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‘Goodnight, signora, and thank you for a lovely evening,’ Salvatore said.
‘Wh-what did you say?’
‘I said goodnight. I think we both know the time isn’t right.’
‘What do you mean by that?’ Helena demanded.
Salvatore spoke softly. ‘I mean that when I’m ready to make love to you, I won’t go to your room with the world watching.’
‘When you— How dare you? You arrogant swine! Are you fooling yourself that I’m waiting on your pleasure?’ she exclaimed.
‘I’m not fooling myself, but perhaps you are. The decision has already been taken for both of us. It’s only a question of when.’
Lucy Gordon cut her writing teeth on magazine journalism, interviewing many of the world’s most interesting men, including Warren Beatty, Richard Chamberlain, Roger Moore, Sir Alec Guinness and Sir John Gielgud. She also camped out with lions in Africa, and had many other unusual experiences which have often provided the background for her books. She is married to a Venetian, whom she met while on holiday in Venice. They got engaged within two days.
Two of her books have won the Romance Writers of America RITA® award, SONG OF THE LORELEI in 1990, and HIS BROTHER’S CHILD in 1998, in the Best Traditional Romance category. You can visit her website at www.lucy-gordon.com
VERETTI’S DARK VENGEANCE
BY
LUCY GORDON
MILLS & BOON
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CHAPTER ONE
‘SHE’LL be punished for what she’s done. I’m going to make sure of that if it takes me the rest of my days!’
Salvatore Veretti took one last look of loathing at the photograph in his hand before pushing back his chair and going to stand by the window overlooking the Venetian lagoon, where the morning sun was clear, brightening the deep blue sky, adding glitter to the tiny waves that laughed and curled against the boats.
He stood here every morning, relishing the beauty of Venice, bracing himself for the day ahead. There was money to be made, critics to be silenced, enemies to be defeated by one method or another. But there was also this moment of peace and beauty, and the strength it gave him.
Beauty. The thought brought his attention back to the photograph. It showed a woman, not merely lovely but physically perfect: tall, slender, exquisitely proportioned. Any man would say so, for this was a body carefully tended to please men, to be judged by men.
Salvatore, well-equipped to judge the female form, having had so many of them naked in his bed, had studied this one carefully before letting his hatred explode from him. Now he looked at it again, estimating its many beauties, and nodding as though what he saw was no more than he had expected.
But there was no softening in his coldly handsome features. If anything they grew harsher as his eyes roved over the glorious shape that was barely covered by the minute black bikini; the lush breasts, the endless legs, the shapely rear.
Calculation, he thought. Every inch carefully sculpted, every move assessed beforehand, everything planned to inflame male desire and, by that means, bring her money. And now she had the money she’d schemed to get. Or thought she had.
But I too can calculate, he mused. As you are about to discover. And when your weapons prove useless against me—what will you do then?
There was a buzz from the desk and his secretary’s voice said, ‘Signor Raffano is here.’
‘Send him in.’
Raffano was his financial adviser and also an old friend who’d known the family through many troubles. He’d been summoned to Salvatore’s office in the Palazzo Veretti to discuss urgent business. By the time he entered Salvatore had moved away from the window.
‘There’s more news,’ Salvatore said curtly, waving the other man to a chair.
Raffano was elderly with white hair and a gentle face. In his youth he’d been flamboyant, but the passing years had left him thinner and more serious.
‘You mean in addition to your cousin’s death?’ he enquired cautiously.
‘Antonio was my father’s cousin, not mine,’ Salvatore reminded him. ‘He was always a bit of a gadfly, likely to do stupid things without considering the consequences.’
‘He was known as a man who liked to enjoy himself,’ Raffano mused. ‘People said it proved him a true Venetian.’
‘That’s a slur on all Venetians. There aren’t many with his reckless disregard for everything except his own pleasures. He’d spend it, drink it or sleep with it, and to hell with the rest of the world.’
‘I will admit he should have taken more responsibility for the glass factory.’
‘Instead he put the whole thing in his manager’s hands, and vanished into the distance, to have fun,’ Salvatore said grimly.
‘Probably the shrewdest thing he could have done. Emilio is a brilliant manager, and I doubt if Antonio could ever have run the place so well himself. Let’s remember the best of him. He was popular and he’ll be greatly missed. Will his body be coming home for burial?’ Raffano asked.
‘No, I gather the funeral has already taken place in Miami, where he lived these last two years,’ Salvatore said. ‘It is his widow who will be coming to Venice.’
‘His widow?’ Raffano queried. ‘But was he—?’
‘It seems that he was. Recently he bought the company of a flighty piece, no different from many others who had been in his life. I’ve no doubt he paid her well, but she wanted more. She wanted marriage so that in due course she could inherit his fortune.’
‘You judge people very harshly, Salvatore. You always did.’
‘And I’m right.’
‘You
