Czytaj książkę: «Ruthlessly Bedded by the Italian Billionaire»
‘Maybe the best way to quell your rebellion is to storm your defences and seduce you,’ Dante said with arrogant certainty.
His mouth covered hers, and the shock of his kiss and the strength of his powerful body completely robbed Jenny of any resistance. His mouth ravished hers, his tongue sweeping over her palate, making it tingle with intense pleasure. He had read her character rightly. Submission was not in her nature. Every primitive instinct she had was suddenly triggered, dictating a need to do to him what he was doing to her.
The self-discipline that had ruled her life for so long broke into an angry passion. He held her body by force. She flung her arms around his head, hands burrowing fiercely into his thick hair.
His mouth was locked on hers, kissing with ravaging intensity. Only when he’d tumbled her backwards onto the bed did he break away, his eyes blazing with the desire to enslave her to his will.
Never, she silently shot at him.
Initially a French/English teacher, Emma Darcy changed careers to computer programming before the happy demands of marriage and motherhood. Very much a people person, and always interested in relationships, she finds the world of romance fiction a thrilling one and the challenge of creating her own cast of characters very addictive.
Recent titles by the same author:
BOUGHT FOR REVENGE, BEDDED FOR PLEASURE
THE BILLIONAIRE’S CAPTIVE BRIDE
THE BILLIONAIRE’S SCANDALOUS MARRIAGE
RUTHLESSLY
BEDDED BY
THE ITALIAN
BILLIONAIRE
BY
EMMA DARCY
MILLS & BOON
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CHAPTER ONE
Sydney, Australia
‘MISS Rossini…’
Another voice calling to her, using Bella’s name.
Jenny struggled to understand. Her mind felt weirdly disconnected, taking in only snatches of what was said. She couldn’t make sense of what she heard. It was as if she was locked inside a fog that almost cleared sometimes but then swallowed her up into a blank nothingness. Was this a nightmare that kept coming and receding? She needed to wake up, get a grip on what was real, but her eyelids were so heavy.
‘Miss Rossini…’
There it was again. Where was Bella? Why did the voices use her friend’s name as though it belonged to her? It was wrong. Her head ached with trying to figure it out. The fog swirled. So much easier to slide back into oblivion where there was no painful confusion. Yet she wanted answers, wanted the torment of this nightmare to end. Which meant focusing all the energy she could summon on opening her eyes.
‘Oh, dear God! She woke up! She’s awake!’
The screech hurt her ears. The sudden glare of light made her want to close her eyes, but she fought the impulse, frightened of losing the strength to open them again. Her blurred vision picked up a flurry of movement.
‘I’ll get the doctor!’
Doctor…white bed…white screens…tubes stuck in her arm. This had to be a hospital. Some kind of sling was on her other arm. She couldn’t see her legs. The blanket on the bed was covering them. She tried to move them but couldn’t manage it. Dead weight. Her mind filled with a galloping fear. Was she paralysed?
A nurse appeared at the foot of her bed, a pretty blond woman with anxious blue eyes. ‘Hi! My name is Alison. I’ve paged Dr Farrell. He’ll be here in a minute, Miss Rossini.’
Jenny tried to say that wasn’t her name but her mouth wouldn’t co-operate. Her lips, her throat were so dry they felt cracked.
‘I’ll get you a cup of ice,’ Alison said, darting away.
When she returned she was accompanied by a man who introduced himself as Dr Farrell. Alison fed her a piece of ice which she rolled around her tongue, working moisture from it, grateful for the lubrication trickling down her throat.
‘Glad to have you with us at last, Miss Rossini,’ the doctor was saying, looking cheerful about it. He was a short stocky man, probably mid-thirties, dark hair given a buzz cut that seemed to defy the receding hairline, certainly no vanity about hiding it. His bright brown eyes twinkled approval of her wakeful state. ‘You’ve been in a coma for the past two weeks.’
Why? What’s wrong with me? Panic churned through her as she tried to telegraph the questions with her eyes.
‘You were in a car accident,’ he said, understanding her need to know. ‘For some reason you were not wearing a seat belt and you were thrown clear of the wreck. However, you suffered a severe concussion, and the bruising of the brain undoubtedly contributed to the coma. You also had three broken ribs, a broken arm, deep lacerations on one leg and you have a cast on the other, fixing up a broken ankle. However, you are mending nicely and it’s only a matter of time before you’ll be on your feet again.’
Relief whooshed through her. She wasn’t paralysed. However, her bruised brain wasn’t working so well. It couldn’t recollect any memory of a car accident. Besides, it didn’t make sense that she hadn’t been wearing a seat belt. She always did. It was an automatic action whenever she got into a car.
‘I see you frowning, Miss Rossini. Are you up to speaking yet?’ the doctor asked kindly.
I’m not Bella. Why didn’t they know that?
She licked her lips and managed to croak, ‘My name…’
‘Good! You know your name.’
No!
She tried again. ‘My friend…’
The doctor sighed, grimaced. His eyes softened with sympathy. ‘I’m sorry to tell you that your friend passed away in the accident. Nothing could be done for her. The car burst into flames before help arrived. If you had not been thrown clear…’
Bella…dead? Burnt? The horror of it brought a gush of tears. The doctor took her hand and patted it, mouthing words of comfort, but Jenny didn’t really hear anything but the tone. All she could think of was that being burned was a terrible way to die and Bella had been so kind to her, taking her in, giving her a place to live, even letting her borrow her name so she could work at the Venetian Forum since everyone employed there had to be Italian. Or of Italian heritage.
Was that how their identities had got mixed up?
The tears kept coming. The doctor left, appointing the nurse to sit at her bedside and talk to her. Jenny couldn’t speak. She was too overwhelmed by the shock of her situation and the dreadful loss of her friend. Her only friend. And Bella had had no one, either. No family. Both of them orphans—a bond that had given them immediate empathy with each other.
Who would bury her? What would happen to her apartment and all her things…the home she’d made, waiting for her to come back…except she never would return to it.
Eventually the exhaustion of grief drew her into sleep.
Another nurse had replaced Alison when she woke up.
‘Hello. My name is Jill,’ she said encouragingly. ‘Can I get you anything, Miss Rossini?’
Not Rossini. Kent. Jenny Kent. But there was no one to care about who or what she was now that Bella was gone.
Fear speared through the dark turmoil in her mind.
Where would she go when they finally released her from this hospital? Social Services would probably find some place for her, as they had throughout her childhood and early teenage years—places she’d hated—and if she was forced back into the welfare system because of her injuries, that sleazy abusive creep might hear of it.
Revulsion cramped her stomach. The officials hadn’t believed her when she had reported their highly experienced social worker for helping down-and-out girls in return for sexual favours. He was too entrenched in the system not to be trusted, and the other girls had been too frightened of his vengeful power to back up her report. She’d been painted as a vindictive liar for not getting what she wanted from him, and no doubt he would revel in victimising her again if he became aware of her present circumstances.
Yet what other choice was viable? Simply to survive she would have to be dependent on welfare until she could stand on her own two feet again and make her way, selling her sketches on the street as she had before meeting Bella. Impossible to stay on at the Venetian Forum without the Rossini name.
The wild thought flashed into her mind—did she have to give it up?
Everyone thought Jenny Kent was dead.
There was no one to care if she was, no one to come forward to claim her. If officialdom believed she was Isabella Rossini…if she found out why they did…would it be too terrible of her to take over her friend’s identity for a while…stay in the apartment…go on working at the Venetian Forum…build up some savings…give herself time to think, to plan out what to do when she felt up to coping on her own?
Wouldn’t her friend have wanted that for her instead of all of it just…ending?
CHAPTER TWO
Rome, Italy Six Months Later
DANTE Rossini unwound himself from Anya’s voluptuous charms and reached for his cell-phone.
‘Don’t!’ she snapped. ‘You can pick up the message later.’
‘It’s my grandfather,’ he said, ignoring the protest.
‘Oh, fine! He calls and you jump!’
Her burst of petulance annoyed him. He sliced her a quelling look as he flipped open the cell-phone, knowing it could only be his grandfather because no one else had been given this private number—an immediate link between them. He’d bought the phone for this specific use when Nonno had been diagnosed with inoperable cancer, and yes, he was ready to jump whenever it rang. Three months at most, the doctors had forecast, and already a month had gone by. Time was running out for Marco Rossini.
‘Dante here,’ he said quickly, aware of a tight knot of urgency in his chest. ‘What can I do for you, Nonno?’
Frustrated that her jeering words had had no effect on him, Anya flounced off the bed and strutted angrily towards the bathroom. Time was running out on Anya Michaelson, too, he decided. She always expected to be indulged, which he hadn’t minded in the past, given her fantastic body and her talent for erotic games, but her self-centred core was beginning to irritate him.
He heard his grandfather wheezing, gathering breath enough to speak. ‘It’s a family matter, Dante.’
Family? Usually it was a business issue he wanted resolved. ‘What’s the problem?’ he asked.
‘I’ll explain when you get here.’
‘You want me to come now?’
‘Yes. No time to waste.’
‘I’ll be there before lunch,’ he promised.
‘Good boy!’
Boy… Dante smiled ironically as he flicked the cellphone shut. He was thirty years old, already designated to take over the management of a global business, having met every challenge his grandfather had set for him from his teenage years onward. Only Marco Rossini had the balls to still call him a boy, and Dante excused it as a term of familial affection. He’d just turned six years old when his parents were killed in a speed-boat accident and he’d been his grandfather’s boy ever since.
‘What about me?’ Anya demanded as he rose from the bed.
She’d propped herself provocatively against the bathroom doorjamb, every lush naked curve jutting out at him, her long blond hair arranged in tousled disarray over her shoulders, her full-lipped mouth pouting. The desire she’d stirred earlier was gone. The only feeling she raised now was impatience.
‘I’m sorry. I have to leave.’
‘You promised to take me shopping today.’
‘Shopping is unimportant.’
She was blocking the way into the bathroom. He took hold of her waist to move her aside. She flung her arms around his neck, pressing herself against him, her green eyes sparking anger. ‘It is not unimportant to me, Dante. You promised…’
‘Another time, Anya. I’m needed on Capri. Now, let go.’
His voice was cold. His eyes were cold. She let go, infuriated by his command but obeying it. He stepped past her and walked into the shower stall, not glancing back.
‘I hate the way you switch off!’ she screeched. ‘I hate it!’
‘Then find yourself another man, Anya,’ he said carelessly and turned on the water, drowning out any extraneous noise. The last thing he wanted was to be subjected to a hissy fit, and he didn’t really care if Anya found herself another man. Let someone else buy her clothes and jewellery for the pleasure of her body. There were always other beautiful women, eager to share his bed.
She was gone when he emerged from the bathroom and he didn’t give her another thought. As he plunged into the business of getting ready to leave—calling the helicopter pilot to be on standby for a flight to Capri, dressing, grabbing some breakfast—his mind was sifting through the family positions, trying to work out who was causing his grandfather concern.
Uncle Roberto was currently in London, overseeing the refurbishing of the hotel, happily immersing himself in the kind of creativity he loved. He’d always managed his gay life with discretion and Marco tolerated his son’s homosexuality, with the proviso that it wasn’t paraded under his nose. Had something unacceptable happened?
Aunt Sophia had shed her third money-sucking husband a year ago, at the cost of several million dollars, causing Marco to gnash his teeth over his wayward daughter’s total lack of judgement. She had married in turn an American evangelist, a Parisian playboy and an Argentinian polo player, all of whom apparently exuded enough sexual charisma to woo and win themselves a very wealthy wife. Had she started another unsuitable liaison?
Then there was his cousin, Lucia, Aunt Sophia’s twenty-four-year-old daughter by the Parisian playboy, a sly little minx whom he’d never liked. Even as a child she’d had a habit of spying on people and tattling if she thought it would win her some advantage. But she was always sweetness itself to Marco. Dante couldn’t imagine her giving their grandfather a problem. Lucia would avoid that like the plague, especially when there was a hefty inheritance in sight.
Marco himself had only married once. His wife had died before Dante was born, and Marco had satisfied himself with a string of mistresses over the years. They’d been treated well and paid off handsomely at the end of each ‘arrangement.’ None of them should be causing trouble.
Mulling over the possibilities was probably pointless, though Dante liked to be mentally prepared to carry out any directive his grandfather gave. Marco had drilled into him that knowledge was power. Anyone who was surprised at an important meeting had not done their homework and was instantly at a disadvantage. Dante was rarely surprised these days. Though he had been surprised by his grandfather’s choice to spend his last months at the villa on Capri.
Why not the palazzo in Venice? The worldwide chain of Gondola Hotels, the Venetian Forums built in ‘little Italy’ sections of major cities…all were inspired by the place Marco called home. Of course, the air in Venice was not as sweet as on the island, the view not as clean, the sunshine not so accessible, not for a very sick man. Still, his grandfather had been born in Venice and Dante had expected him to want to die there.
He wondered again about that choice as the helicopter flew him towards Capri. His gaze swept around the high grey cliffs dotted with scrubby trees, the rocky outcrops spearing up from the sea, the predominantly white township sprawling around the top edge of the island, the water below a brilliant turquoise blue. There was nothing even faintly reminiscent of Venice.
The villa had always been a holiday place, mostly used by Aunt Sophia and Uncle Roberto. Dante had spent some of his school vacations there but his grandfather had only ever dropped in on them, not staying for long, certainly not ever demonstrating a fondness for the relaxed lifestyle it offered. He’d always seemed impatient to be gone about his business again.
The helicopter landed on the rear terrace of the villa grounds. It was almost noon and the sun was hot enough for Dante to be glad to reach the flag-stoned walkway, which was well shaded by pine trees and the profusion of bougainvillea spread over the columned pergola. He was not so glad to see Lucia at the other end of it, walking out to meet him.
She favoured her father in looks, more French than Italian, dark-brown hair cut in a very chic bob, her fine-boned face featuring a straight elegant nose, a full-lipped sensual mouth, bright brown eyes that were always keenly observant. She wore a coquettish, little-girl dress that shouted French designer class, geometrically patterned in brown and white and black, the miniskirt showing off her long slim legs.
‘Nonno is in the front courtyard, waiting for you,’ she said, turning to accompany him as he came level with her.
‘Thank you. No need for you to escort me, Lucia.’
She stuck to his side. ‘I want to know what’s going on.’
‘He called me, not you.’
She flashed him a resentful look. ‘I’m just as much family as you, Dante.’
She’d eavesdropped on the call. He kept walking, saying nothing for her to get her teeth into. They entered the villa, moving towards the atrium, a central gathering place that connected the wings spreading out from it and led to the front courtyard.
Frustrated by his silence, Lucia offered information to tempt some speculation. ‘A man came yesterday afternoon. He didn’t give a name. He brought a briefcase with him and had a private meeting with Nonno. It left Nonno looking even more ill. I’m worried about him.’
‘I’m sure you’re doing your best to brighten him up, Lucia,’ he said blandly.
‘If I know what the problem is…’
‘I have no idea.’
‘Don’t play dumb with me, Dante. You always have an idea.’ The bite in her voice softened to a sweet wheedle. ‘I just want to help. Whatever Nonno heard from that man yesterday has knocked the life out of him. It’s awful seeing him so sunk into himself.’
Bad news, Dante thought, steeling himself to deal with the fallout as best he could. ‘I’m sorry to hear it,’ he said, ‘but I can’t tell you what I don’t know, Lucia. You’ll have to wait until Nonno chooses to reveal what’s on his mind.’
‘You’ll tell me after you’ve talked with him?’ she pressed.
He shrugged. ‘Depends on whether it’s confidential or not.’
‘I’m the one here looking after him. I need to know.’
His grandfather had a private nurse and a whole body of servants looking after him. He shot his cousin a mocking look. ‘You’re here looking after your own interests, Lucia. Let’s not pretend otherwise.’
‘Oh, you…you…’ Her mouth clamped down on whatever epithet she would have liked to fling at him.
It was clear to Dante she hated him for seeing through her artifices, always had, but open enmity was not her game.
‘I love Nonno and he loves me,’ she stated tightly. ‘You might do well to remember that, Dante.’
An empty threat, but it probably gave her some satisfaction to leave him with it. They’d reached the atrium and she sheered off to the right, probably heading for the main entertainment room from where she could view what went on in the courtyard, though she wouldn’t be able to hear what was said.
Dante continued on, only pausing when he stepped outside, taking in the scene before announcing his arrival. His grandfather was resting in a well-cushioned chaise lounge, his face shaded by an umbrella, the rest of his brutally wasted body soaking up the natural warmth of the sun.
He wore navy silk pyjamas, their looseness emphasising rather than hiding the loss of his once powerful physique. His eyes were closed. Sunken cheeks made his cheekbones too prominent, his proud Roman nose too big, but there was still an indomitable air about his jutting chin. His skin had tanned, probably from many mornings spent like this. It made his thick, wavy hair look shockingly whiter.
The nurse sat on a chair beside him, ready to attend to his every need. She was reading a book. A pitcher of fruit juice and a set of glasses stood on a table within easy reach. Tubs of flowers provided pleasing cascades of colour, and the brilliant blue vista of sea and sky generated a peaceful ambience. But Dante knew the sense of peace had to be a lie. Something was wrong and he had to fix it.
His footsteps on the terrace flagstones as he moved forward alerted the nurse to his presence, and his grandfather’s eyelids snapped open. The nurse rose to her feet. His grandfather directed a dismissive wave at her and gestured for Dante to take the chair she had vacated. He didn’t speak until she had gone and his grandson was settled close to him. Greetings were unnecessary and any inquiry about his health was unwelcome, so Dante waited in silence to hear what he’d been summoned to hear.
‘I have kept many things from you, Dante. Private things, Personal things. Painful things.’ A rueful grimace expressed his grandfather’s reluctance to confide them. ‘Now is the time to tell you.’
‘As you wish, Nonno,’ Dante said quietly, not liking the all too evident distress.
The usually bright dark eyes were clouded as his grandfather bluntly stated, ‘Your grandmother, the only woman I ever really loved, my beautiful Isabella, died in this villa.’
His voice faltered, choked with emotion. Dante waited for him to recover, feeling oddly embarrassed by so much feeling, never openly expressed before. The only knowledge he’d had of his grandmother was the occasional reference in newspapers of Marco’s one and only wife having died of a drug overdose. It had happened before he was born, and when he’d queried the story, his grandfather had vehemently forbidden any further mention of it.
Dante had privately assumed he had felt some guilt over his wife’s untimely and scandalous death, but given she was the only woman he had ever really loved, perhaps there had been a deep and abiding grief that he couldn’t bear to touch upon. It did answer why Marco had chosen to die here, too.
A deep sigh ended in another grimace. ‘We had a third son.’
The missing Rossini ‘wild child’—another sensational story occasionally popping up in newspapers, full of lurid speculation about the rebellious black sheep who’d obviously refused to knuckle under to what Marco wanted of him, dropping completely out of his father’s world—speculation that was never answered by the Rossinis—a family skeleton kept so firmly in the cupboard, Dante’s curiosity about the uncle he’d never known had always been frustrated. His jerk of surprise at the totally unexpected opening of this door evoked a sharply dismissive gesture from his grandfather, demanding forebearance.
‘Just listen.’ The command held no patience for questions. ‘I banished Antonio from our lives. No one in the family was to even speak his name. Because of him, my Isabella died. He killed his mother, not deliberately, but he gave her the designer drug that led to her death. It was his fault and I couldn’t forgive him.’
Dante’s mind reeled with shock. It took him several moments to attach some current significance to the revelations of this traumatic family history. Had his exiled uncle resurfaced? Was this the problem?
‘He was the youngest of our four children. Your father, Alessandro—’ his grandfather sighed, shaking his head, still grieved by the loss of his eldest son ‘—he was my boy in every way. As you are, Dante.’
Yes, Dante thought. Even in looks, both he and his father had inherited Marco’s thick wavy hair, his deeply set dark-chocolate eyes, strong Roman nose, and the slight cleft centring their squarish chins.
‘Roberto…he was softer,’ his grandfather went on in a tone of rueful reminiscence. ‘It was obvious from early on he would not be a competitor like Alessandro, but he does well enough with his artistic talent. And Sophia, our first girl…we spoilt her, gave her too much, indulged her every whim. I cannot really blame her for the behaviour I now have to pay for. Then came Antonio…’
His eyes closed, as though the memory of his youngest son was still cloaked in darkness. It took a visible effort to speak of him. ‘He was a very bright child, mischievous, merry, given to creating amusing mayhem. He made us laugh. Isabella adored him. Of our four children, he looked most like her. He was…her joy.’
Dante heard the pain in every word and knew that Marco had shared his wife’s joy in the boy.
‘School was too easy for him. He wasn’t challenged enough. He looked for other excitement, adventures, parties, physical thrills, experimenting with drugs. I didn’t know about the drugs, but Isabella did. She kept it from me. When she died, Antonio confessed that she had been trying to make him stop and he had urged her to try the drug, to see for herself how marvellous it would make her feel and how completely harmless it was.’
His eyes opened and black derision flashed from them as he bitterly repeated, ‘Harmless…’
‘Tragic,’ Dante murmured, imagining the horror of discovering how his wife’s death had occurred, and the double grief his grandfather had suffered.
‘Antonio should have died, not my Isabella. So I made him dead as far as my world was concerned.’
Dante nodded sympathetic understanding. None of this had touched his life and he still felt somewhat stunned that so much had been kept totally suppressed by the family. No doubt it was a measure of his grandfather’s dominating and singularly ruthless power that not one word of the mother/son drug connection had leaked out, not privately nor publicly.
A mirthless little laugh gravelled from his grandfather’s throat. His eyes seemed to mock himself as he said, ‘I thought I might make peace with him. It’s bad enough for any man to have one son die before him. Losing Alessandro was…but at least I had you, my son’s son, filling that gap. Antonio was completely lost. And is completely lost. There can be no making peace with him.’
Dante frowned. ‘Do you mean…?’
‘I hired a firm of private investigators to find him, bring me news of the life he’d made for himself, information that would tell me if it was viable to set up a meeting between us. The owner of the firm called on me yesterday. Antonio and his wife died in a plane crash two years ago—a small private plane he was flying himself. Bad weather, pilot error…’
‘I’m sorry, Nonno.’
‘Too late for making peace,’ he muttered. ‘But he did leave a daughter, Dante. A daughter whom he named Isabella, after his mother, and I want you to fly to Australia and bring her here to me.’ His eyes suddenly blazed with a concentration of life. ‘I want you to do it, Dante, because I know you’ll do everything in your power to make her come with you. And there is so little time…’
‘Of course I’ll do it for you, Nonno. Do you know where she is?’
‘Sydney.’ His mouth twisted with irony. ‘She even works in the Venetian Forum we built there. You will have no trouble finding her.’ He leaned over, picked up a manila folder which was lying on the low table beside his chaise. ‘All the information you need is in here.’
He held it out and Dante took it.
‘Isabella Rossini…’ The name rolled off his grandfather’s tongue in a tone of deep longing. ‘BringAntonio’s daughter home to me, Dante. My Isabella would have wished it. Bring our grand-daughter home.…’
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