Surrendering To The Vengeful Italian. Angela Bissell

her head fractionally. ‘Yes?’

      Silence yawned behind her, turning the air so thick it felt like treacle in her lungs.

      ‘Wear something dressy,’ he said at last.

      And then he shut the door.

       CHAPTER TWO

      LEO PICKED UP the half-empty water glass and studied the smudge of pink on its rim. Had Douglas Shaw sent his daughter as a honey trap? The idea was abhorrent, yet he wouldn’t put it past the man. What Shaw lacked in scruples he more than made up for with sheer, bloody-minded gall.

      He crossed to the bar, tossed out the water and shoved the glass out of sight along with the whisky bottle. Then he smashed his palms down on the counter and let out a curse.

      He should have let her go. Should have let her walk out of here and slammed the door—physically and figuratively—on their brief, discomfiting reunion.

      But standing there watching her strut away, after she’d stared him down with those cool sapphire eyes and likened him to her father; seeing the haughty defiance in every provocative line of her body...

      Something inside him had snapped and he was twenty-five again, standing in a different room in a different hotel. Watching the girl who’d carved out a piece of his heart turn her back and walk out of his life.

      Bitterness coated his mouth. He opened the bar fridge, reached past a black-labelled bottle of Dom Perignon and a selection of fine wines and beers and grabbed a can of soda.

      At twenty-five he’d considered himself a good judge of character—a skill honed during his teens, when looking out for his sister, taking on the role of parent during their father’s drink-fuelled absences, meant learning who he could trust and who he couldn’t. Over the years he developed strong instincts, avoided his father’s mistakes and weaknesses, but Helena remained his one glaring failure. For the first and last time in his life he’d let his feelings for a woman cloud his judgement.

      He would not make the same mistake twice.

      Just as he would not be swayed from his purpose.

      Douglas Shaw was a bully who thought nothing of destroying people’s lives and he deserved a lesson in humility. Leo didn’t trust the man and he didn’t trust his daughter.

      He drained the soda and crumpled the can in his fist.

      Shaw wanted to play games? Leo was ready. He’d been ready for seven years. And if the man chose to use his daughter as a pawn, so be it. Two could play at that game.

      He threw the can in the wastebin, a slow smile curving his lips.

      Si. This might be fun.

      * * *

      ‘Go home, Helena.’

      Helena looked up from the papers on her desk. Her boss stood holding his briefcase, his suit jacket folded over one arm, a look of mock severity on his face. It was after six on Friday and their floor of the corporate bank was largely deserted.

      ‘I’m leaving soon,’ she assured him. ‘I’m meeting someone at six-thirty.’

      David gave an approving nod. ‘Good. Enjoy your weekend.’

      He started off, but paused after a step and turned back. ‘Have you thought any more about taking some leave?’ he said. ‘HR is on the use-it-or-lose-it warpath again. And if you don’t mind me saying...’ he paused, his grey eyes intent ‘...you look like you could do with a break.’

      She smiled, deflecting his concern. David might be one of the bank’s longest-serving executives and knocking sixty, but the man rarely missed a beat. He was sharp, observant, and he cared about his staff.

      She made a mental note to apply more concealer beneath her eyes. ‘I’m fine. It’s been a long week. And the rain kept me awake last night.’

      Partly true.

      ‘Well, think about it. See you Monday.’

      ‘Goodnight, David.’

      She watched him go, then glanced at her watch.

      She had to move.

      The car Leo was sending was due in less than twenty minutes, and earning a black mark for running late was not the way she wanted to start the evening.

      Shutting herself in David’s office, she whipped off her trouser suit and slipped on the little black dress she’d pulled from the bowels of her wardrobe that morning, then turned to the full-length mirror on the back of the door and scanned her appearance.

      She frowned at her cleavage.

      Good grief.

      Had the dress always been so revealing?

      She couldn’t remember—but then neither could she recall the last time she’d worn it. She seldom dressed up these days, even on the rare occasions she dated. She tugged the bodice up, yanked the sides of the V-neck together and grimaced at the marginal improvement.

      It would have to do.

      There was no time for a wardrobe-change—and besides, this was the dressiest thing she owned. She’d sold the last of her designer gowns years ago, when she’d had to stump up a deposit and a month’s advance rent on her flat. Keeping the black dress had been a practical decision, though she could count on one hand the number of times it had ventured from her wardrobe.

      She turned side-on to the mirror.

      The dress hugged her from shoulder to mid-thigh, accentuating every dip and curve—including the gentle swell of her tummy. Holding her breath, she pulled in her stomach and smoothed her hand over the bump that no number of sit-ups and crunches could flatten.

      Not that she resented the changes pregnancy had wrought on her body. They were a bittersweet reminder of joy and loss. Of lessons learnt and mistakes she would never make again.

      She snatched her hand down and released her breath. Tonight she needed to focus on the present, not the past, and for that she would need every ounce of wit she could muster.

      Outside the bank a sleek silver Mercedes waited in a ‘No Parking’ zone, its uniformed driver standing on the pavement. ‘Ms Shaw?’ he enquired, then opened a rear door so she could climb in.

      Minutes later the car was slicing through London’s chaotic evening traffic, the endless layers of city noise muted by tinted windows that transformed the plush, leather-lined interior into a private mini-oasis. Like the luxury suite at the hotel, the car’s sumptuous interior epitomised the kind of lifestyle Helena had grown unused to in recent years—unlike her mother, who still enjoyed the baubles of wealth and couldn’t understand her daughter’s wish to live a modest life, independent of her family’s money and influence.

      She dropped her head back against the soft leather.

      She loved her mother. Miriam Shaw was a classic blonde beauty who had moulded herself into the perfect society wife, but she was neither stupid nor selfish. She loved her children. Had raised them with all the luxuries her own upbringing in an overcrowded foster home had denied her. And when they’d been packed off to boarding school, at her husband’s insistence, she’d filled her days by giving time and support to a long list of charities and fundraisers.

      Yet where her husband was concerned Miriam was inexplicably weak. Too quick to forgive and too ready to offer excuses.

      Like today, when she’d called to cancel their prearranged lunch date. A migraine, she’d claimed, but Helena knew better. Knew her mother’s excuse was nothing more than a flimsy veil for the truth, as ineffectual and see-through as the make-up she would use to try to hide the bruises.

      Denial.

      Her mother’s greatest skill. Her greatest weakness. The impregnable wall Helena slammed into any time she