and roses? That might have been the case for some of her friends, but for Helena it had been nothing more than a grand, sugar-coated illusion. An illusion her mother, the ever-dutiful society wife, still chose to hide behind.
Leo lunged his powerful shoulders forward, planted both feet firmly on the floor. ‘This is business. Your father knows that. Better than most.’
He rose to his full impressive height: six feet four inches of lean, muscled Italian.
‘I could have made things much worse for him. You might remind him of that fact.’
For a moment Helena considered telling him the truth—that she’d not seen or spoken with her father in years. That she worked as a secretary and lived in a rundown flat in North London and visited her family only when her father was absent on business. That Douglas Shaw was a domineering bully and she didn’t care a jot for the man, but she did care for those who would suffer most from his downfall. That she held no sway with her father and could offer Leo nothing in return for leniency except her eternal gratitude.
But caution stopped her. The man who stood before her now was not the Leo she’d once known. He was a tough, shrewd businessman, bent on revenge, and he would use every weapon in his arsenal to achieve it. Knowledge was power, and he had plenty of that without her gifting him extra ammunition.
Besides, he’d already accused her of lying—why should he believe the truth?
She unlaced her hands and stood.
‘There must be other options,’ she blurted. ‘Other possibilities that would satisfy your board and keep the company intact?’
‘My board will make their decisions based on the best interests of my business. Not your father’s interests and not his family’s.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Now, if you have nothing else to discuss, there are more important matters requiring my attention.’
She stared at him.
More important matters?
A bitter laugh rose and died in her throat.
Really, what had she expected? Understanding? Forgiveness? A friendly chat over a cup of tea?
Humiliation raged through her. She was a fool, wasting her time on a fool’s errand. She snatched up her handbag. ‘Next time you look in the mirror, Leo, remind yourself why you despise my father so much.’ She returned his stony stare. ‘Then take a hard look at your reflection. Because you might just find you have more in common with him than you think.’
His head snapped back, an indication that she’d hit her mark, but the knowledge did nothing to ease the pain knifing through her chest. Head high, she strode to the door.
The handle was only inches from her grasp when a large hand closed on her upper arm, swinging her around. She let out a yelp of surprise.
‘I am nothing like your father,’ he said, his jaw thrusting belligerently.
‘Then prove it,’ she fired back, conscious all at once of his vice-like grip, the arrows of heat penetrating her thin jacket-sleeve, the faint, woodsy tang of an expensive cologne that made her nostrils flare involuntarily. ‘Give my father time to come to the table. Before your board makes any decisions.’
Leo released her, stepped back, and the tiny spark of hope in her chest fizzed like a dampened wick. God. She needed to get out. Now. Before she did something pathetic and weak—like cry. She pivoted and seized the door handle. At the same instant his palm landed on the door above her head, barring her escape.
‘On one condition.’
His voice at her back was low, laced with something she couldn’t decipher. She turned, pressed her back to the door and looked up. ‘Yes?’
‘Have dinner with me.’
She blinked, twice. Three times.
‘Dinner?’ she echoed stupidly.
‘Si.’ His hand dropped from the door. ‘Tomorrow night.’
Her stomach did a funny little somersault. Was he fooling with her now? She narrowed her eyes at him. ‘Is that an invitation or a demand?’
The shrug he gave was at once casual and arrogant. ‘Call it what you like. That is my condition.’
‘Tomorrow’s Friday,’ she said, as if that fact bore some vital significance. In truth, it was all she could think to say while her brain grappled with his proposition.
His nostrils flared. ‘You have other plans?’
‘Uh...no.’ Brilliant. Now he’d think she had no social life. She levelled her shoulders. ‘A minute ago you couldn’t wait to get rid of me. Now you want us to have dinner?’
His lips pressed into a thin line. Impatience? Or, like most men, did he simply dislike having his motives questioned?
He jammed his hands in his trouser pockets. ‘You wanted an opportunity to talk, Helena. Take it or leave it. It is my final offer. I return to Rome on Saturday.’
Helena hesitated, her mind spinning. This could be her one and only chance for a calm, rational conversation with him. An opportunity to appeal to his sense of reason and compassion—if either still existed. The takeover was beyond her control and, if he spoke the truth, a fait accompli, but if she had even a slim chance of dissuading him from stripping the company’s assets, convincing him to settle on a strategy more palatable to her father, she had to take it. Had to try, no matter how daunting the prospect.
She nodded. ‘All right. Dinner. Tomorrow night. Where shall I meet you?’
‘I will send a car.’
Her stomach nose-dived. The thought of Leo or anyone in his employ seeing where she lived mortified her. Her neighbourhood was the best she could afford right now, but the area was far from salubrious.
She fished in her handbag for pen and paper, jotted down her work address and her mobile number. ‘You can pick me up from here.’ She handed him the slip of paper. ‘And my number’s there if you need to contact me.’
‘Very well.’ With scarcely a glance at it, he slipped the note into his trouser pocket and pulled open the door. ‘Be ready for six-thirty.’
With a nod, she stepped into the vestibule and pressed the elevator call button, having briefly considered then dismissed the stairs.
She would not bolt like an intimidated child.
The man who’d stolen her heart and left behind a precious gift she’d treasured and lost might be gone, the stranger in his place more formidable than she’d imagined, but she would not be cowed.
Ignoring the compulsion to glance over her shoulder, she willed the elevator to hurry up and arrive. When it did, her knees almost buckled with relief. She started forward.
‘Helena.’
Leo’s voice snapped her to an involuntary halt. Without turning, she braced her arm against the elevator’s door jamb and tilted her head fractionally. ‘Yes?’
Silence yawned behind her, turning the air so thick it felt like treacle in her lungs.
‘Wear something dressy,’ he said at last.
And then he shut the door.
LEO PICKED UP the half-empty water glass and studied the smudge of pink on its rim. Had Douglas Shaw sent his daughter as a honey trap? The idea was abhorrent, yet he wouldn’t put it past the man. What Shaw lacked in scruples he more than made up for with sheer, bloody-minded gall.
He crossed to the bar, tossed out the water and shoved the glass out of sight along with the whisky bottle. Then he smashed his palms down on the counter and let out a curse.
He