The Italian's Vengeful Seduction. Bella Frances

all she did was step forward and into his arms. There was no alternative. Some primeval part of her brain told her so.

      She was aware of the cars, and she was aware of Bruce, but she was most aware of warmth and strength, of the opening of a car door and the sensation of leather, before all noise was extinguished and the door closed, sealing her in.

      ‘Drive,’ she breathed. ‘Please.’

      ‘The least I can do,’ the guy said, and he put his foot to the floor. She felt a wrench as the force of acceleration pulled her back. She let out a gasp and automatically grabbed the seat belt.

      ‘It’s okay. You’re safe with me,’ he said, looking round at her as he put more distance between them and Decker’s.

      I’m safe with no man, she thought to herself, but she said nothing, only stared out of the passenger window at the blurry urban scenery. Her mind ran with possibilities—maybe Bruce had taken the car’s registration. If he had it was only a matter of time before some dirty cop was blackmailed into revealing its owner. No matter how much this guy thought he was leaving them behind, Bruce wouldn’t be that easy to shake off.

      ‘All right?’ he asked.

      Stacey tried to calm her mind and shifted her gaze from the passing neon outside to the dust-free rows of knobs and dials inside. Now that she’d left Bruce on the pavement she had to make some decisions—and fast.

      She glanced at the guy’s hand, resting easily on the steering wheel. His skin was the caramel colour of winter in Barbados. The fabric of his suit was the dark silk of merchant banks and private members’ clubs. And his scent was pure unadulterated Fortune 500.

      She sat up a little in her seat, twisted her neck—which hurt—and tried to catch a few more details. It had been a long time since she’d been this close to this kind of wealth, but she’d been around money growing up, so she could grade men in order of the zeros in their bank account at thirty paces. This one had zeros galore. She’d bet he was thoroughbred—townhouse in Manhattan, ranch in Montana, villa in Barbados.

      That didn’t faze her. Give her dirt-poor and decent any day of the week. Some people seemed to think money was their passport to be downright mean. She felt her hackles rise at the memory and twisted round further to get a better look, but the pain in her neck caused her to flinch.

      ‘It’s okay. Try to relax. I’m taking you to hospital—to get checked out.’

      Stacey stared out of the window anxiously. She didn’t have the money for medical bills and, whatever people might say about her, she wouldn’t take a dime she wasn’t owed from anybody.

      ‘I don’t think so,’ she said. ‘Just drop me at the bus station.’

      ‘Sure. But first you’ll be checked out. I’m taking you to St Bart’s. I’ll have you looked over by my physician. Once you’ve got the all-clear I’ll drop you off. Wherever.’

      Stacey squeezed her eyes shut and shook her head. Why did men always think they knew best?

      ‘Seriously, I don’t want to go to any hospital. I don’t need a bunch of X-rays.’

      ‘You don’t know what you need, Stacey Jackson. You never did.’

      She jolted as if she’d been hit by the car all over again. She turned to face the guy. One of his eyebrows had shot up in a way she knew so well. And then it all fell into place. Her heart pulsed right up into her throat.

      As if she were watching an old reel of film, Stacey looked on helplessly as scene after scene of sunshine, pleasure and then hard, dark pain flashed through her mind. Marco Borsatto. The boy from the right side of the tracks. The boy she’d fallen helplessly in love with. The boy she’d thought had fallen helplessly in love with her.

      Silly, trusting little fool that she’d been.

      ‘Marco. Well. Wow. What a small world.’

      Her eyes widened now—she was back in the present. She tried to shift in her seat, away from him, but all she could feel was the jarring handle of the door and the pain that now seared through her body.

      ‘Indeed,’ he replied, turning back to the traffic as the Atlantic City scenery passed by in a blur. ‘I wasn’t sure it was you at first. But with a dramatic entrance like that—who else could it be?’

      ‘Dramatic?’

      He raised that brow and slanted her a glance.

      ‘Dramatic,’ he said emphatically.

      ‘I guess you’re right,’ she said. ‘I was never much good at playing the shrinking violet.’

      She looked at his profile as he chuckled. Wow. He looked better than she remembered. And he’d been the hottest guy ever back then.

      Marco Borsatto. What could she say? How ironic that the last time she’d seen him had been the first time she’d staged one of her great escapes. The very reason she’d staged it. The day that the tear in her heart had become a gaping hole of hurt. Marco had been her one source of strength. The one person in that town of gossips and snobs she’d trusted. And he’d ended up being the one who drove her away.

      ‘So, apart from running dramatically into traffic, is it safe to say that life’s been good to you? You look—well...’

      He tilted her another glance that took in the whole show. She looked down to see that the dress which had started out as barely decent was now bordering on the barely legal. She squirmed, and this time when she looked up his eyebrow had shot up again and his lip was distinctly curled.

      ‘Life’s been all right—thanks. I get by,’ she said, tugging the dress back into place as best she could.

      ‘You could have stopped the traffic even without throwing yourself at it. Good job the lights were just changing.’

      ‘I don’t normally dress like this—I was leaving work,’ she added defensively, but her words were muffled in a gasp of pain as the car hit a pothole.

      ‘No need to explain yourself to me,’ he said quickly. His voice was calm—and all that quiet control that she remembered was now laced with deep overtones of firm command.

      ‘And don’t worry—I’ll take care of anything that needs taking care of.’

      Let me take care of you.

      Stacey turned quickly to the window. The jolt of memory jarred like whiplash. Marco had been so kind to her once. He’d said those words. But she’d taken the kindness he’d offered and thrown it back in his face. Because girls like Stacey didn’t mix with the Marcos of this world. She wasn’t dumb enough to believe in fairy tales. In her world handsome princes disappeared, or turned into lazy, abusive, beer-swilling toads.

      ‘How long has it been?’ she asked. ‘You were—what?—nineteen last time I saw you in Montauk?’

      ‘Yes. Nineteen. Just before I hit the road. And you—you were still in high school?’

      ‘Yes, I was sixteen. Thought I knew it all.’

      She’d been sixteen. She’d been a mess. She’d come home that night to find that her mother had sold the car—their last remaining luxury. She’d been fired from her part-time job for using her mouth against a customer who’d insulted her, and she’d learned she’d been given the Tramp of the Year award by her classmates. Yeah, she’d been a mess, all right. So when Marco had caught up with her and asked her if the rumours were true she’d laughed in his face.

      Of course they were true. Did he think he was special?

      He’d turned his back on her and she’d done what any abandoned daughter would have done. She’d gone looking for Daddy.

      ‘We all thought we knew it all,’ Marco said. ‘Comes with the territory. Refusing to listen and making the wrong choices. Isn’t that what growing up is all about?’