Mistress By Blackmail: International Billionaires I: The Italians (17 page)

“It's not what you think.” The words were a pitiful defense, not worthy of her fighting spirit, still she knew in her heart it was already a lost cause.

His silence spoke volumes. Volumes about his cynicism, his disrespect, and his lack of belief.

“I met Matt by accident.” She forced herself to meet his gaze.  

His eyes were steel daggers piercing her love.

“You have to believe me.”

“We had a deal.” His words were cold and dead. “You broke it.”

“Not purposefully,” she pleaded.

“Yet why am I surprised?” he murmured, almost contemplative. “You are a woman.”

“Marcus.”

He turned away from her, dropping his gaze to his jacket. The mobile phone came out. 

The memory of how she'd grabbed it away from him, teased him with it—briefly, she wondered if she should try it once more. But the aura around him was like a black, icy wall of stone. Of hatred towards her.

She was afraid. Afraid of what he'd do. It shook her. She'd never ever felt threatened physically by him. Yet now, she was and it mixed inevitably with the old fear.

“Blake.” His words were crisp. “Inform the hospital I will no longer be covering Mr. Moran's bills.”

Pain clutched in her throat. A tight, short cry came from her lips.

His grey eyes stared right into hers as he delivered the next blow. “I’m having the driver drop me off at the office. Ms. Moran will be driven back to the penthouse where she will stay alone until after my brother's wedding.”

She dimly heard the rumble of the head of security's voice answering him.

His gaze never left hers.

“Make sure she is under strict supervision from now on,” he commanded. “You can release her after the wedding is over.”

Click.
The phone disappeared back into his suit pocket. She stared into his eyes, trying to find something of the lover she'd been with for the past five days. There was nothing except pure hate.

He broke her heart all over again. “You can't do this.”

“I already have.”

“My father—”

“He's not my problem anymore.”

The callous disregard finally broke through her heartbreak and released a tiny bit of her temper. “You can't keep me at the penthouse.”

“I can. I will.”

“I'll call the police,” she threatened, her temper continuing to grow.

“My security will make sure you don't have access to a phone.”

“I'll report you after I get released.”

He was totally unfazed. “The police will not be impressed with your claims. You have been seen with me as my lover in public. You have willingly lived with me for a month—”

“Not willingly,” she thrust the words at him.

A sardonic smile crossed his face. “The point is the police won't believe you.”

The limo slid to a stop in front of his office. Darcy glanced beyond his grim gaze to the silver sign.

ROCCA ENTERPRISES

Once she'd stared at this sign, impressed and intimidated, but determined. Her heart and soul intact.

The door opened. He took one more look at her, eyes opaque now. Clear and cold and distant. “Goodbye, Ms. Moran.”

The door slammed closed. She heard the locks snap shut.

Now she stared at the sign of his power, his prestige, his pride once more. Her heart broken. Her soul gone.

He walked away, never looking back.

H
e'd done
it once more.

Fallen in love.

With a woman who wanted another man.

The irony was profound and worth a good laugh. Except he was quite sure, he was never going to laugh again. There would be no sprite around to provoke him. No teasing, no bright smiles, no night-blue eyes filled with amusement.

No, he had made sure of the non-existence of laughter in his life. Very sure.

Marcus glanced down at the half-filled glass of champagne he held in his hands and mechanically took a sip.

The crowd surrounding him was loud and happy. Why shouldn't they be happy? The amount of food and champagne he was footing the bill for should make any crowd merry. Why not be happy when the engaged couple appeared like they were in love with each other? The family of the bride seemed pleased, the mother of the groom ecstatic. Why not enjoy this last party before the big, splashy wedding tomorrow?

He sipped the champagne once more. The drink tasted like metal in his mouth.

His younger brother smiled at his bride. Marcus had to give him credit. When had Matteo learned to be such a good actor? In any event, he was playing his part, doing his duty. Tomorrow, not only the marriage license would be signed, but the papers for the business deal which ensured Rocca Enterprises’ immediate future. Exactly as he'd planned months ago when he'd set this wheel in motion.

With slow precision, he set the glass down on the antique side table. He wished with a desperate intensity he could leave, fly far away to a solitary beach where the lapping waves would drown out the angry words he’d uttered to her echoing inside his brain.

“I'm pleased.” Dante Casartelli, the bride’s oldest brother, walked over to him. The man was tall and big. More importantly, though, he was smart and tough. Marcus liked to do deals with men who couldn’t be fooled and who knew the score.

Dante Casartelli was one of those men.

In any other circumstance, he would be ecstatic to sign a deal with this man.

Taking a sip of his champagne, the man eyed his sister with his black gaze. “Viola is happy.”

“Good.” He had to force the one word out because this was all at the expense of the sprite. At the expense of a little girl who'd turned into a brave, fighting spirit. At the expense of an elfin creature who'd never enjoyed the loving home Viola had been coddled in since birth. Instead, she'd fought for everything she'd ever had.

“I have a high regard for your brother.” Casartelli swung his sharp gaze back to him. “He’s got a good head on his shoulders.”

Would wonders never cease? Matteo had pulled out all the stops, it appeared, if he fooled this man. “He’s a La Rocca.”

And what that meant was—Matteo knew how to fool with women and walk away unharmed. Just like his older brother had for many years.

The tall man standing beside him cocked his head, a puzzled look crossing his hard face. “I’m surprised he isn’t working with you in the business.”

“He’s an artist.” A con-artist. His hands fisted at his side, the rage at his brother seeping through his control. “He wants to go his own way.”

“Ah.” A wry twinkle lit the man’s dark eyes. “I have a younger brother too. Tomas has given me a few grey hairs also.”

He glanced at the thick black hair on the man’s head. “Not that I can see.”

Casartelli chuckled. “Nevertheless, Matteo will be good for Viola. And that’s what counts in my book.”

Would he? Matteo didn't love her. Of that, Marcus was sure.

The memory of the two of them together rose in him. The look of pure joy as they gazed at each other, in each other’s arms.

Darcy. You can't believe how happy I am.

A tight twist in his chest made him breathe out in a sharp burst.

“Marcus?” Casartelli frowned with sudden concern. “Are you all right?”

No
, he wanted to say.
I'm dying inside
. “I am fine,” he stated. “Perfectly fine.”

A hard hand slapped his back. “Glad to hear it. I would not want the best man to come down with anything right before the wedding.” 

“No worry on that score.” He succeeded in giving the man a tight smile. “I’ll be there.”

“And once my sister is happily married and our two families are joined, we will finally sign the deal you've been pestering me about for months.” The man’s mouth, usually firm and tough, edged in a wry quirk.

“
Si.
” The deal he'd wanted to seal for what seemed like forever. The deal that would cement his hold on a large segment of the Eastern European bond market. The deal that would send him into the stratosphere of money and power.

The deal that would steal the man Darcy Moran loved away from her.

Thankfully, Casartelli walked away to greet some guests. If he hadn't, Marcus was very sure he would have not been able to utter another sentence. Not past the painful coil in his gut or the talons of guilt clutching his throat.

He glanced over and straight into his brother’s eyes. Dark, questioning eyes.

Marcus looked away. He’d arrived in Italy three days ago, yet had successfully avoided his brother’s attempts at cornering him. Spending long days at his Rome headquarters had helped. The endless parties surrounding the wedding had done the rest. There’d also been the one furious glare he’d shot Matteo the moment he’d seen him hugging Viola. His look had brought a blank shock to his fickle brother’s face. Maybe this had been enough, in and of itself, to keep him from approaching.

In any event, he’d been left alone to stew in his own pain.

He had nothing to say to Matteo. Nothing to say about his duplicity regarding the two women in his life. It was wise of his younger brother to stay away from him. He had nothing to
say
. But if the idiot kid got near him, he’d very likely
do
something.

Like plant a fist in the bastard’s face.

Marcus gave himself a bleak smile. What would his dear momma say if her darling arrived at his wedding with a black eye? Grim amusement ran through him for a moment. However, it quickly dissipated, replaced by the churn of regret and confusion he’d suffered with for the past three days ever since he walked away from Darcy.

He’d gone to get her because of the fear in her voice.

How ironic that what he’d found had reinforced the fear he’d held inside for most of his life.

Abandoned. Once more. Abandoned.

The memory of her in the limo slipped into his head. The blue gaze stark with hurt. The tiny hands clutched in her lap. The whiteness of her skin.

It had taken him all of an hour to rescind his command regarding her father. Lashing out at her parent because she loved another man was beneath him. The rushing fury he’d felt at the sight of his brother and her together had fallen away within minutes of entering his office. In its place, a dull ache at the core of him burned. An ache of loss which had stunned him. Before he’d lost the last of his pride, he’d hightailed it to the airport. Putting distance between he and the sprite was the only way he’d known to stop himself from going to her.

Begging her.

Like he had with Juliana.

He turned sharply and walked away from the party. Pacing down the hallway, he entered his library and closed the door. Leaned back and sighed.

Shadows and silence and memories.

He’d put the past behind him long ago. Succeeded in convincing himself he’d been merely young and foolish. The yearning to love, to luxuriate in another’s acceptance, to create a circle of connection and intimacy—all of these were only a youth’s dream. Not something he’d inherited from his father. At twenty-one, when he’d been rejected by Juliana for the richer man, he’d made sure, through painful months, to pull every desire for love out of his soul.

Or so he’d thought.

Walking over to the fireplace, he placed his hands on the cold marble and stared down at the ashes from last night’s fire.

The memories of his boyhood passed by him. His father’s laughter as he lifted his son onto his shoulders. His father’s joy at his accomplishments. The love on his father’s face as he gazed at his wife. The pure happiness of his father as he’d sat with his friends at the corner café, enjoying the Italian sun.

Enjoying life.

His hands tightened on the mantel until his fingers turned white.

All these years, he’d rejected. Run from. Buried himself.

Yet the startling truth burned deep inside him.

He was his father’s son.

Ruthlessly, he’d pushed away the need to love, to be close. He’d kept himself apart. Kept aloof. He’d thought of it as necessary and a smart way to live. Still, the entire time it had been a sham. A fake face to the world.

It had taken an elfin creature of beauty and wit to rip the façade away.

Exposing his heart.

Yanking himself from the fireplace, he strode to the window and pulled the velvet drapery apart. He glared into the dark night. The moon was full and bright in the black sky. He no longer held any anger towards Darcy or his brother. Both of them had been merely his pawns. His tools to get what he wanted. What he thought he wanted. Somewhere along the way, however, the coffin which had seemed to serve him so well over the years had yawned open.

Letting her in.

Yet this wasn’t her fault. Or his brother’s.

He rocked back on his heels.

With everything in him, he wished to go back in time. If he’d treated her with the love he felt, spoke the words inside him, if he’d given himself to her, perhaps he’d have had a chance. Perhaps he’d have been able to woo her from his brother.

But he hadn’t. Instead, he’d blackmailed her and ridiculed her. The small gestures he’d made on her behalf were nothing compared to the pain he’d caused her with his stinging words and cutting put-downs.

He deserved this.

After being the ruthless, cunning bastard he’d been during these years, this was to be his penance. The love he’d felt for Juliana was nothing compared to the all-encompassing passion he felt for Darcy. But he’d ruined it. Before the love had a chance to blossom.

Marcus closed his eyes and leaned his face on the cold windowpane.

He could do one thing in honor of this love, though. He could repay her in one way.

By giving her what she wanted.

The man she loved.

M
att’s wedding day
.

Darcy stared out the penthouse windows and saw the storm clouds rolling in. Another cold, rainy London day. She wondered if Italy was having the same kind of weather. Probably not. The sky wouldn’t dare rain on a La Rocca celebration, now would it? With pots of money at hand, Matt’s marriage would likely go down as the wedding of the year. But it wouldn’t have mattered to her if it was only a small ceremony at the local register’s office. She would have simply been happy to be there.

At least, Matt was marrying for love. At least, she could be happy about that.

Turning away from the window, she looked down at the small pile of her belongings on the couch. Today was the day. Freedom. A new and exciting chapter in her life. A moment to be brave and fearless and…

A lone tear slid down her cheek.

Darcy brushed it away with fierce determination.

She’d done enough crying during the last three days to fill the Thames. But now, it was time to get on with it. Get over Marcus La Rocca. He’d proved for all time he didn’t have the capability of trusting, much less loving.

The front door buzzed. Security coming to tell her to go, she’d bet.

The men on the security team had been kind throughout the last few days. They’d ignored her red eyes when they checked on her. They’d brought her chocolate along with the delivery of groceries. One of them, the blond one, had even patted her on the shoulder once with a look of compassion in his gaze.

But all the kind gestures hadn’t made up for the fact they’d been ruthless about keeping her under wraps. Her new and old mobile phones were taken away. No computers allowed in the penthouse. There was always a man standing by the front door.

How could she blame them? She wasn’t signing their paychecks. No, there was only one man to blame. And since she’d never lay eyes on him ever again, the likelihood of getting the chance to give him a piece of her mind or a punch in the nose was slim. Anyway, she hadn’t put up much of a fight about the security. She’d been too dispirited to do anything more than lie on her bed and mope over what might have been.

The door buzzed once more.

Darcy brushed the past out of her head. It was done. Time to move forward with her new life. She walked to the door and opened it.

“Ms. Moran.” The tall, blond man glanced down at her with pity.

Her spine stiffened. She didn’t need any pity. She was
glad
she was out of here. She forced a bright smile. “I’m ready.”

Walking to her small pile of stuff, she lifted her backpack over her shoulder and yanked the handle of the rolling suitcase. She was ready to go.

“This is all you’re taking?” His voice filled with incredulity.

She glanced at him. “It’s what I own.”

“Your artwork—”

“I don’t want any of it.” Too many memories were tied to each brush stroke. Too many dreams lay nestled in every painting. All destroyed and wasted inside her.

“Well, I—”

“You can destroy them.” A tight welter of pain pinched in her nose. She bit her tongue, forcing the tears back. What did it matter? There wouldn’t be any more gallery openings for her now, so it was a waste of her time and talent.

No more gallery openings.

The realization shot through her, bringing back the demon lurking outside these doors. Bu she could only deal with so much pain in one moment. She’d get herself away from the La Rocca storm first. Then she’d deal with what she’d dealt with for years now.

“But…” The blond man frowned. “I’m sure Marcus would want you to take the clothes and other items he’s given you. It’s expected.”

“I don’t do the expected.” If she left with nothing else, she’d leave with her pride and the knowledge she’d taken nothing from the Great Man. “I don’t want any of his stuff.”