Surrendering to the Vengeful Italian

She stifled a frustrated sigh.

Why did people think growing up with money meant a life filled with sunshine and roses? That might have been the case for some of her friends, but for Helena it had been nothing more than a grand, sugar-coated illusion. An illusion her mother, the ever-dutiful society wife, still chose to hide behind.

Leo lunged his powerful shoulders forward, planted both feet firmly on the floor. ‘This is business. Your father knows that. Better than most.’

He rose to his full impressive height: six feet four inches of lean, muscled Italian.

‘I could have made things much worse for him. You might remind him of that fact.’

For a moment Helena considered telling him the truth—that she’d not seen or spoken with her father in years. That she worked as a secretary and lived in a rundown flat in North London and visited her family only when her father was absent on business. That Douglas Shaw was a domineering bully and she didn’t care a jot for the man, but she did care for those who would suffer most from his downfall. That she held no sway with her father and could offer Leo nothing in return for leniency except her eternal gratitude.

But caution stopped her. The man who stood before her now was not the Leo she’d once known. He was a tough, shrewd businessman, bent on revenge, and he would use every weapon in his arsenal to achieve it. Knowledge was power, and he had plenty of that without her gifting him extra ammunition.

Besides, he’d already accused her of lying—why should he believe the truth?

She unlaced her hands and stood.

‘There must be other options,’ she blurted. ‘Other possibilities that would satisfy your board and keep the company intact?’

‘My board will make their decisions based on the best interests of my business. Not your father’s interests and not his family’s.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Now, if you have nothing else to discuss, there are more important matters requiring my attention.’

She stared at him.

More important matters?

A bitter laugh rose and died in her throat.

Really, what had she expected? Understanding? Forgiveness? A friendly chat over a cup of tea?

Humiliation raged through her. She was a fool, wasting her time on a fool’s errand. She snatched up her handbag. ‘Next time you look in the mirror, Leo, remind yourself why you despise my father so much.’ She returned his stony stare. ‘Then take a hard look at your reflection. Because you might just find you have more in common with him than you think.’

His head snapped back, an indication that she’d hit her mark, but the knowledge did nothing to ease the pain knifing through her chest. Head high, she strode to the door.

The handle was only inches from her grasp when a large hand closed on her upper arm, swinging her around. She let out a yelp of surprise.

‘I am nothing like your father,’ he said, his jaw thrusting belligerently.

‘Then prove it,’ she fired back, conscious all at once of his vice-like grip, the arrows of heat penetrating her thin jacket-sleeve, the faint, woodsy tang of an expensive cologne that made her nostrils flare involuntarily. ‘Give my father time to come to the table. Before your board makes any decisions.’

Leo released her, stepped back, and the tiny spark of hope in her chest fizzed like a dampened wick. God. She needed to get out. Now. Before she did something pathetic and weak—like cry. She pivoted and seized the door handle. At the same instant his palm landed on the door above her head, barring her escape.

‘On one condition.’

His voice at her back was low, laced with something she couldn’t decipher. She turned, pressed her back to the door and looked up. ‘Yes?’

‘Have dinner with me.’

She blinked, twice. Three times.

‘Dinner?’ she echoed stupidly.

‘Si.’ His hand dropped from the door. ‘Tomorrow night.’

Her stomach did a funny little somersault. Was he fooling with her now? She narrowed her eyes at him. ‘Is that an invitation or a demand?’

The shrug he gave was at once casual and arrogant. ‘Call it what you like. That is my condition.’

‘Tomorrow’s Friday,’ she said, as if that fact bore some vital significance. In truth, it was all she could think to say while her brain grappled with his proposition.