by Annie West
‘Because I’m fed up with emails and performance indicators and financial statements. It’s time for a break.’ His lips curved in a one-sided smile that carved a long dimple in one cheek and snared her breath before it could reach her lungs.
The man was indecently attractive.
‘I really should—’
‘You’re not avoiding me, are you, Lucy?’
Stoically she ignored the way his hint of an accent turned her ordinary name into something delicious. It had made her weak at the knees the day they’d met.
‘Why would I do that?’
His eyes sizzled pure silver—the colour of a lightning bolt against a stormy sky. She could almost feel the ground shake beneath her feet from its impact.
Again he shrugged. This time she kept her eyes on his face. ‘Perhaps I make you nervous.’
He was dead right. No matter how often she told herself Domenico had no power over her, instinct eclipsed logic and fear shivered through her. A fear that had nothing to do with his wealth and influence and everything to do with him as a potently attractive, fascinating man.
She’d washed her hands of him long ago. She’d seen him in court and her heart had leapt, believing he was there for her. Instead he’d cut her dead, so sure of her guilt before the trial even began. She’d been gutted.
Why did she still respond to him?
‘Why should I be nervous?’
‘I have no idea.’ Yet his expression was knowing, as if he read her tension.
Did he guess the shockingly erotic fantasies that invaded her dreams each night? Fantasies that featured Domenico Volpe, not as disapproving and distant, but as her hot, earthily sexy lover? Lucy swallowed hard, reassuring herself that if he knew the last thing he’d do was invite her to spend time with him.
‘I don’t have a swimsuit.’ Her voice emerged husky and she watched his attention shift to her mouth. Her lips tingled and heat bloomed deep in her belly.
He smiled. A fully fledged smile that made her heart skip a beat and alarm bells jangle.
‘Be my guest. Find yourself a new one in the pool house.’
Lucy shook her head before she could be tempted. ‘No, thank you.’
‘Why not? Don’t you want to go out there?’ His gesture encompassed the azure shimmer of sea that had lured her since the moment she’d arrived.
How she’d love to do more than paddle in the shallows for once! She’d even toyed with the idea of a midnight skinny dip but it would be just her luck to be found by his security staff.
‘I don’t accept handouts.’ She wasn’t a charity case.
Domenico watched her for long seconds with a look that in anyone else she’d call astonished. When he spoke his voice had lost its teasing edge.
‘It’s not a handout. It’s what we do for our guests. Rocco’s mamma has a lovely time buying hats and wraps and swimsuits for guests. You’d be surprised how many people forget them on a seaside stay.’
Not like her. Lucy had been shuffled out of Rome in a hurry with no idea where she was heading. She wasn’t like his other guests. She opened her mouth to say so when he spoke again.
‘Come on, Lucy. Set your pride aside and enjoy yourself. I promise it won’t make you obligated to me.’
That was what she hated, wasn’t it? Feeling indebted to Domenico Volpe for this respite when she most needed it.
Of course he had his own agenda. He wanted to buy her silence.
Was she too proud? Self-sufficiency was something she’d learnt in a hard school. Did she take it too far?
The sound of the sea behind her and the tang of salt on the air reminded her that the only person to suffer for her pride was herself. Swimming in the Med was something she’d always wanted to do. When would she have the chance again? When she finally found a job she’d be too busy making ends meet to travel.
‘Thank you,’ she said at last. ‘That would be...nice.’
Was that a flash of pleasure in Domenico’s eyes? Not triumph as she’d half expected. Her brow puckered.
‘Good.’ He pointed her to the pool house. ‘You’ll find what you need up there. Don’t forget a hat. I’ll meet you at the boat.’
* * *
Fifteen minutes later Lucy hurried down the steps to the beach. She’d rifled through a treasure trove of designer swimwear, finally selecting the plainest one-piece she could find. No way was she flaunting herself before Domenico in a barely there string bikini. Nevertheless she felt strangely aware of the Lycra clinging to her body under her skirt and shirt. It reminded her of the flicker of heat she saw in his eyes, and her body’s inevitable reaction—a softening deep inside.
So often she found him watching her, the hint of a frown on his wide forehead, as if she was some enigma he had to puzzle. Or was he calculating how long she’d hold out against the fortune he offered?
On condition she stopped proclaiming her innocence.
She set her jaw. The first thing she’d do when she found work was pay back the price of this swimsuit. Even if it took her months on the basic wage!
Lucy stepped into the boatshed, trying to calculate how much a designer swimsuit would set her back.
It was dim inside and it took a moment for her eyes to adjust. She blinked at the sleek outline of the speedboat moored inside. Was this the boat they were taking?
She turned, wondering if she should wait outside, when movement caught her eye.
On the far side of the boat a man came towards her—thickset with a bullish head and broad neck that spoke of blatant strength. He moved with surprising agility. His dark suit blended with the shadows but, as her eyes adjusted to the gloom, she caught the crooked line of a broken nose and hands the size of dinner plates.
The hair at her nape stood on end and terror engulfed her. She froze, recognition filling her.
The rusty taste of blood on her bitten tongue roused her. She drew a shuddering breath and catapulted towards the door. With every step she imagined one of those heavy hands grabbing her, capturing her, punishing her.
Lucy’s breath sawed through constricted lungs as she reached, hands outstretched, for the door. Her legs seemed to slow as if in a nightmare. She knocked over some tins that clattered to the floor and almost fell but kept going, eyes on the sunlit rectangle of freedom ahead, desperation driving her.
With a sob of fear she plunged outside, blinded by light, only to find her flight stopped by a hard, hot body.
He’d never held her but she knew it was Domenico. The scent of warm spice and pine, and something else, something so profound she had no name for it, told her it was him in the millisecond before his arms came round her, hugging her close.
‘Please,’ she gasped. ‘Watch out! He’s here. He’s—’
She struggled to turn, but Domenico’s grip was firm. She was plastered to him, her face pressed to his collarbone. One hand held her head against him and his other arm lashed protectively around her waist.
Lucy felt heat, strength and solidity. Safety. His heart beat steadily against her raised palm and, despite her fear relief weakened her knees. Tendrils of heat invaded her ice-numbed body, counteracting the horror that filled her.
‘Lucy? What is it?’ His deep voice ruffled her hair and wrapped itself around her.
She shook her head. ‘Be careful! He—’
‘I’m sorry, sir.’ An unfamiliar voice came from behind her. ‘I was putting provisions in the boat. I didn’t mean to scare the lady.’
Lucy turned her head, eyes widening at the man who emerged from the boatshed.
He was a stranger.
Her heart leapt even as reaction set in and her knees buckled. She clung to Domenico. His grip tightened, holding her against him as if she belonged there.
Later she’d regret clinging to him, but now she was too overwhelmed by a sense of deliverance from danger.
It wasn’t him.
The knowledge beat a rapid tattoo in her blood. She took in the worried face and bright eyes of the str
anger. What she’d thought a bodyguard’s suit was a casual uniform of dark trousers and shirt. The man was an employee, but not the one she’d feared. Even the crooked jut of his nose was different and his eyes held none of the gleaming malice she remembered.
In face of the stranger’s concern Lucy tried to summon a reassuring smile but it wobbled too much.
‘Lucy?’ Domenico’s broad palm rubbed her back and comforting heat swirled from the point of contact. She pressed closer, arching into him.
‘I’m sorry.’ Her voice was husky. She turned as far as she could within Domenico’s firm embrace. She should step free but couldn’t dredge the strength to stand alone. ‘I...overreacted. I saw someone coming towards me in the darkness and...’
‘I’m sorry, signorina.’ The big man looked solemn. ‘I didn’t mean—’
‘No. Don’t apologise.’ Lucy’s smile was more convincing now, though it felt like a rictus stretch of stiff muscles. ‘It was my mistake.’
‘It’s okay, Salvo.’ Domenico’s deep voice was balm to shredded nerves. ‘Everything’s fine. You can leave us.’
With one last troubled look the man left and Lucy sagged. The rush of adrenalin was fading. She felt almost nauseous in the aftermath.
‘Lucy? Come and sit in the shade.’
Suddenly, as if her brain had just engaged, she became fully conscious of how intimately they stood. The press of hard muscle and solid bone supporting her. The reassuring beat of his heart beneath her palm. The need to lean closer and lose herself in his embrace. The flare of pleasure at the differences between them—he was so utterly masculine against her melting weakness.
That realisation made her snap upright on a surge of horrified energy.
‘I’m sorry.’ Humiliation blurred her words as she struggled to remove herself from his hold. What must he think of her, clinging to him?
Bile churned her stomach. She knew what he must think. The prosecution at the trial had painted her as a femme fatale, using the promise of her body to win expensive favours from her indulgent boss. Domenico probably thought she was trying a similar tactic to win sympathy.
A shudder of self-loathing passed through her and she broke free. How could she have turned to him?
Her pace was uneven but she managed the few steps to the boatshed, putting her hand to its wall for support.
Stifling her shame and embarrassment, Lucy forced herself to turn. He stood, frowning, the line of his jaw razor-sharp and his grey eyes piercing.
‘Now we’re alone you can tell me who you thought you were running from. Who are you scared of?’
CHAPTER SEVEN
‘SCARED?’ LUCY GAVE a shaky laugh. Her hand dropped from the wall and she straightened. She swayed and Domenico discovered the heat curling through his belly had turned to anger.
It was a welcome change from the surge of hunger he’d known as she’d melted against him.
‘Tell me, Lucy.’ His tone was one his business associates obeyed without question.
Her chin jutted obstinately. ‘There’s nothing to tell. I saw someone coming towards me in the dark and panicked.’
Domenico shook his head. ‘You don’t panic.’
‘How would you know? You’re hardly an expert on me.’
But he was.
He’d spent the weeks of the trial trying to learn every nuance of her reactions—not that it had got him far. She’d been an enigma. But in the days since her release he’d been able to concentrate on little but her and he’d learned a lot. Enough to make him question his earlier, too easy assumptions.
‘You’re no coward. You faced the paparazzi.’ He added quietly, ‘You faced me.’
Her eyes widened, acknowledgement if he’d needed it, of just how hard she’d found the last several days.
He remembered her hunched on the floor in the palazzo, her hand splayed where Sandro had breathed his last. Her blind pain had been almost unbearable to witness. What strength of character had it taken to face the place? The same strength it took to face him with an air of proud independence despite the tremors racking her.
Something hard and unforgiving inside him eased. Something that had already cracked when she’d expressed regret for Sandro’s death. When he’d seen her playing with little Chiara. When he’d held her close and been torn between protectiveness and an utterly selfish desire for her soft, bountifully feminine body.
‘There’s nothing to tell.’ But her eyes were clouded and her mouth white-rimmed. Her tension reignited the protectiveness that had enveloped him as he held her and felt the waves of fear shudder through her.
‘Liar.’
She flinched, her face tightening.
‘I thought we’d agreed to leave the accusations behind.’ There was desperate hauteur to her expression but she couldn’t mask her pain.
‘I’m not talking about the past. I’m talking about now. Here.’ His slashing hand encompassed the scene that had just played out. ‘You were scared out of your wits.’
Her pale eyebrows rose. ‘Nothing scares me. After the last few years I’m unshockable.’
Looking into her unblinking gaze he almost believed her. Yet her desperate panting breath against his throat, the clutch of her hands and the feel of her body’s response to overwhelming fear had been unmistakable.
Domenico stepped close and she stiffened. He kept going till he stood a breath away. Her face tilted up to his as he’d known it would. Lucy had proven time and again that she was no coward. She faced what she feared.
Until today. In the darkness of the boatshed.
His heart beat an uneven rhythm as he realised only true terror would have made this woman run.
‘Who is he, Lucy?’ He lifted a hand to her jaw, stroking his thumb over her silken flesh, feeling the jittering pulse. ‘Who are you afraid of?’
Her eyelids flickered. She pressed into his touch and pleasure swirled deep inside.
‘Bruno.’ The word was a whisper. ‘Bruno Scarlatti. Your brother’s Head of Security.’
* * *
Domenico read her fear and knew she spoke the truth. He wanted to assure her she was safe. He wanted to tug her close and not let her go.
Because she was scared?
Or because he wanted an excuse to touch her?
He dropped his hand. ‘Why are you afraid of him?’
‘It doesn’t matter.’ Her mouth flattened.
‘Did he visit you behind bars?’ Had he threatened her?
‘Him! Visit me? You’ve got to be kidding. In five years my only visitors were a couple of criminologists writing a book on female offenders and crimes of passion.’ Sarcasm dripped from her voice. ‘They found me such a fascinating study.’
She shouldered away from him, into the sun. Yet she rubbed her hands up her arms as if to warm herself.
Stunned, he let himself be distracted. In five years she’d had no personal visitors? What about her family and friends? Then he remembered the tawdry exposé interview with her stepmother. Lucy’s family relationships were strained. But to be alone so long?
He felt no triumph, only regret as he read her grim tension, the way she battled not to show emotion.
‘Tell me, Lucy.’ His voice was gruff. ‘Why are you afraid of Bruno Scarlatti?’
His gaze held hers and almost he thought he’d won. That she trusted him enough to tell him.
She shrugged but the movement was stiff as if her muscles had seized up. ‘We agreed not to talk about the past. Let’s abide by that. You wouldn’t appreciate what I have to say.’
She turned towards the water.
There was no point trying to force her to talk. She’d proved time and again that she didn’t bow to pressure.
But her terror couldn’t be denied.
Something had happened. Something that frightened one of the most composed, self-sufficient women he knew.
He thought of her evidence at the trial. She’d claimed it was Bruno Scarlatti, not Sandro, who’d come to her room that ni
ght. He’d heard about the scene between Sandro and Lucy when earlier that day she’d pleaded for immediate leave to visit her sick father. Understandably, Sandro had refused, concerned that with Pia unwell and the nanny off work due to illness, they needed the au pair, Lucy. The meeting had ended with Lucy shouting she’d find a way to leave despite her contract.
Her story was that Bruno had said he’d help her persuade the boss to give her leave and she’d innocently let him into her room. Once inside, he’d allegedly attacked her, tried to rape her. Sandro had heard the noise and come to her aid, but in the scuffle with Bruno he’d knocked his head against the antique fireplace and died.
Domenico rubbed a hand over his tense jaw, remembering all the holes in her story. The court had dismissed it. There was too much evidence of her guilt.
Pia had given evidence, backed by diary notes, that Sandro and Lucy had had a passionate affair. Bruno’s evidence had been the same. He’d revealed her as a seductive tease who knew her power over men and bragged about twisting the boss around her little finger. He’d seen her and Sandro together, given dates and times.
Sandro had given her expensive treats, like the exquisite jewellery found in her room the night he died. The household had heard her threaten Sandro when he’d refused to let her go.
That night he’d been drinking, torn no doubt between concern for his wife and the fight with his mistress. He’d gone to Lucy’s room with an expensive gift to salve her anger. But they’d fought again, she’d shoved him and, unsteady on his feet, he’d fallen and cracked his skull. As for Lucy blaming Bruno—he had an alibi.
Pia had found Sandro bleeding to death, cradled in Lucy’s arms.
Domenico shivered, recalling the moment he’d discovered Lucy’s identity—the image of her in a bloodstained nightdress with a blanket around her shoulders, being escorted to a police car outside the palazzo. Sandro was dead and she’d been arrested.
Domenico hadn’t even been able to blame Sandro for his fatal attraction to the young Englishwoman. He knew how difficult Pia could be and guessed that in the months following childbirth she’d been particularly demanding.
More importantly, Domenico had first-hand experience of Lucy’s power. He’d fallen under her spell in just a few hours. What must it have been like for Sandro, facing such temptation in his own home every day? That didn’t excuse the affair. But Sandro was only human.
