Surrendering To The Vengeful Italian. Angela Bissell

      She massaged the bridge of her nose. Over the years she’d read everything she could on domestic abuse, trying to understand why her mother stayed. Why she put up with the drinking, the vitriol, the occasional black eye. Invariably, when the latter occurred, a peace offering would ensue—usually some priceless piece of jewellery—and then Miriam would pretend everything was fine.

      Until the next time.

      Helena had seen it more times than she cared to count, but now the stakes were higher. Now her father stood to lose everything he held dear: his company, his reputation, his pride.

      If Leo got his way the ShawCorp empire would be carved up like twigs beneath a chainsaw, and Helena had no doubt that if—when—her father went down, he would take her mother with him.

      ‘Miss Shaw?’

      She jolted out of her thoughts. The car had stopped in front of Leo’s hotel and a young man in a porter’s uniform had opened her door. Lanky and fresh-faced, he reminded Helena of her brother, prompting a silent prayer of gratitude that James was in boarding school, well away from all this ugly drama.

      She slid out and the porter escorted her through the hotel to a grand reception room with a high vaulted ceiling and decorative walls. The room was crowded, filled with tray-laden waiters and dozens of patrons in tailored tuxedos and long, elegant evening gowns.

      ‘Have a good evening, miss.’

      The young man turned to leave.

      ‘Wait!’ She clasped his arm, confusion descending. ‘I think there’s been some mistake.’

      He shook his head, his smile polite. ‘No mistake, miss. Mr Vincenti asked that you be brought here.’

      * * *

      Leo stood at the edge of the milling crowd, his gaze bouncing off one brunette after another until he spied the one he wanted, standing next to a wide marble pillar just inside the entrance. Weaving waiters, clusters of glittering guests and some twenty feet of floor space separated them, but still he saw the flicker of uncertainty in her eyes. The twin furrows of consternation marring her brow.

      Satisfaction stirred. Last night the element of surprise had been hers. How would the minx cope when the tables were turned?

      He lifted two champagne flutes from a passing silver tray and carved a path to her side.

      ‘Buona sera, Helena.’

      She spun, her startled gaze landing on the flutes in his hands, then the bow tie at his throat, before narrowed eyes snapped to his.

      ‘This is dinner?’

      Score.

      He smiled. ‘You look very...elegant.’

      The look she gave him might have sliced a lesser man in half. ‘I look underdressed.’

      She smoothed an invisible wrinkle from the front of her short and exquisitely low-cut black dress.

      ‘The other women are wearing ball gowns.’

      ‘Your dress is fine,’ he said—an understatement if ever he’d uttered one. The dress wasn’t fine. It was stunning. No eye-catching bling or fancy designer frills, but its simple lines showcased her lithe curves and long, toned legs better than any overblown creation could.

      She stole his breath. As easily as she’d stolen his breath the first night he’d laid eyes on her. Her dress that night, however, aside from being a daring purple instead of black, had been less revealing, more...demure. By comparison, tonight’s figure-hugging sheath was sultry, seductive, the tantalising flash of ivory breasts inside that V of black fabric enough to tempt any man into secret, lustful imaginings.

      ‘It’s a plain cocktail dress,’ she said, fretting over her appearance as only a woman could. ‘Not a gown for an event like this.’ She pressed a hand to the neat chignon at her nape. ‘And you’re sidestepping the question.’

      He extended a champagne flute, which she ignored. ‘This—’ he gestured with the glass at their lavish surroundings ‘—is not to your liking?’

      ‘A charity dinner with five hundred other guests? No.’

      He feigned surprise. ‘You don’t like charity?’

      She glanced at a wall banner promoting the largest spinal injury association in Europe and its twentieth annual fundraiser. ‘Of course I do.’ Her eyebrows knitted. ‘But I thought we’d be dining in a restaurant. Or at least somewhere... I don’t know...a little more...’

      ‘Intimate?’

      Her eyes flashed. ‘Private.’

      ‘There’s a difference?’

      She glared at the flute in his hand, then took it from him. ‘Do you make a habit of attending charity dinners at the hotels where you stay?’

      ‘Si. When I’m invited to support a worthy cause.’ He watched her eyebrows arch. ‘There are better ways to spend an evening, admittedly, but this event has been a long-standing commitment in my diary. And it coincides with my need to do business in London.’

      ‘Ah, well...’ She paused and sipped her champagne. ‘That’s convenient for you. You get to mark off your social calendar and wreak revenge on my family—all in a week’s work.’ Her mouth curled into a little smile. ‘There’s nothing more satisfying than killing two birds with one stone. How eminently sensible for a busy man such as yourself.’

      Leo tasted his bubbles, took his time considering his next words. Exert enough pressure, he mused, and a person’s true colours would eventually surface. ‘Revenge is a very strong word,’ he said mildly.

      Her eyes widened. ‘Oh, I’m sorry. Do you have a different name for what you’re doing?’ She raised her palm. ‘No, wait. I remember—“an eye for an eye”, wasn’t it?’

      He studied the churlish set of her mouth, the dainty jut of her chin. ‘I had not remembered your tongue being so sharp, Helena.’

      Twin spots of colour bloomed on her cheekbones, but the glint of battle stayed in her eyes. ‘This is retaliation for last night, isn’t it? I turned up unannounced at the hotel and you didn’t like it. Now you get to spring the surprise.’ She raised her glass in a mock toast. ‘Well-played, Leo. So...what now? You parade me on your arm at some high-profile fundraiser and hope it gets back to my father?’

      He smiled—which only irritated her further if the flattening of her mouth was any indication. Her gaze darted towards the exit and the idea that she might bolt swiftly curbed his amusement.

      Helena would not run from him.

      Not this time.

      Not until he was good and ready to let her go.

      ‘Thinking of reneging on our deal?’

      Her gaze narrowed. ‘How do I know you’ll keep your side of the bargain?’

      ‘I’ve already spoken with your father’s solicitor.’

      ‘And?

      ‘He has until Tuesday to get your father to the table.’

      Her mouth fell open. ‘My God...that’s four days from now. Can you not give him longer?’

      ‘Time is a commodity in business, not a luxury.’ He didn’t add that the solicitor’s chance of success was slim, no matter the time allowed. Both men knew the invitation would be rejected. A great pity, in Leo’s mind. He’d hoped to see for himself the look on Douglas Shaw’s face when the man learnt the fate of his company. But Shaw’s repeated refusals to turn up had denied Leo the final spoils of victory.

      ‘He won’t show.’

      Her voice was so small he wasn’t sure he’d heard correctly. ‘Scusi?’

      ‘My father. He won’t show. He won’t