Julia James - His Wedding Ring Of Revenge

The glitter in Vito’s eyes had intensified. Rachel’s breathing had quickened and adrenaline was coursing through her bloodstream.

But she knew she was deceiving herself.

She could feel her body responding to his presence; feel every nerve leap to quivering life.

It mortified her. She had to damp it down hard, because she knew, with a terrible, sickening sense of doom, that she would feel this way about Vito Farneste for the rest of her life. She could never stop the tide of desire, of longing, of wanting, pulsing through her whenever she was near him. She was in thrall to him, and it was a captivity she could never escape….

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FOR LOVE OR MONEY is the ultimate reading experience for the reader who loves Harlequin Presents, and who also has a taste for tales of wealth and celebrity and the accompanying gossip and scandal!

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In the Rich Man’s World

by Carol Marinelli #2482

Exposed: The Sheikh’s Mistress

by Sharon Kendrick #2488

His One-Night Mistress

by Sandra Field #2494

Sale or Return Bride

by Sarah Morgan #2500

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CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

EPILOGUE

COOL tranquil fountains jetted softly over the rounded stones, the water pooling, crystal clear, over polished granite. A tiny spout of wind gusted off the tall building and one of the gentle plumes of water wavered slightly, a minute spray of invisible droplets misting over Rachel as she walked past.

It felt cool to her skin.

And that was what she had to be. Cool, calm and composed. Not a trace of emotion. She was here to conduct a business deal. That was all.

Because if she thought about what she was about to do in any other light then—

No! Don’t think. Don’t feel. That way you can get through this.

And, above all, don’t remember…

A switch was thrown in her brain, cutting off the line of thought.

Another mist of water flickered over her skin.

She took in the serene tranquillity of the cunningly engineered water feature that graced the entrance to the gleaming new office block. As befitted the UK headquarters of one of Europe’s largest and most successful industrial conglomerates, Farneste Industriale, it was the most prestigious of all the blocks on this swanky new business park—situated on the edge of one of London’s oldest villages, Chiswick, conveniently placed for the M4 motorway and Heathrow Airport.

She kept on walking, her high heels lifting her hips and making her sway elegantly in her expensively tailored suit. She had sat very carefully in the taxi on her way here, making sure she did not crush the lavender skirt or snag her expensive sheer stockings.

She wanted to look—immaculate.

It had taken her over two hours to get ready. Two hours of washing and styling her hair, delicately applying perfect make-up and nail varnish, carefully donning silky underwear, sheerest stockings, soft cream camisole, and then finally gliding the narrow pencil skirt over her slender hips and slipping her arms into the satin-lined, scoop-necked waisted jacket that subtly accentuated the swell of her breasts and the flatness of her stomach.

She had slid her feet into soft Italian leather shoes, in exactly the same shade as the suit, as was the matching leather clutch handbag she carried, and her outfit was complete.

It had taken her over two weeks to find it. After combing every upmarket department store and boutique from Chelsea to Knightsbridge, Bond Street to Kensington. It had to be exactly right.

After all, the person she had to impress had demanding standards. Exceptionally demanding.

She should know.

She had once failed them. Dismally. Abjectly. Humiliatingly.

She must not fail this time.

And now, as she walked up to the huge double doors that opened automatically at her approach, she promised that she would not. This time, she knew, she could hold her head high against any female she was compared with.

True, some might prefer petite brunettes or voluptuous, flashy redheads to her lean, chic blondeness, but of her style—if you liked that style—she was perfect.

Soignée. That was what her mother would have called it, approvingly.

Emotion clutched at Rachel’s heart. She subdued it instantly. Feelings of any kind would be fatal in this encounter. If she had any hope of succeeding she must be calm, confident and totally composed.

She was here to do business. Nothing more.

Absently, as she started to walk across the huge, echoing entrance lobby, she heard the automatic doors hiss softly shut behind her.

As if she were a prisoner.

A tiny prickle of apprehension snaked down her spine. She subdued it.

She was not a prisoner. She was not even a hostage.

She was here to propose a transaction, nothing more, which would have a favourable outcome for both parties.

Perfectly straightforward. So much so that no emotion whatsoever would be required of either of the participating parties.

She went on walking across the vast marbled floor, up to the huge semicircular reception floor in the middle, behind which towered another cleverly designed water feature: a wall of water so smooth it hardly seemed to be flowing at all.

Cool air wafted from the wall of water, freshening the artifice of air-conditioning that eased around the whole building.

She halted in front of the smartly dressed receptionist, who looked at her with polite enquiry.

‘I am here to see Mr Farneste,’ said Rachel.

She spoke in a composed voice, placing her clutch handbag on the wide reception desk surface that acted like a barricade around the woman she had just spoken to.

‘Your name, please?’ replied the receptionist, reaching for an appointment book.

‘Rachel Vaile,’ she answered, her voice unwavering.

The receptionist frowned.

‘I’m sorry, Ms Vaile, there doesn’t seem to be an entry for you.’

Rachel was undismayed. ‘If you phone his office and give my name, you will find he will see me,’ she said, with calm assurance.

The receptionist looked at her uncertainly. Rachel knew why, and gave an inward, caustic smile.