Veretti's Dark Vengeance. Lucy Gordon

moved backwards until she could just make him out again. He had his back to her, but suddenly he turned, giving her a glimpse of his face and making her pull back sharply.

      Salvatore Veretti.

      She might be mistaken. She had only an old photograph to go on.

      But there was no mistake about what he was saying.

      ‘I can’t think why she’s not here yet. I came to Larezzo to see if any of the staff had heard anything, but they all swear blind that there’s been no sign of her.’

      Now she was glad that she’d learned Venetian dialect, for without it she wouldn’t have understood a word, although the ill-will in his tone was unmistakeable.

      ‘Don’t ask me what happened to the stupid woman. It doesn’t really matter, except that I don’t like being kept waiting.’

      Really! thought Helena with wry humour.

      ‘Whenever she arrives I’m ready for her. I know just what to expect; some smart miss on the make who married Antonio to get her hands on his money. She may have fooled him, but she won’t fool me. If she thinks she’s going to take over here, she’s mistaken. And if she thinks I don’t know the kind of woman she is, she’s even more mistaken.’

      There was a pause, during which Helena reckoned the other party was actually managing to get a word in edgeways. It didn’t last long.

      ‘It’s no problem. She won’t know what Larezzo is worth, and she’ll jump at whatever I offer. If not, if she’s mad enough to try to keep the place, I’ll simply drive her to the wall, then buy her out for peanuts. Yes, that’s fighting dirty. So what? It’s the way to get results, and this is one result I’m determined to get. I’ll call you later.’

      Helena moved away quickly, hurrying down the stairs to rejoin the party. Now she was seething.

      She’d been ready to do a reasonable deal, but this man wasn’t reasonable. He wasn’t even civilised. And his behaviour was beyond bearing.

      If she thinks I don’t know the kind of woman she is…

      Those words burned into her consciousness.

      I’ll tell you the kind of woman I am, she mused. The kind who won’t put up with your behaviour, that’s for sure. The kind who’ll give you a black eye and enjoy doing it. That kind.

      Right! If that’s how you want to play it, I enjoy a good fight.

      CHAPTER TWO

      HELENA slipped quietly back into the group, relieved that nobody seemed to have noticed her absence. Rico, the guide, was announcing the end of the tour.

      ‘But before we take you back, you will please honour us by accepting some refreshment. This way please.’

      He led them into a room where a long table was laid out with cakes, wine and mineral water, and began to serve them. As he was handing a glass to Helena he looked up suddenly, alerted by someone who’d just come in and was calling him in Venetian.

      ‘Sorry to trouble you, Rico, but do you know where Emilio is?’

      Helena recognised the name. Emilio Ganzi had been Antonio’s trusted manager for years.

      ‘He’s out,’ Rico said, ‘but I’m expecting him back any moment.’

      ‘Fine, I’ll wait.’

      It was him, the man she’d seen in the office, and now Helena had no doubt that this was Salvatore. She stayed discreetly back, taking the chance to study her enemy unobserved.

      He bore all the signs of a worthy opponent, she had to admit that. Antonio had said he was a man who expected never to be challenged, and it was there in the set of his head, in an air of assertiveness so subtle that the unwary might fail to see it.

      But she saw it, and knew exactly what Antonio had meant. Salvatore was tall, more than six foot, with black hair and eyes of a dark brown that seemed to swallow light. Helena wondered if he worked out in a gym. Beneath his conventional clothing she sensed hard muscles, proclaiming a dominance of the body as well as the mind.

      His face told two different stories; one of sensuality just below the surface, one of stern self-control. He would yield nothing except for reasons of his own. Remembering the angry frustration in his voice so recently, and comparing it to the civilised ease of his manner now, she guessed that the control was in full force.

      Yet, despite being masked, the sensuality asserted itself in the slight curve of his mouth, the way his lips moved against each other. There was an instinctive harmony in his whole being, a sense of power held in reserve, ready to be unleashed at any moment.

      He was moving among the group, discovering that they were English and switching easily to that language, asking politely why they had wanted to visit a glass factory, and why this one in particular. His manner was friendly, his smile apparently warm. Under other circumstances Helena would have found him charming.

      When he noticed her he grew still for a brief moment, which was what men always did, noticing her beauty, only half believing it. For a moment she contemplated her next move.

      Why not have some fun?

      Driven by an imp of wickedness, she gave him an enticing smile.

      ‘Can I get you a glass of wine?’ he asked, approaching her.

      ‘Thank you.’

      He produced it, took one himself, and walked aside with her, enquiring politely, ‘Are you enjoying yourself?’

      She preserved a straight face. He had no idea that she was the enemy that he was so confident of defeating. As a model she’d often needed acting skills. She used them now, assuming a note of naïve enthusiasm.

      ‘Oh, yes, I really am. I’m fascinated by places like this. It’s wonderful being able to see how things work.’

      She gave him the full value of her eyes, which were large and deep blue, and had been known to make strong men weep. He rewarded her with a wry half-smile, clearly saying that he liked her looks, he wasn’t fooled by her methods, but he didn’t mind passing the time this way, as long as she didn’t overdo it.

      Cheek! she thought. He was appraising her like a potential investment, to see if it was worth his time and trouble.

      Helena was as free from conceit as an accredited beauty could well be, but this was insulting. After the remarks she’d overheard it was practically a declaration of war.

      But she had also declared war, although he didn’t know it. Now it was time to discover the lie of the land.

      ‘It’s just a pity that the tours of this place are so short,’ she sighed. ‘No time to see all I wanted to.’

      ‘Why don’t I show you a little more?’ he asked easily.

      ‘That would be delightful.’

      Envious looks followed her, the woman who’d captured the most attractive man in the room in two and a half minutes flat. As they departed a voice floated behind them.

      ‘We could all do that if we had her legs.’

      She gave a soft choke of laughter, and he smiled.

      ‘I guess you’re used to it,’ he murmured.

      He didn’t add, ‘A woman who looks like you.’ He didn’t have to.

      The trip was fascinating. He was an excellent guide with a gift for explaining things simply but thoroughly.

      ‘How do they get that wonderful ruby-red?’ she marvelled.

      ‘They use a gold solution as a colouring agent,’ he told her.

      Another marvel was the row of furnaces, three of them. The first contained the molten glass into which the tip of the blowpipe was dipped. When the glass had been worked on and cooled a