Книга - The Italian’s Vengeful Seduction

The Italian's Vengeful Seduction
Bella Frances


Tycoon Marco Borsatto once gave Stacey Jackson her first taste of heart-stopping pleasure… only to devastate her with accusations of treachery. Ever since, waitress Stacey has buried any hint of vulnerability behind a cool façade – she refuses to open herself up to hurt again.Except Marco isn’t a man to forgive and forget! When he rescues Stacey from another man, one look at Stacey’s luscious form is enough to remind him of her bitter betrayal – and the electrifying magnetism that they never fully explored!There’s no way Marco will allow Stacey to slip through his fingers again: his touch will be his vengeance!







His tantalizing revenge!

Tycoon Marco Borsatto gave Stacey Jackson her first taste of pleasure...only to devastate her with accusations of treachery. Ever since, waitress Stacey has buried any hint of vulnerability behind a cool facade—she refuses to open herself up to hurt again.

Except Marco isn’t a man to forgive and forget! When he rescues Stacey from another man, one look at Stacey’s luscious form is enough to remind him of her bitter betrayal—and their electrifying magnetism!

Marco won’t allow Stacey to slip through his fingers again: his touch will be his vengeance!


‘Drive…’ Stacey breathed. ‘Please.’

‘The least I can do,’ the guy said as he put his foot to the floor, and she felt a wrench as the force of acceleration pulled her back. She let out a gasp and automatically grabbed the seat belt.

‘It’s Ok. You’re safe with me,’ he said, looking round at her as he put more distance between them and Decker’s.

I’m safe with no man, she thought to herself. But she said nothing—only stared out of the passenger window at the blurry urban scenery.

‘It’s Ok. Try to relax. I’m taking you to hospital—to get checked out.’

Stacey squeezed her eyes shut and shook her head. Why did men always think they knew best?

‘Seriously, I don’t want to go to any hospital. I don’t need a bunch of X-rays.’

‘You don’t know what you need, Stacey Jackson. You never did.’

She jolted as if she’d been hit by the car all over again. She turned to face the guy. One of his eyebrows shot up in a way she knew so well. And then it all fell into place.

Her heart pulsed right up into her throat. As if she were watching an old reel of film, Stacey looked on helplessly as scene after scene of sunshine, pleasure and then hard, dark pain flashed through her mind. Marco Borsatto. The boy from the right side of the tracks—the boy she’d fallen so helplessly in love with. The boy she’d thought had fallen helplessly in love with her…


Claimed by a Billionaire (#u6a149749-4e16-56fb-8cad-b1894afc20fe)

Commanding and charismatic, these men take what they want—and who they want!

Dante Hermida, polo-player and playboy extraordinaire, meets the only woman to tame him in

The Argentinian’s Virgin Conquest

April 2017

Billionaire tycoon Marco Borsatto has never forgiven Stacey Jackson’s betrayal, but he’s never forgotten their chemistry… Meeting her again, he’s determined that this time she will never forget him!

The Italian’s Vengeful Seduction

May 2017

You won’t want to miss this dramatically intense, scorchingly sexy duet from Bella Frances!


The Italian’s Vengeful Seduction

Bella Frances






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


Unable to sit still without reading, BELLA FRANCES first found romantic fiction at the age of twelve, in between deadly dull knitting patterns and recipes in the pages of her grandmother’s magazines. An obsession was born! But it wasn’t until one long, hot summer, after completing her first degree in English literature, that she fell upon the legends that are Mills & Boon books. She has occasionally lifted her head out of them since to do a range of jobs, including barmaid, financial adviser and teacher, as well as to practise (but never perfect) the art of motherhood on two (almost grown-up) cherubs.

Bella lives a very energetic life in the UK, but tries desperately to travel for pleasure at least once a month—strictly in the interests of research! Catch up with her on her website at bellafrances.co.uk (http://bellafrances.co.uk/).

Books by Bella Frances

Mills & Boon Modern Romance

The Playboy of Argentina

Claimed by a Billionaire

The Argentinian’s Virgin Conquest

Mills & Boon Modern Tempted

The Scandal Behind the Wedding Dressed to Thrill

Visit the Author Profile page

at millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk) for more titles.


For my hero,

my Julian.


Contents

Cover (#uc486d104-0019-5981-a211-cc671bb99eca)

Back Cover Text (#u0ad7264a-c3e1-5d9f-ac9f-d0791ca5efc0)

Introduction (#u55d2dffe-6628-56c0-8672-1478ae0d29c5)

Claimed by a Billionaire (#u4c6826f9-0b45-5bab-aa05-430e78f2f5a1)

Title Page (#uea01c891-2425-5af9-89ea-b5f3ecefb83a)

About the Author (#u290dc197-1aef-53a5-8ce3-ad09755446f8)

Dedication (#u1e4a7489-fb1a-5afd-b29d-30b10344b2fc)

CHAPTER ONE (#u2e5c3aaa-ff86-521e-8472-154461f07df1)

CHAPTER TWO (#u4a0e1c74-5ec1-5b83-adb2-235e14a9211e)

CHAPTER THREE (#u5336f557-d319-5ea1-ba43-3551e7b7a7c1)

CHAPTER FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER THIRTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER FOURTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

Extract (#litres_trial_promo)

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)


CHAPTER ONE (#u6a149749-4e16-56fb-8cad-b1894afc20fe)

STACEY JACKSON WAS nobody’s plaything. She reminded herself of that as she pressed a knuckle to the corner of her left eye and stopped dead the spring of hot, fat tears that swelled there. She was nobody’s plaything and she was nobody’s fool. And she was not going to apologise to any man—best customer included—for saying so.

So she’d lose her job. Again. But she was getting tired of Decker’s Casino anyway. The late nights, the long shifts, the Perma-smile—being a croupier was exhausting.

And if that wasn’t bad enough, being made to wear this stupid dress was the last straw.

If you could even call it that. Some strips of fabric held together by luck and pulled apart by filthy imaginations.

It made her look more like a hooker than Bruce’s private dancers—which she’d told him as soon as she’d seen it. He’d told her to shut her mouth and get on with it. Which she had—she needed the money. But the minute she’d leaned across the roulette wheel, right in front of him and his sleazy customers, she’d seen their hungry glances and felt a prickle of anger race up her spine. And then her mouth had gone into gear.

Didn’t it always? And it always ended the same way.

Stacey lifted her finger and saw that her cats’ eye liquid eyeliner was blurred now. She fished in the purse that dangled from her wrist, pulled out the pencil and slicked it back into place like the expert she was. Lipstick next—and then she stared at her face. The one that had got her into so much trouble over the years. She was twenty-six, and the hard times still weren’t showing, but how much longer could she really expect to cash in on it? It had got her the job here at Decker’s—and every other job before that. It wasn’t that she wanted to look bad! But would it hurt for people to take her a little more seriously and see more than just a piece of ass and a pair of double Ds?

Her blue eyes flashed defiantly. Her father’s eyes.

‘You have to love yourself before anyone else will love you,’ he had said. Easy for him. His last act of love had been to ruffle her hair, hop up into his trailer and take the interstate to As Far Away from Here as Possible.

Stacey bit down on her lip to scorch the memory. The last thing she could afford was any sentimentality. She was going to clear out right now. She wouldn’t wait around to be fired. Bruce could roll his own damn dice. She’d walk out, collect her stuff from that crummy apartment and get a bus to New York City.

Why not? She’d tried her hand at Atlantic City, and she’d tried her hand on the cruise ships. There had to be somewhere in this world she’d fit in. Because one thing was for sure—there was no way she was going back to the End of the World, Long Island, until she’d done something to put the gossips in their place.

She pressed her lips together and checked her teeth for lipstick.

Yep, when she rolled back into Montauk she was going to be settled, sorted and sane. She was going to have a great job and a nice apartment. And a boyfriend, maybe. A nice, ordinary guy who worked hard and had good values. Dependable and decent. A man who would cherish her and look after her. No big car, no big money. No hotshot, no over-achiever. Definitely no high-roller.

But first she needed to get out of here.

She rubbed her teeth with her finger, smoothed and patted her hair, and readjusted the straps across her chest. She opened the door and took five steps across the dark cabaret floor.

Glasses were piled up at the corner of the bar, the gantry was lit from below, and the stark scent of booze and despair was all around. It seemed so rancid now, but she’d be the first to admit that she’d ignored the truth about Bruce running things in ‘a certain way’. To him, everything and everyone was a commodity. Nobody and nothing mattered. There had to be more to life than rolling dice for a man like him.

She tiptoed past the door of the private casino, where he was waiting, and caught sight of her reflection in the mirrored doors. At least the dress had a designer label—she would be able to sell it in a heartbeat. And she would—as soon as she got to New York. It would make up for some of the back pay and pooled tips she was owed, because she sure wasn’t going to get any of that now.

Ahead was the sunken black mat that declared its seedy welcome to Decker’s Casino. She stepped on it and consciously ground the ball of her foot into his name. The automatic doors slid open and she slipped out and down the short flight of steps onto the street.

It had been a crisp, cold night when she’d entered and now it was a hot, clear day. She held a hand up to shield her eyes and felt sunbeams dance on her skin. The sensation of heat warmed more than just her bare arms—being out in the air, in the light, felt...free. But she wasn’t dumb enough to imagine she was anywhere close to being in the clear. Not with no job and a twenty grand debt to pay off, courtesy of one Marilyn Jane Jackson—her mother.

She couldn’t criticise her—not in a million years. Her mother was proud. She’d never ask for help. And Stacey knew all she’d have been trying to do was put on a show for ‘those mean-mouthed gossips’. New curtains and new clothes. Stacey knew exactly where all those crazy ideas had come from. With no man in her life her mother had lost sight of the important things. She didn’t judge her. God knew there were enough judges sitting on their porches in Montauk.

‘Hey, where do you think you’re going?’

Damn, her five-minute window of opportunity was closed. She glanced back and there was Bruce himself, like a raging pink-faced bull, standing at the top of the steps.

She spun round.

‘Get back here now—you’ve got to earn that dress.’

Despite all her big talk, Stacey felt her heart thunder. Bruce was a scary guy, and no one ever spoke back to him—least of all a woman. She’d given him both barrels in front of everybody before she’d run off to the bathroom. Staff. Customers. His horrible henchmen. No, this was not good at all.

She didn’t need to look to know that he had started down the steps. The pedestrian light flashed its Don’t Walk warning, but what else could she do?

She ran.

Horns sounded and cries went up. Her heel caught in the black jersey of the gown. Fleetingly she wondered how much she’d lose off the resale value, but then the gleaming black hood of a limousine seared her vision and the sense of impact crashed like cymbals in her mind.

Her thigh... Her knee... But miraculously as she slid down to the ground nothing else seemed to have been hit. She stumbled forward through more horns and cries and lines of cars revving and moving, and only then did she see the man.

From the limo’s driver’s door, emerging to stand tall and dark and incredibly like sweet salvation, a figure appeared and moved two paces into her path.

‘Here,’ was all he said.

And all she did was step forward and into his arms. There was no alternative. Some primeval part of her brain told her so.

She was aware of the cars, and she was aware of Bruce, but she was most aware of warmth and strength, of the opening of a car door and the sensation of leather, before all noise was extinguished and the door closed, sealing her in.

‘Drive,’ she breathed. ‘Please.’

‘The least I can do,’ the guy said, and he put his foot to the floor. She felt a wrench as the force of acceleration pulled her back. She let out a gasp and automatically grabbed the seat belt.

‘It’s okay. You’re safe with me,’ he said, looking round at her as he put more distance between them and Decker’s.

I’m safe with no man, she thought to herself, but she said nothing, only stared out of the passenger window at the blurry urban scenery. Her mind ran with possibilities—maybe Bruce had taken the car’s registration. If he had it was only a matter of time before some dirty cop was blackmailed into revealing its owner. No matter how much this guy thought he was leaving them behind, Bruce wouldn’t be that easy to shake off.

‘All right?’ he asked.

Stacey tried to calm her mind and shifted her gaze from the passing neon outside to the dust-free rows of knobs and dials inside. Now that she’d left Bruce on the pavement she had to make some decisions—and fast.

She glanced at the guy’s hand, resting easily on the steering wheel. His skin was the caramel colour of winter in Barbados. The fabric of his suit was the dark silk of merchant banks and private members’ clubs. And his scent was pure unadulterated Fortune 500.

She sat up a little in her seat, twisted her neck—which hurt—and tried to catch a few more details. It had been a long time since she’d been this close to this kind of wealth, but she’d been around money growing up, so she could grade men in order of the zeros in their bank account at thirty paces. This one had zeros galore. She’d bet he was thoroughbred—townhouse in Manhattan, ranch in Montana, villa in Barbados.

That didn’t faze her. Give her dirt-poor and decent any day of the week. Some people seemed to think money was their passport to be downright mean. She felt her hackles rise at the memory and twisted round further to get a better look, but the pain in her neck caused her to flinch.

‘It’s okay. Try to relax. I’m taking you to hospital—to get checked out.’

Stacey stared out of the window anxiously. She didn’t have the money for medical bills and, whatever people might say about her, she wouldn’t take a dime she wasn’t owed from anybody.

‘I don’t think so,’ she said. ‘Just drop me at the bus station.’

‘Sure. But first you’ll be checked out. I’m taking you to St Bart’s. I’ll have you looked over by my physician. Once you’ve got the all-clear I’ll drop you off. Wherever.’

Stacey squeezed her eyes shut and shook her head. Why did men always think they knew best?

‘Seriously, I don’t want to go to any hospital. I don’t need a bunch of X-rays.’

‘You don’t know what you need, Stacey Jackson. You never did.’

She jolted as if she’d been hit by the car all over again. She turned to face the guy. One of his eyebrows had shot up in a way she knew so well. And then it all fell into place. Her heart pulsed right up into her throat.

As if she were watching an old reel of film, Stacey looked on helplessly as scene after scene of sunshine, pleasure and then hard, dark pain flashed through her mind. Marco Borsatto. The boy from the right side of the tracks. The boy she’d fallen helplessly in love with. The boy she’d thought had fallen helplessly in love with her.

Silly, trusting little fool that she’d been.

‘Marco. Well. Wow. What a small world.’

Her eyes widened now—she was back in the present. She tried to shift in her seat, away from him, but all she could feel was the jarring handle of the door and the pain that now seared through her body.

‘Indeed,’ he replied, turning back to the traffic as the Atlantic City scenery passed by in a blur. ‘I wasn’t sure it was you at first. But with a dramatic entrance like that—who else could it be?’

‘Dramatic?’

He raised that brow and slanted her a glance.

‘Dramatic,’ he said emphatically.

‘I guess you’re right,’ she said. ‘I was never much good at playing the shrinking violet.’

She looked at his profile as he chuckled. Wow. He looked better than she remembered. And he’d been the hottest guy ever back then.

Marco Borsatto. What could she say? How ironic that the last time she’d seen him had been the first time she’d staged one of her great escapes. The very reason she’d staged it. The day that the tear in her heart had become a gaping hole of hurt. Marco had been her one source of strength. The one person in that town of gossips and snobs she’d trusted. And he’d ended up being the one who drove her away.

‘So, apart from running dramatically into traffic, is it safe to say that life’s been good to you? You look—well...’

He tilted her another glance that took in the whole show. She looked down to see that the dress which had started out as barely decent was now bordering on the barely legal. She squirmed, and this time when she looked up his eyebrow had shot up again and his lip was distinctly curled.

‘Life’s been all right—thanks. I get by,’ she said, tugging the dress back into place as best she could.

‘You could have stopped the traffic even without throwing yourself at it. Good job the lights were just changing.’

‘I don’t normally dress like this—I was leaving work,’ she added defensively, but her words were muffled in a gasp of pain as the car hit a pothole.

‘No need to explain yourself to me,’ he said quickly. His voice was calm—and all that quiet control that she remembered was now laced with deep overtones of firm command.

‘And don’t worry—I’ll take care of anything that needs taking care of.’

Let me take care of you.

Stacey turned quickly to the window. The jolt of memory jarred like whiplash. Marco had been so kind to her once. He’d said those words. But she’d taken the kindness he’d offered and thrown it back in his face. Because girls like Stacey didn’t mix with the Marcos of this world. She wasn’t dumb enough to believe in fairy tales. In her world handsome princes disappeared, or turned into lazy, abusive, beer-swilling toads.

‘How long has it been?’ she asked. ‘You were—what?—nineteen last time I saw you in Montauk?’

‘Yes. Nineteen. Just before I hit the road. And you—you were still in high school?’

‘Yes, I was sixteen. Thought I knew it all.’

She’d been sixteen. She’d been a mess. She’d come home that night to find that her mother had sold the car—their last remaining luxury. She’d been fired from her part-time job for using her mouth against a customer who’d insulted her, and she’d learned she’d been given the Tramp of the Year award by her classmates. Yeah, she’d been a mess, all right. So when Marco had caught up with her and asked her if the rumours were true she’d laughed in his face.

Of course they were true. Did he think he was special?

He’d turned his back on her and she’d done what any abandoned daughter would have done. She’d gone looking for Daddy.

‘We all thought we knew it all,’ Marco said. ‘Comes with the territory. Refusing to listen and making the wrong choices. Isn’t that what growing up is all about?’

She rolled her eyes, remembering.

‘Are you talking about the night I left home?’

‘Not especially. But I reckon it kind of fits the bill,’ he said, smiling.

‘Okay, so hitch-hiking wasn’t my best plan—but how was I to know that my mother would mobilise everyone with a torch and a conscience. I was only gone three days.’

‘I know. I was there. Torch. Conscience. Ticket to Rio burning a hole in my back pocket.’

Stacey cringed, remembering. It had been the worst weekend of her life. She’d bounced like a boomerang from one disaster to another. Her hare-brained scheme about finding her dad had spectacularly backfired and she’d come home with no money and absolutely no illusions that he was anything other than a sorry, selfish excuse for a man.

‘Sorry I delayed your trip. But you made it to Rio in the end, right?’

He shook his head.

‘Not that year—change of plan. But it didn’t matter. I would have gone anywhere as long as it wasn’t Montauk.’

Stacey nodded. She knew exactly what he meant.

‘If I never see the End of the World, Long Island, again it’ll be too soon,’ she said.

They travelled for the next few minutes in silence, to the outskirts of town and the start of more exclusive addresses. Places where Marco would be right at home and where Bruce’s name probably wouldn’t cut it.

He turned the car into a lushly planted car park. A red cross and the words ‘St Bartholomew’s Medical Center’ in deeply etched silver writing warned in hushed tones that this was the domain of the elite. Exclusively. The building itself was solid and secure, white stone, and for a moment a sense of calm descended. She felt it. She sat. Still. Silent.

‘I don’t think this will take too long. Then you can be on your way. But if there is any damage don’t worry—I’ll cover it.’

‘Thanks,’ she managed to say. ‘Good of you.’

She reached for the handle.

‘Stacey. A moment.’

She swallowed, then turned—carefully. He was sitting back in his seat, one elbow on the armrest, one hand on his knee. The picture of easy, moneyed charm. Like a warm, sunny welcome after the grim, gritty night. Sure and solid and secure. Exactly how she’d once felt in his company. Safe from the never-ending stream of her mother’s suffocating worries.

Yes, he’d had it all back then—he’d even had a heart. Unlike most of his friends, she’d never thought him shallow. Or smug. Or arrogant. On the contrary. Somehow he’d made her feel—valuable. That she had as much to offer as any other human being. But it turned out that had all been in her imagination. Because at the end of the day as soon as he’d thought she was anything less than perfect he’d cast her aside faster than yesterday’s trash.

She took a second—took him in. God, but he was handsome. He had lost all the soft traces of boyhood and taken on the harder mantle of manhood. His eyes, dark and deep, were fixed onto hers. She’d always had a thing for dark-eyed men, and now she remembered this was where it had all begun. But no one had the full package like Marco—eyelashes short and thick, and long, wide brows that framed his dark, enigmatic look so perfectly. The blue-black shading of his stubble perfectly outlined his mouth and the blunt cut of his jaw.

She couldn’t draw her eyes away. The air in her lungs suddenly seemed to be completely lacking. His lips—those fabulous full lips that she remembered—parted. Then there was nothing but the shadow between them, the beat of her heart and the anticipation that rocketed all the way to throb between her legs.

‘Marco...’ she breathed.

He moved not a single muscle. There was just the flick of his eyes as they roamed across her face. He didn’t reach across to grab her, didn’t accidentally brush up against her leg—he even managed to keep his gaze above her jaw. He was completely and utterly impassive. And, worse, she felt that he was mocking her.

‘Put my jacket round your shoulders before we go inside. You’ll feel more comfortable.’

He opened the door and she hissed out the breath she’d been holding in. What a fool. What a fool! She had actually contemplated kissing him—kissing him! And—worse—she’d thought he was going to kiss her too. She must be out of her mind. After all this time? That bump had definitely gone to her head. She had to get her game on or she was going to let herself turn into a pile of mush.

And a woman with no home, no job and no money could not afford to be mushy.

Marco opened the door and stood there, ready to shield her with his jacket. She swung her legs out noting that the thigh-length split in the skirt of her dress was leaving even less to the imagination than the bodice. Another notch down in his estimation, no doubt. Ignoring the pain, she held on to the sides of the car and eased herself to her feet.

‘Too kind,’ she said, slipping her arms into the deep sleeves he held out and wrapping the navy silk jacket around her. He closed the door and clicked the remote key to lock it. Two beeps. One for every ten billion, she’d guess.

‘It’s not a problem,’ he said, every inch the uninterested chaperone.

She felt the weight of his world envelop her in heavy fabric and wide shoulders. It was as if gold had been spun into the cloth and wishes might fall out of the sleeves. Life was not fair. Not at all.

‘You’ve clearly done well for yourself, Marco. I think it was a beat-up farm truck I last saw you driving. Win a little on the slot machines?’

As soon as the words were out of her mouth she regretted them. His father had been a compulsive gambler. Damn. She scrunched her eyes closed, remembering.

‘I don’t gamble, Stacey—in fact I despise it.’

‘I’m sorry.’ It was all she could say, and she felt the thrust of his anger. ‘I forgot.’

‘I can’t forget. We lost everything due to my father’s gambling. Everything.’

She knew. It had been the very thing that had bound them together at one point—Marco’s rapid fall from the elite ranks of Montauk society all the way down to the gutter. All the way, but not quite. He was a Borsatto after all.

‘If I had my way I’d shut down every toxic casino in this town. And the others.’

‘I’m glad not everybody sees it that way. I’ve made a living from them one way or another these past ten years.’

‘You’re entitled to your view,’ he said, as if it was the most stupid thing he’d ever heard. Then he turned and began to walk towards the building.

She watched his retreating back, outlined against the white marble.

So what if he’d lost it all? She’d never had it in the first place.

She started after him, her heels dragging on the gravel of the car park.

‘Not everyone who gambles is a loser, you know.’ She fired the words into his back.

He paused. ‘I guess not,’ he said, turning slowly, judging her.

In the smallest slide of his eyes he was telling her that she had been found completely and utterly lacking. He stood there, framed in the white-pillared entrance. Sheets of black glass wrapped around the building behind him. Sunlight sparkled.

‘But in my experience there are a hell of a lot more sinners than saints.’

‘More whores than Madonnas? Is that what you’re saying? Because I’m dressed like this?’

His mouth curved a little. He shook his head.

‘I was talking about the customers, Stacey. Not the staff.’

There she went again—jumping to conclusions and shooting her mouth off like an unmanned artillery gun. She threw him her worst possible look but he didn’t flinch.

‘You told me you don’t normally dress like that. So I assume it’s your “uniform” if you were working today?’

Before she got a chance to answer an immaculately presented woman in a sleeveless tailored dress and heels, with the most perfect hair Stacey had ever seen, clicked across the marble entrance, hand extended, smiling her Ivy League best.

‘Mr Borsatto, how pleasant to see you.’

‘Thank you, Lydia, nice to see you too. I’m afraid I haven’t got a scheduled appointment today, but I’d be obliged if you would arrange urgent scans for this lady.’

Stacey eyes flashed to the name badge which read ‘Executive Administrator’, whatever that was, even as the lovely Lydia arched her eyebrows then swept her with an all too familiar look. The one that said, What’s the likes of you doing with the likes of him? That said, You don’t belong here. The one that she’d endured over and over in her youth. That always ended with her losing her temper—because what gave them the right?

But then she looked at Marco, and for a moment she was right back in Montauk. Right back in the little café where she’d worked and where ‘the crowd’ had hung out. Where he’d keep his eyes on her in a long, intense stare, telling her he had her back.

Back then.

‘And we’ll need the best possible St Bart’s welcome, Lydia. Miss Jackson and I have had a minor traffic accident, unfortunately. But she’s kindly agreed to get herself checked out. Just to reassure me that she hasn’t done any lasting damage.’

Was she imagining it? Or was there a warning in those tones?

Whatever—the cold, calculating eyes of the other woman told Stacey that it didn’t make one blind bit of difference what Marco said. They both knew that she was a little plastic flower in his otherwise perfect garden. Here today, gone tomorrow. So don’t go getting any big ideas.

Stacey pulled Marco’s jacket round her shoulders. If the pink-faced, bull-headed Bruce Decker couldn’t get to her, there was no way on this earth that this pristine princess was going to.

‘Did you catch that, Lydia?’ she said, stalking right past her and slipping her a little of her best acid. ‘The. Best. Possible. St Bart’s. Welcome.’


CHAPTER TWO (#u6a149749-4e16-56fb-8cad-b1894afc20fe)

STACEY LIFTED ANOTHER glossy magazine and began to flick the pages noisily. She took a sip of the pretty spectacular Italian coffee they’d served her and remembered again that money wasn’t everything. But it sure could gild the world in a million beautiful ways.

This may be a hospital, she thought, but it oozes more luxury than a five-star hotel.

Even the scornful Lydia had been as good as instructed, and it was ‘no trouble at all’ to get Stacey everything Marco had asked for. And it seemed he had asked for everything. She’d been scanned and quizzed and prodded and now she was back in a private room, surrounded by all manner of things to eat or drink or read while she waited for some kind of decision.

She flicked on, through pages and pages of fashion, jewellery, homes and gossip. Exotic locations in European cities and tropical beaches. Jaw-droppingly handsome men and sombre-faced stick-thin women. Make-believe worlds that some people actually lived in.

People like Marco.

She looked up from the magazine to see he had stopped pacing for a moment and was sipping on a tiny espresso. Framed by two giant palms and some expressionist art, he was the very image of the self-made superhero. He could slide right onto the pages of this magazine and the world would sigh and drool and smile indulgently at how one man could have just so much going on.

He turned to put down the cup and walked out to take a call, and of course her eyes landed on the perfect male curve of his backside. His legs were clearly outlined in his trousers—strong and long. The man worked out. Of course he did. Back in the day he’d been an athlete and a team player. A hero and one of the crowd. Every single girl had wanted him to ask her out and every guy had wanted to be his buddy. The whole world had loved him.

And they still did. Including the crack team of nurses who kept zapping into her airspace like killer flies, patently ignoring Stacey while directing all their queries to him. It was as if he was some kind of deity, while she was completely invisible, or too stupid to know and understand what was happening to her. And it was sending that prickle of anger up her spine again.

‘Where is Mr Borsatto?’ asked Lydia, bustling in briskly for the third time.

‘I don’t know,’ drawled Stacey, deliberately feigning interest in her magazine. ‘Down the hallway doing some brain surgery?’

She ignored the tutting sound and continued to flick through the magazine. Everyone was getting on her nerves. The pain in her back had eased, but her head was pounding mercilessly and a purple bruise had begun to bloom along her thigh. That wasn’t their fault—she knew that—and if she was hostile to them it was because they were the kind of people who judged a person by net worth. It didn’t seem to matter what you brought to the table—it was all down to how much you had in the bank.

And pay-cheques didn’t write themselves, she reminded herself grimly. Her cheques from Decker’s were overdue and her fairy godmother was still AWOL. And this fabulous new job in New York City wasn’t going to happen by magic.

She had to go and find it herself. She’d wasted too much time here already.

She swung herself round and tried to stand up. Pain shot up her spine and her head throbbed and pulsed. Nausea heaved in her stomach and she gripped her brow and closed her eyes. She hadn’t slept in over eighteen hours and it was beginning to take its toll.

From the corridor came the unmistakably commanding voice of Marco. She could hear the dreaded word ‘concussion’ as the conversation moved itself towards her. That was the last thing she needed to know. She didn’t have time for it. She had a life to get on with.

‘Ready?’ he said, appearing round the door, with not-a-hair-out-of-place Lydia beside him.

‘Always,’ she said, swallowing down some bile and trying to stand as still as possible so as not to hurt her head.

They continued their conversation, still ignoring her.

Her head continued to pound. She needed to get out of here...lie down. Go and die quietly somewhere she didn’t need to listen to the vowels of the super-rich.

Marco picked up his jacket, still ignoring her. He held it out—an unasked-for modesty cloak in case her bare flesh offended any of the nice patients or staff in the hospital.

The prickle of anger became a surge that she couldn’t ignore. She stepped away from the bed and stood as upright as she could.

‘Hello! Over here! Anyone planning to tell me what’s happening? Or is it the kind of news that’s only shared with rich people?’

Marco turned to stare. He frowned, lowered the jacket.

‘Your scans are clear. Everything’s fine apart from the bruising.’

His eyes slid over her face, her neck and chest, and rested fleetingly on the slashes of fabric across her breasts. Just that, even now, still made her body pulse in anticipation.

‘You’re quite badly bruised.’

They both stared at her as if she was something the cat had dragged in. Dragged in to their state-of-the-art uptown hospital. What did they care about the person under the stupid dress? The working girl who’d ended up here because she’d had enough of being leered over and bullied? Who’d had enough and made one of her trademark escapes—right into the path of Mr Hotshot’s limo?

‘Yes, the bruises are from where I got hit on the leg, Marco,’ she said, and tugged at the thigh-length split in her skirt to expose the red and blue bruises. ‘By you.’

He stared. She bent her knee and twisted her leg like the best showgirl Vegas could offer.

Lydia tutted and bustled off out of sight.

‘Seen enough?’ she asked, staring right into his eyes.

‘I’ve seen far too much,’ he flashed right back.

‘Yeah, but you never got to touch—did you, Marco?’

‘One of the few who didn’t, Stacey. Let’s not forget that.’

Only once before in her life had Stacey felt a punch of pain so hard that tears had sprung and she hadn’t been able to hold them back. And it hadn’t been when her father had left and never come back. It hadn’t been when none of the girls had wanted to be her roommate at summer camp. And it hadn’t been when she’d hitched her way to Philly, to her dad’s new house, to find that he had a new wife and a new family and thought it would be better she didn’t visit, if it was all the same to her.

No, she’d managed to hold herself together each of those times. But then she’d returned from Philly and headed straight to the Meadows—longing to see Marco, longing to tell him she’d lied, that her anger had made her say those stupid things. Longing to tell him what she’d found out about her dad.

But Marco Borsatto had had his own troubles. That same day he’d been evicted. He’d had no time for a stupid girl who had caused the community such pain. That was when she’d first learned the true meaning of ‘breakdown’.

Now, just like then, her throat burned, her eyes burned and her chin wobbled uncontrollably. Her hand flew to her mouth and she stepped back—once, then twice. He would not see her like this—nobody would. She spun on her heel, looked for the door. Getting away from Marco Borsatto for a second time became the most important thing in her life.

‘No, you don’t—not again.’

She saw his reflection in the glass and felt his hand slide round her waist. He grabbed her against his side and without losing stride walked her right out of the room, along the corridor and through the sliding doors.

Her bruised leg bumped against his, and her neck seared with pain as she tried to wrench away, but the more she pulled the closer he held her.

Two beeps and she was back in the car. Two seconds and she was being driven away.

‘Make no mistake—I don’t want to spend any more time with you than you do with me. But for the next ten hours you’re a high-risk concussion patient. And, much as I would rather leave you in the capable hands of the staff at St Bart’s, I think they’ve had more than enough of your nonsense for one day.’

She said nothing. She saw nothing. A sob welled like lava in her chest. Her eyes burned like molten glass.

‘So you’ll come to my home for the night. You’ll stay there until I know you’re in the clear. And then you’ll get a cab to wherever you want. You might not have any shred of a conscience, Stacey, but I’ll be damned if I’ll have you on mine a second time. Got that?’

‘Consider yourself absolved,’ she spat, but her burning throat, aching head and lack of sleep coupled with her whole collapsing world dumbed it down to one thick sob that she stifled with her fist. She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand and twisted herself to the side, so she didn’t even have to breathe the same air as him.

‘If it wasn’t for your mother I’d put you in a cab to Montauk and send you back there. But she didn’t deserve your selfish histrionics back then and she doesn’t deserve them now. So let’s say you and I agree to put up with one another until you’ve calmed down and I can safely pass back the burden of responsibility to her.’

‘What are you talking about? The only person responsible for me is me.’

She felt the words but could barely say them—they wedged in her throat like hot bricks. Everything hurt...everything ached. But she kept her face to the side. She would not give him the satisfaction of seeing her so weak and vulnerable.

The car sped on.

Calls were placed and received.

He demanded and instructed and rattled off orders that made her head spin even more. A mechanic to check out his car, a pause on a half-dozen meetings, a bunch of flowers and a tennis bracelet to some woman whose shelf life had expired.

‘Address?’ he barked at one point.

She jumped but refused to look round.

‘Give me your address, Stacey, and I’ll get your stuff picked up. Unless you’ve got a better idea?’

Still she stared out of the window, the wonder of this whole unfolding drama making her feel more and more incredulous, more and more disorientated.

‘Am I too rich to deserve basic manners from you? Is that it? Is it only poor people who are worth bothering about?’

‘I can’t believe that I ever bothered about you, that’s for sure. I might have made a lot of mistakes back in the day, but thinking you were anything other than a giant egotistical hypocrite was the biggest.’

He barked out a laugh.

‘Still at it, Stacey? Still opening that mouth and firing out your poison darts? You still think that’ll fix all your problems, honey?’

‘Don’t “honey” me. I’m not your honey.’

‘Ain’t that the truth? You’re no one’s honey, are you? That would require you to be soft and sweet. You might look like butter wouldn’t melt, but all you want to do is bite people’s heads off. You know, I’ve been with you less than three hours and already I can feel my cortisol levels are sky-high. I live a pretty full-on life, and yet I haven’t felt this much stress since the last time I saw you—ten years ago—do you know that?’

‘Oh, I’m so sorry. I didn’t realise I was responsible for your stress levels. How selfish of me! To bounce off your car and then insist that you drive me to your fancy hospital with all those super-friendly people who made me feel so at home. And then I beg you to make me stay overnight in your house while you threaten me with my mother! I am beyond inconsiderate.’

‘This sarcasm is a new and even more unattractive trait.’

‘Even more unattractive than I already am? Wow. I’ve hit pay-dirt!’

‘Enough!’

He had stopped the car outside a huge pair of gates. He pulled on the brake so quickly that she slammed back in her seat. For a second they both froze, and in the startled moment that followed she thought she saw a flash of concern and an apology hovering at his mouth. But he shook his head and growled, unbuckled his seat belt and swivelled right round to face her.

‘That’s just about as much as I can bear to hear. What the hell’s got into you? You know damn well that you were the most attractive girl I ever knew.’

Stacey stared, shocked. Marco’s jaw was fixed and tense, his lips an angry line. His eyes blazed. In the still of the moment all she could hear were their breaths, shallow, panting, slightly out of synch.

He was so close now that she could see faint lines around his eyes—lines that had never been there before. Lines from laughter and sunshine that she had never shared with him. Lines from good times in faraway places with people she would never know. She’d made him laugh once. They’d had so much to laugh about back in Montauk.

There was no laughter now.

Tension. Tight across the breadth of his shoulders and in the thick column of his neck. She noticed now the full bloom of his masculinity—the man who had once been the boy. The boy she had once loved.

‘You are a very attractive girl,’ he added, his voice quieter now, a mere imprint of those deep, fierce tones. ‘I don’t know what’s happened, Stacey. I thought your hard edges would have rubbed off by now. But seems like you’ve got more and more jagged and angry with the world.’

With each word his voice softened. Her defences began to crumble. She could take everything the world could throw at her when it was hostile. She could defend and attack in equal measure. She was a match for anyone—male or female—and she never, ever left anyone in any doubt as to how they measured up in her eyes.

But she could not take kindness. It undid her at the very foundations. All her strength was sapped away, like a finger pulled from the dam.

The tears finally sprang and tumbled one after another in hot, wet streams down her cheeks.

His eyes filled with concern.

‘You’re crying,’ he said softly. ‘Stacey, I’m sorry. I’ve never seen you cry.’

‘Yes, I’m crying—and I never cry. I never cry!’ she sobbed, furiously rubbing at her face and gulping back the sobs that threatened to choke her. ‘I was fine—and now look at me. I don’t need your help. I don’t want you. I don’t need anyone and I don’t need you to contact my mom. She doesn’t need to know any of this. It’s fine. I’m fine.’

She rubbed and rubbed and gulped and sobbed and her nose began to burn. She searched in her little purse. But she didn’t have a tissue—she was never that organised. She wasn’t like her mother. Her poor mother who’d crumple if she thought anything had happened to her.

‘I haven’t contacted Marilyn. I wouldn’t do that. I’m not all monster, you know. Here.’

She looked through the blurred shapes that were all her eyes could see and saw Marco offering her a pure white linen handkerchief.

‘Take it,’ he said when she turned away. ‘For God’s sake, it’s only a piece of cloth. Come here, then.’

And he cupped her chin in his hand and began to dab her eyes and her cheeks. She smelt the spicy blend of his cologne and felt the gentle press of his fingers with every touch. She felt strength. She felt kindness. She couldn’t bear it.

She pulled away.

‘I hate you, Marco,’ she sobbed into the linen square. She wiped her eyes and blew her nose. ‘I hate you so much.’

He sat back. She could hear him laugh in between blowing her nose.

‘Plenty do, sweetheart. Plenty do.’

‘We both know that’s a lie,’ she said, giving her nose one final blow. ‘Unless you’ve had a personality transplant in the last five minutes. Those nurses were all over you like a rash. It kind of made me want to hurl.’

He laughed again. It was the best medicine she could have wished for.

‘Ah,’ he said. ‘And I thought it was from eating those pastries. You looked as if you hadn’t seen food in days.’

He turned back to the road and nosed the car in through the double gates.

‘No. Although that would be a great excuse,’ she said, her voice still thick with tears and tiredness. ‘They were amazing. And the coffee.’

She swallowed, shook her head.

‘Thanks,’ she said, cursing her own selfishness. ‘Thanks for getting me checked out. I appreciate it.’

He parked the car in front of a villa—pillars, wide windows and a terracotta-tiled roof. Planters stuffed with flowers and miniature trees and topiary. A rich man’s house. A very rich man’s house.

She flipped down the visor to look in the mirror. Panda eyes—the eyeliner had completely melted and seeped into her eye sockets. She pressed with her knuckle to wipe away what she could. Even her nose was swollen and red. She’d never looked worse in her life.

‘Forget it. The staff did it all. I’ll pass on your thanks to Lydia and the team.’

Instantly she saw Lydia’s perfect hair, Lydia’s perfect face. She slammed the visor shut on her own disastrous image.

‘If it’s all the same I’ll pass on my own thanks. To those that deserve it.’

‘There you go again. Flying off in some crazy direction, damning people whose only crime is not coming from the same social class as you. You want to tone that down, Stacey, or it’ll start to show on your face. And then you’ll be left an angry and bitter old woman—all alone.’

With that he got out of the car, closed the door and walked towards his house.

She sat in silence, enveloped by his words as they settled all around her, harsh and hurtful. But the truth of them was clearer than a clarion call. She knew she didn’t make friends easily. She knew she attracted men but just as quickly scared them away. She knew she was lonely to the bones of her being.

But she’d rather be lonely than patronised, or mocked, or judged.

Marco stopped, turned, raised a solemn eyebrow and held out his hand in a gesture of welcome. Or sufferance.

She didn’t feel welcome. She felt backed into a corner by Marco’s conscience.

What a guy. She could imagine the porch gossips already: ‘You know he even looked after Stacey Jackson in his own house when her mother was out of town.’

With the last of her strength she stifled the agony of her body and her head and her heart and swung herself out of the car. She could feel the cords of the town pulling tight round her neck. She could feel them pulling her back there, like fishermen landing their catch.

But nothing had made her more sure of her decision to have left the place than spending this time with Marco. She hated that world. She hated everything he stood for. And she was counting down the seconds until she could be back on the road, doing her thing, as far away from those parochial, judgemental pains in the ass as it was possible for her to be.


CHAPTER THREE (#u6a149749-4e16-56fb-8cad-b1894afc20fe)

‘BEDROOM’S AT THE end of the hall. Bath’s en-suite. Terrace is accessed from every room.’

He tossed his keys down onto the gleaming worktop and watched them slide right into the fishbowl. It was empty. Had been since...always. Despite every girlfriend who had ever passed through having the notion that she was going to fill it up one day. Thank the Lord that had never happened. The last thing he needed was a goldfish as hostage to his so-called commitment phobia. On top of everything else.

What women didn’t get, of course, was that he was the most committed guy he knew. Commitment was the reason he got out of bed in the morning. But it wasn’t anything to do with pledging his troth to a woman—after the upbringing he’d had, pledging his troth was the last thing that was ever going to happen. Why not just give his legal team a million-dollar retainer and cut straight to the divorce?

It baffled him. Completely.

No, commitment was all about getting things back to the way they should be. And right now he was this close to getting it all back. This close.

Yes, only these next two days to get through and then he’d be back in Montauk, lounging in the Polo Club and watching Preston Chisholm slide the vellum deeds of Sant’Angelo’s—the final part of the Borsatto estate—across the table for him to sign.

Ten long years he had waited for this moment. Ten years of being in hock to poverty, to shame, and worst of all to pity. He could handle almost everything, but the twisted compassion that some of the Montauk natives dished out amounted to nothing short of blackmail.

He reached for the coffee machine, thinking of the women who had held their breath, hoping that poverty would reduce him to becoming some sort of gigolo. Women who’d been so-called family friends. Young and old alike. And the men who’d relished watching Vito Borsatto’s son lose every last cent, every brick, every blade of grass that the most influential family in the Hamptons had ever owned. Generations of Borsattos had built it up. And in one short year it had all gone.

That was when he’d truly known who his friends were. Finding out his father was a philandering compulsive gambler and his mother was a vain, narcissistic drunk hadn’t given him a lot of cachet. He had watched them destroy themselves and then one another and had been able to tell no one. Because the shame had been almost the worst thing of all.

Watching as first the gangsters and then the banks had rolled in to take the estate in chunks. And then the biggest gangster of all: Chisholm Financial Management. Gangsters in three-thousand-dollar suits with fewer scruples than any of the rest. Standing in the dilapidated summerhouse that last day, when the devil himself, Mr Chisholm Senior, had arrived personally to evict him. The pleasure he’d taken in marching him off his own land—the last of the Borsattos. Mother and father long gone. Nothing left but dirt and dust.

Marco drained the last dregs in his cup and poured another.

‘You get through a lot of coffee. Anybody ever tell you that?’

She’d been there that day. Stacey Jackson. She’d turned the town upside down with her attitude and her disappearance. And then she’d swanned back in as if nothing had happened. As if she’d expected some kind of welcome committee...

Was it any wonder he had a jaded view of women? They were after you for your money or your body. Your house or your head. All of them wanted a piece of something. He hadn’t met a woman yet who hadn’t let him down. Including his own mother. Women equalled trouble—especially this one.

‘Maybe I could have one, if it’s not too much trouble?’

He kept his back to her, pulled another cup from the cupboard and poured.

‘Not at all,’ he said, slowly turning to hand it to her. ‘Sorry. Maybe I’ve been living on my own too long.’

She pulled out a chair and eased herself onto it, cradling the cup between her hands. And, dammit, he was drawn to her. Even though she should have her own ‘Wanted’ poster for crimes against humanity, there was something hugely seductive about her. It was all sex appeal, of course. Something in the way she wore his jacket. Something about how the shoulders dwarfed her and enveloped that body. Something that suggested ball-breaker Stacey was a vulnerable little girl underneath all that attitude. Despite what he knew about her.

‘Living on your own? Oh, come on,’ she said, taking a sip and watching him over the rim, those huge blue eyes underscored with the inky remnants of her tears. ‘I bet you’ve been beating them off with a stick, Marco. A hottie like you.’

He looked at her—looked at the highlighting of her breasts in the shadow between his lapels.

‘I can’t say I’ve ever had to beat off a woman, no,’ he said.

There was a very slight pause. A shared moment when he knew and she knew that there was another agenda at work between them. There had been back then and it was just as strong now.

She took another sip and put the cup down—slowly.

‘Yeah, well,’ she said. ‘I’m not really interested in your bedroom antics.’

He nodded. ‘Maybe we should clear that up now. So there’s no doubt.’ He held her gaze across the table.

‘Meaning...?’

‘Meaning that I didn’t invite you here for anything other than a place to stay until you’re in the clear. It’s my duty—I’m responsible for your accident.’

Her eyes suddenly blazed.

‘Are you suggesting that I’m trying to seduce you?’

‘Stacey, would you get off your high horse for one goddamn moment? I’m not suggesting anything. I want you to know that while you’re here I won’t take advantage. That’s all. We had a thing once, but we’re both adults now and we can stay overnight in the same house without you worrying that I’m going to make a pass.’

She smirked her lopsided smile and hid behind the curtain of her hair in that way that she did.

She pushed her cup away. ‘That’s very noble of you, Marco. It hadn’t crossed my mind that you might want to—to go back there, if I’m honest. But it’s mature of you to make sure there are no misunderstandings.’

She chose that moment to ease the jacket from her shoulders and twist round to place it over the back of the chair. It might have been complete coincidence, but as she raised her arms his eyes slid all by themselves to the satiny gleam of her breasts, caught in the criss-cross of black fabric across the bodice of her dress. And of course his body reacted.

‘You can count on it,’ he said, still watching as she rearranged herself on the seat.

Then she looked pointedly at him and feigned a look of surprise.

‘I’m sorry—have I spilled something?’ she said, looking down at her chest. Then she took her time readjusting those goddamn straps over one breast and then the other, wriggling and jiggling her flesh and flicking at little flecks of invisible dust. It was a car crash. He couldn’t look away. She was teasing him out of his mind. Just as she’d used to. Teasing but never giving out. At least not to him.

‘So, how is your mother? Did she remarry?’

He lifted her cup and turned away to the coffee machine. A few minutes making coffee and talking about Montauk ought to do the trick.

‘No, thankfully she made a lucky escape. But there are so many assholes in the world. I’m sure you know what I mean.’

He smiled and refilled her coffee cup, put it down in front of her, noting the way she shifted in her chair. She couldn’t resist.

‘She’s still in Montauk, right?’

‘Yes, still there. Same house. New curtains.’

He frowned. ‘Sorry—what?’

‘Doesn’t matter. What about you?’ she said, changing the subject with another forced smile. ‘Is the old gang all back in touch now that you’ve got all that bullion to sell? Or buy? Or whatever it is you do nowadays?’

He nodded. ‘Something like that.’

He could go into it—tell her about his years spent in penury following the humiliation of being tossed out on his ass, the journey south, then east, bumming across Europe, then India, until he landed his first break exporting gold. Then his time in Italy, picking up what he could about winemaking from his extended family. Finally thinking that there might be a way back home.

But—no. There would be nothing to gain in sharing any of that. He’d drawn a line.

He drained the last of his coffee. So much caffeine, so much adrenaline. So much stress...

Maybe he should go easy for the rest of the day. There was a lot still to do.

‘So, been here long?’

She was looking round the kitchen, her eyes landing quickly on different things and then dancing on and moving back to his face. With that smirk.

‘A while. A year.’

‘Really?’ She nodded contemplatively. ‘Don’t you hang out here much, then?’

‘Not sure what you’re getting at, Stacey...’

‘Your villa. It’s pretty vanilla—almost as sterile as that hospital. No offence. Just not how I remember the Meadows at all.’

He lifted the two cups and walked to the dishwasher.

The Meadows. It had been years since he had heard his home called that. It was the name the locals had given it and it harked back to the first white settlers who’d come from England. But it had been Sant’Angelo’s since the Borsattos had taken up residence there. And it would be Sant’Angelo’s again soon.

‘None taken. As I said—the spare bedroom is down the hall.’

She took the hint and stood up.

‘I’m sure I’ll find it,’ she replied. ‘And, hey, thanks again for the jacket.’

She patted it and—dammit—his eyes landed there again.

‘And the trip to the hospital. I—appreciate it.’

She smiled softly and for the first time it looked genuine.

‘As I said...least I could do.’

She nodded and picked up her purse, then started to make her way down the hallway. Her long brown hair sank down over the nape of her neck in a silken sweep, landing an inch above where the straps of the dress slashed across her back and a good six inches above where her perfect backside sashayed. He found himself watching, mesmerised. Hypnotised. It was as flawless as he remembered.

As a kid, every single thing about Stacey Jackson had caused some kind of chain reaction in him from brain to body. The way she’d walked into a room, the way she’d swung her eyes round to look at people, or more often to ignore them completely. The way she’d give nothing away to the world, but had somehow made people feel as if they knew all about her and wanted to know more.

Thank the Lord he was immune to everything now—apart from the primordial reaction in his brain telling him he still found her attractive. He was a man...she was made the way she was. It was just a mental process firing off. So she still made him hard? So what. It didn’t mean he had to act on it.

She was halfway down the hall now—taking her time, taking up his time.

She stopped. The prints on the wall there were huge, brightly coloured inks that represented the Southern Hemisphere sky that he’d stared up at for all those months on the road. Months when all he’d had was his health and his will to survive.

Stacey swung her head over her shoulder and eyed him with that profile that packed as much punch as any Hollywood starlet.

‘Now, these are interesting,’ she said. She stared at the prints, moved her head this way and that. Made a little face. Cut him a glance. ‘Original. A little more flavoursome.’ She licked her lips.

He looked away. Anything but be faced by the curve of almost completely bare breast that he could now see so clearly as she lifted her arm up to touch the frame. He had to get her the hell out of his sight.

‘Thanks. We’ll eat at seven. I suggest you shower and make a few calls. Or walk about quietly. Or something. And do me a favour—don’t lie down and fall asleep. I don’t want to add to the drama.’

She opened her mouth to give him another smart remark but he put his hand up, turned his head to the side.

‘And another favour? Get some damn clothes on. It’s three in the afternoon, for God’s sake. The time for putting it all out on display is well past.’

Her face, already tense and tearstained, turned away. Silence fell around the bitter words he’d just thrown. From the glass roof above daylight flooded in, landing around her outline for all the world as if she was an angel in a chapel.

A woman less like an angel he had never met, but in that moment he felt angry—with himself. And as she stood there, regarding him, she almost looked ephemeral. It stopped him dead in his thoughts. Stacey Jackson was the one who’d got away. She was the one who’d shaped his view of women for ever. She was both his adolescent fantasy and the rock it had perished on. And he was damned if he would fall under her spell again.

He took the few steps up the corridor past her, shaking his head.

‘I’m going to be busy for the next hour or so. Just try—try not to get into any trouble. Okay?’

He made it to his study, shut the door and breathed.

Three paces across the room and he turned on the huge monitor. Instantly his emails appeared. He scanned them, looking for the one he knew was on its way. And there it was. From the realtor representing Chisholm Financial Management.

Marco leaned down on the desk and grabbed at the mouse, sliding it quickly to bring it to life. He clicked on it. Words appeared.

The door sounded across the hall. Good—she was inside, out of sight and out of mind. He skimmed the email. Yep, the offer had been acknowledged. And everything was in order. It was all coming together perfectly.

There was the sound of the shower starting up. Great. That would keep her busy for a while. Give him time to fully digest this. Adrenaline was flooding his body. He was closer than he’d ever thought possible.

Instantly his mood lifted. Instantly he could see blue skies again. He’d been coiled like a spring all day. And there had been no need. Preston Chisholm Junior was going to deliver it all back—just as his father had taken it all away.

Well, well, well. Preston Chisholm. How life turned around. It seemed like only yesterday that he’d been sitting opposite to him in Betty’s, watching him as he watched Stacey wait on tables. The look in his eyes had been predatory. A look that had wound up with him landing a punch on the guy.

Nobody had liked Preston Chisholm back then. And fewer liked him now. Still, as CEO of the bank that both bankrolled and mortgaged half the properties in town, people were cautious in showing it.

Not someone like Stacey, though. She’d still give it to him both barrels. Just like that day when she’d found out that he’d punched Preston because of what he’d said about her. She’d been furious. The same afternoon Preston had practically salivated all over his polo shirt, he’d dragged him by its pristine collar out back and sunk his fist into his stomach.

A great noise had gone up, raising the dust in the car park, and then out had come Stacey in that little yellow dress and white apron the girls wore at Betty’s. Preston had been curled up like a shrimp, bawling like a baby. He had been standing over his handiwork and Stacey had completely overreacted.

Who did he think he was? She could defend her own name, thank you very much. He could mind his own business or go and play the hero for someone else.

Marco smiled at the memory. For about the tenth time today. For all she’d made his stress levels rocket, she’d made him laugh too. All that personality in one perfect package.

He listened to the noises she was making across the hallway. Normally he hated the intrusion of a woman in his home. God knew he’d tried, but he couldn’t get used to it. Moving his stuff, asking for closet space, filling the air with nonsensical chatter. The first day it was fine. It was okay. After a week he’d be finding problems with his offshore businesses that he had to solve personally. After two weeks he’d quit making excuses and get the jewellers on speed dial.

Was he going insane, or was he smiling at the cute little noises Stacey was making?

He might be smiling now, but five seconds together and their sparks would be flying right into a fireworks display that could light up the entire eastern seaboard.

* * *

What a Fortune 500 per cent bore Marco had turned out to be, thought Stacey as she wound her hair in a towel and rubbed some fancy cream into her puffy pink face. She would never have pegged him as vanilla, but that was the only flavour she could scent from him now. His safe suit, his ‘right’ car, his hair trimmed just along his shirt collar line. He probably used shoe trees.

She stepped into the guest bedroom and looked around. Pale walls, wood floors, dark rugs. She’d choke to death in a place like this. It was as sterile as St Bart’s. Nothing with any character except for the prints in the hallway. And her outrageous dress draped across the bed.

She could hardly put that back on.

Not after his strict instruction to cover up.

She wasn’t imagining the chemistry—was she? He was looking. She’d caught him looking a thousand times. But he sure wasn’t acting on it. That was the biggest change of all. He’d never let his class or his money guide his actions before. He’d played it straight down the line. He’d even played it over the line. Defending her honour from the creepy Preston Chisholm. She’d laid into Marco for sticking his nose in, but secretly she’d loved it. He’d been ridiculously overprotective—right in front of the whole crowd. And she’d relished their shock and awe at their poster boy being gallant for white trash Stacey.

But he was playing with a different deck now. He couldn’t have been clearer that he was finding her a turn-off rather than a turn-on. But she was smarter than that. It wasn’t about biology—it was all about class. Turned out he was exactly the same as the Montauk snobs after all.

She couldn’t wait to get out of here and away from every memory of that place.





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