Spaniard's Baby Of Revenge. Clare Connelly
again, gruff, but a smile on his lips softened the word. ‘May I enter?’
‘Yeah.’ The word was breathy. She cleared her throat. ‘Of course.’
He shrugged out of his jacket, revealing a shirt that had suffered several drops of rainwater. It was a simple gesture—showing the breadth of his chest and the sculptured perfection of his torso.
She swept her eyes shut for a moment and then collected herself, offering an apologetic grimace before moving in a little. ‘I’m sorry; I don’t get many visitors.’
‘Apparently,’ he drawled. And then his smile deepened to reveal even white teeth. Her stomach flipped in on itself. ‘And so a meat cleaver is how you choose to defend yourself?’
She found herself nodding with mock gravity. ‘I feel it’s only fair to warn you: I have a black belt in kitchen instruments.’
‘Do you?’
‘Oh, you should see me wield a potato peeler.’
His laugh was a low rumble from deep in his belly and his eyes were assessing. She wanted to look away but found her gaze held by his, as though trapped. ‘Another time,’ he said.
‘You can unarm yourself,’ he added. ‘I assure you I don’t mean you any harm.’
‘I’m sure you don’t but I feel I have to point out that very few murderers announce their intentions, do they?’
‘I suppose not.’
‘So it’s quite possible you’re just planning the best way to kill me without making a fuss.’
‘Except that I’ve already explained why I’m here,’ he responded with a grin that seemed to breathe butterflies into her belly. He looked around her cottage with lazy curiosity.
Amelia didn’t have guests often—a few of the teachers from school had come around for her birthday earlier in the year, and once she’d had a student after school, as a favour for the parents, but generally Amelia kept to herself.
What was the point of country solitude if you chose to surrender it?
She tried to see the house as an outsider might—the quaint decorations, the homely simplicity of her furnishings, the absence of any photographs, the abundance of paperback novels and fresh flowers.
‘Ah, yes, your proposition,’ she murmured. ‘Please—’ She gestured towards the lounge.
He moved ahead of her and she realised she was staring at his rear, distracted by the way his trousers framed his tight, muscular bottom. Distracted by the way just looking at him was making her nerves buzz into overdrive.
She had practically no experience with men, besides a few casual lunch dates with Rick Steed, the deputy headmaster. And those had ended with chaste kisses to the cheek, nothing particularly distracting or tempting.
As a teenager, she’d railed against the life she’d been sucked into, hating the expectation that because her mother had been renowned both for her beauty and sexually free attitude Amelia must be exactly the same.
She’d begun to suspect she was, in fact, frigid. Completely devoid of any normal sexual impulse or desire. That had suited her fine. What did she need a man for when she had all the men the books in her life afforded?
What indeed? she thought to herself as he turned to face her.
‘Nice place.’
‘Thank you.’
He was quiet, watching her, and ingrained manners and a need to fill the silence had her offering, ‘Can I get you a drink?’
‘Thank you.’ He nodded.
‘What would you like? Tea? Coffee?’
He arched a brow. ‘At this hour?’
Heat suffused her cheeks at her own naivety. ‘Wine?’
‘Wine would be fine.’
‘Have a seat. I won’t be a minute.’
HER LOUNGE WAS even cosier—if that was possible—than the exterior of this country cottage had promised.
Delicate and pretty, and oh, so feminine, with soft cushions and blankets everywhere and pictures of flowers on the walls. It was cosy, homely and warm, but his mind was only half-focused on his surroundings. He was mulling over the proposition he’d come here to offer—and what he’d do if she refused.
Already he could see that Amelia diSalvo was different to what he’d expected.
Did that matter? Did it fundamentally change what he needed from her? And what she’d agree to?
His research showed that she’d been inactive in the business, not attending meetings of any kind. She was on the board but didn’t contribute; it was clear she had no interest in the day-to-day operations of diSalvo Industries.
But would she be easily convinced to sell her shares to him?
Would she recognise his name and recall the bitter rivalry that had engulfed their families? Would he then have to launch straight into his backup plan? The idea of revealing his machinations to this woman hadn’t bothered him an hour earlier but, standing in her living room, suddenly he wasn’t in a rush to reveal his reasons for coming to Bumblebee Cottage late in the evening.
Which was absurd given that he’d had an investigator searching for her for over a year. Absurd given that he’d jumped on a flight as soon as she’d been located, with scant regard for the timing of things. If he’d been patient, he could have spent the night in London and driven into the countryside first thing the following morning, catching her in the daytime rather than on a rainy summer evening.
But he was here, and he wouldn’t let himself get distracted by the fact that she wasn’t the hard and cynical heiress he’d imagined. Nor by the fact she seemed kind of sweet and funny, and lived in a house that was like a tribute to quaint history.
He had spent his adult life setting things right, avenging this feud, and now he was within striking distance. All that stood between himself and success was this one tiny woman.
She was different to what he’d expected, but she was still a diSalvo and she still held the key to his ultimate revenge.
He had to remember that.
* * *
It was impossible to say why she felt as if she needed a moment to steady herself in the kitchen, but Amelia took several, sucking in a deep breath and then another and another as she reached for a bottle of wine and a corkscrew. All the wines she’d been given as gifts had actual corks.
She lifted it out easily enough and poured a measure into two glasses—her plans for a cup of tea falling by the wayside as she thought it would give her some fortifying courage.
Wine glasses in hand, she moved back into the lounge. And froze.
He was simply standing, staring at one of the pictures of hydrangeas she’d painted in watercolours, and it was that image of him that did something completely unexpected to her insides.
He was so utterly masculine in the midst of her living space and yet there was something strangely perfect about seeing him there. She stared at him, at the harshness of his face in profile, the strength of his body, broad shoulders and a narrow waist, legs that looked strong and athletic, and her pulse began to speed and her heart was trembling.
Oh, God, what was happening to her? Her mouth was dry and when she lifted her reluctant gaze back to his face she saw he’d turned and a hint of sardonic amusement danced in the depths of his eyes, bringing another flush of pink to her cheeks.
‘Here,’ she muttered, pushing