Anger surged at her persistence. At her meek Mr Fonseca.
Luca uncrossed his arms and placed his hands on the table in front of him, leaning forward. ‘You are the reason I had to rebuild my reputation and people’s trust in my charitable work—not to mention trust in my family’s mining consortium. I spent months, years, undoing the damage of that one night. Debauchery is all very well and good, as you must know, but the stigma of possessing Class A drugs does tend to last. The truth is that once those pictures of us together in the nightclub surfaced I had no defence.’
It almost killed Luca now to recall how he had instinctively shielded Serena from the police and detectives who had stormed the club, which was when she must have taken the opportunity to plant the drugs on him.
He thought of the paparazzi pictures of her shopping in Paris while he’d been leaving Italy under a cloud of disgrace, and bitterness laced his voice. ‘Meanwhile you were oblivious to the fallout, continuing your hedonistic existence. And after all that, you have the temerity to think that I would so much as allow your name to be mentioned in the same sentence as mine?’
If possible, she paled even more, displaying the genes she’d inherited from her half-English mother, a classic English rose beauty.
He straightened up. ‘You disgust me.’
Serena was dimly aware that on some level his words were hurting her in a place that she shouldn’t be feeling hurt. But something dogged deep inside had pushed her to plead. And she had.
His eyes were like dark, hard sapphires. Impervious to heat or cold or her pleas. He was right. He was the one man on the planet who would never give her a chance. She was delusional to have thought even for a second that he might hear her out.
The atmosphere in the office was positively glacial in comparison to the gloriously sunny day outside. Luca Fonseca was just looking at her. Serena’s belly sank. He wasn’t even going to say another word. He’d said everything. He’d just wanted to see her, to torture her. Make her realise just how much he hated her—as if she had been in any doubt.
She finally admitted defeat and turned to the door. There would be no reprieve. Hitching up her chin in a tiny gesture of dignity, she didn’t glance back at him, not wanting to see that arctic expression again. As if she was something distasteful on the end of his shoe.
She opened the door, closed it behind her, and was met by his cool assistant who was waiting for her. And who’d undoubtedly been privy to the plans of her boss well before Serena had been. Silently she was escorted downstairs.
Her humiliation was complete.
* * *
Ten minutes later Luca spoke tersely into his phone. ‘Call me as soon as you know she’s boarded and the plane has left.’
When he’d terminated the call Luca swivelled around in his high-backed chair to face the view. His blood was still boiling with a mixture of anger and arousal. Why had he indulged in the dubious desire to see her face to face again? All it had done was show him his own weakness for her.
He hadn’t even known she was on her way to Rio until his assistant had informed him; the significance of her arrival had only come to light far too late to do anything about it.
Serena DePiero. Just her name brought an acrid taste of poison to his mouth. And yet the image that accompanied her name was anything but poisonous. It was provocative. It was his first image of her in that nightclub in Florence.
He’d known who she was, of course. No one could have gone to Florence and not known who the DePiero sisters were—famed for their light-haired, blue-eyed aristocratic beauty and their vast family fortune that stretched back to medieval times. Serena had been the media’s darling. Despite her debauched existence, no matter what she did, they’d lapped it up and bayed for more.
Her exploits had been legendary: high-profile weekends in Rome, leaving hotels trashed and staff incandescent with rage. Whirlwind private jet trips to the Middle East on the whim of an equally debauched sheikh who fancied a party with his Eurotrash friends. And always pictured in various states of inebriation and loucheness that had only seemed to heighten her dazzling appeal.
The night he’d seen her she’d been in the middle of the dance floor in what could only be described as an excuse for a dress. Strapless gold lamé, with tassels barely covering the top of her toned golden thighs. Long white-blonde hair tousled and falling down her back and over her shoulders, brushing the enticing swell of a voluptuous cleavage. Her peers had jostled around her, vying for her attention, desperately trying to emulate her golden exclusiveness.
With her arms in the air, swaying to the hedonistic beat of music played by some world-class DJ, she had symbolised the very font of youth and allure and beauty. The kind of beauty that made grown men fall to their knees in wonder. A siren’s beauty, luring them to their doom.
Luca’s mouth twisted. He’d proved to be no better than any other mortal man when she’d lured him to his doom. He took responsibility for being in that club—of course he did. But from the moment she’d sashayed over to stand in front of him everything had grown a little hazy. And Luca was not a person who got hazy. No matter how stunning the woman. His whole life was about being clear and focused, because he had a lot to achieve.
But her huge bright blue eyes had seared him alive, igniting every nerve-ending, blasting aside any concerns. Her skin was flawless, her aquiline nose a testament to her breeding. Her mouth had fascinated him. Perfectly sculpted lips. Not too full, not too thin, effortlessly hinting at a dark and sexy sensuality.
She’d said coquettishly, ‘It’s rude to stare, you know.’
And instead of turning on his heel in disgust at her reputation and her arrogance, Luca had felt the blood flow through his body, hardening it, and he’d drawled softly, ‘I’d have to be blind not to be dazzled. Join me for a drink?’
She’d tossed her head and for a second Luca had thought he glimpsed something curiously vulnerable and weary in those stunning blue eyes, but it had to have been a trick of the strobing lights, because then she’d purred, ‘I’d love to.’
The wisps of memory faded from Luca’s mind. He hated it that even now, just thinking of her, was having an effect on his body. Seven years had passed, and yet he felt as enflamed by anger and desire as he had that night. A bruising, humiliating mix.
He’d just left Serena DePiero in no doubt as to what he thought of her. She’d effectively been fired from her job. So why wasn’t there a feeling of triumph rushing through him? Why was there an unsettling, prickling feeling of...unfinished business?
And why was there the tiniest grudging sliver of admiration for the way she had not backed down from him and the way that small chin had tipped up ever so slightly just before she’d left?
THE HOTEL WAS a few blocks back from Copacabana beach. To say that it was basic was an understatement, but it was clean—which was the main thing. And cheap—which was good, considering Serena was living off her meagre savings from the last year. She took off her travelling clothes, which were well creased by now, and stepped into the tiny shower, relishing the lukewarm spray.
Her belly clenched minutely when she imagined Luca’s reaction to her not leaving Rio but she pushed it aside. She’d been standing in line for the check-in when her sister had phoned her. Too heartsore to admit that she was coming home so soon, and suddenly aware that Athens didn’t even really feel like home, Serena had made a spur-of-the-moment decision to tell a white lie and pretend everything was okay.
And, even though she’d hated lying—to her sister, of all people—she didn’t regret it now. She was still angry at Luca Fonseca’s easy dismissal of her, the way he’d toyed with her before kicking her out of his office.
It