The Italian's Vengeful Seduction Read online

  He was a fool. A damn fool.

  ‘I think we’d better get back and see.’

  CHAPTER TEN

  A NOËL COWARD song was playing in the lounge as they made their way back. Light laughter bubbled up from a seating nook across the hallway. A waiter shook a cocktail maker in a fast, regular tattoo and with a one-armed flourish began to pour liquor into two wide-rimmed glasses. Behind his head a smoky mirror reflected their progress—Marco’s sure, proud stride and Stacey’s cat-like prowl.

  A five-minute stop-off in the suite and she was presentable again. At least on the outside. The cacophony of emotions and hormones within was something else entirely. Words might have helped, but the dense, silent fog that had slipped over them had almost blinded her.

  It was all she’d been able to do to put one foot in front of the other, to follow through on defaults like fixing the red lipstick that had been smeared pink all around her mouth, brushing the hair that had been in a haze of tugs and frizz, and simply trying to move around in the world the way she had for the past twenty-six years when it felt as if she had tumbled into someone else’s.

  As they neared their table she could see Dante in profile. He saw them enter a second before Preston did.

  Preston stood. ‘Call off the search party! She’s back!’ he called out.

  Nobody laughed.

  ‘We didn’t wait—figured you’d had second thoughts about the oysters,’ said Dante, casting a curious glance over them both.

  Stacey turned her face to the side and swallowed as she slid into her seat. Marco stayed standing, chest out, and looked around the room as if checking it was still there. Then he looked down at Stacey, pulled out his chair and sat. Slowly.

  ‘The oysters weren’t the greatest idea you’ve ever had,’ he said.

  ‘Is everything all right, Stacey?’ Preston was looking at her with unguarded concern.

  ‘She’s fine—’ began Marco.

  Stacey looked up sharply.

  ‘Yes—you answer for yourself. I know.’

  She looked straight at Preston. ‘I’m fine.’ She looked at Marco. ‘Thanks.’

  Stacey reached for her glass. Her fingers had stopped shaking, but her heart was still thundering and she doubted it would ever stop. How on earth would life settle back to normal after what she’d just done? Not only had she stepped over the line with Marco, she’d stepped over the line with herself.

  She read magazines—she knew sex could be crazy. But she’d never wanted any part of that kind of scene. She’d never really wanted part of any kind of scene. It was what it was. She knew that some women faked orgasms. She never had. Maybe she’d faked desire...

  But not tonight.

  This—this was beyond exciting. This was desire such as she’d never felt before. She had never, ever felt so hot and so tuned in to another person. She’d never given herself, followed instructions, become submissive. It had felt completely exhilarating. She’d felt alive.

  ‘Stacey, I’m determined we won’t chase you away again. What do I need to do to keep you here?’

  ‘Talk about real estate,’ she said smoothly, rubbing her finger over a red mark on her wrist. ‘It’s on point, I hear.’

  Preston chuckled and sat forward, beamed her a smile and then beckoned to the waiter.

  Stacey crossed her legs, the bare skin of her thighs rubbing in a reminder of what she’d just done. Now—sitting in company—she felt an echo of that thrill. She shifted her legs again, enjoying the sensation of satin on skin, and relived that moment of lifting her dress up. That look in his eyes—hungry, desperately wild and totally in command. Just thinking of that moment sent another pulse to her core and she shifted again.

  Marco was right beside her. Her eyes landed on his thighs—muscled and strong and long. He might be sitting knees apart, in that relaxed way he always did, but he was tense. He was edgy. He was giving off such a commanding vibe that she found it hard to focus.

  ‘Let’s have champagne. The finest you have.’

  Stacey snapped back to the moment.

  ‘What are we celebrating?’ she asked, fixing Preston with a slight smile. ‘Did you just agree to sell the Meadows while I was powdering my nose? Way to go, PC.’

  She felt Marco bristle beside her. She saw Dante turn. She heard Preston chuckle again as he lifted a bread roll and started to butter it.

  ‘All in good time,’ he said. ‘The champagne is because I’m celebrating seeing you again after all these years. Real estate is stones and dirt. You’re flesh and blood. Luscious and lovely. So much more interesting to talk about.’

  ‘Okay. That’s it. I’m through.’ Marco tossed his napkin down on the table.

  Stacey felt her head swivel on her neck as she turned to stare at him properly for the first time since they’d left his office. He was like a force of nature. He looked like some fierce, dark elemental being. He looked for all the world as if he was going to rip Preston limb from limb. His high cheekbones were stained, his mouth was parted and his shoulders held pure, hard tension.

  He stood.

  ‘Hey, buddy! Good idea—let’s get some air. I need to talk to you.’

  Dante stood too. He put his arm out to clasp Marco’s, but he’d already pushed himself back from the table.

  ‘Enjoy yourselves,’ he said. ‘But not on my account.’

  And he turned and walked away.

  Dante made to go after him and then looked back.

  ‘Stay right where you are,’ he said, turning to stare at Stacey, the lightness in his voice belied by the intent in his eyes. ‘We’ve got a couple of things to go over and then we’ll be right back.’

  Preston sat back in his chair and beamed. He steepled his fingers and stared at Stacey. Stared in that way he had that unsettled her stomach.

  ‘Well, now. Looks as if we’re left to our own devices, Stacey. Looks like someone couldn’t quite handle the way things were headed.’

  ‘What are you trying to say, Preston?’

  ‘Oh, come on now, Stacey. You’re not a stupid girl. You can see clearly what kind of person Marco Borsatto really is, can’t you? He may have made a lot of money, but he can’t cover up those genes. The man’s one step away from total meltdown. Just like his father—and his father before him.’

  Stacey lowered the glass of water she’d been sipping from. She had to be careful or she might launch it at him.

  ‘I’m sorry, Preston. I’m not following you.’

  He sat forward. Reached across the table for the hand she’d used to cradle the glass. His fingers closed round hers.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ she said, nailing him with a look.

  He drew back, raised his hands in mock surrender. ‘Fine,’ he said.

  ‘No. It’s not fine. You don’t say things like that about my friends.’ Her voice was calm, clear and low. Surprisingly so.

  He sighed. ‘Stacey. You can say what you like, but we both know that he’s only your friend because of what he thinks you can get him. And I’d be very wary, if I were you. Because when things don’t go the way the Borsattos want them to go, they completely lose control. Honey,’ he said, extending his hands onto the table, palms down, ‘you’re much too special to be hanging around with someone like him long term. Sure, right here, right now, he looks good. He’s back in town, building up his profile, running around with his handsome friend and all the pretty girls love him. But what can he really offer someone like you, Stacey?’

  ‘I’m going to skip past the part where I tell you you’re a total jerk and cut straight to the main event. Are you selling the Meadows or not? Because if you’re not, you can kiss me and my “special” ass goodbye.’

  She stood, her hands bunched on the table, and leaned across him.

  ‘I’m merely trying to make you see that you’re wasting your time, Stacey. Marco Borsatto is bad news—with or without his precious Sant’Angelo’s.’

  ‘Goodbye, Preston. Oh, and if I were you I’d stay well out
of the path of the next uncontrollable Borsatto who comes your way. You might just get hurt.’

  He laughed. ‘Come on—sit back down. Of course I’m going to sell the Meadows,’ he said as she turned away. ‘I just need you to ask me nicely first. Play by the rules.’

  ‘Ask you nicely? Play by the rules? Is that all this is—a game?’

  She pushed her chair away and began to walk. She didn’t know where. But she wasn’t going to beg for anyone.

  ‘I’ll get the lawyers to draw the papers up tomorrow. Have dinner with me, Stacey? Tomorrow night. Seven o’clock. L’Escargot.’

  She couldn’t turn around—couldn’t stand the sight of him a moment longer. L’Escargot! Who did he think he was, bribing her with dinner in the most expensive restaurant in town? As if that mattered a damn.

  She headed back through the cocktail lounge. Noël Coward had given way to Adele. The mood was darker, more soulful—a counterpoint to the brash voices and laughter as liquor flowed.

  As she moved her heel slid on the polished wooden floor and she slipped forward. The hem of her dress ripped slightly as she scrabbled to right herself. She was a mess. So much for taking all that time to look elegant. She’d blown her cover, that was for sure. What sort of woman willingly bent over a man’s knee and allowed herself to do what they’d done?

  And since they had—nothing. Silence. Why?

  She had to get out of here. Get some air. Figure out her next move. Because one thing was for sure—it wasn’t going to be working here for Marco. Not now.

  She passed the bathrooms and went in the direction of Marco’s suite—one turn and she realised she was heading the wrong way.

  Another turn and she was lost.

  ‘It’s the long game, man—that’s what you’ve got to play.’

  Stacey stopped. She was right outside the fitness suite. The heavy wooden door was ajar. A dim light glowed. She heard a bang and a curse and a sharp intake of breath.

  ‘And maybe find a softer target than the wall or Preston’s head.’

  ‘He needs it. He’s a worse piece of—’

  ‘Yeah, you’ve said. And it doesn’t help that he’s all over your girl. That’s got to hurt too.’

  ‘Stacey’s not my girl. She’s a girl. Period. She could marry the guy, for all I care. I just want my house back.’

  ‘Sure you do. And tomorrow, when you’ve slept on it, you’ll start back on that path to getting it. But for now—unless you’ve taken some self-control pills—I suggest you hit the gym before you hit someone for real. I’ll go back and tidy up your mess.’

  ‘Do not patronise me, Dante. I’ll go back and tidy up my own mess.’

  ‘It might have been smarter not to create it in the first place. I get the attraction, but sex in the middle of the business dinner of your life is a bit much even for you.’

  ‘Why don’t you shut the hell up? Just back off and mind your own business.’

  ‘Because someone needs to point out the obvious. You’re a different person around her. It’s like you swallowed some cocktail of jealousy and aggression. And it didn’t look like sex as an entrée helped calm you down. If anything it worked you up even more.’

  ‘You don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  ‘I’m talking about you getting whatever she’s unleashed back under control. This is not how you roll, bud.’

  The door slammed open. Stacey jumped back against the wall. Marco walked out, rubbing his knuckles and cursing. Dante walked out behind him and closed the door. Two men who’d turn heads at fifty paces, but Marco had that dark, dangerous edge she’d only seen once before tonight. And that was a night she never wanted to repeat. A night when she’d played her hand and lost.

  This time she’d done what she’d thought was the right thing to do. If Marco hadn’t got all bent out of shape Preston just might have sold him the thing there and then. But he hadn’t. And she had no guarantee that he’d keep his word tomorrow. None at all.

  She watched as they made their way back down the corridor and out into the foyer. Then she slipped back out into the hallway, cut along the back of the pool. Off to bed.

  Maybe for the last ever time in Montauk.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  MARCO STARED OUT at another clear, bright day and wondered how long he should stay here in the Polo Club, drinking coffee and sending emails that could wait, before he could get on with the matter at hand and start putting things right.

  Dante had suggested meeting at eight, going for a ride, maybe hitting a few chukkas. But that had been at three in the morning, half full of beer and bourbon when it had seemed like a good idea. Now, almost four hours later, Marco knew that his energies had to be directed someplace else entirely.

  He stretched out his hand to lift his coffee and saw the state of his knuckles from where he’d punched the wall. What a jerk he’d been. What a disaster the whole night had been. And he had nobody but himself to blame.

  He should never have allowed that stupid dinner to happen. It had been worse than irresponsible—it had been insane. Not only had he lost any chance of keeping Preston close, and therefore getting the edge on him the way he had intended, he’d completely lost control of himself and had sex with Stacey in a way that had stepped over every boundary he’d ever laid down.

  If only she hadn’t seemed to invest so much damn trust in him. If only it had been a quickie against the wall or on the desk. Hot, fast sex would have been fine. Okay, it might not be dinner etiquette, but at worst they could have got it out of their systems and headed back for the main course.

  But, no matter how he tried to reframe it, it hadn’t just been hot or fast. And it certainly hadn’t been meaningless. It had been something else entirely. She had looked at him with that face and those eyes and had taken them both to a place that he hadn’t been prepared to go.

  And, dammit, if it had been anyone else he wouldn’t be doing all this soul-searching—but it had been Stacey. He liked her—he felt responsible for her. He didn’t want to hurt her by letting her think there was going to be any future past the end of today. Stacey Jackson was like a fireworks display. Light it up, stand back and watch. A woman like that would be stimulating, amazing, fun—but totally exhausting.

  And trustworthy...?

  The jury was still out on that. She was a man’s woman, for sure, and that brought its own set of dramas. It had done when she was sixteen and it looked as if she was in for a lifetime of being chased by men.

  Not that he was the jealous type. At least he didn’t think he was—but watching Preston leer all over her last night had definitely been a factor in his dragging her into the office. At least that was what Dante had said. Several times over the course of last night’s analysis.

  He lifted the cup and wished he’d asked for an Americano.

  ‘Hey, can I get a long coffee with hot milk this time? Thanks,’ he said to the cute blonde waitress who blushed like a red rose and dropped everything every time he so much as looked at her.

  She was the very antithesis of the waitress Stacey had been. Stacey had had the whole thing covered—everybody’s order, smooth and efficient, but totally contained. As if she didn’t give a damn if you had a nice day.

  Stacey. He’d tried to be kind and do the right thing when she’d clearly been in a bit of trouble and had had nobody else looking out for her. He’d had no other option but to bring her to Montauk. He couldn’t have left her there in Atlantic City, with a concussion and a heavy guy on her tail.

  But now it was so messy. He’d need a proper conversation with her later. She could stay on here until her mother got back and then she could start work in one of his other places in town. But they had to draw a line under the sex. It had been a long time coming and it had been amazing. But that was where it ended. This thing was over before it even began.

  He drained the coffee. He’d need another two of those at least before he could face more than a single word with anyone. He’d deliberately stayed
well out of the way of his suite, sitting up with Dante and the staff as they finished their shifts, had a drink and went home. Finally it had only been the two of them, one foul mood and a whole lot of regret.

  ‘You should go and make sure she’s all right,’ Dante had said at least five times, his words getting more and more incoherent with each passing beer.

  ‘She’s fine,’ he’d answered. The last place he’d wanted to be was in her personal space. ‘She’ll be in bed.’

  ‘You should go and check on her, then. Or at least one of us should.’

  At that Marco had roused himself and pulled his head out of the fog he’d sunk under. ‘You’ll stay well away. There’s enough trouble without you adding to it.’

  ‘Not sure I follow, but I’ll respect your wishes. This time. Only I thought you said she had some kind of head injury?’

  Marco had pushed himself to his feet and stomped off through the lounge and back to his suite. He’d known deep down she was well in the clear, but still she was his responsibility, and the last thing he’d wanted was anything to happen to her.

  It was only then that he’d realised he wasn’t even sure she was still there. She could have cut and run, like she’d done every other time things got a bit too hard to handle. What if she’d actually left with that piece of trash? When he and Dante had made it back to the restaurant the table had been empty, save for a bottle of untouched champagne and a basket of bread rolls. The staff had seen Preston’s driver and car, but nobody knew where Stacey had gone.

  He’d let it go at that. The last thing he’d wanted to do was go chasing after her.

  But those visions of her lying across his desk, of her eyes searching his, had kept slamming into the back of his head. He had been rough, he’d made demands, and he’d loved how she’d complied. He’d never experienced anything like it in his life.

  He didn’t want to again.

  Being with Stacey had always fired up those parts of him that he liked to play down. Cool and calm was how he liked his life. He wasn’t like his father—hot-headed and out of control. He didn’t have addictions or issues or get into fights. He was nothing like him. Nothing at all like him. He’d spent his whole life making sure of it.