‘Thanks,’ she muttered, snatching the box from him, stowing it in the carry-case.
‘I’m not about to go away, Isabella,’ he warned.
Her nerves quivered, sensing the relentless force of the man. With all that wealth and power behind him, he was undoubtedly used to people falling in with him. Being rebuffed and rejected would sting his ego, make him more persistent. It was imperative now to plan a disappearing act, get back to the apartment, pack only essentials, catch a bus, a train, a plane…anything that took her away. He wouldn’t look for Jenny Kent. She was of no interest to him.
The carry-case was ready to go. She folded up the stool she used when sketching, tucked it under one arm, then steeled herself to face Dante Rossini and put an end to this danger-laden meeting. It took all her willpower to lift her gaze to his and hold it steady as she spoke to him, pouring a tone of flat finality into her voice.
‘Don’t waste any more of your time. Isabella Rossini has not occupied any place in your family all these years and that isn’t about to change because you suddenly want it to.’ She held out her hand. ‘Just give me the chair and let me go.’
He shook his head, unable to come to grips with her stance, not about to accept it, either.
Jenny panicked at the thought of having to endure more argument from him. ‘Keep it then,’ she cried, her hand jerking in a wave of dismissal as she turned away and forced her trembling legs to march across the forum, heading for the elevator that would shut him out and take her up to the apartment he couldn’t enter.
The chair didn’t matter.
It would have to be left behind anyway.
The only way to disappear was to travel lightly, go fast and far, leaving no trace for anyone to pick up.
CHAPTER FOUR
DANTE had never failed to deliver what his grandfather asked of him. Failure in this instance was unthinkable. He had to get Isabella Rossini to Capri.
He followed her determined walk away from him, staying a few steps behind, not attempting to catch up with her. He needed time to process her reaction, make some sense of it before tackling her unreasonable negativity again. He had anticipated a pleased response. The fact that she’d chosen to live and work at the Sydney forum after losing her parents had suggested a wish for contact with the family. He now had to get his head into gear to deal with something entirely different.
Angry pride?
A fierce independence, grown out of being left to fend for herself for so long?
There’d been fear in her eyes just before she’d turned her back on him. Fear of what? Change? The unknown?
Beautiful eyes. Even without any artful makeup they were stand-out eyes, their amber colour quite fascinating, shaded by long, thick curly lashes. He liked her wide, generous mouth, too, another stand-out feature in her rather angular face. Her hair was an unruly mop, but take her to a good stylist, get it shaped right, hand her over to a beautician to polish up the raw material, put her in some designer clothes—her figure was thin enough under that shapeless black gear to wear them well—and Lucia would be as jealous as sin over her newly discovered cousin.
And spitting chips over another grand-daughter to inherit some of Marco’s estate.
The money…
He could use that as a bargaining tool. Isabella’s parents had left her enough to buy the apartment but little more than that. She wouldn’t have to work another day in her life if she pleased Marco. She could live like Lucia, being pampered in the lap of luxury. No woman in the world would knock that back. He just had to lay it on thickly enough for Isabella to take the bait.
Confidence renewed, Dante quickened his pace. She was heading into the passageway where the elevator to the south bank of apartments was housed. He glanced up, smiling at the colourful concoction the architect had designed—pink, lemon, green, red, blue, orange, purple—reminiscent of the brightly painted houses on the islands of Murano and Burano, a short ferry ride from Venice. Isabella’s apartment was the purple one on the third floor. She had pots of pink geraniums on her balcony, a nice homely touch.
I don’t need you in my life.
Dante’s chest tightened as he remembered those vehement words. Maybe she didn’t, but she could give up two months of it for Marco. Especially when the reward would be substantial. He’d pay her himself—upfront—if she doubted there was a pot of gold at the end of this trip. He’d spent thousands on Anya Michaelson to keep her sweet while he wanted her. He didn’t care how much it cost him to give his grandfather the solace of making some peace with the past before he died.
Her finger jabbed the elevator button—an action of haste and anxiety. In her fast flight across the square, she hadn’t once glanced back to check on what he was doing. Nor did she acknowledge his presence when he stood beside her, waiting for the elevator doors to open. She stared rigidly ahead as though he didn’t exist.
Dante was not accustomed to being ignored. As much as he told himself not to be piqued by her behaviour—it would change soon enough with the lure of wealth—it took a considerable effort not to reveal any vexation when he spoke.
‘I’m sorry I’ve upset you, Isabella. That wasn’t my intention,’ he assured her quietly.
No reply. Her jaw tightened. Dante imagined her clenching her teeth, denying the possible spilling of any more words to him. The stubborn stance irked him further. She was throwing out a challenge he’d take great satisfaction in winning, if only to see that rude rigidity wilt.
‘I’d appreciate it if you’d listen to a proposition which is very much to your advantage,’ he said, wondering if the blank wall she was holding was actually a negotiation tactic. Resistance virtually guaranteed being offered more.
The elevator doors opened. Her head jerked towards him. Her eyes slashed him with a cut-throat look. ‘I’m not interested!’
Having punched out those decisive words, she stepped into the small compartment and hit the button for her floor.
Dante stepped in after her.
She glared at him, clearly seething with frustration. ‘I told you…’
‘I’m carrying your chair up for you,’ he said blandly. ‘You are rather loaded down with the rest of your working gear.’
She rolled her eyes away. The doors closed and she pointedly watched for the floor numbers to flash up, once again set on ignoring him. He noted that every line of her body was tense, fighting the pressure of his presence. She might be ignoring him but she was acutely aware of him.