The Italian's Passionate Revenge

The only person he trusted was his secretary, well briefed on the calls to be blocked and those to be put through. One call, she knew, never came.

Vincente was set on being patient. She would call him. He was certain of that. Too much was left unresolved between them, and she had no choice but to call.

He had only one thing to cling to, and that was the fact that he’d managed to hide his true feelings. His shock and confusion at the first sight of her in his mother’s home must have been visible, but after that he was sure he’d kept his defences in place.

His plan to track her down for revenge had begun to go wrong on the day he’d met her. She’d been so different from the cheap floozy of his expectations that he’d been disconcerted, fascinated. When she’d rejected him that evening he’d known frustration but also satisfaction that she couldn’t be so easily seduced.

Through the months apart he’d worked to stop the sale of her apartment, determined to lure her to Rome. He’d told himself it was because his revenge must be achieved, refusing to face the true reason-that he’d met the one woman he couldn’t forget, who physically enticed him without boring him even for a moment.

There had been too many women in his life. They hurled themselves at his money and his looks, and laid themselves out to please him. But Elise challenged him, fought with him, cheerfully insulted him, and he always went back for more. Not for Angelo’s sake. For his own.

Since she’d come to Rome he’d thought of little else but being with her, when he would see her again, the feeling of having her in his bed. At times he’d almost forgotten about Angelo, and the things he needed to know. It was always there, but less important than the shine of her eyes, the feel of her body against his and the cry of fulfilment in the dark that mingled with his own.

But what really stood out in his mind wasn’t their sexual encounters, sweet though they were. It was the time sex had been denied them, when he’d lain in her bed for days, almost helpless, reliant on her assistance. And in the long nights they had talked, coming close to understanding each other.

No, honesty checked him. His deception had denied her any understanding of him. It was he who had got to know her, and learned that he’d misjudged her.

The turning point had come when she’d told him how Ben had forced her hand. It meant that she was innocent, he could think well of her, and this had caused a leap of joy in his heart that warned him where his feelings were heading. Looking back to those days and nights now, he knew it had been the best time of his life.

But he’d found himself trapped. The longer they were together, the more his plans for revenge had seemed like nonsense. Somehow he would find a way out of the mess, tell her the truth and clear the air between them, but without revealing the extent of his plotting. He’d never doubted that he would be able to do this. He’d always been able to do anything that he set his mind to.

But then she’d discovered everything in the worst possible way, forcing him to see that he was lost in a labyrinth of his own making. Taken by surprise, he’d hesitated, briefly unsure how to confront her.

But then she’d attacked him with scorn, jeering at him as a lover, and he’d snapped, turning on her, returning cruelty for cruelty. Inwardly he groaned to recall how he’d laid all the blame for Angelo’s death on her, when the truth was that she, as much as Angelo, had been Ben’s victim. He’d known that, yet still he’d hurled it at her with a savage satisfaction that shamed him now.

Why the hell didn’t she call him?

For him to call her was impossible. She would gain the upper hand-something he couldn’t afford.

Unless the call was strictly business.

It would make sense to let her know that he would no longer block the sale of her apartment, so that she could sell up and leave. That would show her that he was unrelenting, while still allowing him to hear her voice.

‘I don’t want to be disturbed until I call you,’ Vincente told his secretary.

When he was alone he dialled her cellphone but it was switched off. He tried her apartment but there was no reply.

After half an hour he called again, but couldn’t get through on either phone. At his secretary’s insistence he accepted an urgent business call but dealt with it only from the top of his head. Then he tried once more. But there was nothing.

After so long this might mean anything; she might have left the country.

‘Hold all my calls,’ he said, rising abruptly. ‘I’ll be out for the rest of the day.’

‘But you have a meeting with a government minister-’

‘Cancel it.’ He was halfway out of the door.

Twenty minutes later he reached her apartment and rang the bell impatiently, planning what he would say when he saw her, but there was no response. Suddenly filled with dread, he pressed hard on the bell, keeping his finger there.

‘You’re wasting your time,’ said a woman’s voice from further along the corridor. ‘She isn’t there.’

‘Do you know where she is?’

‘In hospital, since yesterday. She was knocked down in the street, by a truck.’

The elderly doctor looked up at the man who came racing down the corridor as though all the devils in hell were after him.

‘I’m here to see Signora Carlton.’

‘Are you a relative, signore?’

‘No, does it matter?’

‘I mean, you are not her husband?’

‘Her husband is dead. My name is Vincente Farnese.’

Most people reacted to that name-impressed or even scared. The doctor seemed barely to have heard it.

‘I see. She hasn’t been able to speak much, you understand. She drifts in and out of consciousness.’

‘Dear God!’ Vincente whispered. ‘What did that truck do to her?’

‘Nothing, signore. It didn’t hit her. She merely collapsed in the road in front of it. Luckily the driver had sharp reactions and braked in time to avoid her.’

‘Collapsed? What do you mean?’

‘She seems to be suffering some severe trauma, apart from not having eaten anything for days.’

Vincente closed his eyes. But the doctor’s next words made him open them sharply.

‘We’re doing our best to save the baby, but I must warn you that nothing is certain.’

‘A baby?’ he whispered.

‘You didn’t know, signore?’

‘I had no idea.’

‘Well, it’s very early days. She didn’t know about it herself until I told her. But I’m afraid that it may already be too late.’

‘I want to see her,’ Vincente demanded.

‘I’m not sure that will be possible.’

‘What do you mean, not possible?’ he snapped. ‘That’s my child she’s carrying-’

‘But you’re not her husband. There are rules about these things. I can’t let you in without her consent.’

Vincente was about to lose his temper in the way that had served him so well before with people who needed to be shown who was boss, but mercifully something stopped him.

‘Please ask her,’ he said quietly. Then, as the doctor turned away, he stopped him. ‘Doctor-beg her if you have to.’

The doctor nodded in understanding and disappeared. Alone, Vincente turned away to look out of the window. He cared nothing for the view but he didn’t want anyone to see his face, lest it reflect the feelings that were tearing him apart.

For once a situation was completely beyond his control. Something ancient and fundamental in him had leapt at the discovery that he was to be a father. Not for a moment did he doubt that Elise’s child was his. Now he had to face the fact that she could refuse to see him, could lose their baby without his being there, could even deny his paternity, if her hatred of him was great enough.

And why shouldn’t she hate him? He’d tricked her, always holding part of himself aloof behind the barrier of his deception. She’d captivated and confused him, so that his whole relationship with her had been coloured by that confusion, and there had been in him a dishonesty that had justified the contempt he’d seen in her eyes.

Now she might view him with even more contempt if his behaviour had damaged her enough to destroy their