She looked away, agitated, and said nothing.
‘I thought not.’ He had regained his composure but he didn’t sit back down. He prowled restlessly around the room, staring at her, and she felt like a trapped rabbit, knowing that whatever he said she would lose because she was incapable of justifying her past.
‘If you want me to sign papers,’ she said stiffly, ‘I shall do so. If not, I’m leaving.’
‘You’ll leave when I’m ready for you to leave.’
She met his cool grey eyes with anger. ‘I don’t work for you, Lorenzo. You’re not my boss! I’m prepared to sell my father’s company to you because the move was recommended by Mr Clark, but beyond that I want nothing to do with you!’
‘Now there’s a thought,’ he murmured, moving behind her and resting his hands on either side of her chair. Her body froze. She wanted nothing to do with him but his sexuality, which had held her in its snare all those years ago, was as powerful as ever. She could feel it emanating from him, from those strong arms only inches away from her.
‘What are you talking about?’ she asked, licking her lips nervously.
‘You could,’ he murmured, ‘always work for me. Wouldn’t that be fun?’
‘No,’ Isobel muttered in a strangled voice. She wanted badly to move but she was afraid, she realised, of touching him.
‘No,’ he agreed, ‘perhaps it wouldn’t be. Or perhaps it wouldn’t be enough.’ The grey eyes swept over her, the eyes of a predator that had trapped its quarry and was lazily contemplating what course of action to take next.
‘What do you mean? What are you talking about?’ Her voice had risen a pitch higher.
‘The fate of your father’s company is in my hands, Isobel. Without me, everything he spent a lifetime working for will vanish like a puff of smoke.’ He smiled as though the thought afforded him immense satisfaction.
Isobel looked at him in frozen shock.
‘Another buyer can be found,’ she persisted weakly.
‘I think not.’ Another smile, and she felt a quiver of confused alarm.
‘No…’ He strolled lazily to the window, his hands in his pockets, and turned to face her. ‘I have returned, Isobel, and this time I am calling the shots. I will have you, Isobel Chandler, and then, when I tire of you, I shall cast you aside.’
‘And you said that you didn’t want revenge?’ There was a dangerous electricity in the air.
He contemplated her coldly.
‘Revenge. Such a basic word. But maybe you’re right. Maybe revenge is the only thing that can satisfy me. I will put a ring on your finger and you will be mine for however long I want you. In return, I will salvage your father’s company.’
‘NEVER!’ Shock made her start back and she found that her hands were gripping the arms of the chair. ‘You’re mad!’
‘Why?’ His voice was controlled, but whip-hard, and his eyes pierced into her with a venom that made her cringe.
‘I can’t believe that you would go to such lengths, Lorenzo…The past is over and done with…’
‘It is never over and done with. Do you understand me? It has festered inside me and now that I have my opportunity to do something about it, I damn well will.’
‘I will never marry you!’ He hated her. It was as simple as that. Dislike, contempt, wounded male pride, those were never strong enough to describe what he felt towards her. She could see that now, and she knew with utmost finality that she could never unburden her secret to him. If he was prepared to marry her simply to sate his desire for revenge, then how could she ever trust him?
‘You will do precisely what I say, Isobel, because you have no choice.’
‘Never! Do you understand, Lorenzo Cicolla? Never, never, never!’ She stood up because she was too agitated to sit down, but she didn’t walk towards the door. Something in the room kept her rooted to the spot.
‘Why ever not, my dear?’ he asked with aggravatingly exaggerated politeness. He was standing behind the desk, towering over her. ‘In fact, I have no idea how you could resist such a charming proposition. After all, you’ll be able to maintain your status quo; you’ll have your wealthy lifestyle. If I recall correctly, those were the things that meant so much more to you than I ever did.’ There was no fondness in his voice as he recalled their shared past, no softening in his features. If anything his face hardened, and she shivered.
‘Believe what you will,’ she muttered, looking away, and he moved around the desk so swiftly that before she realised it he was standing next to her. He curled his fingers into her hair and dragged her face to his.
Her heart began to beat, to pound, and she licked her lips nervously. She would never marry him, but some primitive response to his masculinity unfurled deep within her and her eyes widened in shock and an instinctive response to retreat as quickly as she could.
But retreat was impossible. His grip was like a vice. She stood completely still and tried to stifle the treacherous warmth rushing through her.
‘Believe what I will, Isobel?’ he asked, his lips curling. ‘Surely you mean, believe what you told me? Told me four years ago?’
She didn’t answer. Was there a way to answer the unanswerable?
The memories sprang up at her like monsters rushing out from the dark. The wedding-day, gloriously sunny, a still, fine spring day that had felt more like summer. Jeremy, looking at her with satisfaction, knowing that he now owned her.
She had been surprised and taken aback when Lorenzo had remained for the reception. She had thought that he would take the first opportunity to leave a situation which he despised, but a part of her realised that he would remain because to leave would be to throw in his hand; it would have been running away, tail between legs, admitting defeat. It would have been what Jeremy wanted. But it would not have been the Italian way: there would have been no retreat without honour.
She had mixed with friends and relatives and she had watched Lorenzo out of the corner of her eye.
In retrospect, she could see that the explosion had been only a matter of time.
Jeremy had spent the afternoon showing her off, baiting his bitter rival. Little snide remarks scattered here and there, and then more often.
Isobel could remember gritting her teeth in frustrated anger at Jeremy’s game-playing. He had always been fond of displaying his parents’ wealth to Lorenzo.
Money. It had always been the one thing that had separated Lorenzo from the rest of them. His parents had come to England with very little, and although his father had held down a responsible job at one of the engineering companies, he had always had what had amounted, in comparison with the rest of them, a minuscule income. Lorenzo’s school uniforms had been bought from the second-hand sales at the school, and text-books were never bought at all; they were borrowed from the library.
‘Thinking about it, Isobel?’ The smooth, cruel voice brought her back to the present, and she blinked and looked at him, disorientated.
‘Thinking about what?’ He had always had an amazing ability to read her mind, but she preferred to plead ignorance rather than to admit that he was spot on.
‘Your glorious, happy wedding-day. So many people milling around, all the pillars of the little community, elaborately turned out for the affair of the year.’
‘That’s