An Inheritance of Shame. Кейт Хьюит
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he asked softly.
‘Don’t do this,’ she said helplessly. ‘What happened between us is over. I know that. It’s fine.’
‘It is not fine.’
She turned back to him, genuine confusion clouding her eyes to a stormy grey. ‘Why? Why do you ever care what I think or feel?’
‘Because—’ He heard his voice rise in frustration. Because I can’t stop thinking about you. Because when I finally fall asleep at night I dream of your eyes, your mouth, your softness. What would it take to stop thinking about this woman? To get her out of his head completely?
Lucia’s gaze swept over him and then she angled her head away, hiding her face. Her eyes. ‘I must go.’ She turned towards the lift, extended one hand towards the button.
Without thinking about what he was doing Angelo lunged forward, trapped her hand with his against the panel of buttons. ‘Don’t.’
She stilled, and he realised how close he was to her, his body pressing hers against the wall next to the lift. He could feel the heat coming off her lithe, athletic frame, and also the awareness. It coiled and snapped between them like a live wire, an attraction he’d felt—and surrendered to—all those years before. An attraction he still felt now—and with a thrill of satisfaction he knew she felt it too. It wasn’t over.
He lowered his head so his lips brushed the dark softness of her hair, inhaled the clean, warm scent of her.
‘Lucia,’ he murmured, and he felt her tense even more.
‘Let me go, Angelo.’ Her voice trembled and broke on the note of his name and he felt a savage surge of triumph at knowing how affected she was. How attracted.
His lips brushed her hair again and with one hand he drew her own away from the lift button. A shudder wracked her body at his touch, and Angelo felt another thrill surge through him at her blatant response.
He laced his fingers with her own and put his other hand on her shoulder, gently turning her around so her back was against the lift, her body towards him.
He pressed against her and although she remained tense he could still feel her response, her body arching helplessly towards his. This was what he’d wanted all along, he acknowledged with a sudden, primal certainty. This was what he couldn’t forget. What he wouldn’t forget.
And this was how he would finally exorcise himself of her.
She’d lowered her head, her hair sliding in front of her face. He tucked a tendril behind her ear.
‘Don’t—’ she whispered, but the single word ended on a shudder of longing.
‘Don’t what?’ Angelo asked huskily. ‘Don’t touch you, or don’t stop?’ He trailed his fingers down her cheek, let his thumb caress the intoxicating fullness of her lips. Another shudder, and he felt the answering ache inside him. She was so soft. Lips, hair, the curve of her cheek. ‘Don’t kiss you?’ he murmured, and then he did.
Her lips were as sweet and warm as he remembered, and after only a second’s pause they parted beneath his own. He swept his tongue into her mouth’s softness, his hands sliding from her shoulders to her waist and then to her hips, pulling her closer to him, fitting her against his arousal.
Her hands came up to his shoulders, her fingers curling around as she responded to his kiss, her tongue meeting his, her mouth and body accepting him as they had before.
Triumph and something far deeper and needier surged through him. How had he ever lived without this? Without her?
He moved his hand upwards to cup the warm swell of her breast, felt her shuddering response. Then he felt a tear splash onto his cheek and he jerked away as if that single drop had scorched him.
‘Maledizione, you’re crying?’
Lucia dashed the tear from her face. ‘You think I want this?’ she snapped, her voice choked and yet still filled with furious pride. ‘You think I want a repeat of what happened before? Another one-night stand?’
‘I…’ At a loss, Angelo just shook his head. He’d thought her so hard, so indifferent, yet in that moment it seemed no more than a charade. She couldn’t hide the honest emotion in her eyes, and it was despair. Grief. ‘Lucia…’
‘Don’t.’ Her voice came out clogged and she shook her head. ‘Please don’t, Angelo.’ She turned from him, her whole body trembling, and pressed the button for the lift.
She didn’t say anything else and neither did he as they waited for the lift doors to open. He was still reeling from shock at the naked sorrow that had swamped her eyes when the doors opened and she stepped inside. She didn’t turn around to face him and Angelo felt that familiar pressure build in his chest, throb in his temples. He didn’t want her to go. Not like this—
The doors closed on both of their silence.
He stood there for a moment, his head aching, his heart aching. Damn his heart. Damn hers. Why had she looked so sad? So lost? He’d thought she was strong, hard. Indifferent…yet she hadn’t been indifferent to him in his arms. He’d thought then she felt the same consuming desire and need he felt, not sadness. Grief.
When he’d gazed down at her she’d looked…broken.
He didn’t want to think about why.
He turned from the lift and stalked over to his laptop, pulling it resolutely towards him, determined to forget about Lucia once and for all.
He couldn’t be distracted from his purpose here. He had work to do, more deals to make, more plans to put into motion. Battaglia wanted to meet him and discuss the docklands regeneration project. Luca’s fashion business could be ripe for a hostile takeover. Even Gio and his horses on the other side of the island might show a weakness. The Corretti empire was surely starting to crumble, and he’d be the one to sweep up the pieces.
He was on the cusp, Angelo reminded himself, of having everything he’d ever wanted.
So why now, as ever, did he feel so empty?
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