His Delicious Revenge: The Price of Retribution / Count Valieri's Prisoner / The Highest Stakes of All
His Delicious RevengeRetributionWhen merciless tycoon Caspar Brandon all but destroys her sweet sister, Tarn Desmond is determined to make this notorious playboy pay… Caz is intrigued by the pure beauty of the new girl in his office – no one has ever said no to him before, and that’s just doubled his desire for her!KidnappedMaddie Lang’s from a sleepy little English village, so doesn’t expect a trip to Italy to end in her being held captive by the infamous Count Valieri… His price? Her innocence! And his expert touch sparks the first flickers of what could become dangerously addictive flames…High Stakes Joanna Vernon found herself the ultimate prize in a dangerous card game. When the last hand had been revealed, the knowing curl of the merciless Greek’s lip told her he had every intention of claiming his winnings…
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His Delicious Revenge
The Price of Retribution
Count Valieri’s Prisoner
The Highest Stakes of All
Sara Craven
Table of Contents
SARA CRAVEN was born in South Devon and grew up in a house full of books. She worked as a local journalist, covering everything from flower shows to murders, and started writing for Mills and Boon in 1975. When not writing, she enjoys films, music, theatre, cooking, and eating in good restaurants. She now lives near her family in Warwickshire. Sara has appeared as a contestant on the former Channel Four game show Fifteen to One, and in 1997 was a UK television Mastermind champion. In 2005 she was a member of the Romantic Novelists’ team on University Challenge – The Professionals.
Sara Craven
July
THIS flat was smaller than his previous one, yet now it seemed strangely vast in its emptiness, an echoing space, rejecting him as if he was an intruder.
He stood in the doorway of the sitting room, his gaze moving restlessly over the few items of furniture that had been delivered over the past week.
There were the two long, deeply-cushioned sofas in dark green corded velvet, facing each other over the custom-made, polished oak coffee table. The bookcase, also in oak, the first of three ordered from the same craftsman. The thick cream rug, circular and luxurious that fronted the carved wooden fireplace.
A fairly minimal selection, yet all things they had chosen together, planning to add to them—over time.
Only there was no time. Not any more.
His throat muscles tightened to the point of agony, and he dug his nails into the palms of his clenched hands to dam back the cry that threatened to burst from his lungs.
And down the hall, behind the closed door of that other room—the bed. Memories he could not allow himself to think about.
He wasn’t even sure what he was doing here. Why he’d come back. God knows, it hadn’t been his original intention.
Brendan and Grace had pressed him anxiously to go back and stay with them, but he couldn’t face the thought of their shocked sympathy, however genuine and well-meant. Couldn’t stomach the prospect of being treated as walking wounded. Or feeling the complete fool he undoubtedly was.
His mouth tightened as he remembered the barrage of cameras and shouted questions waiting for him outside the registry office as he walked alone down the steps. He’d been spared nothing, and tomorrow the papers would be full of it. The tabloids would probably feature him front page.
But there were issues that mattered far more than the destruction of what had become his cherished privacy.
Decisions would have to be made, of course. The furniture disposed of. The flat put back on the market. That was the easy part. It could be done at a distance by other people, in the same way that flights and reservations for a suite in an exclusive resort hotel in the Bahamas had already been cancelled. The special orders for flowers and champagne rescinded. The plans to charter a boat in order to visit some of the other islands shelved.
However, retrieving himself from the wreckage of his life would be a very different matter. But there he could at least make a start.
He turned and walked swiftly down the passage, to the room he’d designated as his working space. Not to be confused with the similar room next door, although both had been rudimentarily equipped with a desk and chair, a filing cabinet and a shredder.
He reached into his jacket pocket and extracted the crumpled sheet of paper which he’d carried with him since that morning. He did not attempt to read it again. There was no need. He could have recited its contents from memory—something else that must stop right here and now.
He unfolded the letter, put it down on the desk, smoothed it flat with his fist, then fed it into the shredder, which accepted the offering, reducing it to fragments with its swift high-pitched whine.
It was done. Now all he had to do was erase it from his brain. Not so simple a task. But, somehow, he would manage it. Because he must.
He glanced at his watch. There was nothing more to keep him here. But then, there never had been. Waiting for him now was a different hotel suite, this one bland and anonymous. No intimate dinner for two to be anticipated, no vintage champagne on ice or rose petals on the pillows. And, later no eyes, drowsy with shared fulfilment, smiling into his.
