RossellinisRevengeAffair Read online

  Did she do that deliberately, he wondered. Just to set the minds of weaker men astray? To lure and entice, then to coldly spurn any advances, all the while maintaining her formidable control? He silently vowed to see that control shattered before he left here tonight.

  Without even asking him to sit down she spun around to face him, squaring her shoulders as she met his gaze.

  “Well, Mr Rossellini. You wanted to see me. You have nine minutes left.”

  Anger rose within him, swift and sharp. She dared to challenge him without even knowing who he was? Raffaele clenched his jaw, bit back the retort that sprang to his lips and drew on the strength that had seen him drive and expand his family’s olive oil export business onto the forefront of the world stage, and successfully keep it there.

  “I am sorry for your loss.”

  “Thank you, although I’m sure you didn’t come to pass on your condolences.” She held herself erect, her arms resting gracefully at her sides although for all the prickling vibes she gave off they could have been crossed across her willowy frame. “What do you want?” She demanded more insistently.

  Raffaele began to see why Kyle had found his curvaceous, bubbly sister attractive. What on earth had possessed the man to remain with this frozen excuse for femininity? And yet, beneath the ice there was something—a fire simmering in the back of those sombre cat’s eyes—something that forced a rush of heat over his skin and down deep past his belly.

  “Your husband never mentioned me I gather?”

  “Should he have?”

  The insolence in her tone rankled, making his response clipped. “We were friends as well as business partners.”

  “Kyle never had a business partner.”

  “I stand here before you. It is true.” Raffaele pushed his hands deep into his trouser pockets, nailing her with a hard stare, trying to see whether he could find some edge, some advantage. A way to rattle that unnerving calm she’d cloaked about her. “Your husband owed me money, Mrs Whittaker. A rather large sum of money.” He watched her already pale features blanch even more as he mentioned the total sum. The darkened smudges under her eyes looked like bruises on her delicate skin.

  “That’s impossible!” she denied vehemently, her fingers suddenly curling into fists at her side. Ah, he thought with bitter satisfaction. Moneywas her trigger. Understandable given the polish on her looks—the perfectly manicured nails, the even tan on her skin, the expertly cut swathe of golden hair. High-maintenance indeed. It was time to go for the jugular.

  “Kyle’s death has put our business plan into an unfortunate position. My Italian investors have already indicated their intention to pull out. Without your husband to see to the balance of New Zealand investors, I have to recall the loan.” She didn’t need to know that his own company was the Italian investor he referred to, or that the scheme—to expand a large scale organically grown olive oil distribution network—was merely in its infancy. But the loan itself had been real.

  “Recall the loan? Just like that?” Her eyes widened, fear making them appear huge in her ashen face.

  For an infinitesimal moment, Raffaele felt a twinge of pity but then reason, sanity, prevailed. A child would grow up without either of its natural parents because of this woman. There was no room for pity in his dealings with her. One way or another, she was going to pay dearly for what she had done to his family.

  “Si. Just like that. I assume you’d prefer that I deal directly with your lawyer?”

  She didn’t respond. If anything, she looked as though she’d withdrawn into a part of her mind where no one and nothing could touch her. Had he pushed her too far? It was possible. After all, she’d only buried her husband this afternoon. Perhaps he should have waited another day.

  Did Maria have another day? The question flung harshly from the depths of his mind. No, she did not. He reached a hand towards the silent woman standing opposite him and touched her briefly on her arm.

  “Mrs Whittaker?”

  She recoiled instantly from his touch as though he’d burned her with a red-hot poker instead of grazed the merest contact of his fingers on her bare forearm.

  “I…I’ll get you his card.”

  Again she made that miraculous recovery, as if drawing from deep, deep down inside of her and pulling up every vestige of serenity to paint a totally poised exterior.

  She walked with quiet elegance to what he assumed was the master bedroom. While she was gone, he looked about the room mentally pricing every item within it. He didn’t care much for the pristine perfection of the furnishings, nor the modern art on the walls. He much preferred warmth and comfort in his home—and in his women.

  His eyes suddenly lit on the scatter of torn photographs on the floor at the end of the couch. Raffaele walked closer and bent to lift one mangled image from the floor. So, she couldn’t wait to get rid of every last reminder of her husband. He clamped his teeth together hard and let the shred of another man’s memory float back down. He had made the right decision. Lana Whittaker deserved no sympathy.

  When she returned with a white business card, some perverse imp of mischief made him hesitate before taking it, forcing her to wait. When he finally reached for the card, he trained his eyes on her face and deliberately allowed his fingers to brush against hers.

  Her pupils, pools of black on a stormy background, dilated at his touch. Interesting, he thought. She was not immune to his touch. Very interesting indeed.

  Her voice was cool when she finally spoke, belying the sudden flush that stained her cheeks. “Your ten minutes is over. Please deal directly with Mr Munroe in future.”

  “Of course. Good night, Mrs Whittaker.”

  “Good bye, Mr Rossellini.”

  His lips twitched into a smile at her emphasis. A smile she couldn’t help but notice as he turned and left her standing in the lounge. He let her have the final word—this time. She would be in for a surprise if she thought she’d seen the last of him.

  Two

  The tremors started the moment Lana heard the front door click closed. Kyle owed this man money, too? What else had he hidden from her?

  When they’d learned three years into their marriage they’d never have a family of their own, she had thrown herself into her charity work, bit by bit letting Kyle assume full financial responsibility for their affairs. A responsibility he’d said he didn’t mind—after all, he was supposed to have been the financial genius.

  How long would it have taken her to find out, she wondered, if he hadn’t died in the accident? How long would she have continued to live in a bubble of false security?

  Weariness dragged at every pore of her skin and every muscle in her body, making her feel as if she’d aged forty-eight years in the past forty-eight hours. She could do no more tonight. Tomorrow she would see Tom Munroe, her lawyer, and go over the information in Kyle’s laptop. Information which hadn’t shed any light on Raffaele Rossellini, unless it was hidden elsewhere in his files.

  Without bothering to turn off any lights, Lana trudged to the bedroom, but one look at the wide custom-made bed dominating the room sent nausea coasting through her like a tidal wave. The intimacies they’d shared under the cloak of night, the whispered dreams and promises, the shared grief when they finally accepted they’d never have the children they’d so desperately wanted, all swirled around her. Painful, tangible pieces of her past.

  She could never sleep in that bed again, never!

  Lana dragged a blanket and spare pillow from the elaborately carved chest at the end of the bed and went back into the lounge, collapsing on the vast leather suite. Then, finally, she let sleep claim her from a world that had become unbearable.

  The winter sun had barely begun its subtle caress of the new day when the burr of the telephone jarred Lana from her slumber. Disoriented, she took a moment to catch her bearings before padding over to the nearest phone.

  “Hello?” she croaked, her voice rusty with sleep.

  “Is it true that Kyle
Whittaker was with another woman when he died?” The intrusive male voice jerked Lana into full awareness.

  So, the news was out and the wolves were already baying for blood. Slowly and quite deliberately, she replaced the receiver and flicked the switch on the handset to mute the ringer. Before she could cross the apartment and do the same to the phones in the office and the master bedroom, the line was ringing again. Without answering, Lana yanked the cords from their wall sockets and retreated to the en suite bathroom.

  Kyle was everywhere. His toiletries still scattered on the black marble vanity, his robe behind the door. The vast double shower stall stood jeeringly empty.

  She grabbed the wastebasket and swept his things off the vanity to jumble in an untidy mess of cologne, lotion, toothbrush and deodorant.

  It was only when she looked in the mirror that she realised that once again her face was wet with tears. She slid out of the severe black dress she’d worn to the funeral the day before and peeled away her underwear, kicking it sharply across the floor instead of placing it in the hamper for their housekeeper—her housekeeper, she corrected herself—to take care of. If she had a fireplace she would burn the lot.

  She snapped on the water for the shower and stepped beneath the stinging hot spray, seeking solace in the rhythmic pulse of the jets. Yet nothing penetrated the cold that encapsulated her heart.

  Later, with her hair turbaned in a towel and wrapped in a voluminous robe she surveyed her clothes trying to decide what to wear for her appointment today with Tom Munroe to ascertain just what Kyle had left her with. She’d need to show him the contents of the laptop too—the thought made her sick to her stomach all over again. Finally she made her selection—a simple fine wool trouser suit in a vibrant teal, offset with a multicoloured scarf in softer sea and coral tones. That decision made, she needed coffee. Strong, hot, black coffee. She would survive this—somehow.

  Leaving the apartment building’s basement car park proved to be a nightmare. Security had already warned Lana not to depart via her first and preferred option—a taxi at the front door. Forced to use her own vehicle, Lana reluctantly nosed the late model Mercedes soft-top convertible up the ramp that lead to the street. Already she could see a wave of faces, cameras and boom mikes. Maybe it would be better to ask Tom to visit her here, at the apartment. But she knew if she stayed in there one moment longer, surrounded by the contradiction of so many happier memories, she would go completely mad.

  Lana took a deep breath and pushed down on the accelerator. The security grill began to lift, slowly. Too slowly. Instantly, reporters, eager for the latest scoop, beset her car. To avoid hitting one of them she was forced to slow down. Thankfully, security at the apartment complex was thick on the ground. Uniformed guards cleared a path and urgently waved her on.

  With her stomach clenched as tight as knotted ribbon, Lana drove forward, temporarily blinded by the recurring flash bulbs bursting like supernovas and bouncing light off her windscreen. Finally she was clear and accelerated away before the maddening crowd could follow.

  At her lawyer’s office she was ushered swiftly into a private waiting area. Clearly, bad news travelled fast. Lana sank into the plush chair. A subtle fragrance lingered in the air. Masculine, slightly musky. She’d smelled it somewhere before but couldn’t put her finger on where. It was nothing like what Kyle had worn—he’d always preferred crisper citrus colognes. From her lawyer’s inner sanctum she heard the rumble of male voices and the hairs on the back of her neck stood up as though someone had stepped over her grave, or Kyle’s grave to be more precise.

  Raffaele Rossellini.

  He was here already? Bile rose swiftly in her throat and she swallowed hard against the acrid burning sensation. He couldn’t even wait a day. Through the panelled walls she heard Tom’s outer office door open and close before the inner door to the private waiting room opened.

  “My dear—” Tom stood on the threshold, his hands reaching for hers. His wife had been a close friend of her mother’s from their university days and Tom Munroe had been a part of Lana’s life for as long as she could remember. She’d missed his solid presence during the funeral service, but a prior court matter had kept him from her side.

  The sympathy in his eyes was almost her undoing. She put her hands in his and allowed him to pull her to her feet and into the relative comfort of his arms. A sob struggled for life from deep within her chest, but she pushed it down, determined not to give in to the fear and loss that had rent every last vestige of security from her life.

  He ushered her into his office and settled her on a leather visitor’s chair. Through the soft wool of her trousers she imagined could still feel the warmth of its last occupant caressing the backs of her legs. Sheer foolishness, she knew, but her skin prickled just the same.

  There was no easy way about this. “You’ve had a visit from Raffaele Rossellini.” Her voice trembled slightly. Lana clutched the laptop case more firmly between her fingers as if that would lend her strength.

  “Yes, charming gentleman. Although somewhat concerned about some money he’d loaned Kyle. Did you know anything about that?” Tom leaned back in his chair and peered at her over steepled fingers.

  “Nothing.” Lana unzipped the computer case. “And that’s not the worst of it.”

  By the time she’d finished cataloguing her financial position as she’d discovered it, Tom had fallen completely silent. A worried frown puckered his brow.

  “This puts an entirely different complexion on things, as I’m sure you know.”

  Lana’s stomach did that awful twist thing again at the tone in his voice. “I’ve looked for our life insurance policies too, and I can’t find them. You don’t think he cashed them in do you?”

  “No, more likely he assigned them to the bank as security for an additional loan. He didn’t do it through me but as the appointed executor and administrator of his Will I can start making enquiries for you.”

  “But that will take days, weeks even. I need to know now. I can’t sit around waiting for the next loan shark to come darting out the woodwork.”

  “No, I agree. Don’t worry. I’ll get my team onto it now. Are you going back to the apartment?”

  The very thought of going back there made Lana’s head whirl and the pain in her stomach increased.

  “No. I can’t. The press are all over the building. If I go back today none of the other tenants will get any peace at all.”

  “Why don’t I give Helen a call, I’m sure she’ll be thrilled if you come and stay with us until this settles down.”

  “No, I couldn’t, but thank you. The press are insufferable already. When they find out Kyle was being investigated it’ll only get worse. Don’t worry about me. I’ll check into a hotel.”

  “Sounds like a good idea. Make sure reception screens your calls.” Tom stroked his chin thoughtfully. “Are you okay for money?”

  “Of course.”

  “Well, if you’re certain.”

  “Truly. I’ll be fine.” Lana stood and put the laptop back in its case. “The police will need this. You’ll let them know?”

  “Certainly, my dear.” He took the case from her and laid it on his desk. “Remember, call me if you need help. Any time of the day or night, understand?”

  “I will. Thank you.”

  “Thank me when this is all over and you still have a roof over your head.”

  “Do you think it could get that bad?” Lana clutched the chain-linked strap of her shoulder bag so tight she could feel each individual link impressed upon her skin.

  “I’m afraid it might.”

  “Well, do what you have to.” Lana reached up and planted a swift kiss on his cheek. “I’ll call you and let you know where I’m staying.”

  “Make sure you do, and Lana…”

  “Yes?”

  “Stay away from Raffaele Rossellini. As charming as he appears, something about him troubles me.”

  “You think he’s dangerous?”
/>   “Not in a physical sense, but I suspect there’s more to that young man than he’s letting on. I’ll get someone onto that too.”

  Staying away from Raffaele Rossellini wouldn’t be a problem, Lana decided as she guided her car into the flow of traffic and headed for one of Auckland’s premiere hotels in the central city. She had no plans to ever see him again.

  The warmth in the foyer enveloped Lana like a much needed embrace. The hotel was busy, as usual, yet the elegant furnishings lent an air of solid permanence and longevity that both comforted and revived her. Even the scents in the air of cut flowers and the blend of expensive fine fragrances, both male and female, all combined to remind her of her childhood. Of security.