A Night In His Arms: Captive in the Spotlight / Meddling with a Millionaire / How to Seduce a Billionaire. Annie West
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prefer the castle.’
‘To lord it over my subjects?’
She shook her head. This man didn’t need external proof of his authority. It was all there—stamped in the austere beauty of his face. He’d been born to wealth but he’d grown into a man used to command.
‘Since family tradition means so much, you could restore the place.’
‘Ah, but this is an acquisition, not an inheritance. I bought it years ago to celebrate my first success.’
Lucy turned to meet his gaze. ‘Success?’
‘Si.’ His brows rose and she caught a flash of steel in his eyes. ‘Or did you think we Volpes have no need of work? That we sit on our inherited wealth and do nothing?’ His tone bit.
Once she’d have thought that was precisely what his family did, after seeing the ultra-luxurious way his brother and sister-in-law lived. Pia had never lifted a finger to do anything for herself, or her child.
Instantly guilt flared, twisting Lucy’s stomach. Pia might have been completely spoiled but her lack of involvement with little Taddeo had stemmed from her inability to bond with the baby. Lucy knew how much guilt and shame, not to mention fear that had caused the poor woman. No wonder she’d been insecure.
‘I see that’s exactly what you think.’
‘Sorry?’ Lucy blinked and turned, surprised to find herself so close to the man who now loomed over her.
‘You view us as lazy parasites, perhaps?’ His voice was low and amused but Lucy knew in her bones that amusement hid anger.
‘Not at all.’ She tilted her chin to meet his stare unflinchingly. ‘I know your wealth began with your inheritance but you struck out on your own as an entrepreneur, risking your capital on projects others wouldn’t touch. Your flair for managing risk made you the golden-haired boy of the European business world when other ventures were collapsing around you. You have a reputation for hard work and phenomenal luck.’
‘It’s not luck,’ he murmured. ‘It’s careful calculation.’
Lucy shrugged. ‘Whatever the reason, the markets call you Il Volpe, the fox, for good reason.’
‘Fascinating that you should know so much about me.’ His voice brushed across her skin like the touch of rich velvet. A ripple of pleasure followed it.
Instinctively Lucy made to step back, then stopped.
Never back down. Never retreat. Weakness shown was an invitation to be walked over.
‘It seemed prudent to know what I was up against.’
His eyebrows soared. ‘We weren’t in conflict.’
‘No?’ She shook her head. ‘Your family’s influence put me behind bars.’
His eyes narrowed to deadly slits. Heat sizzled at the look he gave her.
‘Let’s get this straight. My family did no more than wait the outcome of the trial.’
Lucy opened her mouth to protest but his raised hand stopped her.
‘No! You imply what? That we rigged the trial? That we bribed the police or judiciary?’ He shook his head in a fine show of anger. ‘The evidence convicted you, Ms Knight. Nothing else.’ He paused and she watched him grapple for control, his strong features taut, his muscles bunched.
He drew a deep breath and Lucy saw his wide chest expand. When he spoke his voice was crisp. ‘You have my word as a Volpe on it. We live within the law.’
There was no mistaking his emotion. It was almost convincing.
‘You don’t believe me?’ His eyes narrowed.
In truth she didn’t know. There was no doubt she’d been disadvantaged by the quality of her legal team compared with the ruthless efficiency and dogged determination of the prosecution. And it was obvious that sympathy lay with Pia, the beautiful grieving widow and young mother. Lucy knew that sympathy had given Pia’s evidence more weight than it deserved. At Lucy’s expense.
Plus Bruno Scarlatti, Sandro’s bodyguard and the prosecution’s chief witness, was ex-police. He’d shone in court. His evidence had been clear and precise, unclouded by emotion. That evidence had damned her and swayed the court. She was sure his ex-police status had weighed with the investigators too, though she had no proof.
‘I...don’t know.’ For the first time confusion filled her, not the righteous indignation that had burned so long.
‘I’m not used to having my word doubted.’ Hauteur laced Domenico’s tone.
Lucy’s lips curled in a sour half smile. ‘Believe me, it doesn’t get any easier with time.’
His eyes widened as he realised she was talking about herself. She almost laughed, but there was nothing funny about it.
Even after all this time, bearing the burden of public guilt was like carrying an open wound. She wondered if she’d ever feel whole again while she carried that lie with her. It had changed her life irrevocably.
Now the dreams she’d cherished about starting afresh seemed just that—dreams. How could they not, with Sylvia’s cruel betrayal and the eager press waiting to scoop more stories? How would she find the peace she craved to build a new life?
She turned away, her joy in the place forgotten.
‘Wait.’ The word stabbed the silence.
‘What?’ Reluctantly she faced him.
‘This—’ his hand slashed between them ‘—isn’t helpful.’
‘So?’
‘So—’ his nostrils flared as he breathed deep ‘—I propose a truce. You’re my guest. I’ll treat you as such and you’ll reciprocate. No more accusations, by either of us.’
Was this to soften her up so she’d sign his paper? Or was it, a little squiggle of hope tickled her, because he had doubts about her guilt?
No. That hope died as it was born. He’d shown no doubt in court. Not once. He’d spurned her as if she were unclean. He didn’t want to absolve her, just strike an accord that would give them peace while they shared the villa.
Peace. That was what she craved, wasn’t it?
‘Agreed.’ Lucy put her hand out and, after a surprised glance, he took it.
She regretted it as soon as his fingers enveloped hers. Fire sparked and spread from his touch, running tendrils of heat along her arm to her cheeks, breasts and belly. Even down her legs, where her knees locked against sudden weakness.
She sucked in a shocked breath at the intensity of that physical awareness.
Did he feel it? His eyes gleamed deep silver and his sculpted lips tightened.
His next words were the last she expected to hear.
‘So you will call me Domenico, si? And I’ll call you Lucy.’
Time warped. It was as if they were back in Rome, chance met strangers, her heart thundering as their eyes locked for the first time.
His gaze bored into hers, challenging her to admit the idea of his name on her lips discomfited her. Or was it the sound of her own name, like a tantalising caress in his rich, deep voice, that made her pulse falter?
‘I don’t think—’
‘To seal our truce,’ he insisted, his gaze intent as if reading the thrill of shock snaking through her.
‘Of course.’ She refused to let him fluster her, especially over something so trivial.
Yet it didn’t feel trivial. It felt... Lucy groped for a word to describe the sensations assailing her but failed.
With