Innocent of His Claim (3 page)

This time he held control and he would have Delanie close at hand again. And why the hell was he entertaining any thought of being close to her again?

His gaze raked over her, his brow furrowing. The black dress she wore encased the petite figure he remembered with aching clarity. She appeared gaunt and fragile. A deception, he was certain.

Marco paced to the heavily draped window and swore, painfully aware of what was at the heart of it. She’d intrigued him from the start. She still did.

But that didn’t matter now. It was all in the past, and it would stay there. He had control over that part of him now.

Having her in Italy would prove that. By the time his sister was a happily married woman, Marco would have no doubt in his mind that walking away from Delanie had been the right choice ten years ago. He could finally purge her from his system.

“Fine. Give me your contract and I’ll read it on the plane,” he said, the decision easy as it suited both their purposes. “Now let’s leave.”

Delanie bit her lower lip again. No was the easy answer.

But he was holding out her dream on a silver salver. He also held her employees’, really her only friends, future in his hands. She couldn’t refuse.

And if she was honest with herself, a part of her didn’t want to walk away. She could easily blame that lonely part of her heart that still held Marco Vincienta close, the part of her that
wondered why he’d found her so lacking. That deep-in-the-night dream that his desertion had all been a horrid mistake and that they truly were meant for each other.

She was a fool for entertaining such fanciful thoughts, even for a moment, but she’d always been a fool for love where Marco was concerned. At least by taking this job she would be opening doors for herself in the future. That was her dream. That was what she would focus on instead of the tall handsome Italian whose touch made her bones melt.

“Okay,” she said. “It won’t take me more than an hour to pack.”

He broke eye contact the moment her agreement was out, snapping a strong wrist up to consult a watch that looked masculine and expensive. “We leave now. I will buy you whatever you need once we get to Italy.”

And that was the end of that argument, concluded before she could get her anger up. She made a quick stop at her minuscule office to collect the passport she’d needed for her dealings with Henry, her laptop, a contract and the jeans, jersey and comfortable sandals she’d left at work in case she decided to begin cleaning out her father’s office today.

With the lot of it crammed into a small carryall along with the few toiletries she kept on hand there, she let Marco escort her from the building, barely having the time to thank Henry before she was ushered into a gleaming black sedan.

She pressed a hand to her stomach, the drive through London a blur while Marco sprawled beside her and talked on his mobile, speaking a language she barely recognized as Italian. Not that it would have mattered if she spoke it fluently. Each time the car zoomed around a corner, the steely length of his leg brushed hers and her mind simply shut off as another emotion exploded in her, one that had lain dormant for ten years.

But even if they hadn’t touched, his presence simply commanded
every inch of space. Commanded every second of her attention, leaving her all too aware of him as a powerful man.

Ruthless. Driven. She could see the end effect of what she’d glimpsed in him years ago.

Knowing she was powerless in his company played along her nerves until a discordant hum vibrated through her to leave her stomach knotted. Even shallow breaths pulled his essence deep into her lungs, bringing a flood of memories that made her throat clog with emotion best left untouched. In these close confines she was doubly aware of his control, his power, his sensuality.

Shifting away from him the best she could only brought his intense brown eyes slewing back to her. Her cheeks instantly turned red—she knew they must be because she felt the fire burning her skin.

“Is something wrong?” he asked when she had inched as far from him as possible.

Wrong? He had the gall to ask that when his large muscled form dominated the interior of the auto? When he’d taken everything from her?

She lifted her chin, aware diplomacy was necessary to avoid further conflict. “I was just giving you space.”

His gaze narrowed, his lips pulling into an uncompromising line. “Are you? Because to me it looks as if you’re avoiding my touch, even if that touch was no more than my arm or leg brushing against you. Accidentally brushed you, I would add.”

What could she say to that and maintain this fragile peace? The truth. They’d had a wretched history of avoiding the truth when honesty mattered most. But then when she had been honest with him, he had still walked away from her. He had been the one to turn his back on her.

“Use your head. Less than an hour ago you stormed into my life and took everything from me in the wake of my father’s burial,” she said with a telling quaver in her voice that had her
clenching her fingers in frustration, a habit she’d developed as a child when her father was venting his anger on her mother.

She’d been so good at hiding her emotions from her volatile father. But she’d failed miserably at that with Marco.

He knew when she was angry, hurt, cautious. But he never could guess the reason for her trouble and she’d been too ashamed to tell him everything.

Her cheeks burned at the old memory. In that regard he’d been right to accuse her of lying to him. To be angry. If only he had believed her when she finally revealed her shame …

“I’m physically and emotionally spent, Marco. You’ve won. I’ve agreed to come to Italy and plan your sister’s wedding. But that’s all you’ll get from me,” she added. “Is that clear?”

“Extremely! I want nothing more from you than what was agreed upon,” he said, shoulders snapped into a rigid line.

“Good. I don’t want any misconceptions,” she said.

“There was never a doubt of your role or of mine,” he said as the sedan thankfully came to a stop at the airport, ending the torture of him jostling against her time and again. “Ten years ago you were looking for a rich man with status, a man who would measure up to your and your father’s precise standards. I was not that man then nor am I now.”

She gaped, flabbergasted. “You can’t believe that!”

“It is the truth.”

He couldn’t be more wrong, but to admit that would prompt questions she wasn’t about to address. Her trust had been broken not once but twice by this man. She wasn’t about to put it out there again.

Not that it mattered. He’d already slammed out of the car, leaving her alone and trembling. She pressed a hand to her middle and slumped against the seat.

A private jet—she’d never been able to tell one from the other—sat on the tarmac to her left, its stairs lowered to admit passengers. It didn’t dawn on her that this was Marco’s plane until she saw a crewman carrying her small duffel onto it.

Her door was wrenched opened a heartbeat later and cool brown eyes flecked with gold stared down at her. “Let’s go.”

She gave a nod and tried to extract herself from the car without his help. He mouthed a curse and assisted her to her feet, his large hand enveloping hers before she could protest, his skin warm against hers, his touch gentle and strong. Heat sped up her arm yet she shivered, liking his touch far too much and hating herself because of it.

The moment she gained her footing he dropped his hand from her and motioned her toward the plane. The message was clear: he didn’t wish to touch her any more than she wished to be touched.

A lie, if her libido had a say, which it most certainly did not. She crossed the tarmac quickly and hoped once inside she could find a seat far removed from him.

Not a problem, she realized as she mounted the stairs and stepped into the private lair of an Italian wine baron. The interior was dressed in a classic, yet understated, design resplendent in rich browns, ivory and gold.

The flight attendant motioned Delanie to take a seat. She bit her lower lip—so many to choose from. Twin flight chairs. A large curved sofa that was far too intimate. Farther back more chairs and a table, likely utilized for meetings. Beyond that an open door that showed a glimpse of a bed.

Wishing to stay as far away from a bedroom as possible, she claimed one of the deep gold chairs up front with a smile to the attendant and a quick glance at her traveling companion. He passed her without sparing her a glance, the thick carpet muffling his steps yet cluing her in that he preferred the rear of the plane.

Fine by her, she thought irritably as the strategically positioned cushions conformed to her tired back and tense shoulders. He could shut himself up in his bedroom for all she cared. The lack of his presence after such a trying hour would be a welcome pleasure.

“We’ll take off immediately so please fasten your seatbelt,” the attendant told her before disappearing into a cabin up front.

Delanie obeyed without complaint and tried to relax, not an easy feat as she’d never been a seasoned traveler. In the Tate household, the only member who took holidays was her father.

Perhaps this wouldn’t be so bad. The interior was quiet and comfortable and the chair was an absolute dream. If she managed to control her stress levels as the plane reached cruising altitude and leveled off then maybe she could nod off en route.

God knew she was tired enough to fall asleep standing up. The past week of dealing with doctors and attorneys and worried shareholders had drained her of her last reserves.

But total rest was still denied her.

Perhaps she could have dozed off if Marco’s voice hadn’t drifted to her. If her body hadn’t come awake at the deep timbre that left her shaking.

He spoke in clipped Italian delivered so fast and fluently that with her meager knowledge she couldn’t begin to translate. Was he really so much like her father, always engaged in some deal? Or was he delivering the news to Italy that he’d succeeded, that he’d brought Tate Unlimited to its knees?

That he had the millionaire’s heiress in tow with the contract that she’d agreed to do his bidding safely in hand?

All of the above, she thought as a small degree of hysteria rippled through her. Could she have dreamt up a more intense working relationship? No!

Marco was the billionaire who had trumped her tyrannical father’s millionaire status. He was the antithesis of power. He was her boss for the next two weeks.

He was the only man she’d fallen in love with. The only man she had ever loved physically and emotionally.

A hysterical laugh stuck in her throat as the plane sped through the clouds, carrying her into the unknown with a man who was more stranger to her than ever before. A man she’d hoped to cling to in the dead of night, who would be
there for her until the day she drew her last breath. The man she’d spun dreams on.

Her only lover. Her hero.

Unwanted tears stung her eyes and she blinked them back. How very wrong she’d been.

Hopefully, once they arrived in Italy he would take himself off so she could breathe again. So she could think. So she could do her job and then escape back to London with sole ownership of her business in hand.

Only then could she focus on her career. On her future. On living in peace. That’s all she wanted.

All she had to do to have that was endure two weeks in the company of the man who still left her weak-kneed. Who tormented her dreams in the dead of night.

She could do it. She had to. Failure wasn’t an option.

T
WO
hours into the flight, Marco ended the conference call and rubbed his gritty eyes. Sleep had been sporadic all week, a fact that could be blamed on the alluring beauty seated primly in the front of his plane.

His gaze zeroed in on her with unerring accuracy. She hadn’t moved much since boarding the plane. Had she dozed off? Was she simply enjoying the flight, content knowing that she would get exactly what she’d wanted all along?

He shifted and damned his restlessness. It shouldn’t matter to him if Delanie Tate was pleased or not. He’d never set out to spite her and he damned sure hadn’t attempted to placate her.

In fact, before his sister’s interference, he’d hoped to avoid her entirely during this shift in power. Delanie was a page from his past and he intended to keep her there.

Page? A wry smile tugged at his lips. No, she was a chapter at least. Perhaps even a book of pure trouble.

Still he hadn’t wished to reread that episode anytime soon. But Bella’s stubborn insistence on having Delanie as her wedding planner forced him to chose between pleasing himself or his sister.

He snorted. That had been no contest.

His sister’s happiness came first.

That had put Delanie right back into his life.

While he’d been prepared to deal with her on a business level, he hadn’t anticipated he would still find her unbelievably
attractive. He’d never anticipated his body would react so at her nearness.

It was frustrating. Annoying. Unacceptable.

Dammit, he was a man in charge of his emotions. In control of his sex drive.

So why the hell was he shifting restlessly on the leather chair?

He swiped a hand down his face. This unwanted reaction to her was unacceptable on far too many levels.

If he had taken Delanie at her word, which he did not, he would have ordered the plane back to London and have her escorted off. He would have gladly let her plan his sister’s wedding from there, thus freeing himself of her alluring company.

But he couldn’t trust her. She’d betrayed him before when she’d sworn she loved him. There was nothing between them now but animosity on her part, and wariness on his own.

Since Elite Affair had turned down his sister once and then him a second time when he had upped the offer of money, he was left with one choice—force Delanie’s hand. His takedown of Tate Unlimited was the perfect opportunity.

There was no other recourse, he reasoned, refusing to take pleasure from watching the dim light play over her hair. She worked for him now. More so than other contractors he was in league with, she needed to be watched and made accountable.

The only way he could achieve that was by maintaining total control of the situation. That was best done by having her under his thumb.

Easy enough to accomplish. Or it should have been.

Being physically close to Delanie was a totally different matter that he still didn’t feel comfortable dealing with. But he would.

She aroused him on a deeper level than he liked and no amount of avoidance would change that. Even distancing himself from her on the plane hadn’t worked because she’d been on his mind the entire time.

He swore and scanned the contract she’d pressed on him earlier. Since it was straightforward and clear, he signed it without ceremony and left his chair.

“Your contract is precise yet fair,” he said, breaking the silence as he came to a stop behind her.

She started in her chair and looked back at him. The dark of her eyes nearly swallowed the clear blue.

“Thank you,” she said. “I see no reason to make a straightforward business arrangement complex.”

Her voice held that breathy quality that lapped around his control like warm waves, threatening to erode his defenses. It was so tempting to relax and be taken out to that sea of passion they’d frolicked in long ago. Too tempting.

“I’m of a like mind,” he said, planting his feet firmly in the here and now as he dropped onto the seat across from her.

The most charming flush stole across her cheekbones and he paused. Except for the unnatural stiffness in her narrow shoulders and the tilt of her head, she looked very much as she had when they’d met.

The years should have hardened her. Should have shown on her face. But all he saw was a reluctant surrender and a proud bearing that he admired.

“Tell me about her,” Delanie said, her gaze fixed on his again.

He looked away so she wouldn’t see he was softening to her again, that his control over remaining impassive was slipping through his fingers like warm grains of sand.

“My sister?” he asked, then smiled when she nodded. “Bella is beautiful and willful and far too seductive for her own good.”

“Yet you love her.”

He sobered at that assessment. Love. He had loved his grandparents. Had loved his mother and tried to love his cold father—a wasted effort. He’d been consumed with Delanie but had he loved her?

No, it couldn’t have been love. Infatuation. Lust. When the truth came out he’d had no difficulty walking away from her.

So why did she cross his mind in the dead of night? Why did he catch himself comparing every woman he met with her?

His chest heaved as the answer skirted his mind—an answer that he always ignored, just as he always ignored that old gnawing sense of emptiness when it threatened to yawn away in his soul. Or the skitter that streaked up his spine.

Like now.

“Bella is my responsibility,” he said. “I care for her.”

“That’s cold.”

“That’s reality. Bella resents me.”

She blinked, her clear eyes fixed on his as if she could read his soul. “Why?”

He shifted on the seat, uncomfortable delving into this. Yet what was the use in holding his silence? She would find out soon enough from someone in the village or at the villa. He might as well be the first to break the news.

“Bella thought she was Antonio Cabriotini’s only bastard,” he said simply.

“Antonio Cabriotini?” she parroted.

“Our biological father,” he said, glancing her way to gauge her reaction.

She shook her head and frowned. “I thought your parents were married.”

Such naiveté. “The man who raised me, who gave me his name, was married to my mother but I wasn’t his son. When he found out, he withdrew the closeness I’d always had with him.”

For a moment Delanie couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t wrap her brain around what he was telling her. And then finally she got it with a breathless wham to her midsection.

She finally understood the reason behind those broad tense shoulders attempting a careless shrug, the motion as abrupt as a salute. His illegitimacy was the reason for the pain she caught lurking behind those dark fathomless eyes, pain at
having the father he’d loved ripped from him. That was the change in him she couldn’t quite put her finger on.

“How long have you known this?” she asked.

“Eight years.”

The words were shot out without feeling, his gaze boring into hers now. Hard. Cold. Defiant.

But she heard the underlying pain in his voice as well. Caught the tiny tick of hurt that snapped like a sail along his taut bronzed cheek.

Her heart gave an odd thud and her hand shifted, a blink away from reaching out to him. She caught herself with a trembling clasp of her own hands.

How wrongly would he take it if she offered compassion? Considering their past, she doubted he would take it well. Yet hadn’t they moved beyond the past pain? Weren’t they old enough and wise enough to understand nothing untoward was meant by it? Now wasn’t the time to dissect it to find out.

“I see,” she said, nerves stretched so tight they hummed.

“Do you?” he asked. “Because I don’t understand how my mama who claimed to have loved my papa could be unfaithful to him. I do not understand why nobody saw fit to tell me the truth until after my parents’ deaths.”

Hearing the anger in his voice, that telling drawl when he told her this, made her insides cramp in an oh-too-familiar pang of understanding. No wonder he had no faith in love. He would never open himself to an emotion he believed caused only pain. And wasn’t she just as guilty of holding back from him? He was right. That was in the past. There was nothing she could say when Marco had never believed her anyway.

“You would likely be surprised by how many families hold dark secrets,” she said, cheeks burning and stomach knotting at the troubled memories of her own childhood.

He snorted. “Nothing surprises me anymore.”

How sad that he had become more jaded. But then, so
had she. Wasn’t she afraid to trust? To surrender her heart and soul?

She shifted on the chair while her mind shoved away from that train of thought. “I gather your sister knew of her paternity before you did.”

“By a month or so.” He drove his fingers through his hair, sending the thick waves in disarray.

She caught a breath as an old memory ribboned through her of doing the same to his wealth of dark hair. Of holding him close to her on a sun-kissed beach, laughing with him, kissing him in a slow, deep burn until the world blurred to only them.

Ten years ago she’d been a hopeless dreamer, desperately wanting a hero. Her innocence had convinced her that when she looked deeply into his warm brown eyes she believed her world was complete with him in it.

She shook off those idyllic yesterdays like a cool rain on chilled skin and chanced a glance at him, hoping he wasn’t looking at her in some sort of horror. But he stared off, brow furrowed, clearly troubled by something else.

“Did you know her?” she asked, grasping the thread of their conversation by its tail.

“No. We were strangers coming from vastly different backgrounds which complicated matters more. Since the start Bella has resented that I was named her guardian until she reached twenty-five,” he said, clearly not of the same mind.

Delanie felt a commiserating pang with his sister, knowing how badly she’d ached to break free of her domineering father, hating that she’d waited and waited for her own dawn of independence. “How old is she now?”

“Twenty,” he said, sliding her a knowing look.

The same age she had been when she’d met Marco. Willful. Emotional. And tangled in a wretched triangle with her parents, dreaming of freedom yet unwilling to put her frail mother at risk to grab what she wanted.

“Tell me more about Bella,” she blurted out.

He shrugged, this time the movement less tense. “As I said she’s young. Spoilt. Resentful.”

“Of you?” Delanie guessed.

He laughed, but she caught the pained treble, the hint of worry that had her wanting to leave her seat and go to him. Hug him, comfort him. Sanity prevailed and she didn’t, but it wasn’t easy knowing his elite world wasn’t perfect. And hadn’t she hoped that would be the case? She was suddenly glad for the subdued light on board that hid the heat scorching her cheeks.

“Bella resents me, resents the world,” he said, dark eyes on her again. “She needs a strong hand.”

Of course he would think that! But hearing him admit he was controlling his sister proved her fears long ago were right. Or did they? Was she still using that as an excuse to hold back from giving her all again? From trusting?

She stared at the floor, admitting she’d lost herself in his arms that first time. Basking in the afterglow of love was new. Terrifying.

Still she’d loved Marco. She’d hoped that she was simply mistaken. But the second time they made love was more consuming, more earthshattering to her heart. Her soul.

My dear, I love your father, and he loves me in his own way
, her mother had told her as she recuperated from a volatile night spent suffering her father’s anger.

Delanie never forgot that night. Never forgot that love could hurt. That love could strip a woman of her independence. Perhaps even her sanity.

No love was worth that, Delanie had decided.

That realization had kept her from committing fully to Marco again. And wasn’t she right in thinking that in time he would have slipped further into the role of dominator, perhaps even going to the depths her father had sunk to? That she would relive the hell her mother had had throughout their marriage?

Single was safer. Single was being free. So why was her body craving his possession again? Why was she so weak around Marco Vincienta?

“I seriously doubt your sister needs a man dominating her,” she said and was instantly pinned in place with his fierce scowl.

Her heart raced but she hiked her chin up, determined not to tremble over the past that still bound her, refusing to cringe at Marco’s command as she’d seen her mother do with her father countless times. Or worse, whimper when he physically abused her.

“You are an expert on these matters because?”

Delanie didn’t understand why on earth she had thought that the intervening years might have finally made him believe her. Still, he’d asked so she would answer.

“My father was quick to rule with an iron hand or fist depending on his whim.” He’d used it liberally on her mother to gain Delanie’s compliance.

A ripe curse exploded from him. “I told you never to compare me to David Tate!”

“Then stop acting like him.”

He frowned, brows drawn in a deep forbidding V over the classic slope of his nose. Time hung suspended between them, her heart supplying each tick of the seconds that raced past.

His fingers bunched into fists at his sides and her stomach flipped over. Ease up a bit. Marco won’t hurt you. At least not that way. She knew it in her heart, her soul.

“Are you saying Tate hit you?” he asked, his dark gaze probing hers.

For an instant she almost thought he cared that she might have suffered physical abuse, though for her the emotional barbs scared her just as much. But she’d heard her father apologize for his deplorable behavior for too many years, and watched him break his promises.

“No, he never hit me,” she said. “As I already told you, Father reserved his punishment for my mother.”

“A lot can change in ten years.”

That was an understatement considering she’d found herself trapped in an untenable situation. Since he hadn’t believed her then, why show concern now?