The Devil to Pay
Authors: Rachel Lyndhurst
Tags: #romance,spicy,contemporary,millionaire
Thank you for purchasing this publication of The Wild Rose Press, Inc.
to Pay
by
Rachel Lyndhurst
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.
The Devil to Pay
COPYRIGHT © 2012 by Rachel Lyndhurst
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
Contact Information: [email protected]
Cover Art by
Kim Mendoza
The Wild Rose Press, Inc.
PO Box 708
Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708
Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com
Publishing History
First Champagne Rose Edition, 2012
Digital ISBN 978-1-61217-524-9
Published in the United States of America
For my grandfather,
Ronald Stanley "Taffy" Long (1909-1985),
who marched out of poverty and never looked back.
Chapter One
“Dio!”
Rianna Peters stiffened at the deep male voice behind the tall cage of stock she was wheeling and then watched with horror as a huge packet of washing powder tumbled to earth with explosive effect. A force like a black storm swung the trolley to one side, and the man bore down on her with lightning speed.
“
Stupido
...idiot!”
She flinched and rapidly recalled her recent customer service training.
Make eye contact, smile and listen to what the customer is saying...
He was saying
plenty
. In fact, this Italian was actually
shouting
. “Don’t they train you to use those damn things?”
Rianna’s lips opened in apology, but no sound escaped as she stared into the most astonishingly beautiful face she had ever seen. Her jaw dropped at the angry magnetism of his features, his straight, proud nose, and the bronze slash of his cheekbones; and his eyes... The breath snagged uncomfortably in her throat as a spark of sexual adrenaline ripped through her. They were a piercing blue, like the sun’s rays on a sharp winter morning splintering into peacock-feather prisms through hoarfrost and melting ice. They flashed at her from under heavy, black eyebrows and stole her breath with their fire, shocking her body into wild anticipation. For a moment, her body’s response to him was quite...primitive.
But those eyes were also livid.
He glared at her in a moment of statically-charged silence and then drew the back of a large hand across his forehead. Raindrops fell from his hair onto the upturned collar of his black cashmere coat. “My apologies, I had assumed—” He tore his gaze away and his jaw clenched. “If I had known you were a woman, I’d never have spoken to you like that, but look at the state of me. There are people who’d sue the store for less than this and win.” He gestured toward the washing powder grains melting into the South Wales drizzle on his expensive-looking shoes and sighed. “You’re far too small to be pushing that thing around.”
Rianna’s heartbeat was rapid when she finally found her voice. “I’m sorry, sir. I couldn’t see over the top and—” She delved into her uniform trouser pocket and produced a grubby J-cloth. Ignoring the look of horror on his face, she bent toward his feet. “Here, let me clean you up.”
The Italian took a quick step backwards. “No!” He snatched the cloth away, tossing it out of her reach onto the top of the trolley. “Please stand up. I’ll see to it myself, but if you really want to help, just tell me what I need for a dishwasher.
I’ve bought my grandmother one, but neither of us have any idea what to stick in the damn thing. I assume you have one yourself?”
“I’m afraid the only dishwasher in our house is
me
, sir.” Rianna’s gaze skittered over the shiny coal-seam black of his hair. “But the best your nan can do is to load it up with detergent, rinse aid and salt.” The words tumbled out and she cringed inwardly at the squeaky edge to her voice. “Get the cheapest, but use
lots
is the advice I’ve heard.”
His lips compressed into a thin line, and the shadow on his angular jaw seemed to become even darker. “I don’t think she’ll ever use it actually, but I’ve done my best.” He looked around impatiently. “So if you could sort me out...?”
“Immediately, sir,” Rianna replied with relief. “And please accept my apologies again.” She noticed he was now looking at her tangle of hair. It had been a passable up-do that morning, but the plastic clip holding it suddenly felt loose, and she realised she was struggling to focus through a dark blonde skein that had fallen over one eye. It was no wonder he was staring at her, with a rat’s nest on her head.
“So you really don’t have one at home?” The rich tone of his accent remained clipped,
and his eyes gave nothing away but a bone-melting glint of ultramarine, yet Rianna could sense he wasn’t mocking her. He was just genuinely surprised.
Her face felt hot. “No,” she replied and pressed her lips together before she said anything stupid.
“
Grazie
,” he muttered as she carefully placed the necessary items in his basket. “I’m grateful for your assistance.”
She shrugged and looked quickly away to avoid his scrutiny. He could freeze fire with the arctic blue coldness of those eyes. Her hand suppressed an uncomfortable flutter in her chest. “It was the least I could do.” She then noticed him stare at her predecessor’s legacy, the only Grocery Department name badge a shambolic Personnel Department could find in the “spares” drawer. Perhaps it was just as well she still didn’t have one of her own yet. At least he couldn’t report her.
“Indeed.” He frowned down at the grey-blue mush on his shoes once more. “Quite a mess, aren’t they?”
He suddenly looked up, and Rianna could feel his gaze burning into the badge again. Bloody hell,
Linda, Grocery Assistant
was in big trouble.
****
Rianna’s feet arched against the intense vibration of the train carriage floor and she stared out across the platform as she had done almost every Monday morning in the last three years. Electric power still hadn’t made it as far as the Taff Valley line, and a mural of dust, raindrops, and diesel blurred the view from the window. Her fingertips rested momentarily on the crisp multicoloured velour of her seat and then withdrew sharply. The upholstery was filthy. The entire carriage was dirty, and the weather outside was also disgusting. The entire world was shrouded in a grey fuzz interspersed with streaks of weak yellow or mauve when the sun came out.
This was normal, a run-of-the-mill commute to work in industrial South Wales, and nothing appeared to be on the verge of changing right now, not for the likes of Rianna Peters, five days Management Accountant and weekend Grocery Assistant at KostKrunch & Co.
A young ticket inspector approached, his cheeks so clean and shiny, they reminded Rianna of using her grandmother’s Coal Tar soap, skin-tightening and antiseptic.
“I know I don’t need to ask you, love, but have you got a ticket for me there?”
Rianna grinned and held out her ticket. “Have I ever,
ever
tried to skip a fare, Huw?”
She listened to him chuckle as he made his way down the carriage. This deep green valley was a small world, a close-knit community which functioned perfectly using a rapid and intricate system of jungle drums and Chinese whispers. There was no getting away with anything—your business was public property—and
that
was what was annoying Rianna so much this morning.
Just
why
had she never encountered the tall dark stranger known as Dan before yesterday?
How come she had never even heard of him? Unless her colleague had just been teasing her at the end of their shift. Her brow furrowed as she recalled her exact words: “
Stay away from him, if you want my advice. He’s fit. He’s loaded. And he’s trouble. He never stays in town long, just long enough to pay his family respects and break a heart or two.”
The other woman then lowered her voice to a dramatic whisper
. “I’ve heard rumours about Mafia blood in his veins and how he got his hands on so much gold…”
Rianna had shrugged off the last remark with a laugh and considered it just another one of her colleague’s ubiquitous and ridiculous urban myths. She then risked being spotted by management as she secretly watched Mr. Mafia’s progress around the store from the elevated height of a Staff Only stool. The risk was considerable. Her weekend job wasn’t much, but there would be dozens waiting to take her place if she was sacked in her first week. She had watched as he added a bag of cat litter to his basket and then visited the tobacco kiosk, leaving with a sealed packet of two hundred extra-length menthol cigarettes.
In the muffled warmth of the railway carriage, Rianna closed her eyes for a moment and inhaled deeply, clawing back the memory of his scent for the hundredth time since their encounter. She could remember a trace of citrus and cedar in the air as they spoke, mingled with leather and a warm base note of masculinity, but not tobacco.
She crossly pulled her handbag into her chest and felt a sharp object poke against her ribcage. Its presence sparked off a ripple of self-loathing, which ricocheted through her body, and Rianna frowned. She had been pathetic on the way to the station that morning, going into KostKrunch on the off chance
he
would be there again. As if. It wasn’t even remotely likely, but she still couldn’t help herself. If they met again, she’d resolved to make a better impression on him, to use the flirty little lines she’d concocted in the dark hours of the night.
But, of course, he wasn’t there. Even the most hardened Mafioso couldn’t get through two hundred smokes so quickly, and besides, he was probably still in bed at that time of the morning. And, as she’d been warned, the chances were the bed wasn’t his own, either. Rianna ground her teeth together as erotic images flashed wildly through her mind, and she admonished herself for the ridiculous surge of jealousy she experienced. They’d spoken for less than thirty seconds and she was wallowing in a maelstrom of emotion to which she had no sane entitlement. Infatuation was a most unseemly condition for a woman over twenty to suffer. Besides that, if he got a second look at her, the chances of her being sacked for incompetence would only be increased.
Feeling irritable, she opened her eyes to see the train was pulling in at Mount Beech Halt. Her arm pinned her handbag tightly against her ribcage and deliberately crushed the small box of tea bags she’d felt obliged to buy inside its cavity. It was time to put this madness behind her.
****
“Morning, Gwen.” Rianna threw her bag under her desk at the quarry finance office and flicked on her computer. “It’s looking a bit tidy in here this morning,” she continued whilst shaking the drizzle off her coat and hanging it up to dry. “I thought the royal visit was next week.”
The smile on her face faded as she turned to see the finance director’s secretary’s pinched expression.
“We have a crisis.” Gwen scooped up an armful of papers and picked up the telephone with her free hand. “There’s been an offer made for the quarry, an offer Signor Bracchi and the shareholders are finding difficult to ignore.” She began to punch the keypad on the telephone. “Bracchi’s in Mike’s office right now, demanding a decent coffee, and from what I can gather, our jobs depend on the report you’ve been working on.”
“The tunnel project you mean?” Rianna felt adrenaline glove her hands with ice. “But it’s not finished.”
Gwen shook her head and looked close to tears. “He wants you in there
immediately
with whatever you have as he’s flying back to Italy today. So we’ve only got a small window of opportunity to fight our case.” Her voice cracked. “I can’t afford to lose this job, Smudge...”