Surrendering to the Vengeful Italian Read online

  One step from surrender

  For seven years, formidable Leo Vincenti has planned his vengeance on Douglas Shaw and nothing will stop him. Not even Shaw’s stunning but treacherous daughter, Helena, who—right now—is pleading for leniency. Grim satisfaction spreads through him as he knows she would willingly never take up his challenge to return to his side.

  But he has greatly underestimated Helena. Secrets drive her as if the very devil were on her heels. And suddenly the passion that left them undone years before is forcing them both to the brink of surrender...

  ‘What if we don’t convince them?’

  ‘That we are lovers?’

  ‘Yes.’ The word came out slightly strangled.

  Leo straightened from the table. ‘You assured me you could handle it. Are you getting cold feet already, Helena?’

  She almost laughed at his choice of expression. Cold? Oh, no. No part of her felt cold right now. Not even close. Not when the prospect of playing lovers with Leo for an entire week had her blood racing so hot and crazy she feared her veins might explode.

  He stepped towards her. ‘There is one way to ensure we’re convincing.’

  ‘Oh?’ She tamped down the urge to scurry to the other side of the room. ‘How?’

  ‘Drop the pretence.’

  Her brain took several seconds to register his meaning. She blinked, a bubble of incredulous laughter climbing her throat. ‘You’re kidding, right?’

  ‘You find the prospect of sex with me abhorrent?’

  The question—so explicit, yet so casually delivered—triggered a fresh wave of heat that burned all the way from her hairline down to the valley between her breasts. Abhorrent? No. Dangerous? Yes. Terrifying? Utterly. Though not for any reason she was fool enough to admit.

  Irresistible Mediterranean Tycoons

  Impossibly arrogant, overwhelmingly sexy...

  Meet the men you can’t say no to!

  Gorgeous, powerful and darkly brooding, Leo Vincenti and Nicolas César have dominated their fields—not only in their home countries of Italy and France, but across the globe.

  Now it’s time for them to turn their unwavering focus on a different challenge: conquering two defiantly delectable heroines of their own!

  But have these billionaires bitten off more than they can chew?

  Find out in:

  Surrendering to the Vengeful Italian

  December 2016

  Defying her Billionaire Protector

  January 2017

  Don’t miss this fabulous debut duet by Angela Bissell!

  Surrendering to the Vengeful Italian

  Angela Bissell

  www.millsandboon.co.uk

  ANGELA BISSELL lives with her husband and one crazy Ragdoll cat in the vibrant harbourside city of Wellington, New Zealand. In her twenties, with a wad of savings and a few meagre possessions, she took off for Europe, backpacking through Egypt, Israel, Turkey and the Greek Islands before finding her way to London, where she settled and worked in a glamorous hotel for several years. Clearly the perfect grounding for her love of Mills & Boon Modern Romance! Visit her at angelabissell.com.

  This is Angela’s stunning debut for

  Mills & Boon Modern Romance—we hope you enjoy it!

  Look out for the next part of her

  Irresistible Mediterranean Tycoons duet!

  Defying Her Billionaire Protector

  Available January 2017

  For Tony. Because you never stopped believing. And you never let me quit. Love you to infinity, Mr B.

  And for Mum. The memories have left you but our love never will. You are, and always will be, our real-life heroine.

  Contents

  Cover

  Back Cover Text

  Introduction

  Irresistible Mediterranean Tycoons

  Title Page

  About the Author

  Dedication

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  EPILOGUE

  Extract

  Copyright

  CHAPTER ONE

  HELENA SHAW HAD been sitting in the elegant marble foyer for the best part of two hours when the man she had trekked halfway across London to see finally strode into the exclusive Mayfair hotel.

  She had almost given up. After all the effort she had devoted to tracking him down, she had almost lost her nerve. Had almost let cowardice—and the voice in her head crying insanity—drive her out of the plush upholstered chair and back into the blessed obscurity of the crowded rush-hour streets.

  But she had not fled. She had sat and waited—and waited some more.

  And now he was here.

  Her stomach dropped, weightless for a moment as though she had stepped from a great height into nothingness, and then the fluttering started—a violent sensation that made her belly feel like a cage full of canaries into which a half-starved tomcat had been loosed.

  Breathe, she instructed herself, and watched him stride across the foyer, tall and dark and striking in a charcoal-grey two-piece that screamed power suit even without the requisite tie around his bronzed throat.

  Women stared.

  Men stepped out of his way.

  And he ignored them all, his big body moving with an air of intent until, for one heart-stopping moment, his footsteps slowed on the polished marble and he half turned in her direction, eyes narrowed under a sharp frown as he surveyed the hotel’s expansive interior.

  Helena froze. Shrouded in shadows cast by soft lighting and half hidden behind a giant spray of exotic honey-scented blooms, she was certain he couldn’t see her, yet for one crazy moment she had the unnerving impression he could somehow sense her scrutiny. Her very presence. As if, after all these years, they were still tethered by an invisible thread of awareness.

  A crack of thunder, courtesy of the storm the weathermen had been promising Londoners since yesterday, made Helena jump. She blinked, pulled in a sharp breath and let the air out with a derisive hiss. She had no connection with this man. Whatever bond had existed between them was long gone, destroyed by her father and buried for ever in the ashes of bitterness and hurt.

  A hurt Leonardo Vincenti would soon revisit on her family if she failed to stop him seizing her father’s company.

  She grabbed her handbag and stood, her pulse picking up speed as she wondered if he would see her. But he had already resumed his long strides towards the bank of elevators. She hurried after him, craning her neck to keep his dark head and broad shoulders in her line of sight. Not that she’d easily lose him in a crowd. He stood out from the pack—that much hadn’t changed—though he seemed even taller than she remembered, darker somehow, the aura he projected now one of command and power.

  Her stomach muscles wound a little tighter.

  Europe’s business commentators had dubbed him the success of the decade: an entrepreneurial genius who’d turned a software start-up into a multi-million-dollar enterprise in less than ten years and earned a coveted spot on the rich list. The more reputable media sources called him single-minded and driven. Others dished up less flattering labels like hard-nosed and cut-throat.

  Words that reminded Helena too much of her father. Yet even hard-nosed and cut-throat seemed too mild, too charitable, for a man like Douglas Shaw.

  She shouldered her bag, clutched the strap over her chest.

  Her father was a formidable man, but
if the word regret existed in his vocabulary he must surely rue the day he’d aimed his crosshairs at Leonardo Vincenti. Now the young Italian he’d once decreed unsuitable for his daughter was back, seven years older, considerably wealthier and, by all accounts, still mad as hell at the man who’d run him out of town.

  He stopped, pushed the button for an elevator and shoved his hands in his trouser pockets. Behind him, Helena hovered so close she could see the fine weave in the fabric of his jacket, the individual strands of black hair curling above his collar.

  She sucked in a deep breath. ‘Leo.’

  He turned, his dark brows rising into an arch of enquiry that froze along with the rest of his face the instant their gazes collided. His hands jerked out of his pockets. His brows plunged back down.

  ‘What the hell...?’

  Those three words, issued in a low, guttural growl, raised the tiny hairs on her forearms and across her nape.

  He’d recognised her, then.

  She tilted her head back. In her modest two-inch heels she stood almost five foot ten, but still she had to hike her chin to lock her gaze with his.

  And oh, sweet mercy, what a gaze it was.

  Dark. Hard. Glittering. Like polished obsidian and just as impenetrable. How had she forgotten the mind-numbing effect those midnight eyes could have on her?

  Concentrate.

  ‘I’d like to talk,’ she said.

  A muscle moved in his jaw, flexing twice before he spoke. ‘You do not own a phone?’

  ‘Would you have taken my call?

  He met her challenge with a smile—if the tight, humourless twist of his lips could be called a smile. ‘Probably not. But then you and I have nothing to discuss. On the phone or in person.’

  An elevator pinged and opened behind him. He inclined his head in a gesture she might have construed as polite if not for the arctic chill in his eyes.

  ‘I am sorry you have wasted your time.’ And with that he swung away and stepped into the elevator.

  Helena hesitated, then quickly rallied and dashed in after him. ‘You’ve turned up after seven years of silence and come after my father’s company. I hardly think that qualifies as nothing.’

  ‘Get out of the elevator, Helena.’

  The soft warning made the skin across her scalp prickle. Or maybe it was hearing her name spoken in that deep, accented baritone that drove a wave of discomforting heat through her?

  The elevator doors whispered closed, cocooning them in a space that felt too small and intimate despite the effect of mirrors on three walls.

  She planted her feet. ‘No.’

  Colour slashed his cheekbones and his dark eyes locked with hers in a staring match that quickly tested the limits of her bravado. Just as she feared that lethal gaze would reduce her to a pile of cinders, he reached into the breast pocket of his jacket and pulled out an access card.

  ‘As you wish,’ he said, his tone mild—too mild, a voice warned. He flashed the card across a sensor and jabbed the button labelled ‘Penthouse Suite’. With a soft whir, the elevator began its stomach-dropping ascent.

  Helena groped for the steel handrail behind her, the rapid rising motion—or maybe the butterflies in her belly she couldn’t quell—making her head swim.

  It seemed her ex-lover could not only afford the finest digs in London...he could afford to stay in the hotel’s most exclusive suite.

  The knowledge made her heart beat faster.

  The Leo she’d known had been a man of understated tastes, stylish in that effortless way of most Italian men but never flashy or overt. She’d liked that about him. Liked his grit and drive and passion. Liked that he was different from the lazy, spoilt rich set her parents wanted her to run with.

  And now...?

  Her hand tightened on the railing. Now it didn’t matter what she felt about him. All that mattered was the havoc he’d soon unleash on her family. If he and her father went head to head in a corporate war and Douglas Shaw lost control of his precious empire the fallout for his wife and son would be dire. Her father didn’t take kindly to losing; when he did, those closest to him suffered.

  ‘Has your father sent you?’ The way he ground out the word father conveyed a wealth of hatred—a sentiment Helena, too, wrestled with when it came to Daddy Dearest.

  She studied Leo’s face, leaner now, his features sharper, more angular than she remembered, but still incredibly handsome. Her fingers twitched with the memory of tracing those features while he slept, of familiarising herself with that long, proud nose and strong jaw, those sculpted male lips. Lips that once could have stopped her heart with a simple smile—or a kiss.

  Emotion rose and swirled, unexpected, a poignant mix of regret and longing that made her chest ache and her breath hitch.

  Did Leo smile much these days? Or did those lines either side of his mouth stem from harsher emotions like anger and hatred?

  Instinctively Helena’s hand went to her stomach. The void inside where life had once flourished was a stark reminder that she, too, had suffered. Leo, at least, had been spared that pain, and no good would come now of sharing hers.

  Some burdens, she had decided, were better borne alone. She let her hand fall back to her side.

  ‘I’m not my father’s puppet, Leo. Whatever your misguided opinion of me.’

  A harsh sound shot from his throat. ‘The only one misguided is you, Helena. What part of “I never wish to see you again” did you not understand?’

  She smothered the flash of hurt his words evoked. ‘That was a long time ago. And I only want an opportunity to talk. Is that asking too much?’

  A soft ping signalled the elevator’s arrival. Before he could answer with a resounding yes, she stepped through the parting doors into a spacious vestibule. She stopped, the sensible heels of her court shoes sinking into thick carpet the colour of rich chocolate. Before her loomed an enormous set of double doors. It was private up here, she realised. Secluded. Isolated.

  Her mouth went dry. ‘Perhaps we should talk in the bar downstairs?’

  He brushed past her and pushed open the heavy doors, his lips twisting into a tight smile that only made her heart pound harder.

  ‘Afraid to be alone with me?’

  Helena paused on the threshold. Should she be afraid of him? In spite of her jitters she balked at the idea. Leonardo Vincenti wasn’t thrilled to see her—that was painfully clear—but she knew this man. Had spent time with him. Been intimate with him in ways that marked her soul like no other man ever had.

  Yes, she could sense the anger vibrating beneath his cloak of civility, but he would never lose control and lash out at her. He would never hurt her the way her father hurt her mother.

  She smoothed her palm down the leg of her black trouser suit and assumed a lofty air. ‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ she said, and strode into the room.

  * * *

  Leo closed the penthouse doors, strode to the wet bar and splashed a large measure of whisky into a crystal tumbler. He knocked back the potent liquid, snapped the empty glass onto the bar and looked at the woman whose presence was like a blowtorch to his veneer of calm.

  ‘Drink?’

  ‘No.’ She reinforced her refusal with a shake of her head that made her auburn curls bounce and sway. ‘But...thank you.’

  Shorter, he noted. Her hair was shorter, the dark silky ribbons that had once tumbled to her waist now cropped into a sophisticated cut above her shoulders. Her face, too, had changed—thinner like her body and more striking somehow, her cheekbones strong and elegant, her jaw line firm. Bluish crescents underscored her eyes, but the rest of her skin was toned and smooth and free of imperfections. It was a face no man, unless blind, would pass by without stopping for a second appreciative look.

  Helena Shaw, he reluctantly acknowledged, was no longer a pretty girl. Helena Shaw was a stunningly attractive woman.

  Scowling, he reminded himself he had no interest in this woman’s attributes, physical or otherwise. He’d been bl
indsided by her beauty and guise of innocence once before—a grave error that had cost him infinitely more than his injured pride—and he’d vowed his mistake would not be repeated.

  Not with any woman.

  And especially not this one.

  ‘So, you want to talk.’ The last thing he wanted to do with this woman. Dio. He should have bodily removed her from the elevator downstairs and to hell with causing a scene. He banked the flare of anger in his gut and gestured towards a duo of deep leather sofas. ‘Sit,’ he instructed, then glanced at his watch. ‘You have ten minutes.’

  She frowned—a delicate pinch of that smooth brow—then put her bag on the glass coffee table and perched on the edge of a sofa. She drew an audible breath.

  ‘The papers say you’ve launched a hostile takeover bid for my father’s company.’

  He dropped onto the opposite sofa. ‘An accurate summary.’ He paused. ‘And...?’

  She puffed out a sigh. ‘You’re not going to make this easy for me, are you?’

  Easy? That simple four-letter word made him grind his molars. This girl’s entire life had been easy. Her family’s excessive wealth, her father’s connections, had ensured she wanted for nothing. Unlike Leo and his sister who, after their mother’s death, had survived childhood in a murky world of poverty and neglect. For them, nothing came easy.

  ‘You want me to make this easy for you?’

  Like hell he would.

  She shook her head. ‘I want to understand why you’re doing this.’

  So she could talk him out of it? Not a chance. He’d waited too many years to settle this score with her father. He returned her gaze for an extended beat. ‘It’s business.’

  She laughed then: a short brittle sound, not the soft, sexy laughter that resided in his memory. ‘Please—this isn’t business. It’s...payback.’

  Her voice conveniently wobbled on that last word, but her ploy for sympathy, if that was her angle, failed to move him.

  ‘And if I said this is payback, what would you say?’

  ‘I’d say two wrongs don’t make a right.’

 
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