Legacy Of Shame. Diana Hamilton
a hundred years ago the family wine-exporting business had been split, her great-grandfather coming to England to found the import and retail side. Since then, her branch of the family had been anglicised, and, as the retail outlets had proliferated, so had the wine-shipping side of the business.
But the Italian Rossis had prospered too, maintaining a forty-nine-per-cent interest in the British company while expanding and diversifying themselves, acquiring ever more vineyards, both in Italy and France, vast acres of rich farmland around Valencia and luxury hotels in every major city in the world.
Which would make Carlo infinitely wealthier and far more powerful than her own father, she mused. Particularly since, from what she recalled of her father’s conversations, Carlo’s father was ailing, had been for the past few years, leaving Carlo himself practically, if not nominally, in charge of the vast Rossi empire.
Furthermore, Carlo’s visit was an olive-branch, a means of ending the family feud which had existed since her father had been a boy, hinging on a disputed package of shares in the UK side of the business. It would be really dreamy, she decided with an ecstatic wriggle of inner excitement, if she and Carlo, respectively the last of the two branches of the family, were to marry and so begin the foundation of a once-more united dynasty!
And it wasn’t impossible, was it?
Standing back and viewing her reflection in the full-length mirror, she assured herself that it was completely, utterly, gloriously possible!
For this evening she had chosen to leave her silky straight waist-length hair loose, caught back from the sides of her face with gilded combs, and her heavier than usual use of make-up emphasised the creamy skin that never seemed to tan, the thickness of her sweeping dark lashes and the luscious pout of her full mouth.
And the new, outrageously expensive dress was well worth every penny, she thought, noting how the fine black silk clung so lovingly to every ripe curve, the short length of the skirt revealing the elegance of endless black silk-clad legs, the tiny shoe-string straps and scoopy bodice emphasising the wide milky-white shoulders and generously full breasts of a woman who was in full bloom, totally feminine, and proud of it!
Tonight, Carlo Rossi wouldn’t be seeing her as an overgrown teenager—on that she would stake her life!
The unstoppable self-confidence of one to whom everything in life came easily had her practically floating down the staircase on expensively nonsensical shoes which were a mere cat’s-cradle of gold kid wispy straps and impossibly slender high heels, and the bubbly excitement that made her feel as if she were intoxicated on the finest champagne didn’t subside by the merest notch when she found Potty to be the sole occupant of the elegantly yet comfortably furnished drawing-room.
‘Your father’s in the library with his guest and I shouldn’t think they’ll show their faces until dinner. And don’t you think you should cover up with a cardigan or something?’
‘Cardigan?’ Venetia scoffed affectionately. ‘How old-fashioned can you get?’ The housekeeper had been refilling the heavy Georgian sherry decanter, and Venetia helped herself to a glass. ‘Anyway, it’s a beautiful evening. I’m not in the least bit cold.’
‘I’m not worried about the temperature,’ Potty snorted, eyeing the generous dose of sherry Venetia had given herself with the same disapproval she had given the slinky dress. ‘You’re not decent, that’s the long and short of it. What your poor father will think, not to mention your cousin, I shudder to imagine! That—that thing you’re wearing shows everything you’ve got!’
Which was precisely what it was meant to do, Venetia thought with a wicked smile that made her eyes sparkle like clear, pure rain-water as she ignored Potty’s continued grumbles and took herself and her sherry out through the French windows and on to the paved terrace.
The warm evening air was rich with the scent of roses and touched her skin with the softness of a lover’s caress, making her tremble with the renewed onslaught of emotions that were entirely new to her. And the sight of the open French windows to the library, further along the terrace, was too much for her self-control.
Never before would she have dreamed of interrupting her father when he was in a business or private discussion; she had far too much respect for him. But her need to feast her eyes on the superlative masculinity that was Carlo Rossi, to allow him to see her as a mature and desirable woman, was too strong to resist right now.
The height of her heels and the tightness of her skirt made her curvaceous hips sway with unself-conscious sexual provocation as she walked through from the terrace into the book-lined room, a slow smile tilting her lush mouth, her eyes half veiled by thick black lashes as she chided huskily, ‘The evening’s too beautiful to waste indoors. Won’t you let me show you the gardens, Carlo?’
Her eyes met his with taunting challenge, her heart skipping several beats as he rose from the shabby leather chesterfield. He, too, had dressed for dinner, and he looked sensational, the formal black jacket and crisp white linen shirt suiting his dark, predatory looks to perfection. And for one long moment those magnificent black eyes searched hers, alert with tacit questions, then glittered darkly as his hard mouth softened to something that was almost a smile, an answer to her own unspoken challenge.
On the periphery of her vision she saw her father rise from the chair behind his huge leather-topped desk, sensed his disapproval at her unprecedented interruption, perhaps—who knew?—guessing at her reason for it, and dismissed him from her mind, hearing only the silence, sensing only the guarded drift of Carlo’s eyes as they appraised the voluptuous curves beneath the thin black satin.
‘Why not?’ He dipped his sleek dark head, not quickly enough to hide the dent of amusement at the side of his mouth, before turning to her father. ‘Perhaps you will join us, sir? It is, as Venetia says, a beautiful evening.’
Don’t! Venetia pleaded fiercely inside her head. Having her father tag along wasn’t part of her plans!
Then she exhaled the breath she hadn’t realised she’d been holding as the older man said slowly, ‘No, you two go ahead.’ And then, more briskly, ‘Be sure to show Carlo the water garden, Venny. And don’t forget the time. Potty will be serving dinner in under an hour.’
‘I won’t,’ Venetia assured, the radiance of her smile undimmed by her parent’s faint, puzzled frown as she stepped to Carlo’s side and tucked her hand beneath his arm and led him out on to the terrace.
After the cool, almost cloistered atmopshere of the library, the early evening sun on her naked arms and shoulders brought a sybaritic smile to her glossy lips and her eyes drifted shut for an instant of sensual pleasure, the deep tones of his voice sending a frisson of delight right through her, even though his words were vaguely patronising in content.
‘Wouldn’t you prefer to leave your glass behind? You can drink your sherry later; no one’s going to steal it from you.’
As if she were a child who couldn’t be persuaded to part with a sticky lollipop! But Venetia refused to be put down. Pausing at the top of the steps that led down from the terrace, she gave him her most dazzling smile and told him huskily, ‘You can steal anything of mine, any time you please.’ She placed the rim of the glass to her pouting lips, her pale, translucent eyes smouldering between thickly fringing lashes as she touched the tip of her tongue to the cool crystal. ‘But why don’t we share?’ She took a long swallow of the pale, aromatic liquid then slowly lifted the glass to his strangely unsmiling mouth. And he drained it as if he had no option, as if it were an inescapable ritual, his eyes never leaving the pure, almost imperiously beautiful lines of her face as she watched the controlled ripple of his throat as he drank, her fingertips aching to follow the track of her fascinated gaze.
‘The water garden, then.’ The incisive cut of his voice broke the spell of that strangely ritualistic bonding, as if he were making some violent repudiation. And she shrugged slightly, hating this new sensation of uncertainty, watching from clouded eyes as he set the glass carefully on top of the stone balustrading and descended the steps.
Venetia jerked herself