The Italian's Passionate Revenge. Lucy Gordon

Never! You’ve gone soft.’

      Elise had ignored his rudeness and selfish complacency, being used to it. Perhaps he was right and she could no longer function independently. It was a dispiriting thought.

      With their house sold, they’d moved into The Ritz Hotel until the day of departure. But that day had never come. Ben had died of a heart attack while enjoying an assignation in another hotel with a woman who’d called an ambulance, then vanished before it could arrive.

      Elise shivered. It was late afternoon and the light had faded, turning the mourners into shadows. Still she sensed the stranger watching her in the gloom.

      At last it was over and people began to move, reminding her to perform her duties as hostess.

      ‘I do hope you can come to the reception,’ she said again and again. ‘It would have meant so much to Ben.’

      ‘I trust your invitation includes me,’ said the man. ‘You don’t know me, but I’d been looking forward to your husband joining my firm. My name is Vincente Farnese.’

      She knew the name at once. She’d heard it often from Ben’s lips—one of the most powerful men in Italy—had the ear of government ministers—influential—rich—

      ‘And he wants me to join him,’ Ben had rejoiced. ‘He searched for me, said only the right man would do for the position—offered me a fortune—said it was worth anything to get me—’

      Elise had smothered her astonishment that anyone should actually seek out this overblown windbag, never mind pay him over the odds. Now she stared at Vincente Farnese, searching for some clue to help solve the mystery.

      She found none. He was in the prime of life, with the air of a man of sense. It was inexplicable.

      ‘I’ve heard of you from my husband,’ she said. ‘It was good of you to take the trouble to attend his funeral. Of course you’re welcome at the reception.’

      ‘You’re too kind,’ he said smoothly.

      A man who was never at a loss, she thought, ready with the right words, the right attitude, always ahead.

      So why had he bothered to come here? What could he hope to gain now Ben was dead?

      Suddenly she didn’t care any more, about anything. There was only a weary longing for all this to be over. She closed her eyes, swaying slightly, then felt strong hands steadying her.

      ‘Not much longer,’ said Vincente’s quiet voice.

      The words echoed her thoughts so exactly that she opened her eyes sharply and found him standing close, holding her gently.

      ‘Don’t give up now,’ he murmured.

      ‘I wasn’t—that is—’

      ‘I know,’ he said, and she had the strangest feeling that he did.

      He began to guide her towards the car, waving away the chauffeur to open the door for her himself. Just before she got in, Elise glanced up at someone else who’d caught her eye in the cemetery. This was a woman in her thirties, attractive in a flashy way, wearing expensive black clothes that somehow managed to look blowsily overdone.

      It occurred to Elise that this stranger too had been regarding her oddly, with a kind of belligerence, hating her and sizing her up at the same time. But Signor Farnese had occupied her thoughts, leaving her little attention to spare.

      ‘Who is that lady?’ he asked, getting in beside Elise.

      ‘I don’t know. I’ve never seen her before.’

      ‘She seems to know you, if the looks she’s been giving you are anything to go by.’

      It was a short journey to The Ritz, where a lavish buffet had been laid on in the grandiose suite Ben had insisted on occupying. Elise would have preferred a quiet affair, but she’d splashed out on Ben’s funeral out of a kind of guilt. Now he was dead she felt uneasy about her hostility, no matter how much he’d deserved it. She couldn’t grieve but she could give him the kind of send-off he would have wanted, suitable for a wealthy, important man, even if the wealth had often been a conjuring trick and the importance had existed only in his head.

      As she entered the room a mirror told her that she looked perfect for the role of elegant widow in her neatly fitting black dress, small black hat over blonde hair, styled severely. She was an expert in the art of appearance, having once dreamed of being a clothes designer. Events had ended her training abruptly, but her skill remained.

      Without conceit, Elsie knew that she was beautiful. For the last eight years she’d had nothing to do except be lovely, elegant and sexy, because that was what Ben had wanted. She had been his property and he’d expected his property to be perfect. Her life had become a round of gym sessions and beauty parlours.

      Nature had given her the good looks to start with, a figure that was easy to keep slim, hair that was naturally blonde and luxuriant, eyes that were large and deep blue. The arts of the coiffeur and masseuse had been employed to great effect, until she’d turned into the perfect finished article.

      She was everything the world expected—graceful, chic, always uttering the right words. Only she knew how empty she was inside. But she did not care.

      There was another truth about her, but she’d lost sight of it so long ago that she’d almost forgotten it. In that hidden place there was wild feeling, death-defying emotion, passionate desire. She’d shut those away when she’d married Ben and now she could no longer find the key.

      Elise made her rounds, ensuring that everyone had enough to eat and drink and the proper attention. But proper for what? She no longer had any connection with these people. Soon she would be completely free.

      Just a little longer, she promised herself.

      Signor Farnese was occupying himself talking with the other guests.

      Networking, she thought, remembering Ben at similar gatherings.

      But this was different. Ben had always been trying to attract the attention of the others, seeking to impress them. With Vincente Farnese it was the opposite. Everyone knew who he was and wanted to catch his eye. If it pleased him he acknowledged their presence, otherwise he dismissed them with a brief nod, courteous but final.

      He was everything that Ben had wanted to be, she thought—a handsome, healthy animal, with a face that, despite its strength and good looks, was also shrewd and wary, giving him an edge of danger. His eyes were the darkest she had ever seen, yet an all-seeing light came from their depths. He looked as if he’d mastered life, and intended to go on mastering it.

      The chief lion in the pack, she thought. So why is he here?

      He was abstemious—eating nothing and making one glass of wine last for two hours—and, to her heightened imagination, there seemed something ominous even in that.

      The woman Elise had noticed ate and drank with gusto. Like the man, she seemed to be waiting for something.

      At last the goodbyes were said and Elise turned with a fixed smile to address her unknown guest.

      ‘I’m so sorry, we haven’t been introduced,’ she said politely. ‘It was so kind of you to—’

      ‘Don’t waste time with that stuff,’ the woman interrupted rudely. ‘Don’t you know who I am?’

      ‘I’m afraid I don’t. Were you a friend of my husband?’

      ‘Friend? Hah! You could put it like that.’

      ‘I see.’

      ‘And what’s that supposed to mean?’

      ‘Perhaps you were with him when he had his heart attack?’

      The woman gave a squeal of laughter, full of wine.

      ‘No, I heard about that, but it wasn’t me. I must say I’ve got to hand it to you, cool as a cucumber