The Italian's Vengeful Seduction Page 13

  He needed a base here, and while it had been great using this place while he and Dante had been kicking the whole Polo Club and Foundation off, it was a thriving business now and didn’t need his oversight in any way. The management were extremely capable.

  And he’d been about to add Stacey to that group. At least he could be grateful that that hadn’t happened.

  He paused at the reception desk to check for messages. There was only one for him. From Ms Jackson, to say that ‘the coast was clear’. The girl on the desk paused, dipped her head. Told him that another message had come in for Ms Jackson herself, after she’d left. From Mr Chisholm. To say that he would send his car at six-forty-five for their dinner reservation. Would Mr Borsatto pass that on to her? Or should she contact Mr Chisholm to say there seemed to be a misunderstanding since Ms Jackson wasn’t here?

  Marco almost choked.

  What dinner reservation? The normally unflappable reception manager looked horrified. She apologised and said that she really didn’t know. Would he like her to find out more?

  Marco growled some kind of answer and headed off to his suite. Dinner reservation? With Preston? She wasn’t seriously thinking she could continue where she’d left off? Why was she staging a repeat of last night—involving herself even more in his business? Surely she wasn’t actually going for dinner with the guy?

  He threw open the door and strode into the suite. He’d half expected she might still be there, and the lurch in his stomach when she wasn’t was relief—it really was.

  He marched into the en-suite bathroom and fired on the shower, hauled his T-shirt over his head and shoved down his jeans. He was this close to punching the wall again. But there was only one finger he definitely hadn’t broken after his fight with the wall the night before, and the pain in the others even from holding the reins held him in check—just.

  He soaped himself and rinsed himself and stepped out to dry himself—and it was only then that he noticed all the stuff lying around. Dragging the towel across his chest, he walked over to the dressing table and saw all the little bottles that were still arranged there. Two black pearl earrings caught his eye. He lifted them and rolled them around his palm, observing their luminescence. Maybe she’d left in a hurry and not noticed them? Or maybe Preston had promised her better-quality ones at his house...?

  He dried his back and his face and tossed the towel down in the laundry basket—and there he saw a piece of lingerie...the slip that he’d bought her. And then, when he walked into the dressing room, he saw all the pieces of luggage. He hauled them over and sprang open the brass locks. Inside was every garment he’d bought her.

  He shoved his hands in and pulled them out, scattered them all over the floor.

  Damn her. She’d gone and she was still driving him mad. It was like the last time. He’d totally lost control and been thrown off his own land back then but it had been because of her that he’d been down in the summerhouse at all. Trying to stay the hell away from the world. Calm down.

  Well, this ended now.

  He threw on his clothes and stuffed all her clothes back inside the luggage. It was a petty, stupid gesture to leave them all there. What kind of woman did that?

  One who had learned that there was plenty more where that came from.

  So she was having dinner with Chisholm. You couldn’t make it up!

  He grabbed everything up, picked up his keys and strode off down the hall and out into the warmth of the early evening. His car was at the back but the valet had it there in seconds. All the staff were looking at him as if he was some kind of monster. They kept their heads down and made no eye contact, but he could tell they were keeping well back. And that was needling him as well.

  He was never like this. Never! He was calm, smooth and totally in control. He was measured in the way he approached every aspect of his life. Always the same way. That was how he wanted to be known—and he was. He was as far removed as a hot-headed Italian as it was possible to be.

  Until that woman came anywhere near him!

  He threw the luggage across the back seat and got in the driver’s seat. In minutes he was at the edge of the estate. In another ten he’d be at Chisholm’s. One minute after that he’d have dumped every last shred of her stuff onto Chisholm’s driveway—and if he saw the guy this time he really would rip his head off.

  After that he was going to get back in the car and head round to Betty’s. He didn’t need this kind of hassle in his life. He needed to put Sant’Angelo’s and Stacey Jackson behind him and he needed to do that now.

  He got to Chisholm’s driveway just as the gates were opening to allow a car out. He was in it. Marco screeched his car to a stop in front of it and jumped out. Two strides and he was at his door, yanking it open before his driver had even realised what had happened.

  ‘What’s going on, Borsatto? You got what you wanted, didn’t you?’

  ‘Get out!’ Marco yelled, reaching inside the limousine to drag at Preston.

  ‘Get your hands off me or I’ll change my mind, you maniac. What the hell are you doing?’

  ‘Where is she? I’ve got her stuff. Tell her—get her here now and tell her.’

  ‘Have you lost your mind? I accepted your offer and now I’m heading out to meet Stacey for dinner. At least someone knows how to say thank you.’

  Marco put his hands on Preston’s collar and heaved him right out of the car. He flung him up against the side of the limo and drew his hand back.

  ‘You touch me and it’s all off. I swear, Borsatto. I only signed those papers because of her. You lay a finger on me and I rip the whole thing up.’

  Marco dropped his fist. Dropped the arm he’d been holding him with. He took two steps back and shoved his palm to his forehead.

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  His voice was quiet. He could hardly speak for the strain in his throat.

  ‘What do you think I’m talking about? You and your damn house. Stacey called me today and convinced me that I should accept your offer. What the hell are you looking at me like that for? I don’t give a damn about your run-down dump. You can have it with my blessing. One less headache, as far as I’m concerned. Now, get the hell out of my road. I don’t want to be late.’

  Marco stepped back and watched as Preston got back in his car and disappeared in a cloud of dusty gravel.

  He’d heard the words but he couldn’t quite process them. He reached for his phone. He had to find out what had happened. He punched in his code. Called the Polo Club. Told them to find the driver who had driven Stacey. He wanted to know exactly where she’d gone. And he wanted someone to look out for Preston’s car. And for them to phone him straight back if Stacey Jackson appeared. Not to let her leave the club if she showed up.

  Maybe she’d gone to stay at her mother’s and was going to meet Preston at the club? Maybe she’d taken an apartment in town.

  Maybe. But it didn’t feel like any of that. She was gone. He could sense it. In the empty howl of the wind. In the grey drops of rain that landed like lonely confetti all around. In the quiet, lifeless land that witnessed...waited.

  He drove on along the coastline. He passed people on bikes, families, couples. He saw a figure off in the distance. He strained to see if it was a brunette with long legs and a crazy, giving heart.

  Whatever and wherever she was, he had to hear this story from her lips. It didn’t add up. Preston had signed over Sant’Angelo’s?

  He called his realtor. Saturday night it might be, but that was what he paid him for.

  Sure enough. The offer had been accepted in principle.

  His phone rang. Dante.

  ‘Hey, man, we’re waiting for you. What’s the hold-up?’

  ‘I’ve just found out that Preston has agreed to sell. The deal’s gone through.’

  Dante’s holler sounded out in the car and it was only then that Marco realised what he’d actually just said.

  ‘Amazing! Where are you? Are you headed to
Betty’s? We’ll see you here in—how long are you going to be?’

  ‘I’m on my way. I want to swing by the Jackson place first.’

  There was a pause, and then Dante filled it. ‘Sure. Good idea. Okay, well... See you when you get here. Tell us about it then.’

  Marco knew as he swung his car down the sandy road to Stacey’s mom’s house that she wasn’t going to be there. He parked the car and got out. Walked past her neighbours’ houses. A beat-up car and some bits of junk. Sand and tufts of grass.

  Their house was right at the end.

  The path was neat, and there were little tubs of flowers. Paintwork was fresh. Marilyn Jane had always tried to put on a good show. He remembered that. Appearances meant a lot to her.

  He passed the swing that creaked in the breeze, walked to the door and knocked.

  Nothing.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  FOR DAYS THE rain had been incessant, and now the whole place was a pallet of green. The air, heavy and succulent, hummed with the vigorous growth that only happened in the wet warmth of late spring. Some folks were glad, and some were counting the minutes until it dried up. But as the train pulled into Montauk station the sun finally dazzled through the clouds and beamed an inverted rainbow smile down on everyone.

  Stacey pulled her windcheater tightly round her shoulders and waited. One week later than arranged, her mom was finally heading back from Canada. The call they’d shared when Stacey had been on the train to NYC had been tense, but she’d promised her mother faithfully that she’d return within the week. And she’d meant every word.

  In between times she’d had to get out of Montauk. Staying there while Marco pounded through her head and her heart was not an option.

  Was she naïve? Or just plain stupid? Either way, a few days in Manhattan to clear her head and serve up the epiphany she needed to figure out her next move hadn’t worked.

  At least she had the money to have choices. Whatever Marco had done to Bruce, her back-pay from Decker’s and a whole load more had wound up in her bank account.

  So now here she was, three years since her last farewell to her mother, at this very station, as good as her word. She looked along the platform. The old guy from the tuna place tipped his hat and smiled. She smiled back. The couple who ran the craft store that her mom had taken her to as soon as she could walk were there, waiting to pick up their granddaughter. Sweet people. She’d chatted to them when she’d arrived back a few days earlier and now she smiled them another greeting. Along the road, taxis queued, and she’d paused already to talk to a driver who’d called out to her, one arm hanging out of his window, shooting the breeze about their school days.

  People began to exit the train and she strained to see her mother.

  ‘Stacey. Honey.’

  She looked up.

  ‘Mom—wow.’

  Her mother stepped towards her and hugged her in a warm embrace. Stacey buried her nose in the thick hair so like hers. She breathed her in and closed her eyes. Together they rocked backwards and forwards while she relearned her mother’s shape, felt her warmth, her bones, her love.

  ‘Let me look at you, baby girl.’

  Stacey stepped back and let her mother smooth her hair and stare at her in that dazed eyed, proud way she always did. But if anyone was dazed it was Stacey.

  ‘Mom—I can’t believe—you look amazing. So—young!’

  Her mother laughed. A vibrant, rich laugh. Her eyes sparkled.

  ‘What’s going on? Are you in love?’ asked Stacey warily.

  This wasn’t how it was supposed to be. It was supposed to be the daughter all sparkly and lovestruck—not the mom.

  They walked along the platform arm in arm. It was the strangest thing. Men stared and women stared. Their eyes flicked from her to her mom. Admiration and interest. No mistake. And no wonder.

  ‘Well, are you? With this guy from Toronto? Tell me about him.’

  ‘First things first. How is your poor head? And your leg? Are you sure you’re all right? Marco was so worried.’

  ‘Let’s knock that on the head, Mom. Marco was worried I was going to file a claim against him. Marco is not the guy you remember, I’m sorry to say.’

  She felt her mother’s hand on her arm, felt a soft squeeze.

  ‘Oh, dear. Did those fireworks explode again?’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘You two couldn’t breathe the same air without there being some kind of explosion. You’re both so passionate. Totally made for one another.’

  ‘I know you like him, Mom, but he’s not the guy for me. I can hardly stand to breathe the same air as him now. I mean, don’t get me wrong—he was kind, I suppose. He got me checked out. Twice, in fact. And he got these two guys to come from a mall in Atlantic City—bought me everything I could need. Stuff I could never afford. Dresses, jeans, sweaters—you name it. But it was all him playing a part. None of it was real.’

  ‘I don’t know about any of that, but he called me—that was real—and I’m so grateful to him,’ her mother cut in. ‘That was the right thing to do. And he promised me he would take good care of you.’

  They walked along the line of cars that prowled outside the station. People jostled them, going this way and that.

  ‘Yeah, he did.’

  He did take good care of me, she thought, suddenly remembering him with the paramedics, in the car, checking on her when he thought she was sleeping that first night at the Polo Club. Remembering waking up in his arms when she’d fainted and seeing the look in his eyes.

  She swallowed. Her eyes burned.

  ‘So, tell me about Toronto guy,’ she said, changing the subject and squeezing her mom’s hand. ‘What’s his name? How long you been seeing him?’

  Her mom smiled.

  ‘His name is John. And I’ve been seeing him these past two years. I spend a lot of time in Canada. Mostly all the time now, if I’m honest. We’re getting married, honey.’

  Stacey stared. Looked at her. Properly looked at her. Her mother couldn’t be having a relationship. She’d spent her entire life burning a candle for her husband.

  ‘Two years? You’ve been dating for two years? But what about Dad?’

  ‘What about him? I gave him an ultimatum. He left. We got divorced. That’s all history, sweetheart.’

  ‘You gave him an ultimatum? But I thought—That’s not what happened. He left us to be with another woman.’

  ‘He left us because I told him to go. You were so young—you didn’t understand. I didn’t want you getting caught up in the fall-out of our relationship. Maybe I was overprotective, too careful with the truth, but I don’t hold with adults using their children as weapons. And you were, and still are, my whole world.’

  Stacey looked around. People moved past them in a blur. In her mind the house of cards upon which her whole miserable childhood had been built began to collapse. Images cracked and split.

  Her dad ruffling her hair—for the last time. Saying goodbye. ‘You’ve got to love yourself before anyone else will love you.’

  All this time she’d thought he was telling her she was unlovable—but had he been talking about himself?

  Her mother wringing her hands and closing the door. She’d been lonely, but she was strong. She’d protected her this whole time.

  ‘But you were so sad. You ran up all that debt...’

  ‘Stacey, I wasn’t so sad after a while. You just didn’t know it because you were away so long. I had to make a life for myself so I started a little business, honey. I was making soft furnishings, just like I always wanted, and I opened a shop. But the timing was wrong. I lost a lot of money, yes, but there was no need for you to step in and take over. I was on top of things but you wouldn’t listen—you never did.’

  Stacey stared around as the crowds dispersed. She couldn’t take it all in. Her mother was talking as if she was sorted and strong. She wasn’t a weak, anxiety-ridden dishcloth after all. How could she have called it so
wrong?

  But she had. She’d had her father up on a pedestal right up until the day she’d seen with her own eyes that he’d moved on with his new family.

  Her mother had never bad-mouthed him. Never maligned him. She’d let her make up her own mind about him. She’d protected Stacey as best she could. And all that anger at living in a broken home on the wrong side of the tracks—all that anger at herself for being the cause of it... Anger was a mask for grief. And grief was what she’d felt at having her little world pulled apart.

  ‘I’d love you to meet John soon, yes? How do you feel about that? I know he’s not your father, and I’m sorry I couldn’t make that work for you. But it was better that he left, honey. I didn’t want you growing up thinking that what we had was good, or even normal. It was better that we all had a chance of a better life.’

  Marilyn hugged her hard and Stacey gulped down a sob.

  ‘We only get one life, Stacey. You have to find what’s right for you and go right on out there and make it happen.’

  * * *

  Marco poured out the third bottle of champagne and upended it in the ice bucket.

  ‘Another?’ Dante asked, his eyebrow hitching up.

  ‘Why not?’ said Marco. ‘Everyone seems to be enjoying themselves.’

  He looked along the length of the table. He knew maybe half the faces. He’d be happy if he never saw half of them again. But it was Saturday night. Party night. The night of his big celebration. He’d waited the best part of ten years for this, and now that it was here he was going to do what the world expected and damn well enjoy himself.

  Last Saturday the thought of celebrating had been the furthest thing from his mind. He’d driven away from the Jackson place straight to the airstrip and helicoptered out. He’d punished his body and swamped his mind so that he couldn’t even stop to think of what had happened. International businesses came in handy when you needed them, and he’d flown out to the gold fields in India, where it had all started, then to the Borsatto vineyards in Italy, the cattle farms of Brazil, and then back to the States to attend this party that Dante was so determined he was going to have.