Taken for Revenge: Bedded for Revenge / Bought by a Billionaire / The Bejewelled Bride

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Sharon Kendrick started story-telling at the age of eleven and has never really stopped. She likes to write fast-paced, feel-good romances with heroes who are so sexy they’ll make your toes curl!

Born in west London, she now lives in the beautiful city of Winchester—where she can see the cathedral from her window (but only if she stands on tip-toe). She has two children, Celia and Patrick, and her passions include music, books, cooking and eating—and drifting off into wonderful daydreams while she works out new plots!

Don’t miss Sharon Kendrick’s exciting new novel, The Italian Billionaire’s Secretary Mistress, available in October 2009 from Mills & Boon® Modern™.

To Michèle et Claude Bertrand, for their wonderful hospitality and for showing me a different side of glorious Paris.

CHAPTER ONE

CESARE DI ARCANGELO’S eyes narrowed as he watched the woman begin to walk down the aisle, looking as though butter wouldn’t melt in her beautiful mouth, and he found he wanted to crush it, lick it, bite it, eat it.

Yet he felt the flicker of a pulse at his temple and was aware of the faint wash of disappointment—for he had wanted to feel nothing, to remain as coolly indifferent as women always accused him of being. But as she approached, in a cloud of silk-satin and lace, that hope shattered within him. He felt anger rise like poison in his blood, but something else too. Something more powerful still—which it seemed that all the years could not diminish. Something which had kept the human race going since the beginning of time.

Lust.

And maybe that was better—because if lust was a problem then it had a pretty simple solution.

The sound of the organ music was building up to a crescendo, and the heavy scent of the flowers was intoxicating, but all Cesare could see from his seat near the back was Sorcha, smiling, her bouquet held in front of a waist which was as sensuously narrow as it had been when she was just eighteen.

What a gorgeously sexy bridesmaid she was…

Feeling the hard, heavy tug of an erection straining against the exquisitely tailored trousers of his morning suit, Cesare briefly clenched and then flexed his hands, willing the hard throb of desire to disappear.

He had slid into his seat at the back of the church at the very last minute. It had been a low-key but deliberate lateness—for the sight of Cesare di Arcangelo tended to create interest and excitement wherever he went.

Mega-rich, sexy Italians seemed to be on the top of everybody’s wish list. It was why the hottest hostesses in all the major cities in the world pursued him with the fervour of astronomers who had just discovered a brandnew planet.

He scanned the congregation for Sorcha’s mother. Yes. There she was—in a hat as big as the Sydney Opera House—and even from this distance it was easy to read the cat-got-the-cream satisfaction of her body language. She must be very pleased—for a rich son-inlaw spelt hope for a family firm beset with problems. Would Emma’s new husband be willing to pour the necessary funds into the family business to keep creditors at bay?

Cesare doubted it. Money only worked up until a certain point—after that, you might as well hold it up to the winds and let it scatter. Problems had to be fixed; they couldn’t be patched up. His mouth twisted. All problems.

The bride and groom were now passing, but he barely gave them a glance. Nor the parade of chubby little bridesmaids, or the scowling pageboys clad in satin romper suits which they would never forgive their mothers for forcing them to wear.

No, it was the only adult bridesmaid, with the bright, strawberry blonde hair woven with tiny rosebuds, who commanded his total, undivided attention. She was his problem—the unfinished business which he needed to put to bed. Beautiful Sorcha Whittaker, with the green eyes, and the bright hair like a waterfall, and a body as supple as an eel.

He had her trained in his sights, like a hunter with his prey fixed—for he wanted to see her reaction when their eyes met for the first time in…How long was it now? A pulse began to beat at his temple. Seven years? A minute? An eternity?

He saw her knuckles tense and her footsteps falter so much that for a second she almost came to a halt. Time froze as he stared into eyes as green as a rainwashed woodland and saw the confusion and consternation which flew into them as she stared straight back.

Cesare watched her face blanch and her lips tremble and felt a fleeting moment of utter triumph—swiftly followed by frustration that he could not just take her there and then.

If only this were not a crowded place of worship.

How much easier if they were alone and he could swiftly remove all the underwear hidden beneath the canopy of that monstrous dress—could swiftly obliterate desire and frustration with sweet release.

And then just walk away.

For a moment he was powerless—as once she had made him powerless all those years ago. But soon she would have fulfilled her role as bridesmaid, and then he would take the power back with relish.

‘Bride or groom?’ asked the delicious-looking brunette in banana-coloured silk who was standing beside him.

Cesare swallowed, for his erotic thoughts had inevitably made him ache. He flicked his eyes over the brunette, who widened hers so provocatively that she might just as well have had Yes, please! tattooed on her forehead. ‘Groom,’ he answered drily. ‘And you?’

‘Mmm. Me, too. He said there were going to be some gorgeous men here, and by heck—he wasn’t lying!’ The brunette batted her eyelashes quite outrageously. ‘Any chance I could cadge a lift to the reception?’

Cesare’s mouth hardened into a smile. ‘Why not?’

Outside the church, Sorcha was standing in the wedding group while it seemed as if a thousand photos were being taken. But her smile felt as if someone had slashed it across her face with a razor.

Her eyes flickered over to the tiny church and she saw a tall, broad-shouldered figure emerging, having to bend his head to avoid bumping it on the low door, and her heart felt as if someone had ripped open her chest and squeezed it with a bare fist.

Cesare!

Here!

‘Sorcha! This way! Look at the camera!’

With an effort she tore her eyes away from him and a flashbulb exploded in her face, temporarily blinding her. When it cleared he had gone. But there was her brother, Rupert, standing in a group, and she hurried over to him, completely ignoring the appreciative comments which came from his fellow ushers. Her mouth was dry and her heart was beating like a drum. And it hurt. It shouldn’t do, but it hurt.

‘Who in their right mind invited Cesare di Arcangelo today?’ she managed, though her specially perfected chief bridesmaid smile didn’t waver.

‘Oh, he’s here, is he?’ Rupert looked around and an odd expression came into his eyes. ‘Good.’

‘Good?’ Sorcha tried to squash all the instinctive fears which came scurrying to the forefront of her mind. Because none of them might be true, and it was her sister’s wedding day, after all.

It was supposed to be a happy occasion, a joyous day—like all weddings should be. And it had been—right up until the moment when she had seen Cesare’s dangerously handsome face and had felt her heart clench as if it was making up its mind whether to beat again.

Just the sight of his brilliant black eyes had taken her back to another time and another place—and mocked her with the lesson she had been learning ever since. That no other man could ever match up to him. And one look at him had reminded her exactly why.

Her mouth was dry and her breath was rapid, but she sucked in a deep breath and tried to stay calm. ‘Rupert, did you know he was going to be here?’

There was a pause. ‘Er…kind of.’

‘Kind of? And so did Emma, presumably—since she’s the bride?’

‘Yeah. Ralph’s family does a lot of business with di Arcangelo. You know that, Sorcha.’

Yes, she knew that—but it was one of those things you knew and kept pushed to the back of your mind. The same way that you knew natural disasters occurred, but you just didn’t spend your time thinking about them until you had to. ‘And it didn’t occur to any of you to have the decency to tell me he’d been invited, in view of our…our history?’

Rupert looked vaguely bored. ‘You went out with him a few years ago—what’s the big deal? And anyway—he asked me not say anything. He wanted it to be a surprise.’

She wanted to yelp—What do you mean, he asked you not to? I am your sister, and as such I take precedence over Cesare di Arcangelo—in spite of his affluence and influence.

‘Oh, it’s certainly a surprise,’ said Sorcha lightly—but if she said any more then Rupert would think she cared. And she didn’t. Not any more. She had to get things into perspective. Cesare was simply part of her past who would soon be gone, if not forgotten.

But why was he here? What possible reason could there be for re-establishing a family connection which had fizzled out years ago? Loyalty to her brother? Had they really been that close? Or was it just what it seemed—he was attending the wedding of a son of a business colleague?

It was like being caught in a trap which no one apart from Sorcha could see. Even though the sun was shining, and the church was picture-postcard perfect, and the bells were pealing out, inside she felt a bleak pang of regret. Time healed, that was what everyone said—and now it seemed that the rest of the world had been colluding in a great big conspiracy of lies.

But she played her part to the maximum and flashed a series of bright, happy smiles for the cameras until they wanted just couple shots of the bride and groom and she could escape.

She just wasn’t sure where.

With an odd kind of sixth sense, Sorcha suddenly became aware of being watched as surely as if eyes were burning into her back, branding her pale skin through the delicate silk-satin of her bridesmaid dress. And—try as she might—she couldn’t stop herself from turning round to see, even though she knew exactly who it was.

This was the true meaning of the word irresistible, she thought as she tried uselessly to pull against the power he exerted. As if she were a snake and he some charmer, summoning her against her will. And she looked round to find herself dazzled by the ebony gaze of Cesare di Arcangelo.

Stay away, Sorcha prayed silently—but her prayer went unanswered. Sunlight bouncing off his gleaming blue-black hair, he walked across the church path towards her, tall and dark and supremely confident—leaving a sulky-looking woman in a bright yellow dress glaring at his retreating back.

Sorcha felt a lump in her throat—as if someone had rammed in a pebble large enough to block her windpipe—and she briefly closed her eyes, imagining—almost praying—that she would pass out. What a merciful release that would be. To faint and discover when she opened her eyes again that Cesare had gone—as if he had never set foot here in the first place. Almost as if she had dreamt it all up.

But she did not faint, and there was no mercy. Or dream. Instead, the air came flowing back into her lungs as she stared back at him—and just the sight of him was the visual equivalent of a punch in the solar plexus.

‘Cesare,’ she said, and it came out as a whisper.

He was wearing a pale, formal suit in grey, made from some expensive fabric which hung and hugged his muscular body in all the right places. Whoever had designed it must have decided that hinting at a man’s raw sexuality was the way to go—or maybe it just had something to do with the man who was wearing it.

The grey contrasted with jet-dark hair which was thick and silky-straight—just like the outrageously thick black eyelashes which shielded eyes as rich as dark chocolate. He looked more like an international sex symbol than the millionaire entrepreneur he really was—who had taken the long-established wealth of the di Arcangelo family, transformed it into super-riches and made himself into a bit of a legend in the process.

Everything about him was perfect—even that slightly restless expression on his face, and the cold and quizzical eyes that hinted at an intellectual depth which lay beneath the charismatic exterior. She had once thought that it wasn’t possible for a man to be as gorgeous as Cesare, but somehow he had defied the improbable—and seven years had only added to his striking physical impact.

Somehow she managed to pull herself together—even though there was still some remnant of the lovestruck girl inside her who wanted to wrap her arms around his neck and pull his gorgeous face down to kiss her, wriggle her untutored body restlessly against the hard perfection of his.

Her heart was hammering, but somehow she inclined her head politely—so that to the casual observer it would look as though the chief bridesmaid were greeting just another guest.

‘Well,’ she said coolly. ‘This is a surprise.’

‘Don’t you like surprises?’ he murmured.

‘What do you think?’

He smiled as he sensed the tension in her. ‘Ah, Sorcha,’ he murmured, his gaze travelling with slow insolence over the body of the only woman who had ever rejected him. ‘Bene, bene, bene—but how you’ve grown, cara.’

She wanted to tell him not to look at her like that—but that wasn’t entirely true, and she didn’t want to be branded a hypocrite. Because even while she despised that blatantly sexual scrutiny, wasn’t there some traitorous part of her body which responded to it?

She could feel it in the soft throbbing of her pulses and in the uncomfortable prickle as her breasts thrust against the lace brassière she wore—as if her nipples were screaming out to be touched. And Cesare would have noticed that. Of course he would. Once, in that protective way he’d had with her, he would have defused the sexual tension. But not any more. Now he was just taking his time and enjoying it.

And the time for social niceties was past. She had to protect herself. She had to know the truth.

‘What the hell are you doing here?’ she demanded.

Black brows were arched. ‘What an appalling way to speak to an invited guest, cara,’ he answered silkily. Because now was not the time to tell her. Non ora. He was going to savour the timing of this, to maximise the impact when he dropped his bombshell straight into her beautiful lap. ‘Didn’t you know I was coming?’ he questioned innocently.

‘You know very well I didn’t—since my brother says you left instructions for it to be kept all hush-hush!’ Sorcha fixed him with a questioning look, reminding herself that this was her territory and that he was definitely trespassing. ‘So why all the cloak and dagger stuff? Do you want to be a spy when you grow up, Cesare?’

He gave a soft, appreciative laugh—for opposition always heightened the senses. He thought how much more spirited she had become with the passing of the years, and oh, but he was going to enjoy subduing that fire. ‘Why? Do you think I’d make a good one?’

‘No. You’d never blend into a crowd,’ she retorted, before realising that although it was the right thing—it was also the wrong thing to say. It might have sounded like a compliment, and that was the last thing she wanted. ‘Why didn’t you warn me?’

‘Maybe I knew how much you would have opposed my being here,’ he observed.

‘You were right.’

‘And maybe I wanted to see your face when you did. To see your first genuine reaction. Do you remember the last time we saw one another, my love?’

In spite of the sarcasm which dripped from it, the word made her heart clench. Until she reminded herself that it was a redundant word as far as they were concerned—as unreal as everything else about their relationship. The engagement that never was, the happyever-after which never happened. How could something which had never really existed, have hurt so much?

She gave him a blank look. ‘I don’t believe I do.’

‘Liar,’ he said huskily, black eyes sliding over the tight aquamarine silk bodice and the exuberant thrust of her pert breasts. His gaze lingered long against the tiny tips of her nipples, which looked so startlingly sharp against the shining material, and he wished that he could take his tongue to them. ‘Do you remember how it felt to be in my arms and to have my tongue inside your mouth? Are you regretting now that we didn’t ever get around to having full sex?’

She flinched as if he had hit her. As if he had led her down a predictable path and she had failed to see where it was heading—except that Cesare had never been explicit like that with her before.

Yet she was letting his words wound her, and she was in danger of making a fool of herself. People were already starting to turn round to look at them—as if the almost tangible tension between them was setting them apart. Murmured questions were buzzing around the high-society guests, and Sorcha’s gaze darted around to meet frankly curious stares.

His black eyes followed hers. ‘Do you suppose they’re thinking what an attractive couple we make?’ he murmured. ‘Do you suppose that they are imagining the contrast of your pale skin being pinned down by the darkness of mine? Are you imagining it too, cara mia, just as I am? Do you think that they would be disappointed if they knew the reality of our lovemaking?’

Her pulse rocketed. ‘Cesare—stop it. Just go. Please! Why are you doing this?’

This was better, much better. Her lips parting in breathless appeal, her eyes darkening at his erotic taunt. With a cruel pleasure which excited him, Cesare continued to play with her as a cat would a helpless mouse. ‘What a way to greet the man you once claimed to adore.’

Sorcha felt the blood rushing to her ears so that they were filled with a roaring sound, like the ocean. ‘I was young and stupid then,’ she said hoarsely.

‘And now?’

‘Now I’m old enough to realise the lucky escape I had.’

‘Well, then, we are agreed on something at least,’ he answered evenly.

Sorcha hesitated. Maybe she had got him all wrong. Maybe he wanted to make peace. Maybe…She peered over his shoulder to where the brunette in the biliously coloured outfit was still standing staring at him and her heart pounded. ‘Is that your…girlfriend?’

He heard the acid tone in her voice even though she did her best to disguise it, and turned his head to glance over at the woman, who wiggled her fingers at him in a wave. ‘Sindy?’ He gave a slow smile. ‘Jealous, Sorcha?’

‘Not at all.’ But she was lying, and Sorcha wondered if Cesare realised that. She found herself wanting to lash out like a little cat—to say that the woman’s skin was sallow, that she was wearing the wrong colour, that she was not fit to be his girlfriend. But that was all wrong—she shouldn’t be feeling this way. Not now.

‘Have you spoken to my mother?’

‘Not yet. I’ll catch up with her at the reception.’

Sorcha froze. ‘You’re coming to the reception?’ she whispered.

Cesare smiled. This was better than he could ever have anticipated! ‘You think I have flown all the way from Rome to hear a couple repeat a set of vows which will probably be broken before the year is out?’ he questioned cynically. ‘I may not be a big fan of weddings, but nobody can deny that they offer an opportunity to indulge in some of the more pleasurable aspects of life. And I shall look forward to being back in your house.’

The black eyes glittered in a way which took her right back to forbidden territory—more emotional than erotic, and all the more dangerous for that.

‘Shall we dance together later, Sorcha?’ he finished. ‘Perhaps even go for a swim, just like the old days—si?’

But the old days were gone—long gone. She wanted to convince herself that the person she was then had been markedly different—so that if the younger Sorcha had walked up and said hello she wouldn’t be able to recognise her. And yet while in many ways she was different—in others she felt exactly the same. Why else would there be such a dull ache in her heart when she looked at the man she had believed herself to be in love with?

‘I would tell you to go to hell,’ she said slowly, ‘if I didn’t think you’d already taken up a permanent berth there!’

‘Why? Do you want to come and lie in it with me?’

His soft mocking laughter was still ringing in her ears as Sorcha pushed her way through the crowds to where a dark limousine was waiting to whisk the bridesmaids and pageboys back to the reception. Four young faces pressed anxiously against the glass as Sorcha gathered up armfuls of tulle and silk and levered herself in next to them.

The bridegroom’s niece scrambled onto her lap and planted a chubby finger right in the middle of her cheek.

‘Why are you cryin’, Sorcha?’

Sorcha sniffed. ‘I’m not crying. I just got a speck of dust in my eyes.’ She dabbed a tissue at her eye and then beamed the worried child the widest smile in her repertoire. ‘See? All gone!’

‘All gone!’ they chorused obediently.

Sorcha bit her lip and turned it into another smile. How simple it was to be a child in a world where things vanished just because an adult told you they had. The monster under the bed had gone away because Mummy said so.

But memories were like those childhood monsters—always lurking in dark places, waiting to capture you if you weren’t careful. And some memories burned as strongly as if they had happened yesterday.

CHAPTER TWO

SORCHA had met Cesare di Arcangelo the summer she’d turned eighteen, the hottest summer for decades. It had been the year she’d left school and the year most of her classmates had finally rid themselves of the burden of their virginity—but Sorcha had not been among them. Her friends had laughed and called her old-fashioned, but she’d been holding out for someone special.

But that summer she had felt as ripe and ready as some rich fruit ready for picking—and hormones had bubbled like cauldrons in her veins.

She’d arrived home from a final school trip to France on a baking hot day with a sky of blinding brightness. There had been no one to meet her at the station, and no reply when she’d phoned the house, but it hadn’t particularly bothered her. She’d had little luggage, and because it was beautiful and so green, and so English after the little mountain village of Plan-du-Var, she had decided to walk.

The air had been unnaturally still and the lane dusty, but the sky had been the clearest blue imaginable—with birds singing their little hearts out—and suddenly Sorcha had felt glad to be home, even if she was slightly apprehensive about the future.

Up until that moment everything had been safely mapped out for her—but with the freedom which came from leaving school came uncertainty too. Still, she had worked hard, and she’d been offered a place at one of the best universities in the country if her exam results were as good as had been predicted.

She’d approached the house by the long drive—the honey-coloured mansion where Whittakers had lived since her great-great-grandfather had first got the bright idea of marketing his wife’s delicious home-made sauce. From humble terraced house beginnings, her great-great-grandma’s unique recipe had become a national institution, and soon enough money had poured in to enable him to satisfy his land-owning longings and buy himself a real-life stately home.