Yet, as she tossed and turned, hot and restless beneath the coverlet, remembering the strength of his arms holding her as they danced, the heat of his long body moving her to the music, she had the growing suspicion that he could be right. Never in her life had she responded to any man the way she did to Cannavaro. She had met plenty of men in the last few years, and quite a lot had asked her for a date, but she could count on one hand the rare occasions she had accepted.
For all the harm Cannavaro had done to her, could her intense awareness of him, the rush of sensations he aroused in her, be purely sexual, as he said, and not just hatred as she believed? She saw in her mind’s eye his broodingly handsome face, the compelling dark eyes, and a shiver quivered through her body. How could she know for sure?
The first boy she had kissed had been the slimy liar Timothy Bewick, and when Cannavaro had questioned her at the trial he had implied their kiss had been a lot more. She hadn’t recognised the femme fatale he had made her out to be, but the jury had believed him.
By the time Beth had got out of prison she’d been determined to allow no man to get close to her. Her friend Helen had still been in prison, serving a twenty-year sentence for killing her bully of an ex-husband. Helen had spent years living with his violent rages, and it had only been when she had seen his anger directed at their daughter, Vicky, that Helen had found the courage to divorce him. Five years later Vicky had died while staying at her father’s holiday villa in Spain. According to her father, Vicky had slipped and cracked her head open. The Spanish authorities had believed him. But Helen had known he’d finally gone too far and she’d snapped, deliberately running him down with her Land Rover outside his London home.
Helen had told Beth her story, and told her to look around at the rest of the women they’d shared the prison with. Most of the women had been there because of a man. A man who’d told them what to do, whether they were thieves, prostitutes, drug mules or anything else. And they’d done it because they’d been deluded enough to believe the man loved them. In Helen’s case she had let grief and hatred of her ex take over, and in destroying his life had destroyed her own too. Helen had warned her never to let any man take over her life.
Helen’s words of wisdom still held true, and they strengthened Beth’s resolve to put as much distance between herself and Dante Cannavaro as she possibly could.
In a moment of insight Beth realised that her cottage in the village of Faith Cove was the only place she felt truly herself.
When Beth finally fell into a restless sleep the nightmare she had not suffered from for a long time returned with a vengeance—only the ending wasn’t the same. She was in the dock, with a big handsome man in black tormenting her, twisting every word she said. Then he was smiling, his deep voice and dark eyes drawing her in. And then the nightmare turned into an erotic dream of strong arms holding her, firm, sensuous lips kissing her, hands caressing her, thrilling her.
She cried out and woke up, hot and moist between her thighs and with her heart pounding like a drum.
The next day Beth drove to Richmond for Sunday lunch with Clive, and discussed with him what she had been thinking of doing since the last time she had stayed at the cottage. With Clive’s full approval Beth made the decision to leave London.
She was going to move to Faith Cove and refurbish the cottage Helen had gifted to her in her will. Ironically, Helen’s brute of a husband, never thinking his wife would have the nerve to divorce him, had put the cottage in Helen’s name to avoid tax when he had bought the house fifteen years earlier. When she had divorced him there had been nothing he could do about her keeping it.
Now Beth had plans for the cottage. Although ‘cottage’ was actually a misnomer, as the place was really a large house with six bedrooms, often rented out to families. First she would convert the roof space of the multi-car garage at the rear of the property into a three-roomed apartment. That way she could carry on renting out the house as a holiday let while living permanently either in the apartment or the house when it was vacant. Beth was sure she could make a comfortable living out of it, and she could continue as an accountant for private clients. Maybe she could even convert part of the garage into a surfers’ shop later, which would give her even more independence and ensure she could stay away from the man who haunted her dreams.
Dante Cannavaro, with a face like thunder, walked into his office on Monday morning, sat down at his desk and contacted the security firm he used when a delicate investigation was needed for a client.
Minutes later he lounged back in his black leather chair, his mind not on work but fixated on a tall redhead. He had put the wheels in motion to find out exactly who Beth Lazenby was, and if there was anything suspicious about her he would deal with her appropriately.
Miss Lazenby had already messed up his weekend and a hell of a lot more—including his plans for the future. He had taken Ellen back to her apartment on Saturday night, but had not joined her in bed because she had obviously drunk too much. Ellen had taken offence, blaming Dante for taking her to Tony’s party in the first place, and not taking her out to dinner. She had accused Dante of being arrogant and uncaring and of eyeing up another woman in her presence—namely Beth. She had claimed that he did not love her and had used a lot of words he had never thought she knew. The argument had culminated in Ellen calling the wedding off and throwing her ring at him as he had exited her apartment.
Dante had returned home in a foul mood, and had then spent a restless night with the image of a flame-haired woman plaguing his mind and his body. He’d had to remind himself that he had gotten over the urge to bed every desirable woman he met years ago. Yet he was still convinced that he knew Beth…. But how and from where he had no idea—and that was his problem.
Dante was as frustrated as hell, thanks to the redheaded witch, and he was damn sure he was not going to let her mess up Tony’s life. He glanced at his watch. He had a flight booked to New York at noon, and he expected to be there for a few weeks at least. He called his driver to pick him up and got to his feet, a ruthless gleam in his dark eyes.
When he returned to England, whatever the outcome of his enquiries, he would take great pleasure in dealing with Beth Lazenby personally. There was no way she was marrying Tony! Just the thought of being faced with Beth as his brother’s wife at every family gathering for the rest of his life was enough to make him shudder.
About to get in the car, he stopped and took his cell phone from his pocket and called Tony, realising his younger brother was impulsive enough to marry the woman without a second thought. Proof or not, it was his brotherly duty to warn Tony of his suspicions for his own good
‘Dante—to what do I owe this honor?’ Tony answered. ‘You rarely call me—and never during working hours.’
‘I want to let you know Ellen and I have split up. The wedding is cancelled and I am going to America for a while.’
‘Sorry, but I can’t say I’m surprised. In fact I told Beth I was amazed you’d got engaged in the first place. Why settle for one when you can take your pick, bro?’
Dante heard his chuckle and grimaced. ‘Yes, well, I’ve learned my lesson. But knowing how impulsive you can be, I thought I should warn you in case you make the same mistake.’
‘Warn me? That sounds ominous.’
‘Not ominous, just cautious … I’ve met Beth’s type before—a beautiful woman who probably knows your father owns a bank and is as interested in money as she is in you.’ Dante heard Tony laugh out loud and gritted his teeth. His brother never took anything seriously.
‘Ah, Dante, you really are too serious to be believed. As for Beth—I really couldn’t care less if she knows Dad owns a bank or not. You’ve met her. She is absolutely gorgeous! Do you honestly think I, or any other red-blooded male who was lucky enough to have Beth in his bed, would give a damn about the money? You must really be getting old, Dante, but don’t worry—I won’t do anything you wouldn’t do…. Ciao.’ And, still laughing, he clicked off.
Dante slipped his phone back into his pocket, feeling a complete idiot.