The Italian's Final Redemption (Mills & Boon Modern)

by Jackie Ashenden

  Was she really contemplating using her sexuality to get what she wanted? Hoping that she could earn her freedom that way? Because what did she know of seduction? Nothing. She was a virgin in every way there was, while he was a man of no doubt infinite experience. Plus, she was a terrible liar and an even worse actress. She wouldn’t be able to pretend something she didn’t feel.

  Are you sure you don’t feel it?

  Her heart beat harder, fear like a fist slowly closing inside her. Yet...not only fear. Or maybe it was a different kind of fear, because this type didn’t feel bad. No, it felt...like a fine electrical current, sparking over her skin, sizzling wherever it touched.

  She wasn’t a seductress. She didn’t know how to do this with any subtlety or grace. Direct was the only approach she knew. So she took another sip of wine—it was more of a gulp really—and put down her glass. Then she made herself hold his dark gaze and put one hand on the knot of her sash. ‘Are you sure I can’t get you to change your mind? Perhaps there’s something I can give you that might help.’

  Then she pulled the sash and let her robe fall open.

  The last rays of the sun had gone, leaving only a deepening purple darkness that crept over everything. The candles flickered and danced, catching the gleam of his ink-black eyes as he stared at her. A breeze moved over her skin, making goosebumps rise on the thin strip of flesh she’d bared. Though that could have been the heat of his gaze.

  She didn’t look away, conscious that it wasn’t only fear inside her now, but something more complicated than that. Like a delicate fabric shot through with threads of silver and gold, her fear had other things woven through it, emotions she’d barely felt before. A breathless excitement. The tight coil of anticipation. A nagging ache right down low inside her, between her thighs.

  ‘What are you doing, civetta?’ The question sounded idle, as if she’d done something mildly curious that he was puzzled about. But there was nothing idle about the tension that gathered around his powerful form. He was very still, the panther about to pounce.

  Her pulse was loud in her ears and she wasn’t sure if this was a good idea, but she’d taken this step and there was nothing to do but go on with it.

  ‘Isn’t it obvious? I undid my robe.’

  ‘I can see that. Are you hot, perhaps?’

  Had he misunderstood her? Were her seduction skills that bad? Or was he deliberately misreading the situation? Probably deliberately misreading it, surely?

  ‘I’m not hot. I would very much like not to be handed over to the police at the end of the week and I thought that perhaps I could...change your mind.’

  She wanted to cover herself, conscious of how the flickering candlelight was illuminating the bare curve of one breast. It wasn’t the same as being wholly naked, but she’d never even been partially naked in front of anyone, let alone a man she was afraid of. A man she’d only known a matter of hours. A stranger.

  It made her feel very vulnerable. But she was tired of feeling alone and powerless. Tired of feeling afraid all the time and so she didn’t look away. He might be frightening, yet she refused to give in to her fear.

  His face remained unreadable, his eyes glittering. ‘Are you trying to manipulate me with sex, Miss Armstrong? Because I should warn you now, I don’t respond well to it.’

  She shivered slightly at the chill in the words. Clearly she was on dangerous ground. ‘I...didn’t intend it that way, no.’

  ‘Then what did you intend? Do you think I’m a man who would be swayed by such things?’

  The urge to cover herself returned, stronger this time as his gaze slid slowly down her body, dipping to where her robe opened. But she didn’t move. She had the distinct impression that he was not...unaffected.

  ‘I don’t know,’ she said, her voice hoarse. ‘Are you?’

  He lifted his gaze to hers again, unhurried. ‘No. I am not. Especially when the woman concerned is afraid of me and doesn’t want me.’

  A little shock went through her. Did she want him? She’d never wanted anyone before, so how would she know? Was it possible to want someone you were afraid of?

  But it’s not just fear that you feel for him.

  The shock deepened as she stared at him in the darkness, the light from the candles flickering over his strong features, touching on the harsh planes and angles of his face, shadowing the deeper darkness of his eyes and the hollow of his throat...

  She wanted to tell him that she didn’t think it was only fear that she felt for him, but her hesitation must have given her away, because he moved abruptly, shoving back his chair with some force. He didn’t say anything, merely gave her one last, fierce look that she couldn’t interpret, then turned and left her sitting there in the dark, with her robe open and the shock getting deeper and wider inside her.

  Vincenzo didn’t know what to do. He was furious, both with himself for wanting what he shouldn’t, and with Miss Lucy Armstrong for offering something he couldn’t help wanting and in such a way as to ensure he could never take it.

  Not only was she a criminal whose crimes had hurt people, but she’d also used her body as a bargaining chip. She’d said that she hadn’t meant it that way, yet he felt manipulated all the same.

  ‘Ask Gabriella out, Vincenzo,’ his mother had told him all those years ago. ‘Go to the cinema and have some dessert afterwards. Get her to tell you what her father’s movements are, especially whether he’s planning on returning home after the play on Friday night or whether he’s going out. And if he’s going out, we need to know where.’

  He’d been older then, eighteen, and starting to suspect that his beloved mother’s casual requests were never as casual as they seemed, and so of course he asked why this was necessary. Why he couldn’t just enjoy a date with his childhood friend and whom he was beginning to have feelings for.

  ‘Oh, it’s just some family business, my handsome boy. Nothing to be concerned about. I like to keep tabs on people. You know that.’

  And she’d given him the most radiant smile, and he’d forgotten his doubts and suspicions. All he’d wanted was to make his mother happy.

  Of course it was just business. Of course it was nothing to be concerned about.

  So he’d taken Gabriella out and casually asked her about her father, then later relayed the information to his mother. And two days later, Gabriella’s father had died in a hit. No one knew which family had been responsible, but Vincenzo had known. And so had Gabriella.

  She’d realised Vincenzo had betrayed her. That he was the one who’d got her beloved father killed and that he’d made her complicit in it too. That the downfall of her own family was her fault, and all because a childhood friend had asked her a few seemingly simple questions.

  He’d never forgotten the sound of Gabriella’s devastated voice ringing in his ears as she’d called him the next day, confronting him with what he’d done, full of fury and grief. Nothing he could say would have made it better, because he knew what he’d done just as she had.

  Afterwards, he’d gone to his mother as the shock of the assassination of a major player echoed through the crime families of Europe. She’d merely shrugged her shoulders.

  ‘As I told you, Vincenzo. It’s just business. So I would get used to it if I were you.’

  She’d given him another of those radiant smiles.

  ‘If you want to remain part of this family, that is, which I’m sure you do. You’ve already done so much for us as it is...’

  But he knew he would never get used to it, just as he knew what his mother had issued with that lovely smile was a threat. She’d never done that before, but he understood what it was all the same. A reminder of his own actions, that he wasn’t innocent and never would be, and that what she gave she could also take away.

  It was in that moment that he’d realised what he was to her: not a son but a tool to build her emp
ire. She’d never loved him. He’d never been her handsome boy. He’d been spoiled and pampered and paid attention to, but only so she could turn him into her creature. The way his father had always been her creature.

  So that night he’d pretended to be her loving son, her yes-man, just as he always had. Then he’d gathered what information he could about her activities and sent it to the police.

  Two days later she and his father had been arrested, justice served.

  But he would never again let himself be used the way his mother had used him. Never let his own feelings blind him to the truth. He would always listen to his conscience and never let his emotions sway him.

  He would always do what was right, and sleeping with the little civetta because she offered, and because he wanted her, was wrong.

  And he did want her. And he was furious about it.

  He kept away from her the following day, to give her some distance and to give his recalcitrant body some time to rethink its choices. There were matters that needed his attention anyway. Her father was trying to contact him, no doubt to offer terms for her return, and Vincenzo was almost tempted to see what the man would say, but then, he knew anyway. Armstrong only used either bribery or threats, neither of which would work on Vincenzo. He couldn’t take his daughter by force, either, since he didn’t have the resources to touch her on Capri, not without getting allies at least, and that would take time.

  Regardless, Vincenzo could afford to wait. He’d let Armstrong suffer for the next week, or for however long it took Lucy to give him the information he wanted.

  So he closeted himself in his office in the villa, dealing with the thousand and one things he had to deal with, while his brain kept replaying the memory of her sitting in the dusk with her robe half-open, the shadowed curves of her body a temptation he hadn’t envisaged. The rounded shape of one breast—fuller than he’d expected, given how small she was—and the graceful arc of one hip. Her skin had been such a pretty pink, highlighted by the red silk she wore, and his desire had risen, thick and hot. Shocking in its intensity.

  He wouldn’t have taken her even if she had wanted him, but he knew that she didn’t. Her eyes behind the shelter of her glasses had been very wary, the fear glittering greenly in their depths.

  It had angered him, that fear. His desire angered him. Her offer had angered him.

  Everything had angered him and so he’d pushed himself to his feet and left before he did something he regretted, such as reaching for her and dragging her across the table and burying that anger between her thighs.

  Yet even immersing himself in business didn’t help. He felt restless and unable to concentrate, her presence an itch he couldn’t scratch, and he was further annoyed that he had to wait until the week had ended before he’d get the information he needed to take down her father.

  He would have gone back to the de Santi estate himself and left her here if he could have. But he couldn’t. Even though his security was impregnable, he didn’t want to leave anything to chance. He had to be here to keep an eye on her.

  She might try to manipulate him again, of course, but if she was hoping that he’d change his mind about her she was mistaken. He would not be changing his mind. She needed to answer for her crimes so justice would be served.

  The thought hardened his resolve, though it did nothing for the restlessness that coiled through him as the day progressed into night. He stayed in his office till midnight, and only then did he leave, stalking back to his bedroom in search of sleep.

  He didn’t find it, however, and after several hours of lying there, staring at the ceiling, he admitted defeat and slid out of bed, pulling on some jeans and prowling downstairs to the salon that led out onto the big terrace.

  It felt hot and airless, so he went to the double doors and pushed them open, allowing the salt-soaked night air and moonlight to pour in. He stood in the doorway a minute and took a deep breath, trying to find his usual clarity of purpose, the bone-deep knowledge that what he was doing was right and necessary.

  He couldn’t allow himself to be distracted from it by an inconvenient attraction to the worst possible woman. He wouldn’t. He must keep on with his crusade, right the wrongs his family had perpetrated over the centuries, that his mother had carried into this century too. It would end with him, that was certain.

  Behind him came the sound of a soft footstep and a whisper of an indrawn breath, and he was turning, instantly on his guard. He normally had a weapon with him, but since the villa was well-protected he hadn’t bothered with one tonight.

  Not that he needed one.

  A small figure stood in the darkness near the door to the hall. There was enough moonlight for him to see golden dragons gleaming on red silk and the gloss of dark curls, of light reflected off the round discs of her glasses. The sweet scent of apples reached him and he felt himself go still, his entire body tightening in anticipation.

  You’re getting ahead of yourself. She didn’t want you, remember?

  He remembered. She’d been made of fear, not desire.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she murmured in her husky voice. ‘I didn’t know you were here. I’ll go if you—’

  ‘What are you doing up, civetta?’ He shouldn’t ask. He should leave her the way he’d left her the night before. Yet he didn’t move.

  ‘I...couldn’t sleep.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ She shifted on her feet, silk rustling, sounding uncertain and nervous. ‘I was just...restless.’

  As he was restless.

  Perhaps it’s for the same reason?

  Perhaps. But again, last night, he hadn’t seen desire in her when she’d opened her robe. Only uneasiness and nerves.

  You could be wrong.

  A thread of heat wound its way through him and he found himself wanting to see her face, see what expression was in her hazel eyes.

  ‘Come here.’ He had to put some effort into not making it sound like an order, but he managed it. Part of him wanted to know if she would come if it wasn’t a command. If she would come because she wanted to.

  She hesitated, but only for a moment, and then she came slowly towards him, the moonlight moving over glorious red silk, dark curls, and pale skin.

  He could see her face now as she stopped a few feet from him, laid bare in the light coming from behind his back. The moon had bleached all the colour from her cheeks, turning her eyes very dark. With the lenses of her glasses reflecting the light, she looked even more owlish than she normally did.

  The night before when he’d told her that she didn’t want him she hadn’t denied it. She’d simply looked at him as if wanting him hadn’t entered her head, even though she’d been fully prepared to offer him sex. And he couldn’t lie to himself. The fact that she hadn’t wanted him had angered him too.

  ‘Yes?’ The word was tentative, her gaze full of familiar wariness.

  ‘Perhaps you can’t sleep for the same reason I can’t,’ he said.

  ‘I...’ She stopped, and her hands moved nervously to the sash of her robe, touching it before falling away again. ‘What reason would that be?’

  He might have thought she was deliberately misunderstanding him if he hadn’t known already that she had no guile whatsoever. But, as he was learning, she wasn’t like his mother; her response had the ring of truth to it. She genuinely didn’t know. Which meant that she had no sexual thoughts about him at all, or she was so desperately inexperienced she didn’t recognise them.

  Does it matter? You’re not going to take her anyway.

  It didn’t matter. And of course he wasn’t.

  ‘Were you thinking of me?’ he asked, not moving, not taking his gaze from hers.

  Even in the moonlight he saw the flush rise in her cheeks.

  ‘Yes,’ she admitted hesitantly.

  The confession hit him like
a jolt of electricity, unexpected and raw as a lightning strike, making his hands curl into fists at his sides.

  ‘Why?’ This time he couldn’t make it sound like anything less than a demand.

  ‘I don’t know. I can’t work it out. I’m...afraid of you. And yet I can’t stop thinking about you.’ The blush in her cheeks got even deeper. ‘That was too honest, wasn’t it?’

  But that was what she was, wasn’t it? Too honest. And in ways he was only now beginning to understand. Honesty had been so rare in his life, he barely recognised it. Yet there was more to her than simple honesty. She was also wary and guarded, as if she didn’t know what parts of herself she should be protecting.

  He wasn’t sure why that was, but one thing he did know. He didn’t want her to be afraid of him. Thinking of him, yes. Scared, no.

  He held her gaze. ‘Honesty is rare these days and it is precious. Never apologise for it.’

  She blinked, then her gaze dropped from his, down to his chest, which was bare, since he hadn’t bothered with a shirt. And stayed there a second before she looked away, nervously fiddling with the knot of her sash.

  She wasn’t a seductress, he knew that already, and he knew, too, with sudden insight, that she would never have offered him what she had if she hadn’t on some level been attracted to him. It simply wouldn’t have occurred to her.

  But she was attracted to him. Her problem was that she didn’t know what it was, because she had no experience. She had no experience of anything at all.

  ‘And are you afraid now?’ He searched her vulnerable face. ‘Afraid of me?’

  Her fingers pulled at her sash. ‘Yes.’ She said the word tentatively, as if she wasn’t sure whether she should reveal it to him or not.

  That wasn’t what he wanted, not here, not now. She’d been afraid for a long time and right now he didn’t want her to be. Just as he didn’t want to be only one more man who scared her.

  Vincenzo didn’t stop to question himself. He merely reached out and took one of her nervous hands in his and slowly drew it towards him. She tensed, looking up at him, her eyes widening. But she didn’t pull away, allowing him to place that small hand palm down on his bare chest. Then he put his own over the top of it, holding it there.