A Night In His Arms. Annie West
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him off when he’d dared touch her.
The woman before him bore the scars of bone-deep pain. It was clear in every feature, so raw he almost turned away, as if seeing such emotion was a violation.
A shudder passed through him. Shock that instead of the anger he’d nursed as he strode through the house, it was something like pity that stirred.
‘I’m sorry.’ Her voice was a rasp of laboured air. ‘It shouldn’t have happened. I was so young and stupid.’ Her voice faded as she looked down at the patina of old wood beneath her hands. ‘I should never have let him in.’
Domenico crossed the room in a few quick strides and hunkered beside her, his heart thumping.
She admitted it?
It didn’t seem possible after all this time.
‘If I hadn’t let him in, none of it would have happened.’ She drew a breath that shook her frame. ‘I’ve gone over it so often. If only I hadn’t listened to him. If only I’d locked the door.’
Domenico frowned. ‘You had no need to lock the door against my brother. I refuse to believe he would have forced himself on you.’
The idea went against everything he knew about Sandro. His brother had been a decent man. A little foolish in his choice of wife, but honourable. A loving brother and doting father. A man who’d made one mistake, led astray by a beautiful, scheming seductress, but not a man who took advantage of female servants.
That blonde head swung towards him and she blinked. ‘I wasn’t talking about your brother. I was talking about the bodyguard, Bruno.’ Her voice slowed on the name as if her tongue thickened. Domenico heard what sounded like fear in her voice. ‘I shouldn’t have let Bruno in.’
Domenico shot to his feet. Disappointment was so strong he tasted it, a rusty tang, on his tongue.
‘You still stick to that story?’
The bruised look in her eyes faded, replaced by familiar wariness. Her mouth tightened and for an instant Domenico felt a pang almost of loss as she donned her habitual air of challenge.
A moment later she was again that woman ready to defy the world with complete disdain. Even curled up at his feet she radiated a dignity and inner strength he couldn’t deny.
How did she do it? And why did he let it get to him? She was a liar and a criminal, yet there was something about her that made him wish things were different.
There always had been. That was the hell of it.
His gut dived. Even to think it was a betrayal of Sandro.
‘I don’t tell stories, Signor Volpe.’ She got to her feet in a supple movement that told him she hadn’t spent the last years idle. ‘Bruno killed your brother but—’ she raised her hand when he went to speak ‘—don’t worry, you won’t hear it from me again. I’m tired of repeating myself to people who won’t listen.’
She made to move past him but his hand shot out to encircle her upper arm. Instantly she tensed. Would she try to fight him off as she had downstairs? He almost wished she would. There’d be a primitive satisfaction in curbing her temper and stamping his control on that fiery, passionate nature she hid behind the untouchable façade.
Heat tingled through his fingers where he held her. He braced himself but she merely looked at him, eyebrows arching.
‘You wanted something?’ Acid dripped from her words.
Domenico’s eyes dropped to her mouth, soft pink again now that colour had returned to her face. The blush pink of rose petals at dawn.
A pulse of something like need thudded through his chest. He told himself it was the urge to wring her pretty neck. Yet his mouth dried when he watched her lips part a fraction, as if she had trouble inhaling enough air. There was a buzzing in his ears.
Her eyes widened and Domenico realised he’d leaned closer. Too close. Abruptly he straightened, dropping her arm as if it burnt him.
‘I want to know what you plan to do.’
He didn’t have the right to demand it. Her glittering azure gaze told him that. But he didn’t care. She wasn’t the only one affected by this media frenzy. He had family to protect.
‘I want to find somewhere private, away from the news hounds.’
He nodded. ‘I can arrange that.’
‘Not here!’ The words shot out. A frisson shuddered through the air, a reminder of shadows from the past.
‘No, not here.’ He had estates in Italy as well as in California’s Napa Valley and another outside London. Any of them would make a suitable safe house till this blew over.
‘In that case, I accept your generous offer, Signor Volpe. I’ll stay in your safe haven for a week or so, until this furore dies down.’
She must be more desperate than she appeared. She hadn’t even asked where she’d be staying. Or with whom.
LUCY WOKE TO silence.
Cocooned in a wide comfortable bed with crisp cotton sheets and the fluffiest of down pillows, she lay, breathing in the sense of peace.
She felt...safe.
The realisation sideswiped her.
Who’d have thought she’d owe Domenico Volpe such a debt? A solid night’s sleep, undisturbed till late morning judging by the sunlight rimming the curtains. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d slept so long or so soundly.
Lucy flung back the covers, eager to see where she was. Last night she’d left from the helipad on the roof of the palazzo and headed into darkness. Domenico Volpe had said merely she’d go to one of his estates, somewhere she could be safe from press intrusion.
After yesterday’s traumas that had been good enough for her. She desperately needed time to lick her wounds and decide what to do. With no friends, no job and very little money the outlook was grim.
Till she pulled back the curtains and gasped. Strong sunlight made her blink as she took in a vista of wide sky, sea and a white sand beach below a manicured garden.
It was paradise. The garden had an emerald lawn, shade trees and sculpted hedges. Pots of pelargoniums and other plants she couldn’t identify spilled a profusion of flowers in a riot of colours, vivid against the indigo sea.
Unlatching the sliding glass door, Lucy stepped onto a balcony. Warmth enveloped her and the scent of growing things. Birds sang and she heard, like the soft breath of a sleeping giant, the gentle shush of waves. Dazzled, she stared, trying to absorb it all. But her senses were overloaded. Tranquillity and beauty surrounded her and absurdly she felt the pinprick of hot tears.
She’d dreamed of freedom but had never imagined a place like this. Her hands clenched on the railing. It was almost too much to take in. Too much change from the grey, authoritarian world she’d known.
A moment later she’d scooped up a cotton robe and dragged it on over her shabby nightgown. She cinched the tie at her waist as she pattered down the spiral staircase from her balcony.
Reflected light caught her eye and she spied a huge infinity pool that seemed to merge with the sea beyond. Turf cushioned her bare feet as she made for the balustrade overlooking the sea. Yet she stopped time and again, admiring an arbour draped with scented flowers, a pool that reflected the sprawling villa, unexpected groves and modern sculptures.
‘Who are you? I’m Chiara and I’m six.’ The girl’s Italian had a slight lisp.
Lucy turned to meet inquisitive dark eyes and a sunny smile. Automatically her lips curved in response to the girl’s gap-toothed grin, stretching facial muscles Lucy hadn’t used