He had to have her.
And then he must walk away, as she had walked out on him. Okay, he was talking stubborn Neapolitan pride here—but until he felt justice had been done, he wouldn’t be able to put the past behind him.
Slowly he turned around. She was slipping her feet into a pair of very feminine sandals. He swallowed, remembering how he used to coax off her shoes very slowly and…. Hastily he closed his mind to what happened next. He needed to stay in control every step of the way. “I have a suggestion.” He spoke calmly. “You come to my hotel and stay for the week. It’s an exclusive hideaway for VIPs and celebrities….”
“Sounds terrific…but who’s paying?” Ellen asked cautiously.
You are, he wanted to say. But not in the way she might think!
Childhood in Portsmouth, UK, meant grubby knees, flying pigtails and happiness for Sara Wood. Poverty drove her from typist and seaside landlady to teacher until writing finally gave her the freedom her Romany blood craved. Happily married, she has two handsome sons. Richard is calm, dependable, drives tankers, Simon is a roamer—silversmith, roofer, welder—always with beautiful girls. Sara lives in the Cornish countryside. Her glamorous writing life alternates with her passion for gardening, which allows her to be carefree and grubby again!
A Husband’s Vendetta
Sara Wood
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
IT WAS a Wednesday, so they were talking English. Although his daughter had a good grasp of the language, Luciano chose his words carefully as he admired the picture she had presented to him.
‘Thank you, sweetheart! How handsome I am!’ he marvelled, with a theatrical astonishment calculated to make her laugh.
Gemma obliged with a burst of giggles. Shyly she drew his attention to the figure of a woman in the doorway of a house she’d drawn. Although he smiled and nodded approvingly, he felt his stomach churn. Poor kid. She wanted a mother. Definitely not her own mother—they both loathed her—but a new one. Much to his dismay, Gemma had begun to suggest potential candidates almost daily, and her desperation was unnerving.
Luc’s finely shaped mouth dived down at the corners. Living with Gemma was like being in an emotional minefield.
‘Look. I put the picture by my heart,’ he said, forcing a cheerful tone.
Gemma’s eyes glowed with pleasure when he slipped the drawing into the inside pocket of his finely tailored suit and she happily turned her attention to her ice cream. Luc smiled and relaxed a little. He’d bought it as an after-school treat—and a downright bribe.
Sipping his espresso at the table of their favourite café, he allowed his mind to drift. Idly he watched the tourists and celebrities wander through Capri’s elegant little square as they explored the delights of the ultra-chic island. He felt a flash of fierce pride that many of them would have travelled over on one of his hydrofoils, either from Naples or Sorrento on the Italian coast.
In the morning he’d be travelling to Naples on his way to England, an urgent trip to check out a new venture. Edgily he squared his broad shoulders, knowing he must tell Gemma—but dreading her reaction. Emotional mine-fields had a habit of exploding, as he knew to his cost.
‘This is nice,’ he murmured, speaking slowly. Shamelessly he descended to yet more bribery. ‘We will do this every day after school…’ He hesitated, and took the plunge. ‘After I come back from my trip to London tomorrow.’
He watched her whole body stiffen. She gazed stonily ahead, as if denying his existence, and his stomach muscles contracted. He’d seen that expression before. Gemma’s English mother, Ellen, had produced it often, and it chilled him to the bone that his daughter had mastered it so well.
‘Olà, look at me!’ he urged gently, shaken by her icy stare.
‘I want to come!’ She virtually flung the words forcibly through her small white teeth.
For ‘want’, read will, he thought with a sigh. ‘You hate England. Stay here with Maria,’ he coaxed. ‘She makes you laugh.’
But the mention of their friendly maid didn’t do its usual trick. He could see hysteria in Gemma’s eyes and it made him feel unusually helpless.
Now what? he wondered. Did he give in, or play the stern father? He’d always been particularly careful to ensure that his daughter didn’t always have her own way. And yet… His heart softened at his daughter’s sullen face. He couldn’t be too strict on the child. She had good reason to feel insecure.
Her mother had abandoned her as a baby.
Moodily he pushed his sunglasses to the top of his head. Beneath the perfectly groomed, panther-sleek exterior, a surge of murderous anger was sweeping through him. Hatred for his estranged wife wiped the lazy smile from his affectionate mouth and replaced it with a savage snarl. Suddenly the sharp planes of his face and the slightly sinister angle of his broken nose became strikingly prominent and the darker side of his nature surfaced.
Ellen. He muttered a heartfelt curse under his breath. The woman had ruined the most precious person in his life and turned her into a complex mass of neuroses. He scowled, hoping with all his heart that his estranged wife was in her own hell somewhere.
With an effort, he clawed back his composure, only the steep angle of his pitch-black brows showing the strain he was under. He pushed away his coffee, planning how to win Gemma around quickly. Out of the corner of his eye he could see that his mobile was flashing, announcing that he had a bank of calls waiting.
‘Sweetheart,’ he began persuasively, his neatly manicured forefinger turning her small, set face to his.
Perhaps
