The Sicilian's Christmas Bride. Sandra MartonЧитать онлайн книгу.
hadn’t been the same.
The truth was, it still wasn’t. Something was lacking.
Not for his lovers. He knew damned well how to make a woman cry out with pleasure but he felt—what was the word? Removed. That was it. His body went through all the motions, but when it was over, he felt unsatisfied.
Taylor was to blame for that.
What in hell had possessed him, to let her walk away? To let her think she’d ended their affair when she hadn’t? A man’s ego could take just so much.
By Monday, his anger was at the boiling point. When the private investigator turned up at his office, he greeted him with barely concealed impatience.
“Well? Surely you’ve located Ms. Sommers. How difficult can it be to find a woman in this city?”
The man scratched his ear, took a notepad from his pocket and thumbed it open.
“See, that was the problem, Mr. Russo. The lady isn’t in this city. She’s in…” He frowned. “Shelby, Vermont.”
Dante stared at him. “Vermont?”
“Yeah. Little town, maybe fifty miles from Burlington.”
Taylor, in a New England village? Dante almost laughed trying to picture his sophisticated former lover in such a setting.
“The lady has an interior decorating business.” The P.I. turned the page. “And she’s done okay. In fact, she just applied for an expansion loan at—”
The P.I. rattled on but Dante was only half listening. He knew where to find Taylor. Everything else was superfluous.
How surprised she’d be, he thought with grim satisfaction, to see him again. To hear him tell her that she hadn’t needed to leave him, that he’d been leaving her—
“…just for the two of them. I have the details, if you—”
Dante’s head came up. “Just for the two of what?” he said carefully.
“Of them,” the P.I. said, raising an eyebrow. “You know, what I was saying about the house she inherited. A couple of realtors suggested she might want something newer and larger but she said no, she wanted a small house in a quiet setting, just big enough for two. For her and, uh…I got the name right here, if you just give me a—”
“A house for two people?” Dante said, in a tone opponents had learned to fear.
“That’s right. Her and—here it is. Sam Gardner.”
“Taylor.” Dante cleared his throat. “And Sam Gardner. They live together?”
“Well, sure.”
“And Gardner was with her when she moved in?”
The P.I. chuckled. “Yessir. I mean—”
“I know exactly what you mean,” Dante said without inflection. “Thank you. You’ve been most helpful.”
“Yeah, but, Mr. Russo—”
“Most helpful,” Dante repeated.
The detective got the message.
Alone, Dante told himself he’d accomplish nothing unless he stayed calm, but a knot of red-hot rage was already blooming in his gut. Taylor hadn’t left him because she’d grown bored. She’d left him for another man. She’d been seeing someone, making love with someone, while she’d been with him.
He went to the window and clasped the edge of the sill, hands tightening on the marble the way they wanted to tighten on her throat. Confronting her wouldn’t be enough. Beating the crap out of her lover wouldn’t be enough, either, although it would damned well help.
He wanted more. Wanted the kind of revenge that her infidelity merited. How dare she make a fool of him? How dare she?
There had to be a way. A plan.
Suddenly, he recalled the P.I.’s words. She’s done well. In fact, she’s just applied for an expansion loan at the local bank.
Dante smiled. There was. And he could hardly wait to put it into motion.
CHAPTER TWO
TAYLOR SOMMERS POURED a cup of coffee, put it on the sink, opened the refrigerator to get the cream and realized she’d already put it on the table, right alongside the cup she’d already filled with coffee only minutes before.
She took a steadying breath.
“Keep it up,” she said, her voice loud in the silence, “and Walter Dennison’s going to tell you he was only joking when he said he’d change those loan payments.”
Dennison was a nice man; he’d been a friend of her grandmother’s. He’d shown compassion and small-town courtesy when Tally fell behind on repaying the home equity loan his bank had granted her.
But he wasn’t a fool and only a fool would go on doing that for a woman who behaved as if she were coming apart.
Was that why he wanted to see her today? Had he changed his mind? If he had, if he wanted her to pay the amount the loan called for each month…
Tally closed her eyes.
She’d be finished. The town had already shut down the interior decorating business she’d been running from home. Without the loan, she’d lose the shop she’d rented on the village green even before it opened because, to put it simply, she was broke.
Flat broke.
Okay, if you wanted absolute accuracy, she had two hundred dollars in her bank account, but it was a drop in the bucket compared to what she needed.
She’d long ago used up her savings. Moving to Vermont, paying for repairs to make livable the old house she’d inherited from her grandmother, just day-to-day expenses for Sam and her had taken a huge chunk of her savings.
Start-up costs for INTERIORS BY TAYLOR had swallowed the rest. Beginning a decorating business, even from home, was expensive. You had to have at least a small showroom—in her case, what had once been an enclosed porch on the back of the house—so that potential clients could get a feel for your work. Paint, fabric, wicker furniture to make the porch inviting had cost a bundle.
Then there were the fabric samples, decorative items like vases and lamps, handmade candles and fireplace accessories…Expensive, all of them. Some catalogs alone could be incredibly pricey. Advertising costs were astronomical but if you didn’t reach the right people, all your other efforts were pointless.
Little by little, INTERIORS BY TAYLOR had begun to draw clients from the upscale ski communities within miles of tiny Shelby. Taylor’s accounts had still been in the red, but things had definitely been looking up.
And then the town clerk phoned. He was apologetic, but that didn’t make his message any less harsh.
INTERIORS BY TAYLOR was operating illegally. The town had an ordinance against home-based businesses.
That Shelby, Vermont, population 8500 on a good day, had ordinances at all had been a surprise. But it did, and this one was inviolate. You couldn’t operate a business from your house even if you’d been raised under its roof after your mother took off for parts unknown.
Tally’s pleading had gained her a two-month reprieve.
She’d found a soon-to-be-vacant shop on the village green. Each night, long after Sam was asleep, she’d worked and reworked the costs she’d face. The monthly rent. The three-months up-front deposit. The fees for the carpenter, painter and electrician needed to turn the place from the TV-repair shop it had been into an elegant setting for her designs.
And then there were all the things she’d have to buy to create the right atmosphere. Add in the cost of increased advertising and Tally had arrived at a number that was staggering.
She needed $175,000.00.