Mistress By Blackmail: International Billionaires I: The Italians (14 page)

“We’ve never talked about this. Maybe it is time.”

“No.” He wanted no more of this conversation. It layered on top of his confusing emotions about Darcy, making it impossible to handle. He struggled to shut down the feelings.

“I needed more than he could give,” she explained, yet her tone held a hint of whining, a hint of the pity card she’d used so well for so long.

“More money.” He hadn’t bought into her excuses since the moment she’d left him and his papa. At a young age, he’d learned not to believe anything she claimed.

The whine escalated. “More everything. You have to understand I needed to be happy.”

At the expense of his father’s heart. At the expense of her first son’s trust.

The image of his father as he lay dying pierced his memory. The resignation in his deadening eyes. Eyes that had died the moment his wife had walked out on him. It had taken three years for the cancer to finally get him, but in reality, his papa had been already dead. Memories tore through his emotions like a dozen nails trying to drive through a wall. What his momma had started Juliana had finished. No amount of pixie dust or fairy magic could lift him out of his safe and secure emotional coffin.

“Momma.” He focused on the data on the screen. “This conversation is over.”

The deadly tone he used had its effect. It silenced her.

He clicked off the phone.

He leaned back in his leather chair and closed his eyes. This is how he needed to be until Darcy Moran was out of his life. Until his brother was safely married to the Casartelli woman. Until the electronics deal was signed and sealed.

This blessed lack of feeling. This blank slate. A silent heart.

He would keep himself away from her temptation until he left for Italy. Surely he could control himself for six lousy days. He’d work—there was always work to keep his attention. He’d stay far from her bed. And all of her, her draw, her appeal, her trap, would be behind him.

He focused on the frozen, dead wasteland inside.

Felt the ice form over his heart.

Over his soul.

H
e was finally home
.

Darcy stared at the bubbling stew, surprised at the word that had popped into her head.

Home
.

Something she hadn’t had—well, really ever. A word she’d held deep inside, hiding the hopes and dreams attached to the simple string of vowels and consonants. Sometimes even from herself. But always yearning for the safety, the comfort, the acceptance.

Home. With Marc.

The front door thudded closed and his footsteps crossed the hall into the living room.

Pushing her thoughts aside, she grabbed a dishcloth, wiped her hands and peeked at the clock on the stove. Nearly eight p.m. The man was a maniac, working from dusk to dawn. She had her hands full if she was going to accomplish her goal of teaching the guy how to really live.

There was silence from the living room. Was he wondering where she was?

“I’m in the kitchen,” she piped up, her voice purposefully cheerful and light.

He appeared suddenly at the entryway, a glass of liquor in his hands. Immediately, she knew there were issues beyond his work habits. How quickly she’d learned how to read this man’s body language. Her reading told her the lover of last night had disappeared into distant memory.

The realization shook her.

She’d expected something else. She’d thought maybe he’d come to her straightaway. Kiss her. Touch her. Or maybe he’d throw her over his shoulder and take her right to bed. All day, nerves and hope had mixed inside her. One moment she’d been giddy at the thought of seeing him again. The next moment she’d wonder how they’d make love the next time and if she could improve her skills rapidly enough to satisfy him.

The guy standing before her now, though, had never entered her imagination or speculation. She hadn’t expected her lover to disappear completely and be supplanted with this.

His shoulders were tense; his mouth had a sullen tinge to it. Grim lines of strain had replaced any hint of dimples. His gaze was wary.

“Has something happened?”

“No.” He sipped his liquor, slouched on the doorframe. “Everything is fine.”

Relief mixed with a budding irritation. Why was he being like this?

“I don’t think so,” she stated. “Clearly something’s wrong.”

His mouth turned down. His eyes turned cold. “Nothing is wrong.”

What was wrong with him? Last night had been amazing. Hadn’t it? Anxiety twisted viciously in her belly. She’d done the best she could. She only needed some more practice. However, it appeared from his attitude she wasn’t going to get the chance. Which fired her temper. “I hate it when men say that when obviously something has happened.”

Rather than responding, he merely sipped his liquor once more, watching her with those guarded eyes.

Turning back to the stove, she tried to rein in her frustration and nervousness. Yet it continued to simmer and grow as she stirred her stew. Why didn’t he sweep her into his arms and into bed? Had she been so bad last night it had turned him off completely?

The spoon slapped the ridge of the pot. So what if she wasn’t the perfect lover right out of the box? The man could at least cut her some slack and give her another try. Instead, he was staring at her is if he wanted her to leave the premises.

Slap. Slap. Slap
.

The stew bubbled over the edge of the pot. Frustration and nerves turned to anger. It wasn’t as if she’d asked to be here. He’d been the one to insist. To blackmail. If he didn’t like it, too bad. All thoughts of creating a nice dinner for him, teaching him how to enjoy life, loving him—every one of those thoughts disappeared. Replaced by another.

She’d like to punch him in the nose.

“Cooking?”

“Yes. Good thing I didn’t decide to make something requiring specific timing. If I had, your dinner would be ruined.”

“I had work.”

“Naturally,” she scoffed. “What else is new?”

His dark brows rose. “Did you think one night in bed with you would change the way I do things?”

“I’m not that stupid.” Her hand tightened around the spoon as if it were a weapon.

“Did you think becoming my lover gave you license to become a happy homemaker?” His voice turned to sarcastic disdain.

Her heart stopped as his words hit with deadly accuracy. But she rallied, her pride demanding a rebuttal to his scorn. “I l-like to cook. I’ve liked it since I was a kid. Sue me.”

A flash of surprise whipped through his eyes, quickly followed by rage. “Your careless parents didn’t have time for cooking, I take it.”

“Don’t talk about my parents.” She glared at her stew and slammed the spoon back into it. “They’re none of your business.”

A tense silence fell.

“That is not entirely true, is it?” he finally replied. “After all, I am footing quite an expensive bill for one of them.”

“Go ahead.” She turned her glare on him. “Throw it in my face.”

He met her fiery words and angry attitude with an enigmatic shrug.

How had this gone so wrong so fast? How had she gone from wanting him to come home with desperate anticipation to wanting to choke him? Rather than soothing him, loving him, seducing him; she was yelling at him.

Exactly like her parents.

The painful realization pinned her to the floor.

She was doing exactly what her mum had done with her pop. Loving him too much. Willing to do anything for him. Then, inevitably, when hurt, when rejected, striking back. Yelling and screaming at him, trying to get him to express a love he didn’t feel. And finally dying for him. Dying at a customer’s drunken hands while her pop had been out buying another fix.

Fighting and loving. Fighting and loving.

Dying. Dying because of that twisted love.

“Bloody hell,” she whispered.

“What?” Marcus straightened, his gaze sharpening. “What is it?”

“N-nothing.” She glared down at the stew once more. Then took in a swift, deep breath.

“Darcy.” His voice was hard and taut.

She slammed the top on the pot and flipped off the stove. Turning, she stared at him. “Never mind. I was being dumb.”

His eyes were alert and focused. “Tell me what you are thinking.”

A harsh laugh escaped her. “I’m thinking I was close to being a fool. But you’ll be happy to know I figured it out before it was too late.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” Irritation sizzled around each word.

Tugging down the tight, red jumper she’d put on a few hours ago, thinking he’d like the way it hugged her body, she walked towards him, past him. “It doesn’t matter anymore. Especially to you.”

One large male hand stopped her before she could escape.

They stood together in the kitchen entryway.

A hush fell.

She focused on the tiled floor, trying to get the energy to pull away. Yet the warmth of his body, the scent of his skin took away her will. How she wanted to lean into him and touch him. How she wanted him to take her in his arms and love her.

What a silly little fool she’d become.

His hand tightened on her arm. “I’m hungry.”

She forced herself to meet his gaze. His eyes were smoky with want. His mouth was no longer tense. Rather, a slight smile edged his lips.

A ripple of shock ran through her at his about-face. What had happened? Had her temper washed away his? Confusion made her frown at him. “The food’s ready,” she retorted, her words clipped. “Help yourself.”

He chuckled and his dimples flashed.

Her heart flipped over. Even as she despised herself, she still reacted to his magnetic pull.

“There are different kinds of hunger,” he murmured, the smile continuing to edge his mouth. “But I will be satisfied with feeding a particular one for now. Eat with me,
carita
.”

“It’s late.” The fear inside her forced her to rebel. “I’m not hungry.”

“No?” His hand glided up her arm. “Why is it I don’t believe you?”

A tremble of need quivered through her. She yanked herself from his hands before she succumbed and did something idiotic like throw herself at him. Nerves and temper and desire bundled and billowed inside her. She tried to move past him, but he stepped in her path. Forced her to press against the wall to keep from touching his hot, big body.

“Darcy.” One long finger slid along her jaw and pushed at her chin.

His gaze was deep, swirling grey. Misty and smoky and keen. “Tell me what is going on in that head of yours.”

Nothing was going on in her head.

Everything was going on in her heart.

The memories of her mum clashed with her driving need to be with Marc. To lean into his solid presence and trust.

Trust him.

Yet how could she trust this man who so clearly didn’t trust her?

She couldn’t do it. She was too full of fear and pain.

“
Carita,
” His voice rasped the nickname, rich with promise.

“No.” Darcy jerked herself from him and marched into the living room. She tried to pull back from the painful memories and hurting fears stemming from them. Tried to stuff them back into the box she’d labeled
the past and not worth thinking about anymore
. Pacing over to the windows, she stared at the lights of London. The snowflakes flitted down, white tapestry on a black sky.

His brooding presence behind her lifted the hair on the back of her neck.

“I had a chat with my mother today.” His tone had turned cold. Icy and cutting.

A strange sort of relief ran through her. She’d angered him and he’d drawn back.

“Did you hear me?” he snapped.

“Sure.” She forced herself to turn and meet his chilly scowl. “What’s it to me?”

His antagonism filled the room. It poured from him. The rigid stand he took. The biting hardness of his gaze. The beginning of a sneer on his mouth. “You will be interested, I think, in the news that your past lover is now supposedly in love with another woman.”

“Matt?” She was so focused on the man before her, what he made her feel and want and dread, it was hard to process the sudden subject of her buddy. But then his words caught up to her and the guilt she’d been fighting for days rushed back. She’d been so overwhelmed by one brother, she’d lost focus on the other.

“
Si
.” The sneer covered his face. “I am sorry to inform you that you’ve lost one admirer.”

Apparently, she’d lost this one, too. His words and tone and sarcasm ripped into her. She wanted to weep. Or feel profound relief. Instead, she let her temper go. “I don’t believe you,” she spat. “He doesn’t love Viola.”

“Really?” He sauntered over to the liquor cabinet and poured himself another shot. He might be trying for insouciance, still his tense shoulders told her a different story. “Yet the wedding is going to happen in eight short days. With Matteo’s full participation.”

“Because you’re forcing him to do it,” she cried.

Turning to face her, he gave her a ruthless smile. “I know it must hurt to lose a lover.”

“Why won’t you believe me? Matt and I were never lovers.”

His laugh filled the room with sardonic disbelief. “Tell me another tale.”

“Why can’t you believe what I say is true?” And why, why was she such a fool that she continued to batter herself again the walls of his disbelief?

Gimlet eyes met hers. “My experience with women in general and you in particular.”

His crushing mistrust hurt.

But how could she blame him when mere moments ago her mistrust had been blatant as well? Had she hurt him just as he’d hurt her? She studied him, tried to read behind the anger in his gaze. There was a flash of something. A wary need, a cautious want.

Someone had to be brave. Someone had to fight.

“I’m t-t-telling you the truth.” She met his glare, no longer hiding her emotions. “I love Matt like a brother. Not a lover.”

He must have caught something in her expression because he froze.

For a second, she thought she’d broken through and made him believe. Believe her. Believe in what they could have together.

Then he laughed his ugly laugh one more time. “Right.”

Clutching her hands to her chest she felt the tears, the useless, welling tears in her eyes. “Who did this to you?” she asked him once more, the cry coming straight from her soul, even though she knew it was useless.

Sipping his liquor, he didn’t meet her gaze.

A long, dead silence fell.

“I learned at an early age not to trust a woman.” His sudden harsh words startled her.

They pulled her away from contemplating her knotted hands. Yanked her away from her depressing thoughts of giving up on him, on them. Staring at him, she watched as he contemplated the golden liquid in his glass. “What happened?” she whispered, afraid to spook him.

“My dear momma wanted more,” he replied. “More than what my papa and I could give her.”

Holding her breath, she waited.

He sipped the liquor. Gave her a swift glance and then looked away. Yet this one glance told her more about the man than he’d ever shown her. Even when they’d made love. The glance held a wealth of pain and deep rage. Of a wound that had never healed.

“So she left.” His words were stiff as if he could barely push them out. “Left for the richer man, the better deal.”

She searched for a profusion of compassionate sayings and found only simplicity. “I’m sorry.”

His mouth curled in a grim attempt at a smile. “It is my father you should feel sorry for, not me. It killed him.”

“What?” She reached for him, even though he stood several feet apart from her.

His hand thrust out, a clear rejection. “Not directly. But he lost his will to live. I watched him die in front of me a few years later.”

“You stayed with him.”

“
Certamente
.” His eyes widened. “He needed me.”

“Your mother didn’t.”

“Needed?” His chuckle was raspy and rough. “Hardly. She didn’t want me. She made that clear.”

“I’m very sorry.” She wanted to move to him and touch him. Yet something about his stance told her she would meet only further rejection.

“As I said, there is no need.” He rolled back on his heels. “The experience taught me an invaluable lesson. All I have to do is remember my father’s face as my mother left him to remind myself that no woman can be trusted.”