Читать книгу: «Consequence Of His Revenge»

CHAPTER ONE

“HOW COULD YOU fire me? I haven’t even started work yet!”

Cameo Fagan tried to keep her voice to a hiss so it wouldn’t echo across the hotel lobby, but she couldn’t keep the panic out of her tone. She had already given up her job at the other hotel and, far worse, she had given up her apartment.

“Technically it’s a withdrawal of the offer of employment,” Karen hurried to say, holding out a splayed hand that begged for calm. She was the HR manager for the Tabor chain of boutique Canadian hotels. A mutual friend had put them in touch six months ago, when the renovations had been in full swing at this Whistler location. The Tabor was holding a soft opening on Monday with a gala for their official opening in two weeks.

Cami had thought she and Karen got on like a house on fire. She’d pretty much been hired on the spot.

“But...” She waved toward the narrow hall behind the front desk. It led to the offices and the very basic, but extremely affordable, staff quarters in the basement of the hotel. “I was going to move in this weekend.”

Karen gave her a helpless look. She knew as well as Cami did that apartments in Whistler were impossible to find, especially on short notice. “It wasn’t my decision. I’m really sorry.”

“Whose was it? Because I don’t understand.” Don’t cry, she willed herself. The universe did not have a plan to constantly pull the rug every time things started to go her way. She refused to think like that.

Even though it often felt exactly like that.

Karen glanced around the lobby where a handful of decorators were measuring and holding up swatches while workmen were putting the finishing touches on the fireplace mantel.

Lowering her voice even more, Karen said, “It hasn’t been announced yet, but Tabor was bought out by an Italian firm. I guess the previous owners were in trouble after all of this.” She lifted her gaze to the mural painted on the ceiling, one of many high-end touches included in the refurbishment.

That indication of deep pockets was why Cami had been willing to give up her very good job and take a chance here. Now her stomach clenched.

Italian? Or Sicilian?

“Are the new owners starting from scratch with the hiring? Because I’ll interview again. I don’t mind.”

Karen’s shoulders fell and she shifted uncomfortably. “It was, um, you he didn’t want. Specifically.”

“Me!” Cami’s references were stellar, her work ethic highly praised. She went the extra mile every time. “He thinks I’m too young?” She’d run into that before, but when she explained how much experience she had, she was usually given a chance. It couldn’t be sexism. Karen seemed to be keeping her management position.

“I’m really sorry.” Karen looked and sounded sincere. “I don’t understand it myself, but I submitted the list of hires and yours was the only name he scratched. He was quite adamant.”

“Who?” Cami didn’t want to believe she could still be haunted by the Gallos, but her heart was plummeting into her shoes. The universe didn’t have it in for her. Nor did the Italians. One Sicilian seemed to, though.

The elevator pinged, cutting off whatever Karen was about to say. Her gaze slid to the opening doors. “Him,” Karen said. “Dante Gallo.”

Cami didn’t have to ask which man Karen meant. Everyone in the group wore smart business attire, but one wore his bespoke suit with more assertiveness and style on a frame that was tall and alpha-postured. His jaw had a shadow of sculpted stubble and his dark hair was close-cropped, but devilish. His stern brows and sharp gaze stole any hint of approachability from his otherwise beautiful features. He was both gorgeous and severe. The kind of man used to getting his way by any means necessary, powerful and confident enough to make life-altering decisions in a blink. The women trailing him were flushed and sparkly-eyed, the men awestruck and quick-stepping, anxious to please.

Cami was awestruck herself, even feeling a coil of something in her abdomen that was sensual and wicked and wrong, especially when his predatory attention swiveled to her the way a hawk’s head turned when a hare caught its attention.

Her heartbeat picked up as his focus honed in.

The entire planet stopped spinning as their gazes clashed. Or, rather, she felt as though they were caught in some kind of time slip. Everything continued to whirl around them in a whistling blur while thick amber soaked in, filling her veins with a honeyed sweetness that held them suspended in a muted world. Her vision dimmed at the edges, glowing golden. She stopped breathing. Something ancient resonated in her, a vibration as old as life itself.

That internal quiver expanded. Sensual warmth suffused her in a way that had never happened. She told herself this acute awareness of self and him was the heat of surprised recognition and anticipation of a confrontation. Animosity, not attraction. She had stalked him a couple of times online and had imagined a face-to-face conversation a million times. This was shock at finally having her opportunity, not fascination.

Definitely not desire pinching a betraying sting between her thighs.

She clawed back from her lack of self-control and found her resolve. This time, she wouldn’t be leveled without a whimper of protest. Maybe he had a right to be angry with her father, but this grudge had gone on long enough. Did he really think he could destroy her just because of her name?

As her pulse beat a war drum in her ears, she waited for recognition to dawn in his features.

It didn’t come, which was insult to injury. Her confidence began to waver while tendrils of vulnerability crept in.

Then she realized his gaze was heating with interest. Male interest. His forbidding mouth relaxed the way a man’s did when a woman invited him to approach because attraction was reciprocated.

The sizzle under her skin became a conflagration, heating her all over, teaching her by fire that she was part of the human race after all. She did a lot of people-watching from behind her hospitality counters and was always intrigued by the way people coupled up. It baffled her because she had never felt such a simple and immediate pull herself. A receptiveness that couldn’t be hidden.

Today, it happened. Basic animal magnetism took hold of her, shocking in its power because it was completely against her will. Mortifying, since she was the one providing the entertainment for Karen and anyone else who wanted to notice. She was sending all the wrong signals with her dumbfounded, dazzled stare, but her gaze was glued to his.

A slither of defenselessness went through her. She didn’t want to react this way! Trolling online hadn’t prepared her for the force of masculinity that came off him, though. He made her ultra-aware of her femininity. Her body made tiny adjustments, standing taller, stomach tightening. Her fingers itched to touch her hair.

The reaction was as disarming as he was, causing a fresh shyness to burn her cheeks.

Nerves, she insisted to herself. Pique. Genuine frustration at losing the job she had thought would finally give her the chance to get ahead. All because of him, she reminded herself, and used her animosity to grapple past her overwhelmed senses. And yes, maybe she owned some of the responsibility for his grudge, but no. She had tried really hard to fix things. Enough was enough.

She forced herself to step one foot in front of the other, advancing on the lion whose tail was flicking in lazy concentration. He looked entirely too powerful and ferocious. Too hungry. Each step brought her into a light and heat that threatened to sear her to her soul, but she ignored the adrenaline and excitement coursing through her arteries.

While he wore a hint of a smug smile because she was approaching him and not making him work for it.

“Mr. Gallo.” Her voice seemed to fade as she spoke. She had to clear her throat. “Might I have a word?”

* * *

No one had spoken to him in such an imperative tone since he was a child. Dante bristled, but the reflexive assertion of superiority that rose to his lips didn’t emerge.

Like most men, he categorized women very quickly into yes, no, or off-limits. Wedding ring? No. Coworker? Off-limits—for now.

Neatly packaged brunette with skin like fresh cream, a figure that didn’t stop, and rose petal lips that managed to hold a curve of innocence and sin at the same time? One who moved with a dancer’s grace and possessed the strength of character to look him in the eye without flinching?

“Yes” wasn’t a strong enough word. She was a new category. Have to have. Mine.

That lightning-quick bite of hunger was disturbing. He had a healthy sex drive—very healthy—but one he easily controlled, always relegating it to nonwork hours.

Yet with this woman his brain switched off, and his libido quickened in anticipation. Why? He searched for what made her different. Her clothes were low-end, but well-chosen to showcase her figure. Her breasts bounced a little, ample and firm, making him wonder about her bra. Lace? Demi-cup? Her round hips promised a nice plump ass atop those trim thighs, making the words, “Turn around,” simmer in his throat.

The particular shade of plum of her blazer framed a thin, white line against her collarbone. A scar? A twist of protectiveness went through him. He had a strong impulse to brush back her rich, dark hair and kiss that spot. Make it better.

Embers of desire glowed hotter in his belly, thinking of the ways he would pet her and stroke her until neither of them knew anything but pleasure. Until they drowned in it. He liked the look of her wavy tresses. The spill of her hair moving as she walked. No hairspray. He could run his hands through that shiny fall, gather those silky strands in his fist as he held her still for a kiss that would appease and ignite...

Damn. He was going to tent his pants if he wasn’t careful. She was only a woman. They weren’t hard to come by. Never had been. He was here to work and indulge his grandmother, not take up with a local for after-hours fun. His entire world was one of responsibility and duty to his extended family. Selfishness was not an option. Hadn’t been since his youthful foray into chasing a personal dream had exploded in his face, cracking the very foundation of his family’s existence.

For the first time in a long time, however, he saw something he wanted strictly for himself. Not that he saw her as a thing—although he was barbarian enough to experience a certain titillation at the idea of owning a woman—but there was more. As she paused before him, potential hovered between them, too abstract to grasp, too real to ignore.

He forced his gaze to her face, trying to work out why her pretty, but not particularly striking features were impacting him so deeply. The women he usually went for were socialites. They wore layers of makeup that enhanced their features to the highest degree, and invited him with seductive smiles. They oozed sophistication and a desire to please.

This one was a natural beauty with lovely arched brows and a tipped-up nose. Her bare face made her look rather innocent while her eyes were a pedestrian hazel arranged in a starburst of brown within a circle of gray-green.

When had he ever looked so closely at anyone’s eyes before?

When had he ever seen such a gamut of emotion? On her, they truly were windows to the soul. He read intimidation and bravery and something that made him think of butter and honey melting on his tongue.

He had an urge to laugh, not in dismissal, but enjoyment. So few people challenged or excited him these days.

“Let’s go into my office.” He waved at what would be the manager’s office after he was satisfied this investment would turn a profit. His cousin, Arturo, was quite the vulture for deals like this, and usually handled the transition of a buyout. Once Arturo had heard their grandmother wished to tag along, however, his calendar had suffered a conflict.

Dante hadn’t thought much of Arturo’s priorities, but rather than scold him, he’d opted for taking the opportunity to spend a few days with the woman who had raised him—a woman he reluctantly acknowledged wasn’t immortal.

She was supposed to be here soon, for a tour and lunch he recalled with distraction, glancing at the clock and feeling a pull of priorities. In this moment, this younger, nubile woman captured nearly all of his attention.

He closed the door. “I don’t believe we’ve met.” He held out his hand, palm itching for the feel of her in his grip. He might never let her go.

Her chin set and she took his hand in a firm, no-nonsense shake that was surprisingly powerful, sending a thrill rocketing through him. He wanted to tighten his grip and hang on. Pull her in and race to the inevitable.

When she spoke, he was too nearly lost in the clear, engaging tone of her voice to make sense of the words.

“I’m Cameo Fagan. Your new manager.”

Her name ricocheted inside his skull, tearing holes in his psyche. All of his assumptions about her, where they might be going and how their association would progress, became a tattered mess. In the blink of an eye, ten years dissolved. He was watching his competitor announce a self-driving car that bore shocking resemblance to the one Dante was creating. All the money and time he had invested evaporated. The shock of the loss put the final stressor on his grandfather’s heart, and it gave out.

Dante was left with an enormous hole in the family finances, extensive dependents looking to him to take up the charge and a bitterness of betrayal that sat on his tongue to this day.

He dropped his hand, so appalled with the way her soft heat left an imprint in his palm he brushed it against his thigh.

She flinched, and her erotic mouth trembled briefly before she firmed it, setting her chin a notch higher.

He waited for his sexual interest to fizzle. And waited. But the No that screamed through him was his inner animal, howling in protest at being denied. His libido wanted her. The rest of him recoiled in disgust. How could he be the least bit attracted to a Fagan?

“You’re not to be on this property.” He had made that clear after seeing her name on the list of new hires. One email to his office in Milan had confirmed she was related to the Stephen Fagan. That had been that. Her father had betrayed him. He wouldn’t trust another one of them ever again.

He reached for the door latch, ready to expel her, distantly anticipating the physical struggle if it came to that.

She didn’t move, only folded her arms, which plumped her breasts. “I don’t know how they do things in Italy, but this is Canada. We have laws against wrongful dismissal.”

He left the door closed, frustration morphing into fury. A desire to crush. He’d never met anyone who had lit his fuse as quickly or made it burn so hot. White and blistering. But he kept his tone icy cold.

“Italy has laws against theft. Most go to jail for it. Some, apparently, escape to Canada before they’re convicted. Perhaps I should take that up with your government.”

Her breath sucked in and her pulse throbbed rapidly in her throat. Her eyes were hot and bright. Tears? Ha.

“You’re being paid back,” she said through clenched teeth. “That can’t happen if I don’t have a job, can it?”

“Even if that were true, it wouldn’t make sense for me to give you money so you could give it back to me, would it? No gain in that for me.”

“What do you mean, ‘even if it were true’?” She dropped her fists to her sides.

“Let’s pretend such a thing as compensation is even possible, since the design of my self-driving car had potential to earn indefinitely, but I’ve never seen a red cent from anyone, so—”

“Where has it been going, then?”

The sharpness of her tone sent a narrow sliver of doubt through him, thin as a fiber of glass, but sharp enough to sting because he almost fell for her outrage. He very nearly wanted to believe her, his body was that primed for her on a physical level.

But that was a Fagan for you. They could make you believe anything.

He shook off his moment of hesitation with a snap of his head. Trust led to treachery. He couldn’t, wouldn’t, trust her.

“Don’t pretend your father has made any effort to compensate me. He hasn’t. He can’t.”

That took her aback. Her complexion faded to gray, sending a brief shadow of concern through him.

“Of course he can’t.” Her brows pulled into a distressed knot. “He’s dead.”

She looked from one of his eyes to the other, expression twisted in confusion, as if she thought he ought to know that.

He didn’t keep tabs on a man who had cost him a fortune and set his family back, leaving him at his most vulnerable. Dante was so furious at her temerity, at her attempt to work another con on him, and with himself for being momentarily drawn by her, he let one vicious word escape.

“Good.”

It was far below him. He knew it even before her lips went white. Her mouth pulled at the corners as she tried to hold on to her composure, but those wide, far from plain Jane eyes of hers grew so dark and wounded, he couldn’t look into them.

“You’ve done me a favor,” she said with a creak in her voice. “I’d rather starve than work for someone who could say something like that.”

She moved to open the door, but his hand was still on the latch. Her body heat mingled with his own, charging the air. The scent of fresh mountain air and wildflowers filled his brain, making him drunk.

“Let me out.”

He saw the words form on her pink lips more than heard them. They rang in his head in a fading echo. He didn’t want to. The encounter had become so intense, so fast, he was reeling, not sure if he’d won or lost. Either way, it didn’t feel over.

Cold fingertips touched the back of his hand. Her elbow caught him in the ribs before she pushed down and pulled the door open, head ducked. Her body almost touched his. He thought he heard a sniff, then he was staring at her ass—which was even more spectacular than he’d imagined.

She escaped.

He slammed the door closed behind her, trying to also slam the door on his impossible desire for her. On the entire scene.

There was no reason he should feel guilty. The wrong her father had done him had been malicious and far-reaching. Dante had foolishly dropped the charges in exchange for an admission of guilt and a promise of compensation, letting the man escape because, at the time, his life had been imploding. His grandfather’s sudden death had meant Dante had to set aside his own pursuits and take over the complex family business. Its interests ran from vineyards to hotels to exports and shipping.

All of that had been put in jeopardy by the loss of the seed capital his grandfather had allowed him to risk on his self-driving car dream. The consequence of trusting wrongly had been a decade of struggle to find an even keel and come back to the top—yet another reason he wanted to give his grandmother some attention. He had neglected her while he worked to regain everything she and her husband had built.

Cami Fagan ought to be grateful all he had done was refuse to hire her.

Nevertheless, that broken expression of hers lingered in his mind’s eye. Which annoyed him.

Someone knocked.

He snarled that he didn’t want to be disturbed, then flicked the lock on the door.

* * *

Cami was shaking so hard, she could barely walk. She could barely breathe. Each pant came in as a hiss through her nose and released in a jagged choke.

Get away was the imperative screaming through her, but she could hardly see, she was so blinded by tears of grief and outrage. Good? Good? Had he really said that? What a bastard!

She was so wrapped up in her anguish, she almost missed the faint voice as she charged past an old woman sitting on a bench, half a block from the Tabor’s entrance.

“Pi fauri.”

Despite drowning in emotion, Cami stopped. She and her brother always stopped, whether it was a roadside accident or a panhandler needing a sandwich.

Swiping at her wet cheeks, she raked herself together. “Yes? What’s wrong?”

“Ajutu, pi fauri.”

Cami had a few words in a dozen languages, all the better to work with the sort of international clientele who visited destinations like Whistler. In her former life, she’d even spent time with Germans and Italians, picking up conversational words, not that she’d used much beyond the very basics in recent years.

Regardless, help was fairly universal, and the old woman’s weakly raised hand was self-explanatory.

“I’m sorry, do you speak English? Qu’est-ce que c’est?” No, that was French and the woman sounded Italian, maybe? “Che cos’ è?”

The woman rattled out some breathless mumbles, but Cami caught one word she thought she understood. Malatu. Sick. Ill.

She seated herself next to the woman, noting the senior was pressing a hand to her chest, struggling to speak.

“I’m calling an ambulance. We’ll get you to the hospital,” Cami told her, quickly pulling out her mobile. “Ambulanza. Ospedale.” One didn’t race with champions down the Alps without hearing those words a few times.

She could have gone back into the Tabor and asked Karen to call, but she had her first-aid certificate, and this was exactly the type of thing she’d been doing since her first housekeeping position at a motel. The woman was conscious, if frightened and very pale. Cami took her pulse and tried to keep her calm as she relayed as much information as she could to the dispatcher. With the woman’s permission, she was able to check her purse and provide the woman’s name along with some medication she was taking.

“Do you have family traveling with you? Can I leave a message at your hotel?”

Bernadetta Ferrante pointed toward the Tabor, which sent a little shiver of premonition through Cami, but what were the chances? Dante Gallo seemed to be traveling with an entourage. Bernadetta could be related to anyone in there.

She asked a passerby to run into the hotel to find Bernadetta’s companion, then pointed into the sky as she heard the siren. “Ambulanza,” she said again. “It will be here soon.”

Bernadetta nodded and smiled weakly, fragile fingers curling around Cami’s.

“What the hell have you done?” The male voice was so hard and fierce, it made both of them jump.

Cami briefly closed her eyes. Of course it was him. What were the chances of two head-on collisions in a row?

Bernadetta put up a hand, expression anxious.

Dante said, “Non tu, Noni,” in a much gentler tone, before he returned to the gruff tone and said, “I’m speaking to her.”

The ambulance arrived at that moment. Cami hovered long enough to ensure she wasn’t needed to give a statement, then slipped away. Bernadetta was already looking better, eyes growing less distressed as she breathed more easily beneath an oxygen mask, while Dante left to fetch his car and follow to the hospital.

Cami trudged through the spitting spring rain to the next bus stop, only wanting distance from that infernal man. At least the crisis had pulled her out of her tailspin. Tears never fixed anything. She had learned that a long time ago. What she needed was a new plan. While she waited for the bus, she texted her brother.

My job fell through. Can I sleep on your couch?