Captive in the Spotlight. Annie West
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‘This way, signorina.’ The bodyguard ushered her towards a lift.
Minutes later she found herself in a part of the palazzo she’d never visited. But its grand dimensions, its exquisitely intricate marble flooring and air of otherworld luxury were instantly familiar.
Her skin prickled as she inhaled that almost forgotten scent. Of furniture polish, hothouse flowers and, she’d once joked, money. Memories washed over her, of those first exciting days in a new country, of her awe at her surroundings, of that last night—
‘Ms Knight?’ Lucy, he’d called her once. For a few bright, brief hours. Instantly Domenico slammed the memory of that folly into an iron vault of memory.
She spun around and he saw huge, haunted eyes. Her face had paled and her fine features were pinched.
The mask slipped at last.
He should feel satisfaction at her unease in his family home. But it wasn’t pleasure he experienced. He had no name for this hyper-awareness, this knife-edge between antipathy and absorption.
Sensation feathered through him, like the tickle of his conscience, teasing him for bringing her here.
Lucy Knight had fascinated him all those years ago. To his chagrin he realised she still did. More than was desirable. It was one thing to know your enemy. Another to respond to her fear with what felt too much like sympathy.
As he watched the moment of vulnerability was gone. Her face smoothed out and her pale eyebrows arched high as if waiting for him to continue.
‘This way.’ He gestured for her to accompany him, conscious of her beside him as they headed to his side of the palazzo. She was a head shorter but kept pace easily, not hesitating for a moment.
He had to hand it to her; she projected an air of assurance many of his business associates would envy. Twice now he’d seen behind the façade of calm but both times it had been a quick glimpse and the circumstances had been enough to discomfit anyone.
In his study he gestured for her to take a seat. Instead she prowled the room, inspecting the bookcases, the view from the window and, he was sure, scoping out a possible escape route. There was none.
Instead of taking one of the sofas near the fireplace as he’d intended, Domenico settled behind his desk.
‘Why have you brought me here?’
She stood directly before the desk, feet planted as if to ground herself ready for attack.
‘To talk.’
‘Talk?’ The word shot out. ‘You had your chance to talk five years ago. As I recall, you weren’t interested in renewing our acquaintance.’ Her tone was bitter and her eyes glittered with fury.
The difference between this Amazon and the girl he’d briefly known struck him anew.
‘And to separate you and the press.’
‘No altruistic rescue then.’ She gave no indication of disappointment, merely met his gaze in frank appraisal.
‘Did you expect one?’
‘No.’ She answered before he’d finished speaking.
Why did her readiness to distrust rankle? He hadn’t expected doe-eyed innocence. The scales had been ripped from his eyes long ago.
‘Feel free to sit.’
‘No.’ She paused. ‘Thank you. I prefer to stand.’ She swallowed hard.
Thanking him must almost have choked her.
As having her in his home revolted every sensibility. Was Sandro turning in his grave? No. Sandro would have approved of his actions.
‘For how long?’ She watched him closely.
‘As long as it takes.’
She frowned. ‘As long as what takes?’
Domenico leaned back in his chair. He sensed it was too early to reveal his full intent. Better proceed slowly than rush and have her refuse out of hand.
‘For the press to lose interest in this story.’
‘There is no story. It happened so long ago.’
Domenico’s belly clenched. ‘You think what happened means nothing now? That it’s all over?’
Her head shot up. ‘It is over. I’ve served the sentence for manslaughter and now I’m free. If there was anything I could do to bring your brother back I would.’ She heaved a deep breath that strained her breasts against the dark fabric. ‘But there’s not.’
‘You cut off my brother’s life in his prime.’ Anger vibrated in his words and he strove to modulate his voice. ‘You made my sister-in-law a widow before her time. She was barely a wife, still struggling to adapt to motherhood, and suddenly she was alone.’
Sky blue eyes met his unflinchingly.
Did none of it matter to her?
‘Because of you my nephew will never know his father.’ The words grated from a throat scraped raw with anger. ‘You denied them both that. You left a gaping hole in his life.’
As she’d ripped a hole in Domenico’s life. Even now he found it hard to believe Sandro was gone. The older brother who’d been his friend, his pillar of strength when their parents had died and Domenico was still a kid. His mentor, who’d applauded his tenacity when he’d branched out as an entrepreneur, building rather than relying on the family fortune and traditions.
He wanted her to know the pain she’d caused. To feel it. The civilised man he was knew she’d paid the price society saw fit for her crime. The wounded, grief-stricken one wanted more. Remorse. Guilt. A confession. Something.
‘You can’t control the press.’ She spoke as if nothing he’d said mattered, brushing aside so much pain.
For a full thirty seconds Domenico stared at the woman who’d destroyed so much, yet felt so little. He couldn’t understand how anyone could be so devoid of compassion. He wished he’d never sullied himself by helping her, even if it wasn’t for her benefit.
But he refused to let Sandro’s family suffer any more because of Lucy Knight.
‘I can starve them of fresh news.’
‘But there is no news.’
‘You’re out of jail. The murderess set free.’
Her chin jutted. ‘The charge was manslaughter.’
Domenico bit down the need to tell her legalistic quibbling didn’t change the fact of Sandro’s death. Instead he reached for the glossy pages on his desk.
‘There’s still a story. Especially after this.’
‘What is it?’ She stepped forward, her expression closed, but he read the rigidity of her slim frame, as if she prepared for the worst.
For a second Domenico hesitated. Why, he didn’t know. Then he tossed the magazine across the gleaming surface of the desk.
She tilted her head to read it where it lay, as if not wanting to touch it. He couldn’t blame her. It was the sort of trash he avoided, but Pia, his sister-in-law, was obviously a fan. She’d brought it to his attention, hysterical that the sordid tragedy was being resurrected.
Eventually Lucy Knight reached out and flipped the page with one finger. The story spread across both pages. Her likeness featured beside the text. Another picture of her and an older man, her father. Then more of a rather hollow-eyed woman and a gaggle of children.
He watched Lucy Knight’s eyes widen, heard her breath hitch, then a hiss of shock. She’d turned the colour of ash. Even her lips paled. Rapidly she blinked and he could have sworn tears welled in those remarkable eyes.
Then,