A Passionate Revenge. SARA WOOD
stopped outside her grandfather’s old study, where Steve knocked, and pushed open the door for her. It was an odd feeling to be here again, in an entirely different capacity. Heiress to employee in one bound, she thought, her smile rueful now.
‘That’s it. Smile away. Mr Pascali likes us to be happy,’ Steve confided.
She blinked at the young man, wondering if she’d heard him properly. It felt as if she’d been dropped down an elevator shaft in a twenty-storey building.
‘Pascali?’ she whispered, white-faced, wondering if she’d ever get her stomach back to where it belonged.
‘Sure,’ he whispered back. ‘Half-Italian. Comes from Milan. But calm down. He’s great. Won’t bite, honest. He doesn’t smile a lot and he’s tough and drives himself hard but he’s fair. And so long as we don’t throw “sickies”, he’s great when we’re really ill. A star, through and through.’
That didn’t sound like Vido. A star? A matter of opinion, she thought tartly and would have turned tail and run, but by then the young man had pushed her inside and shut the door behind her.
Immediately her defences went up. Looking around the wonderfully light and airy study, its once half-empty wall shelves now filled with books, her wary gaze alighted on Vido where he sat behind a vast mahogany desk.
Without warning, her body moved into meltdown. He looked sensational. He was wearing a Wedgwood-blue waistcoat and co-ordinating shirt, its sleeves neatly rolled back to reveal muscular arms, and an expression that could only be described as that of a predatory panther, poised to strike after a long period of fasting.
She swallowed, confused, forgetting Peter’s instruction to march in and take charge, to pretend that she had a natural confidence and assurance. But they’d both known she wasn’t like that. And even less so, with Vido’s ruthlessly assessing gaze stripping her right down to the bone.
Her head swam as his liquid dark eyes turned her from professional chef in interview mode to all-woman. She didn’t have time to think. Her mind was too busy dealing with the gloriously sensual sensations that were bringing her alive.
Fight or flight. She must concentrate. There was but a second or two to choose. Of course it was inconceivable that she’d get the job, even if she wanted to work for a man she utterly despised. She’d be wasting her time if she stayed another moment.
The trouble was that if she left now it would be seen as the act of a coward, someone who was scared of him. Her mouth firmed in resolution. Hell would freeze over before she let him know how strongly he affected her. It was fight, then.
‘Anna. Welcome to my home.’
Despite the lascivious thoughts exploding in his head, he’d managed to rise, his tone deliberately mocking. As he extended his hand, Anna checked her loose-limbed stride. It seemed his assertion that he was now the master of Stanford House had thrown her completely off balance. He smiled faintly with satisfaction.
‘Vido.’
Her husky whisper ricocheted through some alarmingly sensitive parts of him. More tantalisingly, she licked her lips and he realised that she must be dry-mouthed in shock. Swallowing, and as if driven by an involuntary action she couldn’t prevent, she hesitantly walked towards him then reached out to allow his hand to close around hers.
He knew he’d hung on to her a shade too long. But that was because her grave grey eyes were fixed on his in hurt dismay and his mind had momentarily gone blank.
His protective instincts were urging him to leap over the desk and soothe her agitation. Which only showed how stupid and unreliable one’s instincts could be. Anna was pure ice and acid lemon through and through to her cold little steely heart.
Snatching her hand away and rubbing her palm as if he’d burnt it, she snapped without preamble, ‘When did you know I’d applied for this job?’
She was stunning in her anger. Eyes blazing. A flush on those high cheekbones. Her ribcage high with those short inhalations of breath. Glorious. He gritted his teeth against the urge to catch her to him and fling her down on his desk. Later, he promised himself. And had to stop himself from gasping at the shaft of pleasure that gave him.
‘Not till this morning,’ he managed, sounding harsher than he’d intended.
She bristled. ‘And yet knowing that, you kept me waiting all day.’
He allowed himself a small smile. Fortunately she didn’t know how much that wait had cost him. Tension had mounted as each applicant came and went. And now his self-control was all over the place, scattering at the very nearness of her. Seducing her promised to be one hell of a way to begin his vendetta.
‘That’s right.’
He was breathing too heavily. A drowsy lassitude was stealing over him and he silently cursed her for what she was doing to his body. A bad dose of old-fashioned lust. Fine—but he needed to stay in control.
There was a sizzling flash as her eyes registered contempt.
‘Petty of you,’ she spat.
‘Or perhaps I wanted to see you last so that we could have a long chat.’ He waited for her comment but she merely glared. ‘What do you think of the renovations?’ he probed, seeking something banal to cool his ardour and reduce it to mere boiling point.
She hesitated. ‘It pains me to say it but they’re wonderful,’ she said, her tone grudging. ‘You’ve returned the house to its former glory.’
It was a gracious concession and one that surprised him. He acknowledged her compliment with a dip of his head.
‘It gave me a lot of pleasure to do so,’ he murmured.
‘I bet,’ she muttered.
‘Please sit down,’ he drawled, enjoying the elegance of her fluid movements as she sank rather suddenly into the high-backed Georgian chair, almost as if her legs would no longer support her.
Studying her, he saw that her charcoal-grey suit was well tailored and decided that it must have been part of her wardrobe before the Willoughbys had discovered the reality of poverty. Her white shirt was impeccable and ironed to within an inch of its life but the cuffs were a little frayed.
Seeing his gaze linger on her wrists, she blushed and drew her hands back into the sleeves of the jacket. A woman who blushed at the age of twenty-six! he marvelled. And felt distinctly unsettled by that.
‘I knew we’d meet again, but I didn’t expect it to be like this,’ he opened lazily.
Her chin jerked up to reveal a defiant mouth. ‘I thought I’d seen the last of you.’ Her tone suggested that it had been her fervent hope, too. ‘I don’t even know why I’m still sitting here,’ she muttered.
He admired her spirit—and again her honesty. She’d made no concession to the fact that she ought to be trying to please her prospective employer. The idea of having her working here ignited him. No. It was impossible. Forget it.
‘Curiosity and destiny perhaps. We have unfinished business,’ he drawled.
‘That’s where you’re wrong!’ she retorted. ‘The past is over and done with.’
If only, he thought. But he had scores to settle. Questions that had to be answered. A vow to fulfil. A delicious sense of triumph rolled through him.
‘It might have been. Except that I have now moved close to where you live and so the past can’t be ignored. Every time I see you or pass your cottage, I will think of what happened between us,’ he purred.
‘Nothing happened!’ she protested. ‘I made sure of that.’
That was her take on it. But his life, and his mother’s, had been turned upside down by the Willoughbys. His mouth thinned.
‘Oh, a great deal happened, Anna,’ he growled. ‘Believe me, it did.’