Angela Bissell – Surrendering To The Vengeful Italian (страница 4)

After a third careful sip she put the glass down and folded her hands in her lap. She mustn’t reveal her turmoil. Mustn’t show any hint of anxiety as her mind darted from one nauseating scenario to the next. Had her father hit the bottle in the wake of this news? Was her mother playing the devoted wife, trying to console him? And how long before the lethal combination of rage and drink turned him from man to monster? To a vile bully who could lavish his wife with expensive trinkets and luxuries one minute and victimise her the next?

Helena’s insides trembled, but it wasn’t only worry for her mother making her belly quiver. Making her pulse-rate kick up a notch. It was an acute awareness of the man sitting opposite. An unsettling realisation that, no matter how many days, weeks or years came between them, she would never be immune to this tall, breathtaking Italian. She would never look at him and not feel her blood surge. Her lungs seize. Her belly tighten.

No. Time had not rendered her immune to his particular potent brand of masculinity. But she would not let her body betray her awareness of him. If her father’s endless criticisms and lack of compassion had taught her anything as a child it was never to appear weak.

She laced her fingers to keep them from fidgeting. ‘What are your plans for my father’s company?’

A muscle in his jaw bunched and released. Bunched again. He lounged back, stretched out his long legs, draped one arm across the top of the sofa. ‘I haven’t yet decided.’

She fought the urge to scowl. ‘But you must have some idea.’

‘Of course. Many, in fact. All of which I’ll discuss with your father, once he overcomes his aversion to meeting with me.’ He paused. ‘Perhaps he’s hoping his daughter will offer his new shareholder some...incentive to play nice?’

Heat rushed her cheeks, much to her annoyance. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

‘Oh, come now. There’s no need to play the innocent for me.’

Leo’s hand moved absently over the back of the sofa, his fingers stroking the soft black leather in slow, rhythmic patterns. Helena stared, transfixed, then hastily averted her eyes. Those long, tanned fingers had once stroked her flesh in a strikingly similar fashion, unleashing in her a passion no man had unleashed before or since.

She pulled in a breath, tried to focus on his voice.

‘You needn’t look so worried, Helena. You won’t have to dirty your hands with the likes of me again.’ His fingers stilled. ‘I have no interest in anything you could offer.’

As though emphasising his point, his gaze travelled her length, from the summit of her blushing hairline to the tips of her inexpensive shoes. ‘As for the company,’ he went on, before she could muster an indignant response, ‘if your father continues to decline my invitations to meet, my board will vote to sell off the company’s subsidiaries and amalgamate the core business with my own. A merger will mean layoffs, of course, but your father’s people will find I’m not an unreasonable man. Those without jobs can expect a fair severance settlement.’

Her jaw slackened. ‘Dismantle the company?’ The one thing guaranteed to bring her father to his knees. ‘You would tear down everything my father has worked his entire life to build?’

He shrugged. ‘As a minority shareholder he’ll benefit financially from any asset sales. He’ll lose his position at the head of the company, of course, but then your father’s no longer a man in his prime. Perhaps he’ll welcome the opportunity to retire?’

She shook her head. For Douglas Shaw it wasn’t about the money. Or retirement. It was about pride and respect and status. About winning. Control.

‘You don’t understand.’ Her voice trembled. ‘This won’t hurt only my father. It will hurt others, too—my family. Is that what you want, Leo? To see innocent people suffer?’

His eyes narrowed, his gaze hardening under his dark slanted brows. ‘Do not talk to me about suffering. You and your family don’t know the first meaning of the word.’

Not true! she wanted to shout, but she held her tongue. Another habit deeply ingrained from childhood, when she’d been taught to avoid such indiscretions—to lie, if necessary, about her less than perfect home life.

She stifled a frustrated sigh.

Why did people think growing up with money meant a life filled with sunshine and roses? That might have been the case for some of her friends, but for Helena it had been nothing more than a grand, sugar-coated illusion. An illusion her mother, the ever-dutiful society wife, still chose to hide behind.

Leo lunged his powerful shoulders forward, planted both feet firmly on the floor. ‘This is business. Your father knows that. Better than most.’

He rose to his full impressive height: six feet four inches of lean, muscled Italian.

‘I could have made things much worse for him. You might remind him of that fact.’

For a moment Helena considered telling him the truth—that she’d not seen or spoken with her father in years. That she worked as a secretary and lived in a rundown flat in North London and visited her family only when her father was absent on business. That Douglas Shaw was a domineering bully and she didn’t care a jot for the man, but she did care for those who would suffer most from his downfall. That she held no sway with her father and could offer Leo nothing in return for leniency except her eternal gratitude.

But caution stopped her. The man who stood before her now was not the Leo she’d once known. He was a tough, shrewd businessman, bent on revenge, and he would use every weapon in his arsenal to achieve it. Knowledge was power, and he had plenty of that without her gifting him extra ammunition.

Besides, he’d already accused her of lying—why should he believe the truth?

She unlaced her hands and stood.

‘There must be other options,’ she blurted. ‘Other possibilities that would satisfy your board and keep the company intact?’

‘My board will make their decisions based on the best interests of my business. Not your father’s interests and not his family’s.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Now, if you have nothing else to discuss, there are more important matters requiring my attention.’

She stared at him.

More important matters?

A bitter laugh rose and died in her throat.

Really, what had she expected? Understanding? Forgiveness? A friendly chat over a cup of tea?

Humiliation raged through her. She was a fool, wasting her time on a fool’s errand. She snatched up her handbag. ‘Next time you look in the mirror, Leo, remind yourself why you despise my father so much.’ She returned his stony stare. ‘Then take a hard look at your reflection. Because you might just find you have more in common with him than you think.’

His head snapped back, an indication that she’d hit her mark, but the knowledge did nothing to ease the pain knifing through her chest. Head high, she strode to the door.

The handle was only inches from her grasp when a large hand closed on her upper arm, swinging her around. She let out a yelp of surprise.

‘I am nothing like your father,’ he said, his jaw thrusting belligerently.

‘Then prove it,’ she fired back, conscious all at once of his vice-like grip, the arrows of heat penetrating her thin jacket-sleeve, the faint, woodsy tang of an expensive cologne that made her nostrils flare involuntarily. ‘Give my father time to come to the table. Before your board makes any decisions.’

Leo released her, stepped back, and the tiny spark of hope in her chest fizzed like a dampened wick. God. She needed to get out. Now. Before she did something pathetic and weak—like cry. She pivoted and seized the door handle. At the same instant his palm landed on the door above her head, barring her escape.

‘On one condition.’

His voice at her back was low, laced with something she couldn’t decipher. She turned, pressed her back to the door and looked up. ‘Yes?’

‘Have dinner with me.’

She blinked, twice. Three times.

‘Dinner?’ she echoed stupidly.

‘Si.’ His hand dropped from the door. ‘Tomorrow night.’

Her stomach did a funny little somersault. Was he fooling with her now? She narrowed her eyes at him. ‘Is that an invitation or a demand?’

The shrug he gave was at once casual and arrogant. ‘Call it what you like. That is my condition.’

‘Tomorrow’s Friday,’ she said, as if that fact bore some vital significance. In truth, it was all she could think to say while her brain grappled with his proposition.

His nostrils flared. ‘You have other plans?’

‘Uh...no.’ Brilliant. Now he’d think she had no social life. She levelled her shoulders. ‘A minute ago you couldn’t wait to get rid of me. Now you want us to have dinner?’

His lips pressed into a thin line. Impatience? Or, like most men, did he simply dislike having his motives questioned?

He jammed his hands in his trouser pockets. ‘You wanted an opportunity to talk, Helena. Take it or leave it. It is my final offer. I return to Rome on Saturday.’

Helena hesitated, her mind spinning. This could be her one and only chance for a calm, rational conversation with him. An opportunity to appeal to his sense of reason and compassion—if either still existed. The takeover was beyond her control and, if he spoke the truth, a fait accompli, but if she had even a slim chance of dissuading him from stripping the company’s assets, convincing him to settle on a strategy more palatable to her father, she had to take it. Had to try, no matter how daunting the prospect.