Surrendering To The Vengeful Italian. Angela Bissell

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      Si. This might be fun.

      * * *

      ‘Go home, Helena.’

      Helena looked up from the papers on her desk. Her boss stood holding his briefcase, his suit jacket folded over one arm, a look of mock severity on his face. It was after six on Friday and their floor of the corporate bank was largely deserted.

      ‘I’m leaving soon,’ she assured him. ‘I’m meeting someone at six-thirty.’

      David gave an approving nod. ‘Good. Enjoy your weekend.’

      He started off, but paused after a step and turned back. ‘Have you thought any more about taking some leave?’ he said. ‘HR is on the use-it-or-lose-it warpath again. And if you don’t mind me saying...’ he paused, his grey eyes intent ‘...you look like you could do with a break.’

      She smiled, deflecting his concern. David might be one of the bank’s longest-serving executives and knocking sixty, but the man rarely missed a beat. He was sharp, observant, and he cared about his staff.

      She made a mental note to apply more concealer beneath her eyes. ‘I’m fine. It’s been a long week. And the rain kept me awake last night.’

      Partly true.

      ‘Well, think about it. See you Monday.’

      ‘Goodnight, David.’

      She watched him go, then glanced at her watch.

      She had to move.

      The car Leo was sending was due in less than twenty minutes, and earning a black mark for running late was not the way she wanted to start the evening.

      Shutting herself in David’s office, she whipped off her trouser suit and slipped on the little black dress she’d pulled from the bowels of her wardrobe that morning, then turned to the full-length mirror on the back of the door and scanned her appearance.

      She frowned at her cleavage.

      Good grief.

      Had the dress always been so revealing?

      She couldn’t remember—but then neither could she recall the last time she’d worn it. She seldom dressed up these days, even on the rare occasions she dated. She tugged the bodice up, yanked the sides of the V-neck together and grimaced at the marginal improvement.

      It would have to do.

      There was no time for a wardrobe-change—and besides, this was the dressiest thing she owned. She’d sold the last of her designer gowns years ago, when she’d had to stump up a deposit and a month’s advance rent on her flat. Keeping the black dress had been a practical decision, though she could count on one hand the number of times it had ventured from her wardrobe.

      She turned side-on to the mirror.

      The dress hugged her from shoulder to mid-thigh, accentuating every dip and curve—including the gentle swell of her tummy. Holding her breath, she pulled in her stomach and smoothed her hand over the bump that no number of sit-ups and crunches could flatten.

      Not that she resented the changes pregnancy had wrought on her body. They were a bittersweet reminder of joy and loss. Of lessons learnt and mistakes she would never make again.

      She snatched her hand down and released her breath. Tonight she needed to focus on the present, not the past, and for that she would need every ounce of wit she could muster.

      Outside the bank a sleek silver Mercedes waited in a ‘No Parking’ zone, its uniformed driver standing on the pavement. ‘Ms Shaw?’ he enquired, then opened a rear door so she could climb in.

      Minutes later the car was slicing through London’s chaotic evening traffic, the endless layers of city noise muted by tinted windows that transformed the plush, leather-lined interior into a private mini-oasis. Like the luxury suite at the hotel, the car’s sumptuous interior epitomised the kind of lifestyle Helena had grown unused to in recent years—unlike her mother, who still enjoyed the baubles of wealth and couldn’t understand her daughter’s wish to live a modest life, independent of her family’s money and influence.

      She dropped her head back against the soft leather.

      She loved her mother. Miriam Shaw was a classic blonde beauty who had moulded herself into the perfect society wife, but she was neither stupid nor selfish. She loved her children. Had raised them with all the luxuries her own upbringing in an overcrowded foster home had denied her. And when they’d been packed off to boarding school, at her husband’s insistence, she’d filled her days by giving time and support to a long list of charities and fundraisers.

      Yet where her husband was concerned Miriam was inexplicably weak. Too quick to forgive and too ready to offer excuses.

      Like today, when she’d called to cancel their prearranged lunch date. A migraine, she’d claimed, but Helena knew better. Knew her mother’s excuse was nothing more than a flimsy veil for the truth, as ineffectual and see-through as the make-up she would use to try to hide the bruises.

      Denial.

      Her mother’s greatest skill. Her greatest weakness. The impregnable wall Helena slammed into any time she dared to suggest that Miriam consider leaving her husband.

      A burning sensation crawled from Helena’s stomach into her throat—the same anger and despair she always felt when confronted by the grim reality of her parents’ marriage.

      She massaged the bridge of her nose. Over the years she’d read everything she could on domestic abuse, trying to understand why her mother stayed. Why she put up with the drinking, the vitriol, the occasional black eye. Invariably, when the latter occurred, a peace offering would ensue—usually some priceless piece of jewellery—and then Miriam would pretend everything was fine.

      Until the next time.

      Helena had seen it more times than she cared to count, but now the stakes were higher. Now her father stood to lose everything he held dear: his company, his reputation, his pride.

      If Leo got his way the ShawCorp empire would be carved up like twigs beneath a chainsaw, and Helena had no doubt that if—when—her father went down, he would take her mother with him.

      ‘Miss Shaw?’

      She jolted out of her thoughts. The car had stopped in front of Leo’s hotel and a young man in a porter’s uniform had opened her door. Lanky and fresh-faced, he reminded Helena of her brother, prompting a silent prayer of gratitude that James was in boarding school, well away from all this ugly drama.

      She slid out and the porter escorted her through the hotel to a grand reception room with a high vaulted ceiling and decorative walls. The room was crowded, filled with tray-laden waiters and dozens of patrons in tailored tuxedos and long, elegant evening gowns.

      ‘Have a good evening, miss.’

      The young man turned to leave.

      ‘Wait!’ She clasped his arm, confusion descending. ‘I think there’s been some mistake.’

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