by Annie West
‘No summer clothes, no swimsuit, because you don’t want anyone seeing you. You won’t go in the water in case you attract attention. Even at dawn when you thought there was no one to see, you wouldn’t risk it.’ Her silent watchfulness told him he’d hit the truth. ‘You want to take cover behind your drab clothes in the hope you won’t be noticed.’ Raffa was torn between incredulity and pity as he met that stubborn narrowed stare.
‘It doesn’t work that way, Lily.’ His voice grated. He was staggered at how much he felt for her. ‘Don’t you realise the more you try to hide, the more obvious you become? The more people watch and wonder? You think they don’t see you hiding behind that long hair or those drab clothes? That they don’t notice you avoiding them?’
‘Who do you think you are to tell me what to wear or how to behave? If I want to wear my hair loose or wear long sleeves, that’s my choice.’ Her shimmering gaze scraped him from hairline to jaw. ‘Even if it displeases a fashion expert like you.’
‘And when it stops being a choice? When you deny yourself the pleasure of swimming because you’re afraid, not of anything in the water, but of being seen?’ Raffa tasted a dull, metallic tang on his tongue. ‘That’s not choice, Lily. That’s when fear has taken over your life.’
The heel of her hand jammed into the centre of his chest, as if she could push him away. Or she needed an outlet for the emotions she’d bottled up so fiercely.
‘Don’t you dare lecture me!’ Her voice was a gasp, her breathing too fast, too shallow. ‘You have no idea what it’s like.’
At the sight of her distress something turned over deep inside. He felt her quiver with the force of her emotions. How long had she dammed it all up? Energy radiated from her in sharp surges that zapped like electricity.
‘Then tell me.’ He clamped a palm over her hand, holding it to him, feeling the shudders rippling through her. He doubted she noticed.
She shook her head, her hair swirling silk-soft against his hand.
‘Tell me, Lily.’
Finally her gaze meshed with his. Those eyes were like amber starbursts now, rimmed with honey-brown. Startling, unique, mesmerising.
‘What do you want me to tell you? That for half my life people have looked at me as if I were a freak? They can’t help but stare. And they talk to me slowly, in soft voices, as if they’re so sorry for the way I look they think it’s affected my ability to think. Then there are the ones who won’t even look at me. They’ll have a whole conversation staring at a point over my shoulder to avoid seeing the scar on my face.
‘In one day I lost not just my face but my youth, my friend, my fearlessness. The bliss of being normal.’
She laughed, the sound off-key, tugging a chord in his belly. ‘You have no idea of the jobs I had to give up because of the way people see me. A baker gave me work out of sympathy but lost customers because people didn’t want me serving them. Perhaps it made them lose their appetite.’
Raffa tightened his hold, his jaw setting.
‘The job in the property office where the other girls couldn’t be comfortable working with someone who looked like me. Something about my presence was just too...unsettling.’ Sarcasm laced her words and he couldn’t blame her.
‘But that’s not the case now.’
‘Sorry?’ She looked up at him as if he spoke another language.
‘However livid your scar once was, and however stupid some of your old work colleagues. That doesn’t apply now.’
She snorted. ‘You’re going to tell me my scar has suddenly disappeared?’
‘I’m telling you that, whatever it looks like, you’re a different woman now to the one you were then. You’re confident, capable and successful. You can stand up for yourself now. As for the scar—’ He lifted his free hand and pushed her hair back behind her ear.
Instantly she stilled, the vibrant energy diminishing to a low-grade hum as if someone had flicked a switch.
Her breath, warm and sweet, feathered his face as he surveyed that taut skin. Raffa tried to imagine how angry it must once have looked, how shocking. But he’d grown so used to it he had trouble seeing it as anything but part of her.
‘I’ve seen far worse,’ he said finally.
With an audible snap she shut her mouth, wrenching her hand from his.
‘I can’t tell you how much better I feel after hearing that!’
Raffa’s lips curved at her waspish response. He’d never met anyone so ready to attack in order to defend themselves. It had intrigued him from the first. ‘I’m not being patronising, just truthful.’
‘And this truth is meant to make my life easier, how?’ She tilted her head in mock consideration, her hands going to her hips.
‘Let me guess. I’ll be so excited that the mighty Raffaele Petri has announced he’s seen worse that I’ll cut my hair, put on a bikini and spend the rest of my time here chatting up strangers. And, miraculously, no one will notice that one side of my face looks like something out of a horror movie.’
She thrust out her chin, invading his space. ‘Get real, Raffaele. Would you touch a woman who looked like this? Of course you wouldn’t.’
She opened her mouth for another jibe then shut it when he lifted his palm to the taut skin of her cheek. He heard a hiss and felt her whole body rise with her quick intake of breath. She stared up at him, eyes wide.
He moved his hand over warm skin, exploring, learning the contour of cheekbone and jaw, scar and unblemished skin that was petal-soft. Finally his thumb discovered the rapid tattoo of her pulse. So vital, so fascinating.
Her sweet fruit scent filled his nostrils as he leaned closer, surveying her brilliant eyes, drawn by the inexplicable sense of anticipation trembling between them.
Then, abruptly, she was gone, sliding away from his touch. A few angry strides and she was across the room, shoulders heaving.
He stood where she’d left him, oddly bereft.
What had just happened?
‘You have no idea what my life has been like with this scar. Don’t you dare tell me it’s all okay. I don’t need your condescension.’
Raffa was dazed by the emotions she’d evoked. Pity. Protectiveness. Arousal. Anger. And something else.
He’d been trying to help. And what did he get for his pains? That would teach him to try being altruistic!
‘Of course, you’re the only one in the world whose life has been affected by the way they look.’ The words were out before he knew it. ‘You need to get over yourself, Lily. That scar can’t blight your whole life. Not unless you let it.’
Her gasp was loud in the silence. Once more her hands found her hips and her chin lifted imperiously, like a queen surveying her dominions. Or, given that kindling look, judging some insubordinate slave.
‘Get over myself?’ She shook her head, her stunned eyes never leaving his. ‘I don’t know what’s more insulting. That you pretend I’ve somehow done this—’ she gestured to her face ‘—to myself. Or that you’re looking for sympathy because you’ve been judged on your looks. Sympathy from me?’ Her tone said it all.
She was right. Raffa had no grounds to complain. Even if his looks had led him to places, to actions he regretted. He’d have done anything to escape grinding poverty and what he’d done...well, others would say he’d been supremely fortunate. Even if it meant he carried a taint that time couldn’t erase.
He’d done what he had to and escaped more lightly than many. As for his looks—he might have been used, and even, some would say, abused, because of them. But he’d made his fortune with his face and emerged triumphant.
Yet in the dark recesses of his soul he acknowledged unexpected kinship with Lily and her problems. Both judged because of the way they appeared.
The difference was that she carried her scars on the outside. His were internal.
‘You’re absolutely right. I’ve no cause for complaint. I’ve got everything a man could want and more.’ He didn’t add that having everything money could buy
didn’t counteract the hollowness at the core of a world centred only on himself. The suspicion, too late, that such hollowness would eventually consume him.
‘But believe me, Lily, if you don’t make a change soon, you won’t be able to. Either you let that scar define you or you make the life you want in spite of it.’
Raffa turned on his heel and strode to the door, willing down the tumultuous boil of feelings. He wasn’t interested in emotion. He wasn’t interested in scars, real or psychological. He was here for a single vital purpose. It was time he got on with it.
He needed to forget the murky...feelings Lily evoked and concentrate on Robert Bradshaw. Justice and revenge were much simpler.
CHAPTER SEVEN
NOTHING HELPED. LILY had paced her bungalow half the evening, reliving the conversation, coming up with scathing retorts, and still Raffaele’s words scraped like a blade scratching flesh. Like the memory of acid on her cheek.
Work hadn’t helped. Not that she’d done any work for him. She’d dragged out her laptop and spent hours on tasks for her business.
All night she’d worked, but no matter how busy she was, she couldn’t stop his words in her brain. Or the fear, deep in her roiling belly, that he might be right. It had stopped her sleeping, despite her exhaustion.
These last years it should have been easier to face the world, especially since surgery had diminished the horror factor of her injury. Yet, perversely, each trip into town had become more difficult than the last. Travelling was a nightmare of self-consciousness, and forcing herself into that New York office every day...
Lily shook her head, hair sliding reassuringly across her cheeks. She’d had to face down panic attacks just to get through the door.
You think they don’t see you hiding behind that long hair or those drab clothes?
She stilled. He’d all but accused her of being a coward. She who’d weathered such pain, such grief, and then had to face the unmistakable, if unspoken, blame of the whole community when she’d been the one to survive rather than Rachel. Vibrant, pretty, life-of-the-party Rachel, star of the swim squad, the debating team, academically gifted, on her way to stellar success in whatever field she chose.
Rachel, her best friend.
Lily gulped down a sob that shook her from her shoulders to her soles.
She didn’t do self-pity. She didn’t!
She’d faced medical treatments and long convalescence stoically when all her peers were enjoying themselves. Hadn’t she forced herself to succeed, refusing to give up when one job after another failed? She’d been determined to stand on her own feet, not be a burden to her worried parents and protective brothers. She’d worked like a slave to establish her own business, carve success and security.
Security away from the world.
A continent away from her family and the last of her friends.
The air rushed from her chest as if she’d been stabbed in the lungs. She felt herself deflating, crumpling, her knees collapsing till she sagged onto the edge of the bed.
It hurt to breathe. Blackness clouded the edge of her vision like churning storm clouds. Spots of white burst around her as the world turned grey, then darker. Her head swam. Any second now the blackness would consume her.
Then, with a huge, juddering heave, her lungs opened up, drawing in air that seared all the way down her aching throat. The grey retreated. The room, with its pale furnishings and bright tropical accents, came into focus. Through the window she saw the golden bloom of dawn fringe the horizon, spreading across the water towards her.
Raffaele was right.
She was scared. More than scared—she was petrified.
When had it happened?
She’d been so busy forcing herself to face the world, the need to find a job, build a career and be independent from her worried, loving parents. She hadn’t noticed when wariness had gradually become withdrawal, independence had turned to isolation and the comfort of her own home had become a cage.
Reluctantly, each muscle protesting, she turned her head. Across the bed lay strewn the items she’d tossed there last evening when her rage had been white-hot. A staff member from the resort boutique had brought them in glossy, silver-ribboned bags. Only one person could have sent them.
A broad-brimmed hat, a bright skirt of some soft fabric that slipped through her fingers like cool water. A sleeveless top sporting a designer label, a one-piece swimsuit and a long, loose gauzy cover-up, for wearing while lolling by the pool. There was even a pair of cute sandals with ribbons that tied around the ankles.
Each in her size.
Each worth more than she’d spend on clothes in a year.
Each mocking her.
Her fury had spiked at the idea of Raffaele ordering them, daring her to wear them.
As if it was any of his business what she wore.
Now they lay, taunting her, a challenge she couldn’t ignore.
How had he known what she hadn’t recognised in herself? It wasn’t as if she were important to him, yet he’d taken time to see her as more than an employee. He’d seen her as an individual. As someone who counted. He’d forced her to understand herself clearly for the first time in years.
The pain of that self-knowledge tore at her.
Gritting her teeth, Lily reached out and touched the swimsuit. The fabric was soft, fluid and silky, frighteningly thin.
It gave nowhere to hide.
* * *
Raffa flicked water from his eyes, treading water. Five laps of the bay and his chest was on fire, his legs and arms like jelly. But exertion hadn’t brought relief.
All night he’d been haunted by Lily’s face when he’d told her to move on with her life, stop taking cover and ignore her scar.
His gut clenched, making him sink below the surface till he kicked harder. Who was he to tell her how to live? How could he begin to imagine what it was like to be her?
Sometimes his arrogance appalled even himself.
He turned from the headland, back towards the bay, ready for another punishing lap, when a lone figure on the beach stopped him. A figure with pale limbs, long hair and a body clad in bronze. Dawn light caught each supple angle and sweet curve. It burnished the taut swimsuit that clung to Lily’s delectable body.
Why had he ever thought it a good idea for her to bare herself?
Testosterone surged, weighting his body, tightening each muscle, turning his lungs into a furnace where each breath was an ache of pure heat.
She was unadorned. He tried to tell himself it was the simplicity of the picture she made that affected him. But he’d seen countless women—clothed, unclothed, in ball gowns and swimsuits, towels and wisps of nothing. None affected him like this.
He took in her ravaged cheek, lit by the morning sun as she shook her hair off her face. The movement was one of impatience, determination, and it made his heart jump.
His lips curved in a proud smile. He hadn’t been sure she’d accept the gauntlet he’d thrown down. She could just as easily have nestled further into that protective shell, cutting herself off from the world. From him.
He admired her fierce determination. She was a worthy adversary.
Raffa reminded himself she wasn’t an adversary, but an employee.
Except in the oldest contest of all, the struggle between male and female.
He couldn’t ignore it any longer. For almost two months he’d pretended Lily Nolan was intriguing because of her prickly ways and quick mind. And her determination not to be cowed by his wealth or position. They were part of it, but not all. Denial only went so far, especially in a man who, after years of celibacy, of utter disinterest in sex, felt the sudden rush and roar of desire.
She waded out till the water was hip deep, her smile widening with each step. The glow on her face made him feel like a voyeur, watching an intensely private moment, yet he couldn’t look away. He’d never seen her like this, so strong and free and elemental.
In a sinuous movement she lifted
her hands over her head and dived. Raffa waited till he saw her begin a strong, easy stroke. Then he dragged in a rough breath and turned to the headland. He’d have to clamber over the rocks instead of sand to get out but she deserved her solitude.
* * *
Lily shivered as the warm sea breeze feathered her face, her bare neck and legs. Despite the blaze of sunshine she was chilled to the marrow, frozen by apprehension. She’d never felt more vulnerable since that first day out of hospital.
She’d chosen this chair by the poolside out of bravado, proving to herself she wasn’t the coward Raffaele thought her.
But it seemed she was. Her joints felt as if they’d been welded solid with the effort it took to remain here, in full public view, and wearing so little.
‘Can I join you?’ The voice, like rich caramel, swirled around Lily. Beckoning warmth encircled her, coaxing taut muscles to ease just a little.
Something like relief fizzed in her veins.
He’d come.
She hadn’t expected him to.
Or wanted him, she assured herself.
Slowly Lily turned. Raffaele Petri stood on the flagstones, his back to the pool and the outdoor café/bar where guests gathered. Against the azure of the pool his gold-toned body, bare but for damp board shorts and a half-buttoned shirt, glowed. The sun gilded his tousled hair, but it was his eyes, deep-set and probing, that snagged her attention.
A flare of heat ran through her veins then dropped to eddy in her stomach.
She should be furious with him.
She wanted to be furious.
But she was grateful too. He’d ripped the blinkers from her eyes.
She shrugged, stiff muscles protesting. ‘Sounds good. With you here they’ll forget to look at me.’
More likely the other resort guests would wonder what the most beautiful man on the planet was doing with such an ugly woman. Beauty and the Beast.
She reminded herself she didn’t care. That was her mantra as of dawn this morning. She’d given up worrying about the effect she had on others. Or she would, she assured herself, once she got used to being out in public. For now she’d pretend to ignore the prickle across her skin as the weight of so many curious eyes grazed her.
