by Annie West
Lucy had never been so alone. Not even that first night in custody. Even after the conviction when she knew she had years of imprisonment ahead. Nor facing down the taunts and jeers as she’d learned to handle the threats from prisoners who’d tried to make her life hell.
The magazine was a rag but an upmarket one. Sylvia had sold her out for what must be a hefty fee.
Lucy blinked stinging eyes as she stared at the vile publication in her lap.
She thought she’d known degradation and despair. But it was only now that her life hit rock bottom.
And Domenico Volpe was here to see it.
She shivered, chilled to the marrow. How he must be gloating.
‘The coffee will be here soon.’
Lucy looked up to find him standing across from her, watchful. No doubt triumphing at the sight of her down and out. Framed by the massive antique fireplace and a solid wall of books, he looked the epitome of born and bred privilege. From his aristocratically handsome features to his hand stitched shoes he screamed power and perfection.
Once the sight of him had made her heart skip with pleasure. But she’d discovered the real Domenico Volpe when the chips were down. He’d sided with his own class, easily believing the most monstrous lies against her.
Slowly she stood, pride stiffening her weary legs and tilting her chin.
‘It’s time I left.’
Where she’d go she had no idea, but she had to escape.
She had just enough money to get her home to Devon. But now she had no home. Her breath hitched as she thought of Sylvia’s betrayal. She wouldn’t be welcome there.
Pain transfixed her.
‘You can’t leave.’
‘I’m now officially a free woman, Signor Volpe, however much you resent it. If you try to keep my here by force it will be kidnap.’
Even so a shiver of apprehension skated down her spine. She wouldn’t put anything past him. She’d seen his cadre of security men and she knew first hand what they were capable of.
‘You mistake me for one of your recent associates, Ms Knight.’ He snapped the words out as if he wanted to take a bite out of her. ‘I’ve no intention of breaking the law.’
Before she could voice her indignation he continued. ‘You need somewhere private; somewhere the press can’t bother you.’
His words stilled her protest.
‘And?’
‘I can provide that place.’
And pigs might fly.
‘Why would you do that?’ She’d read his contempt. ‘What do you get out of it?’
For the longest moment he stood silent. Only the hint of a scowl on his autocratic features hinted he wasn’t used to being questioned. Tough.
‘There are others involved,’ he said finally. ‘My brother’s widow and little Taddeo. They’re the ones affected the longer this is dragged through the press.’
Taddeo. Lucy had thought of him often. She’d loved the little baby in her care, enjoying his gurgles of delight at their peekaboo games and his wide-eyed fascination as she’d read him picture books. What was he like now?
One look at Domenico Volpe’s closed face told her he’d rather walk barefoot over hot coals than talk about his nephew with her.
‘So what’s your solution?’ She crossed her arms over her chest. ‘Walling me up in the basement car park?’
‘That could work.’ He bared his teeth in a feral smile that drew her skin tight. ‘But I prefer to work within the law.’ He paused. ‘I don’t have your penchant for the dramatic. Instead I suggest providing you with a bolthole till this blows over. Your bag is already in your room.’
Her room.
Lucy groped for the back of the chair she’d just vacated, her hand curling like a claw into the plump, soft leather. She tried to speak but her voice had dried up.
Her room.
The memory of it had haunted her for years. Ever since arriving here she’d been cold to the core because she knew that room was upstairs, on the far side of the building.
‘You can’t expect me to stay there!’ Her voice was hoarse with shock. ‘Even you couldn’t...’ She shook her head as her larynx froze. ‘That’s beyond cruel. That’s sick.’
His eyes widened and she saw understanding dawn. His nostrils flared and he stepped towards her, then pulled up abruptly.
‘No.’ The word slashed the clogged silence. ‘That room hasn’t been used since my brother died. There’s another guest room at your disposal.’
Relief sucked her breath away and loosened her cramped muscles. Slowly she drew in oxygen, marshalling all her strength to regroup after that scare.
‘I can’t stay in this house.’
He met her gaze silently, not asking why. He knew. The memories were too overwhelming.
‘I’ll find my own place.’
‘And how will you do that with the press on the doorstep?’ He crossed his arms over his chest and leaned a shoulder against the fireplace, projecting an air of insouciance that made her want to slap him. ‘Wherever you go they’ll follow. You’ll get no peace, no privacy.’
He was right, damn him. But to be dependent on him for anything stuck in her craw.
The door opened and a maid entered, bearing a tray of coffee and biscuits. The rich aroma, once her favourite, curdled Lucy’s stomach. Instinctively she pressed a hand to her roiling abdomen and moved away. Vaguely she heard him thank the maid, but from her new vantage point near the window Lucy saw only the press pack outside. The blood leached from her cheeks.
Which was worse? Domenico Volpe or the paparazzi who’d hound her for some tawdry story they could sell?
‘If you don’t mind, I’ll take you up on the offer of that room. Just to freshen up.’ She needed breathing space, time away from him, to work out what to do.
Lucy swung round to find him watching her. She should be used to it now. His scrutiny was continual. Yet reaction shivered through her. What did he see? How much of what she strove to hide?
She banished the question. She had better things to do than worry about that. Nothing would change Domenico Volpe’s opinion. His reluctant gestures of solicitude were evidence of ingrained social skills, not genuine concern.
‘Of course. Take as long as you like. Maria will show you up.’
Lucy assured herself it wasn’t satisfaction she saw in that gleaming gaze.
* * *
‘No! I said I can’t talk. I’m busy.’ Sylvia’s voice rose and Lucy thought she discerned something like anxiety as well as anger in her stepmother’s words. She gripped the phone tighter.
‘I just wanted—’
‘Well, I don’t want. Just leave me alone! Haven’t you done enough damage to this family?’
Lucy opened her mouth but the line went dead.
How long she sat listening to the dialling tone she didn’t know. When she finally put the receiver down her fingers were cramped and her shoulders stiff from hunching, one arm wrapped protectively around her stomach.
So that was it. The severing of all ties.
A piercing wail of grief rose inside her but she stifled it. Lucy told herself it was better to face this now than on the rose-covered doorstep of the whitewashed cottage that had been home all her life.
Yet she couldn’t quite believe it. She’d rung her stepmother hoping against hope there’d been some dreadful mistake. That perhaps the press had published a story with no basis. That Sylvia hadn’t betrayed her with that character assassination interview.
Forlorn hope! Sylvia wanted nothing to do with her.
Which left Lucy with nowhere to go. She had no one and nothing but a past that haunted her and even now wouldn’t release its awful grip.
Slowly she lifted her head and stared at the panelled door separating the bedroom from the second-floor corridor.
It was time she laid the ghost of her past to rest.
* * *
She wasn’t in the room he’d provided but she hadn’t tried to leave. His security staff wou
ld have alerted him. There was only one place she could be, yet he hadn’t thought she’d have the gall to go back there.
Domenico’s stride lengthened as he paced the corridor towards the side of the palazzo that had housed Sandro’s apartments. Fury spiked as he thought of Lucy Knight there, in the room where she’d taken Sandro’s life. It was an intrusion that proved her contempt for all he and his family had lost. A trespass that made his blood boil and his body yearn for violence.
The door was open and he marched across the threshold, hands clenched in iron fists, muscles taut and fire in his belly.
Then he saw her and stopped dead.
He didn’t know what he’d expected but it wasn’t this. Lucy Knight was huddled on the floor before the ornate fireplace, palm pressed to the floorboards where Sandro had breathed his last. Domenico remembered it from the police markers on the floor and photos in court.
Her face was the colour of travertine marble, pale beyond belief. Her eyes were dark with pain as she stared fixedly before her. She was looking at something he couldn’t see, something that shuttered her gaze and turned it inwards.
The hair prickled at his nape and he stepped further into the room.
She looked up and shock slammed him at the anguish he saw in her face. Gone was the sassy, prickly woman who’d fought 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.
CHAPTER FOUR
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 in what seemed a lifetime.
‘I’m Lucy and I’m twenty-four.’
‘That’s so old.’ The little girl paused, looking up from her hidey-hole behind a couple of palm trees. ‘Don’t you wish you were six too?’
Unfamiliar warmth spread through Lucy. ‘Today I do.’ How wonderful to enjoy all this without a care for the future that loomed so empty.
It had been years since she’d seen a child, much less talked with one. Looking into that dimpled face, alight with curiosity, she realised how much she’d missed. If things had been different she’d have spent her life working with children. Once she had the money behind her to study, she’d intended to train as a teacher.
But her criminal record made that impossible.
‘Will you play with me?’
Lucy stiffened. Who would want her daughter playing with an ex-con? A woman with her record?
‘You’d better talk to your mummy first. You shouldn’t play with strangers, you know.’
The little girl’s eyes widened. ‘But you’re not a stranger. You’re a friend of Domi’s, aren’t you?’
‘Domi?’ Lucy frowned. ‘I don’t know—’
‘This is his house.’ Chiara spread her hands wide. ‘The house and garden. The whole island.’
‘I see. But I still can’t play with you unless your mummy says it’s all right.’
