Page 47 of Incognito

“Fight back.” Clenching her hands into fists, she said, “The only reason I let you get away with any of this is because of my mother. You knew about her heart condition, you knew she was a worrier who’d been advised to avoid stress, but what did you do? You ram the fact you loaned us money down our throats and that you wanted it paid back in blood.”

Her voice choked with raw emotion—the devastation of losing her mother bubbling to the surface, the cold, hard rage—that he’d been the cause of it all.

Taking a step forward, she pointed at him. “You killed her. With your pathetic ruse to make me love you to get your grubby hands on the hotel and your outrageous demands for payback with interest. You rubbed our noses in it, rubbed her nose in it, and you killed her, you bastard.”

His jaw dropped and if it didn’t take a huge effort to keep her fury in check, she would’ve laughed at his shock.

“Well, guess what, Clay? The damage is done. I’ve lost my mother thanks to you, so any smear campaign you run now can’t hurt her. I gave into your demands for her sake, to avoid further scandal ruining her health. But that’s a moot point now.” She waved him away. “Go ahead, do your worst. The Telford name can hold its own, but can the same be said for your precious ego? Do you want me to tell the whole of Melbourne how you reallydo business, and ruin your reputation in the process? Go ahead and try me.”

He snorted, but she glimpsed fear in his eyes. “No one will believe you.”

She towered over him, wishing she could take a swing, knowing she’d never give him the satisfaction.

“You really take me for a fool, don’t you? I have documents stating the original loan amount and the cashed cheque details made out to you. Everyone will know you’re a shark, a greedy, manipulative user. So just keep my proof in mind if you feel the urge to open that big mouth of yours and slander my hotel.”

As Clay’s cheeks turned puce with rage, she tapped the contract. “Sign here. I don’t have all day.”

She had him.

His threats may have frightened her at the start when she would’ve done anything to save her family the pain of living through the mess she’d made, but not anymore. She’d lost her mother, she’d lost her pride, and she’d almost lost the hotel courtesy of trusting the wrong man.

But she’d repaid her debt, every last cent she’d once seen as a generous handout from a caring fiancé who strutted into her life with pledges of love and endless devotion and financial support.

Instead, the scheming lowlife had demanded full payment plus interest when she ended their engagement and she agreed to his terms for the sake of her family.

Now, Clay wouldn’t bother her again. He had an enormous ego and valued appearances beyond anything; he would never risk his society cronies or his business associates finding out what he’d done to her. Repaying a debt was one thing, charging her interest to stop him ruining her family via slander in the hotel business, another.

Finally, she’d repaid every penny of his exorbitant interest charges, and as he picked up a silver pen, signed the contract, and turned his back on her, she was free.

She folded the contract, tucked it into her purse, headed for the door, and didn’t look back.

She held her head high and practically floated from the Collins Street skyscraper, intent on putting as much distance between Clay and her past as possible.

However, her elation lasted all of two seconds as she boarded a tram, sat, and glanced out the window at the stunning Sofitel hotel—one of her major competitors—and spotted a familiar figure standing beside a gleaming silver stretch limo

Dante hadn’t left.

He’d merely changed hotels, if the valet opening the door for him and doffing his hat was any indication.

If he hadn’t left the country as she assumed, he’d changed hotels because he couldn’t stand to be near her.

It was the only explanation that made sense.

Tears flooded her eyes and she blinked them away. She must’ve made a mistake. It couldn’t have been Dante.

But as she watched the broad-shouldered guy in a designer suit, his too-long hair now trimmed to within an inch of its life, his too-blue eyes fixed on a thick pile of documentation in his hands, she had her answer.

Dante had resumed his princely duties.

He’d returned to normalcy, to his usual life that didn’t include her, and seeing him dressed in a suit, clean shaven and short haired, merely reinforced that the guy she’d known didn’t exist.

He never had.

Dante had been trying to escape his life for whatever reasons and she’d got caught in the crossfire. Stupidly, irrevocably caught in crossfire that had wounded her heart along the way.

Watching the limo pull away, she swiped at her eyes and sank back into her seat.

Dante hadn’t left the country.

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