His Wedding Ring Of Revenge. Julia James

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      She stared at him. Stared at the man who sat there, who had nearly—so very, very nearly—destroyed her.

      I was young. I was stupid. I was gullible.

      She was none of those things now.

      And Vito Farneste meant nothing to her. Just as she meant nothing to him. Had always meant nothing to him.

      Now, only one person meant anything to her. It had come very late, but it had come. And it was for that reason she was here, standing in front of Vito Farneste, offering him the one thing he wanted from her—the only thing of any value to him.

      But you were never of value to him—never! Not once, at any time! You were nothing more than a fool, to be used.

      His eyes were dark, so very dark. Like the night.

      For a second so brief she wanted to believe she had only imagined it, a pain went through her that was searing, agony.

      For I have sworn thee fair, and thought thee bright

      Who art as black as hell, as dark as night…

      The lines from Shakespeare’s bitter sonnet tore at her.

      With a strength she pulled out of grief, she forced her mind away.

      Vito Farneste wanted different things now from what he had wanted once, when she had been that young, stupid, gullible fool. Now what he wanted was in her possession.

      But, unlike the last thing he had wanted from her, this time she would extract something in return.

      Not money. Money was no use to her.

      What she wanted was something quite, quite different.

      Vito’s eyes had narrowed. But they remained utterly without expression. She matched hers to his.

      ‘Well?’ he demanded.

      His gaze bored into hers.

      She felt them do so as if they were a physical force, drilling through her. She took a breath—quick and sharp and shallow.

      ‘It’s very simple,’ she told him. ‘I want you to marry me.’

      For a second there was total and absolute silence. Then, like the lash of a whip, he started to laugh.

      It cut the flesh from her bones, flayed the skin from her body.

      Scornful, contemptuous laughter.

      She watched his head thrown back, his mouth widen, indenting lines from his nose to the edges of his lips.

      Then he cut the laughter short.

      With dark, poisonous venom in his eyes he leant forward.

      ‘In your dreams,’ he sneered.

      His mocking voice sheered through her. Forcing her to acknowledge the truth of what he said.

      Once, marrying Vito Farneste would have been a dream come true.

      But that was in another lifetime. When she had been a different person.

      Yes, so naïve I should have had a warning sign on me!

      But there had been no warning. No warning of just how mortally dangerous Vito Farneste could be to her.

      After that first, horrible encounter by the pool, when she was fourteen, she’d never thought she would see him again. Her mother, arriving back after a long lunch with Enrico, had been furious to discover Vito had turned up at the villa. Vito’s father hadn’t seemed pleased either.

      Rachel had stayed down by the pool even after she’d heard the car arriving and assumed it was her mother and Enrico coming back. But she hadn’t been able to block out the angry exchange of deep voices echoing down from the house, culminating in the throaty roar of that red beast tearing away up the precipitous coast road. After a while her mother had come in search of her, clipping down the steps in high heels and looking tense and distracted. There had been two spots of colour on her cheeks, visible beneath the perfect make-up she wore. At thirty-four her mother could easily have passed for a woman nearly ten years younger, but today she showed her age.

      ‘Are you all right, Mum?’ Rachel had been moved to ask.

      Her mother had given an impatient sound in her throat. ‘Vito has been here, spreading his usual discord! Enrico is angry, naturally, and that just makes for a difficult situation.’

      ‘Who’s Vito?’ Rachel asked, though she was pretty sure she knew just who her mother was referring to.

      ‘Enrico’s son. He’s driven here, quite unnecessarily, to inform his father that his mother has taken off for her mountain chalet with one of her so-called nervous attacks! Does Vito seriously think Enrico is going to rush after her? He’s only been here two days—that boy has absolutely no idea how hard his father works!’ Her mouth tightened. ‘The only thing Vito knows is how to spend money and live the dolce vita in Rome! The original Latin playboy!’ Her eyes suddenly sharpened. ‘Did you see him?’ she demanded. ‘Before Enrico and I came back?’

      To her chagrin, Rachel felt the colour flush through her face.

      ‘He…he walked past the pool,’ she confessed, in a mumbled voice.

      Her mother’s face hardened. ‘Well, at least he won’t be back now. He’s gone off to hold his mother’s perpetually swooning hand. It’s quite ridiculous the fuss he makes over her!’

      Was that defensiveness in her mother’s voice, or just accusation? Rachel wondered. Whichever it was, it just made her long to be a million miles away.

      She remained of that opinion for the rest of her stay at the villa. She did her very best to stay out of the way, heading down to the tiny private beach below the villa to swim in the sea, or sunbathing by the pool with a book.

      Her mother and Enrico seemed to spend most of their time out and about, and she was glad. She felt no easier in Enrico’s company than in her mother’s. He seemed to be a remote figure, middle-aged and heavily built, someone around whom the whole household revolved—including, primarily, her mother.

      Rachel hated seeing them together. Up till now she had accepted their relationship. It had lasted over six years, ever since Enrico Farneste, attending a conference in Brighton, had walked into the expensive boutique her mother ran in the fashionable Lanes to buy something for his current mistress and decided that Arlene Graham would make him a much better one. Rachel had been packed off, first to her mother’s elderly widowed aunt and then to an expensive boarding-school, to get her out of the way, and her mother had been whisked off to Italy.

      Rachel had known her mother had become the mistress of Enrico Farneste, head of the giant Farneste Industriale. That it was his luxurious villa she lived in, his yacht she took her holidays on, his gilded world she moved in. And she had known, too, that it was thanks to Enrico Farneste that she went to her exclusive boarding-school, that Auntie Jean now lived in a nice bungalow outside Brighton, not a council flat, and that when she stayed with her mother in London it was Enrico Farneste who ended up СКАЧАТЬ