DANTE VITTORI STARED at the legal document that had been delivered an hour ago. The floor-to-ceiling glass windows that made up three whole sides of his office on the forty-sixth floor of Matta Towers in Central London cast the luxurious space in an orange glow, thanks to the setting sun behind him.
Vikram Matta—his mentor Neel Matta’s son and Dante’s best friend—was now legally dead.
He felt a twinge in his chest for exactly one minute.
He’d learned that grief, like regret, was a useless emotion. He’d learned this at the age of thirteen when his father had killed himself instead of facing lifelong incarceration for his Ponzi scheme that had fleeced hundreds of people. He’d learned this when his mother had simply changed her name back to her Sicilian father’s and married a man he approved of within a year of his father’s death.
Giving in to his emotions would have crushed Dante back then. Vikram was gone; he’d made his peace with it a long time ago.
Quickly, he rifled through the documents, to ensure he hadn’t missed anything.
He was almost to the last couple of pages when he stilled.
Voting Shares of the Deceased
The hairs at the back of his neck prickled. His mind instantly rewound back to the conversation he and Vikram had had with Neel when Neel had found he hadn’t much time to live.
Neel Matta had started Matta Steel, a small steel manufacturing business, almost forty years ago, but it was Dante who had grown it into the billion-dollar conglomerate it was now. Against his own brother, Nitin’s wishes, for the first time in the history of the company, Neel had granted his own voting shares to Dante, an outsider.
He had made Dante a part of his family. And now Matta Steel was the blood in his veins, his mistress, his everything.
Instead of wasting time grieving after Neel’s death and Vikram’s horrific plane crash, Dante had taken the company from strength to strength, cementing his position as the CEO.
But with Vikram’s voting shares being up for grabs now…
His secretary, Izzy, came into the office without knocking. Being another alum of Neel Matta’s generosity, Izzy took for granted a certain personal privilege with Dante that he didn’t allow anyone else. Neither did he doubt that she’d interrupted him for a good reason.
The redhead’s gaze flew to the papers in front of him, clear distress in those green eyes for a moment. But when she met his gaze, she was the consummate professional.
Of course Vikram’s death had touched her too, but like him, Izzy was nothing if not practical.
Pushing his chair back, he laced his fingers at the back of his neck and said, “Spill it.”
“I heard from Nitin’s secretary, Norma, that he’s thinking of calling an emergency board meeting with special counsel present.”
Neel’s brother was so predictable in his greed and deception. “I was expecting that.”
“I wasn’t sure if you had realized it has to do with Vicky’s voting shares being up for grabs now.”
“I did.” Izzy was both competent and brilliant. And utterly loyal to him. The one quality he knew he couldn’t buy even with his billions. “Tell me your thoughts.”
She took a seat and opened her notebook. “I pressed a little on Norma and learned that he means to go over the bylaws in front of the board and direct the conclusion that Vikram’s shares—” an infinitesimal catch in her throat again “—should go to him, since the bylaws state that the voting shares are to be kept in the family.”
“Except when Neel modified them to grant me his shares.” They had been a gift when Dante had made a big business win. Neel had been paving his way into retirement, wanting to slow down and let Dante take over. Instead his heart disease had killed him in a matter of months.
“He means to censure that as an aberration on Neel’s part due to his ailing health.”
Dante smiled. “It’s an allegation he’s continued to make for nigh on ten years now, even though I have held the controlling stake in the company.”
“Also, he’s conveniently forgotten Ali.”
For the first time in years, Dante found his thoughts in sudden disarray.
His mentor’s rebel daughter had always been the one thorn in his rise to success. The one piece of trouble in Neel’s life that Dante hadn’t solved for the man he’d worshipped. The one element he’d never quite figured out properly.
“No, he hasn’t.” Alisha’s scorn for her father’s company wasn’t a secret.
He stood up from his seat. London’s night was glittering into life all around them. “Nitin’s counting on Ali simply refusing to have anything to do with the company, as always. Which means he can inherit all of Vikram’s shares.”
“Can’t you contest that?”
“I can, but if he gets the board on his side and they rule that the shares go to him, there’s not a lot I can do. He’d own the majority. Unless I got…” He trailed off, an idea occurring to him. “Nitin needs to be taught the lesson that I own Matta Steel. Irrevocably.”
“I’m assuming you’ve already come up with a plan for that.”
He had. A brilliant one. He hadn’t put his heart and blood and soul into Matta Steel just so he’d have to defend it every other year.
Again, that twinge of doubt pulled at his chest. He flicked it away. There was no room for emotions in his decision. The only thing he would never violate was Neel’s trust in him—and that meant keeping control of Matta Steel.
Alisha had never wanted to be a part of her papa’s legacy. She had turned her back on everything to do with the company and Neel and even Vikram when he’d been alive.
She’d had nothing but resentment for Dante for as long as he could remember. And he would feel no compunction in taking the things he wanted—the things that she scorned anyway—off her hands, forever.
All he needed was leverage.
Everyone had a price and he just needed to find Ali’s. “Find out where she’s holed up now. She could be anywhere.”
Izzy jerked her head up, shock dancing in her green eyes. “Ali?”
There was reluctance, maybe even unwillingness in her stare.
“Yes. Find Alisha,” he said, simply dismissing the unasked question in Izzy’s eyes. He pulled his jacket on and checked his phone. No reason for him to miss out on his date with the latest Broadway actress touring London.
He reached the door and then turned. “Oh, also, call that PI for me, won’t you? I want to have a little chat with him.”
“Which one?”
“The one I have on my payroll to keep track of Alisha’s movements.”
“But you never look at his reports.” Izzy’s accusation was clear. He’d never given a damn about Alisha except to have someone keep an eye on her, for the purpose of extricating her if she got herself into trouble.
For Neel’s sake.
“I didn’t need to, until now. She’s been safe, mostly, si?” It was a miracle in itself, since she traveled through all the hellholes of the world in the name of her little hobby. Izzy didn’t need to know he read every single one of those reports. On any given day, he knew how and where Alisha was. “Now, however, I need a little bit more info on her.”
“Dante—”
“None of your business, Isabel.” He cut her off smoothly and closed the door behind him.
Izzy had been the one constant person in his life for so long, from the moment he had come to live with Neel all those years ago, yes. But it didn’t mean he invited her into his private thoughts or that he considered her a personal friend.
Dante Vittori didn’t do relationships, of any kind.
* * *
“There’s someone here to see you, Ali.”
Alisha Matta looked up from her crouch on the floor of the Grand Empire Palace restaurant. Her shoulders were tight from supporting the weight of the camera and her thighs burned at her continued position. Ignoring her friend Mak’s voice, she kept clicking.
She’d been waiting all morning in the small kitchen of the crowded restaurant, waiting for Kiki to come home.
The pop of the flash of her Nikon sang through her nerves, the few moments of clarity and purpose making the wait of the last three months utterly worth it. “To your right, look into the camera. No, jut your left hip out, you’re gorgeous, Kiki,” she continued the words of encouragement. She’d managed to learn a little Thai in the last year but her stuttering accent had only made Kiki laugh.
The neon lights and the cheap pink linoleum floors became the perfect background as Kiki shed her jeans and shirt in a move that was both efficient and sensual as hell. Her lithe dancer’s body sang for the camera.
But even the perfection of the shot couldn’t stop the distraction of Mak hovering.
“If it’s John, tell him we’re done,” she whispered.
“It’s an Italian gentleman. In a three-piece Tom Ford suit that I’m pretty sure is custom designed and black handmade Italian loafers. Gucci, I think.”
Ali fell back onto her haunches with a soft thud, hanging on to her expensive camera for dear life. Mak was crazy about designer duds. There was only one Italian gentleman she knew. Except, if it was who she thought it was, he shouldn’t be called a gentleman. More a ruthless soul in the garb of one.
“Said his name was…”
Ali’s heart thudded in tune with the loud blare of the boom box. “What, Mak?”
Mak scrunched his brow. “You know, the guy who wrote about all those circles of hell, that one.”
“Dante,” Ali whispered the word softly. How appropriate that Mak would mention Dante and hell in the same sentence.
Because that was what her papa’s protégé represented to her.
The very devil from hell.
Princesses in glass castles shouldn’t throw stones, bella.
Okay, yes, devil was a bit overboard because he hadn’t actually ever harmed Ali, but still, Ali hated him.
So what was the devil, whose usual playground was the London social circuit, doing on the other side of the world in Bangkok?
The last time they had laid eyes on each other had been when she’d learned of Vikram’s plane crash. She closed her eyes, fighting the memory of the disastrous night, but it came anyway.
She’d been so full of rage, so vulnerable and so vicious toward Dante. For no reason except that he was alive while her brother was gone. Gone before she could reconnect with him.
“He doesn’t look like he’s happy to be kept waiting,” Mak interrupted her trip down a nightmarish memory lane.
Ali pulled herself up.
No, super busy billionaire Dante Vittori wouldn’t like waiting in the ramshackle hotel. How impatient he must be to get back to his empire. To his billions.
How dare Ali keep him waiting while each minute of his time could mean another deal he could broker, another billion he could add to his pile, another company he… She smiled wide.
She’d make him wait.
Because Dante being here meant only one thing: he needed something from her.
And she would jump through those nine circles of hell before she did anything that made his life easier. Or calmer. Or richer.
Slowly, with shaking fingers, she packed up her camera. She pulled the strap of the bag over her shoulder, picked up her other paraphernalia, kissed Kiki’s cheek and pushed the back door open.
The late September evening was balmy, noisy and full of delicious smells emanating from all the restaurants that lined up the street.
Her stomach growled. She promised herself some authentic pad thai and a cold can of Coke as soon as she got to her flat. Thwarting Dante and a well-earned dinner suddenly seemed like a highly pleasurable way to spend her day.
Just as she took another step into the busy street, a black chauffeur-driven Mercedes pulled up, blocking her. Ali blinked at her reflection in the polished glass of the window when the door opened. Out stepped Dante.
In his crisp white shirt, which did wonders for his olive complexion, and tailored black pants, he looked like he’d stepped out of a GQ magazine cover and casually strolled into the colorful street.
His Patek Philippe watch—a gift from her father when he’d welcomed Dante onto the board of Matta Steel, yet one more thing Papa had given Dante and not her—gleamed on his wrist as he stood leaning carelessly against the door, a silky smile curving that sculpted mouth. “Running away again, Alisha?”
He was the only one who insisted on calling her Alisha. Somehow he managed to fill it with reprimand and contempt.
All thoughts of pad thai were replaced with the cold burn of resentment as that penetrating gaze took in her white spaghetti strap top and forest green shorts and traveled from her feet in flip-flops to her hair bunched into a messy bun on top of her head. It was dismissive and yet so thorough that her skin prickled.
Chin tilted, Ali stared right back. She coated it in defiance but after so long, she was greedy for the sight of him. Shouts from street vendors and the evening bustle faded out.
A careless heat filled her veins as she noted the aristocratic nose—broken in his adolescence and fixed—the dark, stubble-coated line of his jaw and deep-set eyes that always mocked her, the broad reach of his shoulders, the careless arrogance that filled every pore. He exuded that kind of masculine confidence that announced him as the top of the food chain both in the boardroom and out of it.
And his mouth… The upper lip was thin and carved and the lower was fuller and lush, the only hint of softness in that face and body. It was a soft whisper about the sensuality he buried under that ruthlessness.
Her heart was now thundering in her chest, not unlike Mak’s boom box. Heat flushed her from within. She jerked her gaze to meet his, saw the slight flare of his nostrils.
Christ, what was she doing? What was she imagining?
Ali moved her tongue around in her dry mouth, and somehow managed to say, “I have nothing to say and I want nothing to do with you.”
To do with you…
The words mocked her, mocked the adolescent infatuation she’d nursed for him that she now hated, morphing into something much worse. Everything she despised about him also attracted her to him. If that weren’t a red flag…
He halted her dignified exit with his fingers on her wrist, the calloused pads of his fingers playing on her oversensitized skin.
She jerked her arm out of his grip like a scalded cat. His mouth tightened, but whatever emotion she had incited disappeared behind his controlled mask. “I have a proposal that I’m sure you would like to hear.”
God, how she wanted to do or say something that made that mask shatter completely. How she wished she could be the one who brought the arrogant man to his knees. Her sudden bloodthirstiness shocked even her.
She’d always liked coloring outside the lines, yes, but not to the point of self-destruction. And that was what Dante made her do. Always.
At some point, hating him had become more important than trying to build a bridge to her father, than reconnecting with Vikram.
No more.
No playing to his point by doing something he would hate; no trying to stir up that smooth facade and burn her bridges.
You’re a necessary nuisance, Alisha. I put up with your mind games for his sake. Only for his.
A calm filled her at her resolution. “What do you want from me?”
A brow rose in the too angular face. There was that tightness to his mouth again. In a parallel universe, Ali would have concluded that that assumption pricked him. In this one where she knew Dante Vittori had no emotions, she didn’t.
“Why are you so sure that I want something from you?”
“You’re thousands of miles away from your empire. From everything I know, there’s no steel plant in this area, nor a lot of demand for it. Unless you’re scouting the area to build a new plant with cheap labor, then you’re not to check up on me.”
“I’ve always known where you are, Alisha.”
She swallowed.
“However much you like to pretend that there are no ties between us, however far you run in pursuit of your little hobby, you are, at the end of the day, his daughter.”
His statement put paid to any emotional extrapolation she was still stupid enough to make from his previous one. As if he worried she might read too much—or anything at all—into him keeping tabs on her.
He had always been loyal to her father; would always be loyal to him. Keeping track of her fell somewhere under that umbrella. Nothing at all to do with the woman she was.
Nothing.
“I’m not interested in trading insults with you,” she said, unable to stop her voice from cracking. “I’m not… I’m not that impulsive, destructive Ali anymore.”
“That would be a nice change of pace for us, si? So we’ll have dinner and not trade insults tonight.”
“I said no insults. That doesn’t mean I want to be anywhere near you for more than five minutes.” It was her own confused emotions and this…blasted attraction that made her want to avoid him even now.
“Ah…” With a graceful flick of his wrist, he made a big show of checking his watch. “That lasted about thirty seconds.” His gaze caught hers. “I’m not and have never been your enemy, Alisha.”
And just like that, her attraction to him became a near tangible thing in the air. Her hating him became the only weapon in her armor. “Eating out is a pleasure for me and somehow I don’t see that being the primary emotion if we’re forced together for too long.”
A calculating glint appeared in his eyes. “There’s something you want in my grasp. When will you learn to act guided by your goals and not by your emotions?”
She could feel herself shaking. “Not everyone is an ambitious, heartless bastard like you are.” There went her resolution to be polite. “Just tell me what your proposal is. Now.”
“It has to do with your mother’s charity. That’s all you’ll get now. My chauffeur will pick you up at six for dinner. And, Alisha, dress appropriately. We won’t be eating hunched over some street vendor’s stall in the market. Neither will I appreciate the half-naked, wrapped-around-a-has-been-rock-star look you sported the last time around for my benefit.”
How she wished she could say it hadn’t been for his benefit, but they both knew it had been. Her eighteenth and his twenty-eighth birthday party would be etched on her memory forever.
“Arrogant, ruthless, manipulative, controlling, yes, but I never thought you were a snob,” she threw back at him.
“Because I want to have a civilized dinner at a place where you won’t throw things at me?”
Another bad night. Another bad memory.
No, it was time to rewrite how Dante saw her. Time to stop expecting things from him from some unwritten script in her own head. “One dinner. No more.”
She’d almost walked away.
“Why does it bother you so much to be around me?”
Her face burned and it had nothing to do with the last of the day’s heat. “It doesn’t.”
“No? Isn’t that why you avoid your family home, why you never come to London? You avoid your extended family, your old friends, you move from place to place like a nomad.”
You took everything that should have been mine, she wanted to say, like she’d done once. But it wouldn’t be the truth.
Dante hadn’t taken anything her father hadn’t been more than happy and willing to give him. Dante hadn’t shattered her family. Her father had.
But when it came to him…she was still that morass of anger and attraction and something more that she was terrified to discover. “That mansion, even London, they haven’t been home to me in a long time.”
That silky, slick smile tugged up the corners of his mouth again. “It’s a relief to know then that your life’s not revolved around avoiding me then, si. See you tonight, Alisha.”
He was gone before she could blink, before she could counter the arrogant assumption. As she went home, Ali couldn’t shake off the sense of dread that settled in her gut.
She and Dante couldn’t stand each other. So why the hell was he insisting on an intimate dinner? And how would she get through it without compromising her dignity?