtyard, though she wouldn’t be able to hear what was said.

Dante continued on, only pausing when he stepped outside, taking in the scene before announcing his arrival. His grandfather was resting in a well-cushioned chaise lounge, his face shaded by an umbrella, the rest of his brutally wasted body soaking up the natural warmth of the sun.

He wore navy silk pyjamas, their looseness emphasising rather than hiding the loss of his once powerful physique. His eyes were closed. Sunken cheeks made his cheekbones too prominent, his proud Roman nose too big, but there was still an indomitable air about his jutting chin. His skin had tanned, probably from many mornings spent like this. It made his thick, wavy hair look shockingly whiter.

The nurse sat on a chair beside him, ready to attend to his every need. She was reading a book. A pitcher of fruit juice and a set of glasses stood on a table within easy reach. Tubs of flowers provided pleasing cascades of colour, and the brilliant blue vista of sea and sky generated a peaceful ambience. But Dante knew the sense of peace had to be a lie. Something was wrong and he had to fix it.

His footsteps on the terrace flagstones as he moved forward alerted the nurse to his presence, and his grandfather’s eyelids snapped open. The nurse rose to her feet. His grandfather directed a dismissive wave at her and gestured for Dante to take the chair she had vacated. He didn’t speak until she had gone and his grandson was settled close to him. Greetings were unnecessary and any inquiry about his health was unwelcome, so Dante waited in silence to hear what he’d been summoned to hear.

‘I have kept many things from you, Dante. Private things, Personal things. Painful things.’ A rueful grimace expressed his grandfather’s reluctance to confide them. ‘Now is the time to tell you.’

‘As you wish, Nonno,’ Dante said quietly, not liking the all too evident distress.

The usually bright dark eyes were clouded as his grandfather bluntly stated, ‘Your grandmother, the only woman I ever really loved, my beautiful Isabella, died in this villa.’

His voice faltered, choked with emotion. Dante waited for him to recover, feeling oddly embarrassed by so much feeling, never openly expressed before. The only knowledge he’d had of his grandmother was the occasional reference in newspapers of Marco’s one and only wife having died of a drug overdose. It had happened before he was born, and when he’d queried the story, his grandfather had vehemently forbidden any further mention of it.

Dante had privately assumed he had felt some guilt over his wife’s untimely and scandalous death, but given she was the only woman he had ever really loved, perhaps there had been a deep and abiding grief that he couldn’t bear to touch upon. It did answer why Marco had chosen to die here, too.

A deep sigh ended in another grimace. ‘We had a third son.’

The missing Rossini ‘wild child’—another sensational story occasionally popping up in newspapers, full of lurid speculation about the rebellious black sheep who’d obviously refused to knuckle under to what Marco wanted of him, dropping completely out of his father’s world—speculation that was never answered by the Rossinis—a family skeleton kept so firmly in the cupboard, Dante’s curiosity about the uncle he’d never known had always been frustrated. His jerk of surprise at the totally unexpected opening of this door evoked a sharply dismissive gesture from his grandfather, demanding forebearance.

‘Just listen.’ The command held no patience for questions. ‘I banished Antonio from our lives. No one in the family was to even speak his name. Because of him, my Isabella died. He killed his mother, not deliberately, but he gave her the designer drug that led to her death. It was his fault and I couldn’t forgive him.’

Dante’s mind reeled with shock. It took him several moments to attach some current significance to the revelations of this traumatic family history. Had his exiled uncle resurfaced? Was this the problem?

‘He was the youngest of our four children. Your father, Alessandro—’ his grandfather sighed, shaking his head, still grieved by the loss of his eldest son ‘—he was my boy in every way. As you are, Dante.’

Yes, Dante thought. Even in looks, both he and his father had inherited Marco’s thick wavy hair, his deeply set dark-chocolate eyes, strong Roman nose, and the slight cleft centring their squarish chins.

‘Roberto…he was softer,’ his grandfather went on in a tone of rueful reminiscence. ‘It was obvious from early on he would not be a competitor like Alessandro, but he does well enough with his artistic talent. And Sophia, our first girl…we spoilt her, gave her too much, indulged her every whim. I cannot really blame her for the behaviour I now have to pay for. Then came Antonio…’

His eyes closed, as though the memory of his youngest son was still cloaked in darkness. It took a visible effort to speak of him. ‘He was a very bright child, mischievous, merry, given to creating amusing mayhem. He made us laugh. Isabella adored him. Of our four children, he looked most like her. He was…her joy.’

Dante heard the pain in every word and knew that Marco had shared his wife’s joy in the boy.

‘School was too easy for him. He wasn’t challenged enough. He looked for other excitement, adventures, parties, physical thrills, experimenting with drugs. I didn’t know about the drugs, but Isabella did. She kept it from me. When she died, Antonio confessed that she had been trying to make him stop and he had urged her to try the drug, to see for herself how marvellous it would make her feel and how completely harmless it was.’

His eyes opened and black derision flashed from them as he bitterly repeated, ‘Harmless…’

‘Tragic,’ Dante murmured, imagining the horror of discovering how his wife’s death had occurred, and the double grief his grandfather had suffered.

‘Antonio should have died, not my Isabella. So I made him dead as far as my world was concerned.’

Dante nodded sympathetic understanding. None of this had touched his life and he still felt somewhat stunned that so much had been kept totally suppressed by the family. No doubt it was a measure of his grandfather’s dominating and singularly ruthless power that not one word of the mother/son drug connection had leaked out, not privately nor publicly.

A mirthless little laugh gravelled from his grandfather’s throat. His eyes seemed to mock himself as he said, ‘I thought I might make peace with him. It’s bad enough for any man to have one son die before him. Losing Alessandro was…but at least I had you, my son’s son, filling that gap. Antonio was completely lost. And is completely lost. There can be no making peace with him.’

Dante frowned. ‘Do you mean…?’

‘I hired a firm of private investigators to find him, bring me news of the life he’d made for himself, information that would tell me if it was viable to set up a meeting between us. The owner of the firm called on me yesterday. Antonio and his wife died in a plane crash two years ago—a small private plane he was flying himself. Bad weather, pilot error…’

‘I’m sorry, Nonno.’

‘Too late for making peace,’ he muttered. ‘But he did leave a daughter, Dante. A daughter whom he named Isabella, after his mother, and I want you to fly to Australia and bring her here to me.’ His eyes suddenly blazed with a concentration of life. ‘I want you to do it, Dante, because I know you’ll do everything in your power to make her come with you. And there is so little time…’

‘Of course I’ll do it for you, Nonno. Do you know where she is?’

‘Sydney.’ His mouth twisted with irony. ‘She even works in the Venetian Forum we built there. You will have no trouble finding her.’ He leaned over, picked up a manila folder which was lying on the low table beside his chaise. ‘All the information you need is in here.’

He held it out and Dante took it.

‘Isabella Rossini…’ The name rolled off his grandfather’s tongue in a tone of deep longing. ‘BringAntonio’s daughter home to me, Dante. My Isabella would have wished it. Bring our grand-daughter home.…’


CHAPTER THREE

SATURDAY was always the best day for Jenny at the Venetian Forum. It had a carnival atmosphere with weekend crowds flocking to the morning markets set up on either side of the canal, staying on for lunch at the many restaurants bordering the main square. In their stroll around the stalls, people invariably paused to watch her drawing her charcoal portraits, many tempted to get one done of themselves or their children. She made enough money on Saturday to live on the entire week.

It was even better when it was sunny like today. Although it was only the beginning of September—the start of spring—it almost felt like summer, no clouds in the brilliant blue sky, no chilly wind, just lovely mild warmth that everyone could bask in while they looked at the marvellous array of Venetian masks, original jewellery, hand-painted scarves, individually blown-glass works of art—so many beautiful things to buy. The photographer was busy, too, taking shots of people on the Bridge of Sighs, or on their gondola rides. He wasn’t in competition with her. Hand-drawn portraits were different.

She finished one of a little boy, pocketed her fee from the pleased parents, then set herself up for the next subject in line, a giggly teenage girl who was pushed onto the posing chair by a couple of equally giggly girlfriends.

A really striking man stood to one side of them. Was he waiting his turn in the chair? Jenny hoped so. He had such a handsome face, framed by a luxuriant head of hair, many shades of brown—from caramel to dark chocolate—running through its gleaming thickness, and perfectly cut to show off its natural waves. It was a pity she couldn’t capture the colours in a charcoal portrait, but his face alone presented a fascinating challenge; the sharply angled arch of his eyebrows, the deeply set eyes, the strong lines of his nose and jaw with the intriguing contrast of rather full, sensual lips and a soft dimple centred at the base of his chin.

She kept sneaking glances at him as she sketched the girl’s portrait. He didn’t move away, apparently content to linger and observe her working. A very masculine man, she thought, taller than most and with a physique that seemed to radiate power.

He was dressed in expensive clothes, a good quality white shirt with a thin fawn stripe and well-cut fawn slacks. The fawn leather loafers on his feet looked like Italian designer shoes. A brown suede jacket was casually slung over one shoulder. She guessed his age at about thirty, mature enough to have made his mark in some successful business, and carrying the confidence of being able to achieve anything he wanted.

Definitely a class act, Jenny decided, and wondered if he was idling away some time before a luncheon date, probably at the most expensive restaurant in the forum. It was almost noon. She half-expected some beautiful woman to appear and pluck him away. Which would be disappointing, but people like him weren’t usually interested in posing for a street artist.

Gradually it sank in that he was studying her, not how she worked. It was weird, being made to feel an object of personal interest to this man. She caught his gaze roving around the chaotic volume of her dark curly hair, assessing the features of her face, which to her mind were totally unremarkable, skating down her loose black tunic and slacks to the shabby but comfortable black walking shoes she’d been wearing since breaking her ankle.

Hardly a bundle of style, she thought, wishing he’d stop making her self-conscious. She tried to block him out, concentrating on finishing the portrait of the teenager. Despite keeping her focus on her subject, her awareness of him did not go away. He remained a dominating presence on the periphery of her vision, moving purposefully to centre stage and taking the chair vacated by the teenager as the sale of the completed portrait was being transacted.

Jenny took a deep breath before resuming her own seat. Her nerves had gone all edgy, which was ridiculous. She’d wanted to draw this man, he was giving her the opportunity. Yet her hand was slightly tremulous as she picked up a fresh stick of charcoal, and the blank page on the easel suddenly seemed daunting. She had to steel herself to look directly at him. He smiled at her and her heart actually fluttered. The smile made him breathtakingly handsome.

‘Do you work here every day?’ he asked.

She shook her head. ‘Wednesday to Sunday.’

‘Not enough people here on Monday and Tuesday?’

‘Those days are usually slow.’

He tilted his head, eyeing her curiously. ‘Do you like this kind of chancy existence?’

She instantly bridled at this personal probe. It smacked of a much superior existence, which he had probably enjoyed all his life. ‘Yes, I do. I don’t have to answer to anyone,’ she said pointedly.

‘You prefer to be independent.’

She frowned at his persistence. ‘Would you mind keeping still while I sketch?’

In short, shut up and stop disturbing me.

But he wasn’t about to take direction from her. He probably didn’t take direction from anyone.

‘I don’t want a still-life portrait,’ he said, smiling the heart-fluttering smile again. ‘Just capture what you can of me while we chat.’

Why did he want to chat?

He couldn’t be attracted to her. It made no sense that a man like him would take an interest in a woman so obviously beneath his status. Jenny forced herself to draw the outline of his head. Getting his hair right might help her with the more challenging task of capturing his face.

‘Have you always wanted to be an artist?’ he asked.

‘It’s the one thing I’m good at,’ she answered, feeling herself tense up at being subjected to more curiosity.

‘Do you do landscapes as well as portraits?’

‘Some.’

‘Do they sell?’

‘Some.’

‘Where might I buy one?’

‘At Circular Quay on Mondays and Tuesdays.’ She flashed him an ironic look. ‘I’m a street vendor and it’s tourist stuff—the harbour, the bridge, the opera house. I doubt you’d be interested in buying.’

‘Why do you say that?’

‘I think a name artist would be more your style.’

He didn’t rise to the note of derision in her voice, affably remarking, ‘You might make a name for yourself one day.’

‘And you want the pleasure of discovering me?’ she mocked, not believing it for a moment and feeling more and more uneasy about why he was engaging in this banter with her.

‘I’m here on a journey of discovery.’

The whimsical statement teased her into asking, ‘Where are you from?’

‘Italy.’

She studied his face; smooth olive skin, definitely a Roman nose, and that sensual mouth seemed to have Latin lover written all over it. His being Italian was not surprising. As she started sketching his features, she commented, ‘If you wanted a taste of Venice, surely it would have been much easier to go there.’

‘I know Venice very well. My mission is of a more personal nature.’

‘You want to find yourself?’ she tossed at him flippantly.

He laughed. It gave his striking face even more charismatic appeal. Jenny privately bet he was a devil with women and wished she could inject that appeal into his portrait, but the vibrant expression was gone before she could even begin to play with it on paper. The sparkle in his eyes gave way to a look of serious intent—a look that bored into her as though determined on penetrating any defensive layer she could put between them.

‘I came for you, Isabella.’

His soft and certain use of her friend’s name shocked her into staring at him. How could he know it? She signed her portraits Bella, not Isabella. Her mind reeled back over this whole strange encounter with him; the fact that he didn’t fit her kind of clientele, his too-acute observation of her, his curiosity about her work, the personal questions. A sense of danger clanged along her nerves. Was she about to be unmasked as a fraud?

No!

He thought she was Bella. Which meant he hadn’t known her friend. He must have got the name from one of the stall-holders who knew her as Isabella Rossini. Was he playing some supposedly seductive pick-up game with her? But why would he?

‘I beg your pardon!’ she said with as much indignation as she could muster, hating the idea of him digging for information about her, and thinking he could get some stupid advantage from it.

He gestured an apology. ‘Forgive me for not being more direct in my approach. The estrangement in our family makes for a difficult meeting and I hoped to ease into it. My name is Dante Rossini. I’m one of your cousins and I’m here to invite you back to Italy for a reunion with all your other relatives.’

Jenny was totally stricken by this news. Bella had told her she had no family. There’d been no talk of any connections in Italy. But if there had been an estrangement, perhaps she’d never heard of them, believing herself truly orphaned by the plane crash which had killed her parents. On the other hand, was this man telling the truth? Even if he was, how would Bella have responded to it? No one from Italy had cared about her all these years. Why bother now?

Fear fed the burst of adrenaline that drove her to her feet. Fear chose the words that sprang off her tongue. ‘Go away!’

That jerked him out of his air of relaxed confidence.

Jenny didn’t wait for a response to her vehement command. She slammed down the stick of charcoal, ripped the half-done portrait off the easel, crumpled the sheet of paper up in her hands and threw it in the wastebin to punctuate an emphatic end to this encounter.

‘I don’t know what you want but I want no part of it. Just go away!’ she repe ated, her eyes stabbing him with fierce rejection as he rose from the chair, suddenly taking on the appearance of a formidable antagonist.

‘That I cannot do,’ he stated quietly.

‘Oh, yes you can!’ Her mind wildly seized on rein forcements. ‘If you don’t I’ll go to the forum management, tell them you’re harassing me.’

He shook his head. ‘They won’t act against me, Isabella.’

‘Yes, they will. They’re very tight with security.’

He frowned at her. ‘I thought you knew the Rossini family owns all the Venetian Forums. That you chose to buy one of our apartments here in Sydney because of the family connection.’

Her mind completely boggled. Had Bella known this? She had never mentioned it. And what did he mean…all the Venetian Forums? Was there a worldwide network of them? If so, the Rossini family had to be mega-wealthy and no one was going to take her side against this man. She was trapped on his territory.

‘I’ve already spoken to the management here about you,’ he went on. ‘If you need them to identify me, assure yourself that I am who I say I am, I’m happy to accompany you to the admin office…’

‘No! I’m not accompanying you anywhere!’ she almost shouted at him in panic.

Her raised voice attracted the attention of passers-by, including Luigi, the photographer, who dropped his hustling for clients to stroll over and ask, ‘Having trouble here, Bella?’

She couldn’t rope him in to help her, not against the man who had the management in his pocket. Luigi depended on his job here. The two men were eyeing each other over—both macho Italian males—and the bristling tension told her neither one of them was about to back down.

‘It’s okay, Luigi. Just a family fight,’ she said quickly. He would understand that. Her experience of working in the forum had taught her that all Italian families got noisy over a dispute and were best left to themselves to sort out the problem.

‘Well, tone it down,’ he advised. ‘You’ll be scaring customers away.’

‘Sorry,’ she muttered.

He shrugged and moved off, tossing an airy wave at Dante. ‘Make him take you to lunch. He looks as though he can afford it. A bit of vino…’

‘Excellent idea!’ her nemesis agreed. ‘I’ll help you pack up, Isabella.’

He turned and collected the folding chair he’d been sitting on before Jenny could say a word. She felt totally undermined by his arrogant confidence, helpless to fight the situation, yet desperate to escape it. He wasn’t family to her, and what had seemed a harmless deception—a temporary lifeline that would help her and not hurt anyone—was turning into a murky mess that she didn’t know how to negotiate.

‘Why turn up now? Why?’ she demanded of him as he carried the chair over to where she stood beside the easel.

‘Circumstances change.’ He flashed that smile again. At close quarters it probably made every woman go weak at the knees and Jenny was no exception. Dante Rossini had megawatt sex appeal. ‘Let me explain over lunch,’ he added, his dark-chocolate eyes warm enough to melt resistance, his voice a persuasive purr.

Her spine tingled. Her heart pounded in her ears. Her mind screamed danger. No way could she give in to the charm of the man. If she didn’t somehow extricate herself from this situation, it would lead to terrible trouble.

‘You’re too late,’ she blurted out. It was the truth. Bella was dead. But she couldn’t reveal that. ‘I don’t need you in my life. I don’t want you,’ she threw at him, wildly hoping he would accept that his mission was futile.

‘Then why set yourself up in the Venetian Forum?’ he shot at her, his eyes hardening with disbelief at her hysterical claims.

Bella had set her up. Confusion roared through Jenny. Had there been some artful plan behind her friend’s kindness in inviting her to share the apartment, getting her employed here by using the Rossini name? Had Bella imagined it might catch the attention of the forum management enough to mention it to the Rossini family?

Was I bait?

Her first meeting with Bella…the offer that had seemed too good to be true…wanting to believe luck had smiled on her for once. Jenny shook her head. It was all irrelevant now. She shouldn’t have stayed on, using Bella’s name, getting herself in this awful tangle.

‘Think what you like,’ she snapped at the cousin who’d come too late. ‘I’m out of here.’

She instantly busied herself, packing up the easel, her inner agitation making her hurry so much she fumbled and dropped the box of charcoal sticks. He swooped and picked it up, holding it out to her, making it impossible to completely ignore him. He was still holding her fold-up chair, as well.

‘Thanks,’ she muttered, snatching the box from him, stowing it in the carry-case.

‘I’m not about to go away, Isabella,’ he warned.

Her nerves quivered, sensing the relentless force of the man. With all that wealth and power behind him, he was undoubtedly used to people falling in with him. Being rebuffed and rejected would sting his ego, make him more persistent. It was imperative now to plan a disappearing act, get back to the apartment, pack only essentials, catch a bus, a train, a plane…anything that took her away. He wouldn’t look for Jenny Kent. She was of no interest to him.

The carry-case was ready to go. She folded up the stool she used when sketching, tucked it under one arm, then steeled herself to face Dante Rossini and put an end to this danger-laden meeting. It took all her willpower to lift her gaze to his and hold it steady as she spoke to him, pouring a tone of flat finality into her voice.

‘Don’t waste any more of your time. Isabella Rossini has not occupied any place in your family all these years and that isn’t about to change because you suddenly want it to.’ She held out her hand. ‘Just give me the chair and let me go.’

He shook his head, unable to come to grips with her stance, not about to accept it, either.

Jenny panicked at the thought of having to endure more argument from him. ‘Keep it then,’ she cried, her hand jerking in a wave of dismissal as she turned away and forced her trembling legs to march across the forum, heading for the elevator that would shut him out and take her up to the apartment he couldn’t enter.

The chair didn’t matter.

It would have to be left behind anyway.

The only way to disappear was to travel lightly, go fast and far, leaving no trace for anyone to pick up.


CHAPTER FOUR

DANTE had never failed to deliver what his grandfather asked of him. Failure in this instance was unthinkable. He had to get Isabella Rossini to Capri.

He followed her determined walk away from him, staying a few steps behind, not attempting to catch up with her. He needed time to process her reaction, make some sense of it before tackling her unreasonable negativity again. He had anticipated a pleased response. The fact that she’d chosen to live and work at the Sydney forum after losing her parents had suggested a wish for contact with the family. He now had to get his head into gear to deal with something entirely different.

Angry pride?

A fierce independence, grown out of being left to fend for herself for so long?

There’d been fear in her eyes just before she’d turned her back on him. Fear of what? Change? The unknown?

Beautiful eyes. Even without any artful makeup they were stand-out eyes, their amber colour quite fascinating, shaded by long, thick curly lashes. He liked her wide, generous mouth, too, another stand-out feature in her rather angular face. Her hair was an unruly mop, but take her to a good stylist, get it shaped right, hand her over to a beautician to polish up the raw material, put her in some designer clothes—her figure was thin enough under that shapeless black gear to wear them well—and Lucia would be as jealous as sin over her newly discovered cousin.

And spitting chips over another grand-daughter to inherit some of Marco’s estate.

The money…

He could use that as a bargaining tool. Isabella’s parents had left her enough to buy the apartment but little more than that. She wouldn’t have to work another day in her life if she pleased Marco. She could live like Lucia, being pampered in the lap of luxury. No woman in the world would knock that back. He just had to lay it on thickly enough for Isabella to take the bait.

Confidence renewed, Dante quickened his pace. She was heading into the passageway where the elevator to the south bank of apartments was housed. He glanced up, smiling at the colourful concoction the architect had designed—pink, lemon, green, red, blue, orange, purple—reminiscent of the brightly painted houses on the islands of Murano and Burano, a short ferry ride from Venice. Isabella’s apartment was the purple one on the third floor. She had pots of pink geraniums on her balcony, a nice homely touch.

I don’t need you in my life.

Dante’s chest tightened as he remembered those vehement words. Maybe she didn’t, but she could give up two months of it for Marco. Especially when the reward would be substantial. He’d pay her himself—upfront—if she doubted there was a pot of gold at the end of this trip. He’d spent thousands on Anya Michaelson to keep her sweet while he wanted her. He didn’t care how much it cost him to give his grandfather the solace of making some peace with the past before he died.

Her finger jabbed the elevator button—an action of haste and anxiety. In her fast flight across the square, she hadn’t once glanced back to check on what he was doing. Nor did she acknowledge his presence when he stood beside her, waiting for the elevator doors to open. She stared rigidly ahead as though he didn’t exist.

Dante was not accustomed to being ignored. As much as he told himself not to be piqued by her behaviour—it would change soon enough with the lure of wealth—it took a considerable effort not to reveal any vexation when he spoke.

‘I’m sorry I’ve upset you, Isabella. That wasn’t my intention,’ he assured her quietly.

No reply. Her jaw tightened. Dante imagined her clenching her teeth, denying the possible spilling of any more words to him. The stubborn stance irked him further. She was throwing out a challenge he’d take great satisfaction in winning, if only to see that rude rigidity wilt.

‘I’d appreciate it if you’d listen to a proposition which is very much to your advantage,’ he said, wondering if the blank wall she was holding was actually a negotiation tactic. Resistance virtually guaranteed being offered more.

The elevator doors opened. Her head jerked towards him. Her eyes slashed him with a cut-throat look. ‘I’m not interested!’

Having punched out those decisive words, she stepped into the small compartment and hit the button for her floor.

Dante stepped in after her.

She glared at him, clearly seething with frustration. ‘I told you…’

‘I’m carrying your chair up for you,’ he said blandly. ‘You are rather loaded down with the rest of your working gear.’

She rolled her eyes away. The doors closed and she pointedly watched for the floor numbers to flash up, once again set on ignoring him. He noted that every line of her body was tense, fighting the pressure of his presence. She might be ignoring him but she was acutely aware of him.

A pity she was his cousin. He’d like nothing better than to have her at his mercy on a bed, begging him to do whatever he wanted with her. Now that would be very satisfying—seeing her stiff body quivering, surrendering to his will! But a bit too incestuous, given the close blood link. His grandfather wouldn’t approve of that tactic.

The sexual scenario raised the possibility that her love life might be a barrier. ‘Is Luigi your boyfriend?’

The question startled her from her fixation on the upward journey of the elevator. ‘No.’ Worry carved a line between her brows. ‘So don’t pester him on my behalf. He’s just a fellow worker. And don’t go looking for other boyfriends, either, because there isn’t one.’

‘Good! No one to object to your coming to Italy with me.’

‘Will you get it through your head I’m not going anywhere with you!’ she cried in exasperation.

‘Why not? There’s nothing that can’t be put on hold here. Why not satisfy a natural curiosity about the family you’ve never met?’

A frantic, cornered look in her eyes.

Was it a daunting prospect for her? Did she see herself being critically examined by a bunch of strangers?

‘My grandfather…your grandfather…wants you with him, Isabella,’ he pressed, then played his trump card. ‘Marco is a very wealthy man. If you grant his wish, he will shower riches on you, give you access to more money than you’ve ever dreamed of. Financially your future—’

‘I don’t want his money!’

Horror on her face. Her whole body shuddered in recoil from the idea. Dante was so stunned by her reaction, he was totally at a loss to know what line of persuasion to try next. This woman was impossible. It was utter madness to be repulsed by the promise of financial security for the rest of her life.

The elevator came to a halt. She rushed out of it the moment the doors were open enough to make an exit, pelting along the corridor to her apartment as though the hounds of hell were snapping at her heels. Dante followed, grimly determined to get to the bottom of this crazy conundrum.

She shoved the key in the lock, was pushing against the door even before it opened. Dante knew she’d whirl inside and shut him out, given half a chance. He barged straight in after her before she could do it, not caring how outraged she’d be by the action. He’d run out of patience with trying to reason with her. If he had to tie her up and gag her, he would force her to listen to him long enough to be convinced that a trip to Capri was the best course for her to take.

‘This is home invasion!’ she yelled at him, her chest heaving in agitation. Nice breasts, Dante couldn’t help noting.

‘No reasonable person would think so. You didn’t object to my carrying up the chair for you,’ he calmly reminded her. ‘Perfectly natural for me to step into your apartment with it.’

She dropped the carry-case containing her easel. The stool which had been tucked under her arm clattered to the floor. She reached out, grabbed the folded chair from him, and pointedly let it fall on top of the carry-case. Clenched hands planted themselves aggressively on her hips. Her eyes blazed rejection of any excuse he could give for entering her apartment without permission.

‘Now get out!’ she hurled at him.

‘Not until I get satisfaction.’

He pushed the door shut and stood against it, blocking any move she might make to open it again. Dante wondered if she was going to fly at him and try to punch him out. Her eyes were wildly measuring his physique. Maybe she sensed that she’d stirred a dangerous male savagery in him, a savagery that would take pleasure in forcefully restraining any physical attack she made. His own hands were itching to demonstrate some mastery over her. She stepped back from the simmering flashpoint, lifted her chin to a defiant angle and spat out her next line of action.

‘If you don’t go right now, I’ll call the police.’

‘Go ahead. Call them,’ he challenged without a flicker of care, confident of justifying his presence here.

She visibly dithered over the decision.

‘While we’re waiting for them to come, you can do me the courtesy of listening to why your grandfather wants you to visit him.’

She flinched at the mention of Marco, as though the idea of a grandfather wanting her was painful. Dante wished he knew what was going on in her head. He hated dealing blindly. But listening to him was a lot less bother for her than answering to the police, so he expected to win this round.

‘Promise me you’ll leave when you finish talking,’ she demanded, hating him for forcing the choice.

He held up his hand. ‘Word of honour.’ He wasn’t about to finish talking until she agreed to come with him.

She heaved a sigh, then with a much put-upon air, moved into the sitting room and settled herself in a bucket chair, hands folded in her lap, looking at him stony-faced. She reminded Dante of a rebellious student having to endure an unfair lecture from a headmaster before she could escape.

He propped himself on the well-padded armrest of a sofa, commanding the space between her and the door. ‘What did your father tell you about the family rift?’ he asked, wondering if his uncle Antonio had painted Marco in some false light to favour himself.

She shook her head. ‘You talk. I’ll listen.’

He talked, repeating his grandfather’s story of what had led up to Antonio’s banishment, filling in some facts about the rest of the family, the death of his own parents, Marco’s grief at having lost two sons, the cancer that decreed he had only three months left to live—one month already gone—his search for Antonio which had led to Isabella, his wish to see her, get to know her.

He played on gaining her sympathy and was gratified when he saw tears well into her eyes. Sure that he could now clinch her co-operation, he finished with, ‘He’s dying, Isabella. The time is so short. If you can find it in your heart to give…’

‘I can’t!’ she cried, covering her face with her hands as she sobbed, ‘I’m sorry…sorry…’

‘I’ll organise everything, make it easy for you,’ Dante pressed.

‘No…no…you don’t understand,’ she choked out.

‘No, I don’t. Please tell me.’

She dragged her hands down her tear-streaked face, gulped in air, and raised a wet, bleak gaze to his. ‘It’s too late,’ she cried in a grief-stricken voice. ‘Bella died in a car accident six months ago. I thought she had no one. I didn’t think it would matter if I took her identity for a while. I’m sorry…sorry that your grandfather thinks she’s alive. Oh God!’ she shook her head in wretched regret. ‘I didn’t mean to hurt anyone.’

Dante was totally floored. He’d been sent on an impossible mission. Another death. He closed his eyes, shutting out the imposter, thinking of his grandfather who’d been fooled into believing he had another Isabella who might look like his beloved wife. Everything within him railed against delivering such a devastating disappointment.

Anger stirred. Why hadn’t the private investigators picked up the identity swap? How had this woman deceived everyone? No problem now in understanding her responses to him. She’d been scared out of her mind about getting tripped up. He opened his eyes to glare furious hostility at her.

‘Explain to me how you managed to take Isabella’s place without anyone questioning it,’ he commanded, pushing himself upright and walking over to where she sat, standing over her, using deliberate intimidation to draw what he wanted out of her.

She didn’t try to fight him this time. Her connection to his cousin poured from her in a stream of pleading for his understanding…how she’d come to share Isabella’s apartment and use her name to get employment at the forum, the car accident, her friend burnt beyond recognition, her own identification cards destroyed in the fire, the mistake made by the authorities because of a handbag she’d been holding when she’d been thrown clear…

‘I remembered afterwards that was why I’d taken off my seat belt. Bella was driving and she asked me to get a bag of sweets out of her handbag which she’d thrown onto the back seat. I couldn’t reach with my seat belt on, so I unclipped it and leaned through the gap between the front seats, hooked my hand around the shoulder strap and dragged it onto my lap.’

‘Her handbag must have contained her driver’s licence,’ Dante tersely pointed out. ‘The identification photo…’

‘It wasn’t a good one of her. We both had long curly hair, hers darker, but that could have been from bad lighting when the camera shot was taken, and she was smiling so you couldn’t tell her mouth wasn’t as wide as mine. Her eyes were squinted up so their different shape wasn’t so obvious, and I guess my face was bruised and puffy from the accident, making it look rounder. Even so, there was enough doubt about who I was for the police to call in the employment manager from the forum to identify me and because of my working under Bella’s name…’

‘Very convenient for you.’

She flushed at his acid sarcasm. ‘I was in a coma for two weeks after the accident. The identification was made while I was still unconscious. I didn’t know about it until after I woke up, and then all the medical staff was calling me Miss Rossini…and I let them. I let them because I had nowhere else to go and I needed recovery time from my other injuries, and I didn’t think Bella would mind…’

‘How could she?’ Dante savagely mocked. ‘She was dead.’

‘Yes,’ she agreed miserably. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t know about you. Bella told me she was an orphan like me. No family. I didn’t think it mattered when the police came again after I woke from the coma and I identified the driver as my flatmate, Jenny Kent…a nobody who wasn’t connected to anyone. And that was the end of it.’





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