Italian Escape with the CEO
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Nina Milne
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CHAPTER ONE
AVA CASSEVETI STUDIED her reflection in the mirror and tried out her trademark smile. Fake it till you make it. It was a mantra that had always served her well, had got her through an outwardly gilded life, and one that she now relied on to manage the trials and tribulations that had multiplied on a daily basis since her father’s death.
Another look at herself and she reached out for her reddest lipstick, a fire-engine red, completely suited to the day ahead. With any luck people would be distracted from the tiredness in her eyes, the pallor of her skin that even her super-expensive, perfectly matched foundation couldn’t completely conceal.
But she would keep it together, present the façade, convince the world that she was in control, a competent businesswoman able to hold the family company together.
Family. The word boomed around her head, clanged with irony as the complications of her family tree threatened to tangle her mind.
Why did you do it, Dad?
She closed her eyes, pictured her father, the bluff good looks, the boyish cheek he had maintained even into his sixties, the youthfulness that had survived his first heart attack four years before. His presence, his aura, her belief in him, all shattered when she’d learnt the contents of his will, her grief at losing the man she adored darkened by the confusion and hurt over his betrayal, wrapped in the legalese of his last will and testament.
Because instead of leaving Dolci, the dessert company he had founded, to Ava—the company she had put her heart and soul into for the past five years—he had left it to Ava and her two half-siblings, Luca and Jodi. Remembered shock, disbelief and the ice-cold stab of betrayal hit her again.
Luca and Jodi Petrovelli, children from his previous marriage, from his past, who had never been part of the Dolci venture. Children who hadn’t even kept the Casseveti surname, instead had taken their mother’s. Luca and Jodi, adults now, whom Ava had never even met. Though she had known of their existence, the shadowy threat of her childhood nightmares. Little surprise really—even now she could hear her mother’s dire warnings.
‘We have to be careful, Ava darling. Always. Those people would do anything to get Daddy back. And we won’t let that happen, will we, sweetheart?’
Three-year-old Ava had shaken her head vigorously, her mouth dry with fear as she’d imagined Luca and Jodi kidnapping her father.
‘So we’ll be perfect, darling. A perfect family for Daddy. We have to be perfect.’
And Ava had watched Karen Casseveti reach for her make-up.
So that had become Ava’s mission: achieve perfection to ensure a perfect family so the perfidious Petrovellis wouldn’t take her father away. Her understanding was hazy but absolute as she grew into an implicit alliance with her mother—a joint determination that James Casseveti would stay with this family. Though there was always that doubt—after all, he had walked out on his previous wife and children, the precedent set. The doubts were worsened by the overheard conversations that permeated her consciousness as she grew older, the tears and recriminations from her mother.
‘You never loved me. You still love her. Would you have married me if I didn’t have money?’
Her father’s muted, soothing answers that eventually culminated in exasperation and finally into goaded admission.
‘I did love her and Luca—of course I did. They were my family. But now you’ve got me, we have a marriage, we have a daughter. Why can’t that be enough? This is our life.’
And Ava had come to realise that her father had loved his first wife, but had left her regardless, had decided that wealth and connections trumped family. She’d wondered if he ever regretted it, wondered if she and Karen were second best, if the riches and success could compensate.
So she’d redoubled her efforts. Ava always looked perfect, acted perfectly, danced to the tune her mother played. In truth there was no need for complaint. Her life had been one of privilege and she knew how lucky she was.
Yet there had been times when the constraints had stifled her individuality, when she’d felt almost like a parody of her own creation—an impeccable mix of English aristocracy and Dolci heiress. She’d wanted a life where she could follow her own dreams, not those concocted for her, a life not governed by press and publicity and the need to be flawless.
Yet in the end, despite everything, Luca and Jodi had indeed been a threat to be feared; Ava had not been perfect enough and now her half-siblings once more threatened her peace. Two shadowy figures who refused to meet her, refused to communicate except through lawyers.
Ava pulled open a drawer on her dressing table, took out the letter she had read and reread so many times in the past months. The letter of explanation her father had left her.
Dear Ava
I know you must be hurt and angry, and I hope this letter will mitigate that in some way. Please believe that I love you. You have been the most precious thing in my life these past years. You showed me, proved to me, that I am capable of being a good father. You have done nothing wrong.
You did nothing wrong, Ava, but I did. I left behind another family, a wife I loved, a son I loved. Luca was five when I left and my wife Therese was pregnant with a daughter I have never met, Jodi.
However much I try to justify my decisions now, towards the end of my life, I know that they were wrong. I left my life with them to live a life of wealth and plenty, to achieve the success I craved. But Luca and Jodi are my family, my children, and as such they deserve a part in this family company. They should have been given that opportunity a long time ago.
I hope you can accept this and forgive me.
Ava placed the letter down and resisted the urge to rub her eyes, knew tears would simply necessitate a touch-up of the carefully applied eye shadow, the mascara that enhanced her already long eyelashes.
Her gaze flicked to her father’s familiar scrawl and she sighed—talk of acceptance and forgiveness was all very well but that wasn’t how real life was panning out. For a start Karen Casseveti had no intention of doing either. Her whole life was focused now on revenge for her husband’s betrayal. All she wanted to do was overturn the will and oust the Petrovellis. Ava’s refusal to do that had caused a rift between them. Karen could not comprehend her daughter’s ‘defiance’. Guilt touched Ava—she understood how her mother felt but knew that legally they didn’t stand a chance. Knew that morally it wasn’t the right thing to do. Yet she hated seeing her mother’s bitterness and grief, even as she understood it. All through her marriage Karen had known that her husband still loved his first wife, but she’d concealed the knowledge, spun it into a sugar-coated illusion. In death James had torn that down, ripped away the gossamer strands to reveal the stark ugly truth.
As for Luca—who owned his own incredibly successful chocolate company—he seemed set on demonstrating just how little Dolci meant to him. He was refusing to engage, claimed that his sister was unsure of how to proceed and until she made up her mind, he would do nothing. In the meantime that left Dolci floundering in a mire of uncertainty, the Casseveti ‘family’ brand indelibly tainted, negative publicity and salacious gossip everywhere Ava looked, along with the damning verdict of the business world: that Ava Casseveti didn’t have what it took. She was an ex-model, given a role in the company due to nepotism not ability. Otherwise why would her father have left the company to children he didn’t even know?
Her perfectly manicured and painted nails curled into her palms as determination to prove everyone wrong clashed with the cascade of self-doubt. After all, it was a valid point—whatever he claimed in his letter her father wouldn’t have left two thirds of Dolci to his other children if he truly believed in Ava.
But this morning wasn’t about that.
Today was about the next part of her father’s letter.
There is another wrong I did, Ava. One I haven’t had the courage to rectify myself and so I ask you to do it for me.
Many years ago, when I was still with Therese, I had a friend and colleague named Terry Rourke, and it was he and I who came up with the idea of Dolci. It was a pipe dream, discussed over a pint of beer or a Sunday barbecue. I had no legal obligation to bring him in on it but I did have a moral one.
I believe Terry has passed away, but he leaves behind a son—please do something for him in my name.
Thank you, Ava. I ask you to show understanding to your siblings and support to your mother.
My love
Dad
Sometimes it felt to Ava as if she had never known her father, that her relationship with him had been an illusion, a con, a dream, and it was only in death that he was showing his true colours. Yet whatever his shortcomings she missed him with an ache of grief that seared and swelled inside her even six months after his death. A grief that made her determined to at least try to carry out his wishes. James Casseveti had wanted Luca and Jodi to be involved in Dolci—Ava had to give them that chance And now she would go and try to make amends for a wrong done before she was even born.
One last look at her reflection and Ava gave a satisfied nod. She was as ready as she would ever be—ready to face Liam Rourke, Terry Rourke’s son. Another fun day in the life of Ava Casseveti.
In his sleekly furnished office, a careful mix of minimalist and comfort, designed to inspire client confidence, Liam Rourke read the email on his screen. Surprise and disappointment coalesced into a low but heartfelt curse—he’d lost the Daley contract. For an instant anger joined the mix but he resisted the urge to slam his fist onto his desk. He couldn’t win them all, he knew that. But this one stung, because he’d lost it to a man he knew and despised.
Andrew Joseph Mason, known to his upper-class pals as AJ. AJ Mason, ex-army like Liam. Founder of a security company. Like Liam. And there the parallels ended. AJ Mason came from ‘proper’ gilded army stock. There had been a Mason in the British army since time immemorial. No doubt since the first battalion of cavemen faced each other. And no doubt even millennia before they had been officer material, clad in a more expensive brand of leopard skin.
Now here was AJ Mason muscling in on his turf and Liam knew exactly how he was doing it. AJ had influence, clout and connections. All of which were undeniably impressive, especially when put against Liam’s, which were pretty much non-existent. Liam had no army officers in his family, didn’t have that extended familial network. But that shouldn’t matter—though it had to AJ.
For a moment, memories hit Liam, of officer training thirteen years before, and the hell AJ Mason and a couple of his thuggish friends had put him through. AJ had taken an instant dislike to Liam, an antipathy born of his belief that officers should come from an upper-class background. A dislike that had flourished because Liam had turned out to be first-class officer material, had excelled in the training and exercises, had showed AJ up again and again. So AJ had exacted revenge; he’d known Liam would never ‘snitch’, so he and his friends had caused him to be ostracised, forced him to endure humiliation time and again.
Well, he wouldn’t take it again. He was no longer a vulnerable eighteen-year-old boy. He’d figured out a way to beat AJ then and he’d do the same now. Years ago he’d managed to persuade AJ to meet him in the boxing ring. Once there he’d won a hard-fought victory, one where he’d showed AJ up and beaten him fair and square, the land of each punch a relish and retaliation for the humiliations piled upon him. A relish he could still taste now.
But it was a defeat that had left AJ a laughing stock—worse, it had also come to the attention of senior army officers who had been less than happy with him despite his illustrious background and family. AJ had been livid at the time and it seemed that had festered over the years.
There was a knock on the door and Liam’s PA pushed it open and entered.
‘Hey, Rita.’
‘Hey. I’m sorry about Daley.’ The petite redhead shook her head. ‘It sucks. I heard on the grapevine that AJ invited Old Man Daley over for dinner, brought out the family silver and had his wife name-drop like crazy. The tipping point was a promise to invite his daughter to the Henley regatta with a few minor royals in tow. Worse I heard AJ’s going for the Beaumont contract too.’
Liam’s jaw clenched. Beaumont Industries replaced their security providers every five years and had requested a tender from Rourke Securities. It would be the contract that took his business to the next level.
Rita hesitated. ‘It gets worse.’
‘Explain.’
‘He’s dropping insinuations as well as names over the port and cigars. About how tragic it was that you lost your wife. That the tragedy made you lose your edge and isn’t it sad you can’t bring yourself to even date anyone. Shows what a long way you are from recovery.’
The idea that AJ was using Jessica’s death caused cold, hard anger to slide into his gut. Made worse as he realised the effectiveness of the tactic. Right or wrong, like it or not, clients wanted a man with edge to be in charge of their security contracts, not a man still swimming the depths of grief and guilt.
The ache of guilt, the sadness of what might have been, still pulsed inside him, part of the fabric of his being even though it was five years since Jess’s death. The knowledge that their marriage had been a disaster of his own making, that he had taken her love and given her nothing back, allowed her to waste her tragically short life on him.
The start of their relationship had been overshadowed by the illness and death of his father. Followed by their hasty marriage due to Jess’s belief she was pregnant, though by that point Liam had already suspected their relationship was doomed. That in his grief he’d mistaken attraction and liking for love. That Jess’s love for him had blinded him and made him believe he felt the same way. But Jess had been so happy, so grateful even, that she had touched his heart and so he’d squashed down the niggle of doubt, the growing realisation that he didn’t love her. Besides, he would never abandon a child. And by the time they’d realised the pregnancy scare was a false one he’d known he couldn’t reject her love, couldn’t hurt her the way his mother had hurt his father.
A few years later Jess had fallen ill and her last words to him had been of love, an admonishment not to grieve for too long and not to feel guilt over their marriage. Perhaps her forgiveness should have absolved him but in some ways it simply weighted the load more. That final conversation had torn his heart, shredded his insides with sadness and frustration. He would have done anything to give Jess more time, a chance to follow her dreams instead of waiting for him to return her love.
But he wouldn’t show anyone that pain and he knew damn well it hadn’t caused him to lose his edge. ‘Thanks for the info,’ he said. ‘I’ll deal with it.’
‘I know you will.’ Rita glanced at her watch. ‘Anyways, the other reason I came up here was to tell you that you have a visitor.’
‘A potential client?’
‘I assume so.’ Rita frowned. ‘She looks familiar but she’s wearing sunglasses and a scarf. Didn’t want to give me her full name either.’ None of this was unusual—sometimes clients were loath to give their identity or be recognised. ‘She just said her name is Ava.’
Ava. It took all of Liam’s iron control not to react, even as he told himself he was being foolish. Ava wasn’t that uncommon a name—yet to him it had huge significance. The name bandied about during his childhood: Ava Casseveti—daughter of the man who had betrayed his father, driven Terry Rourke to drink and bitterness.
Liam gave his head a small shake—there were plenty of Avas in the world. And why on earth would Ava Casseveti show her face here? Any Casseveti was definitively persona non grata in his world. ‘Bring her in.’
Rita nodded and exited the room. Liam rose, paced, worked to clear his mind from thoughts of the past.
A minute later there was a brief knock, the door swung open and Rita showed a woman in. Designer sunglasses hid her eyes and a scarf covered her hair; her clothes were an explicit demonstration of her status. Clearly expensive, without being flamboyant, they combined power with chic. White blouse, long-sleeved and V-necked, tucked into a dark checked skirt that emphasised her slender waist and long legs. Cool, sleek, professional.
Liam rose and headed round the desk as Rita made a discreet exit. ‘Liam Rourke,’ he said.
Before he could hold out his hand the woman deftly removed her sunglasses, dropped them into her shoulder bag, then swiftly tugged off the scarf to reveal long glossy corn-blonde hair that fell in perfect waves to frame a heart-shaped face. But what arrested him most were her eyes. They were an extraordinary colour, a luminous amber flecked with copper. To his chagrin his jaw dropped of its own volition. There was no need for her to identify herself. This was definitely Ava Casseveti and she was stunning. Little wonder that a few years back she’d taken the modelling world by storm. He blinked and forced his brain cells to regroup.
‘Ava Casseveti,’ she said and held her hand out—long-fingered and elegant, silver rings on the first finger of her right hand and the middle of her left, perfect nails a pale brown. Liam shook her hand, registered the smooth silk of her skin and a sudden little zing shot through him at her touch. Whoa. His gaze met hers and for a fleeting second he saw a flicker of shock in the amber depths and he knew she’d felt it too.
Time to focus, however surreal this felt. But it was hard because in some strange way Ava had always been a part of his life, both a nemesis and a motivator. Hadn’t he wanted to prove to his father, to himself, that he would succeed despite what James Casseveti had done? Driven to do better than James Casseveti’s daughter.
All of which explained that jolt and presumably also explained why their hands were still intertwined. As if she too realised that fact she moved backwards and disengaged her clasp, inhaled deeply and met his gaze. ‘Thank you for seeing me at such short notice. Before I explain why I am here, can I ask if your father ever mentioned my father?’
The words tumbled from generous lips outlined in the reddest of reds and the sheer irony of the question nearly startled a bitter laugh from him. Instead he merely inclined his head. ‘Yes. He did.’ On a daily basis. The story of James Casseveti’s betrayal had been the equivalent of Liam’s bedtime story, the tale of how Terry Rourke’s best friend had used their business idea to leapfrog to fame and fortune. And that act of treachery had destroyed his father’s life, his marriage, his job...the success of Dolci had broken Terry Rourke. And broken his family with it.
Pulling himself to the present, he gestured to his desk. ‘Why don’t you sit down? Then you can tell me why you are here.’
