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

by Jackie Ashenden

  Her robe had fallen open, the red silk in perfect contrast to her pale skin, and her hair was spread everywhere, lush, dark lashes lying still on her cheeks. She was naked and everything he’d imagined. Full, perfect breasts with hard, berry-like nipples. Rounded hips and thighs, soft and graceful, with the pretty little nest of dark curls between.

  He was hard now, so hard, and he couldn’t wait any longer.

  Vincenzo leaned forward and gathered her into his arms. Her eyelashes fluttered, her eyes opening as he straightened, holding her close.

  ‘Where are we going?’ Her head rested against his shoulder, her body utterly relaxed. She didn’t sound concerned and her gaze was only curious.

  ‘To my bedroom,’ he said, unable to keep the roughness from his voice. ‘We could go to yours, but there is no protection in your room.’

  ‘Protection?’ Her forehead creased. ‘Oh... Oh, of course.’ A shy little smile turned her vulnerable mouth. ‘I was hoping that we might... That you would... I mean, I would like you to be my first.’

  That soft confession shouldn’t have affected him. It shouldn’t have made his chest ache or cause bitterness to gather inside him, and yet it did both. An ache for the gesture of trust that it was, and bitterness because, God knew, he didn’t deserve that trust.

  He was going to hand her over to the police at the end of this week and nothing would change his mind. He would be giving her to people who would put her in a cell and there would be no one to hold her if she panicked. No one to soothe her fear.

  That thought shouldn’t have been so bleak, shouldn’t have made him feel so hollow inside. Shouldn’t have made him so angry. But it was and it did. And he didn’t understand it. If he’d had any sense at all, he would have put her down and walked away.

  He wasn’t going to, though. He was going to make love to her, because he wanted her. And he wasn’t going to mention anything about the police or a cell or her guilt, because he wasn’t going to scare her.

  Tonight he didn’t want her to be afraid of anything and, even though he had no idea why that would be important to him, he was going to accept it.

  ‘There are better men for your first,’ he said shortly.

  ‘There might be,’ she agreed. ‘But I don’t want them. I want you.’

  Her honesty...it killed him. Made the knot of feelings inside him tighten unbearably, drawing attention as it did to his own failings and the gaps in his morality.

  You’re a hypocrite and you always have been.

  Perhaps he was. After all, only a hypocrite would set himself on a course of justice, all the while knowing that he was a criminal himself. That the only reason he’d escaped paying for his own crimes was that he’d handed over his parents instead.

  ‘You look so serious.’ She leaned against him, looking up at him. ‘What are you thinking about?’

  But he wasn’t going to talk about the past. That had no place here.

  ‘You,’ he said, and it wasn’t far from the truth. ‘Naked and in my bed.’

  ‘Why? What is it about me that you want?’

  He should tell her lies. Tell her that he had no idea why he wanted her, that she must have drugged him or bewitched him to make him so hard for her.

  Yet he couldn’t do that. He might be a liar and a hypocrite at heart, but he couldn’t lie to her. Not about this. Not when she was small and soft in his arms, and the scent of apples and musk wove around him, making his groin ache. Making him want to put her down on the stairs right here, right now, and have her.

  ‘You’re beautiful,’ he said, and again this was the truth. Her beauty was a secret thing, slowly revealing itself like a photo being developed, a gorgeous picture gradually coming into perfect focus. ‘And you’re very brave. And you’re honest.’

  ‘Beautiful? No, I don’t think so. And I’m certainly not brave. I don’t know if I—’

  ‘Those things are all true,’ he interrupted and not without gentleness, because she wasn’t to argue with him on this. ‘Whether you believe them or not.’

  The look on her face softened and she reached up, her fingertips brushing his cheekbone in a touch that felt like fire against his skin. ‘You’re really very kind, aren’t you?’

  Kind. She thought he was kind.

  He was nothing of the sort, but that was something else that he wasn’t going to tell her. So he stayed silent instead as he came to his bedroom, kicking the door shut behind him as he went through the doorway. Then he carried her over to the big white bed and laid her down on it, before stepping back and stripping off his clothes.

  She watched him, her glittering hazel eyes alive with curiosity and fascination and hunger, and when he was naked she reached for him in instinctive welcome.

  That stole his breath, made his heart feel heavy in his chest. There was an affectionate, caring, and generous spirit beneath her wariness, and he was uncovering it, bit by bit.

  You don’t deserve it. You don’t deserve her trust. You’ll betray her like you betray everyone.

  Vincenzo shoved that thought from his head as he reached for the protection in the bedside drawer. And locked it away as he prepared himself. Then he moved onto the bed with her, easing her onto her back and settling between her thighs. She made a small, throaty, satisfied sound as he did so, her body arching beneath his, pressing herself harder against him. Her hands were on his shoulders, stroking, as if she couldn’t get enough of touching him.

  ‘You’re beautiful, too,’ she murmured as he eased himself against the soft, damp heat between her thighs.

  But he didn’t want words now, not with her silky skin against his and the light, feminine musk of her scent intoxicating his senses, making the need hammer in his head so loudly that he could barely hear a thing. So he bent his head and took her lovely mouth, tasting the sweet fire that he was beginning to suspect lay at the heart of her. And she didn’t protest, kissing him back, all shy inexperience and untutored hunger.

  That sweetness felt unbearable to him all of a sudden, as did her inexperience. He didn’t want any reminder of how vulnerable she was, or how alone and unprotected she’d been all her life. How she’d only ever been in the power of a man who’d hurt her. Scared her.

  It made him feel things he didn’t want to feel, emotions that he had no place for in his heart. He didn’t want to protect her, care for her, keep her safe. All he wanted was to be inside her and this hunger for her sated.

  He kissed her harder, with more demand, stroking down her body to the wetness that lay between her legs, his fingers circling the sensitive little bud. She gasped, trembling, her nails scraping over his skin. And that was better. That was much better than softness and vulnerability, better than the tightness in his chest and the ache in his heart.

  So he kissed her harder still, deeper, nipping at her, biting at her until she moaned and her nails scratched him as she quivered and shifted restlessly beneath him. He was relentless, making her come against his hand, her breathing wild and ragged, and only then did he finally allow himself his own pleasure.

  He wanted to thrust hard, show her that, though she might think him beautiful, he had no mercy to give her. That if she persisted in being soft with him, there would be nothing but pain in store for her. But he couldn’t bring himself to do it. The thought of her pain in amongst this pleasure anathema to him.

  So he pushed inside her slowly, carefully, watching her pretty face, searching for any signs of discomfort in the wide, dark eyes that looked up into his. She groaned, her gaze going even wider as he pushed deeper, but he saw no pain in it. Only a kind of wonder. As if he was a secret she’d always wanted to know, a secret that in the discovering was even better than she’d thought.

  She was so hot. Slick. Perfect.

  His brain blanked and for a moment he couldn’t think of anything but her. Anything but the heat of her and the pleasure that w
as unfolding inside him, many-faceted and complex. Fascinating. Demanding.

  He pushed his hands beneath her hips, tilting her, enabling him to go deeper, and she cried out, her hold on his shoulders almost painful. But she wasn’t hurting, he could see that. She was as much in the grip of this pleasure as he was.

  ‘Oh, Vincenzo,’ she gasped, shuddering. ‘Please, oh, please...’

  And he moved, harder, deeper, his hands gripping her hips, losing himself in the tide of pleasure that washed over him, sweeping away the tightness in his chest and the poison in the centre of his soul. The corruption he could never escape, since it was part of him and would always be.

  Sweeping away everything but the feel of her around him, the tight grip of her sex as she stiffened and arched beneath him, calling his name.

  Everything but the pleasure that raced up his spine and exploded in his head, an excoriating fire that gave him finally what he hadn’t realised he’d been searching his whole life for: a single moment of purity.

  It wouldn’t last, though, and deep down he knew it. Which was why this could never happen again.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  LUCY WOKE THE next morning knowing exactly where she was: Vincenzo’s bedroom.

  Sunshine came through a gap in the heavy white curtains, leaving a trail across the crisp white sheets, making it abundantly clear that she was alone.

  A thread of disappointment wound through the pleasant, lazy, sated feeling inside her. She wanted him next to her so she could explore that powerful, masculine body in the daylight, discover what made his breath catch and turned his black eyes to flame.

  She shivered deliciously as memories of the night before flooded through her. Of the feeling of him sliding inside her, pushing in deep, and how strange it had felt and how wonderful too. There hadn’t been any pain, only a momentary discomfort that had gone almost as soon as she’d felt it. And then there had only been the most incredible feeling of connection, of being so close to another person. She’d never experienced anything like it.

  His face had been stripped of everything but hunger, a fierce need that had echoed in her own soul. And for a brief, crystal-clear moment before the pleasure had washed it all away she’d seen something vulnerable in him. Something lost.

  But the moment had been so brief that now, in the sunshine of the morning, she wondered if she’d seen it at all. Because what would make a man as strong and powerful as Vincenzo de Santi vulnerable? What would make him lost?

  Curiosity tugged at her, that fatal flaw, but this time she indulged it. Staring at the ceiling, she remembered the research she’d conducted into him as she’d planned where to run to. The de Santi family was an old one, going back to medieval times when they’d been spies for a now lost Italian duchy, before an ancestor had found that there were more riches to be had in illegal activities.

  In modern times they’d managed to stay one step ahead of the law, concerning themselves only with the jostling for precedence and constant need to earn respect among the crime families of Europe, fighting petty private wars and constantly stoking ancient feuds, and they probably would have continued in that vein if not for Vincenzo.

  He’d betrayed his ancient heritage, his lineage, and reported his parents to the police in exchange for immunity.

  Then he’d turned himself into the scourge of Europe, feared and loathed by the all the families who’d once considered the de Santis allies.

  Lucy frowned at the ornate plastered ceiling.

  What had made him turn his back on his family? Loyalty was the lifeblood of the old families, it was ingrained deep in their bones, but something had happened to Vincenzo. Something had shattered that loyalty. Or perhaps he’d never had it at all.

  But no, that couldn’t be. A man who held to such a difficult purpose as the one he’d chosen for himself wouldn’t be a man with no loyalties or beliefs. If anything it was the opposite. But then, where did those loyalties lie? And to what? To justice? To making up for the sins of his family? Or was it something else?

  What does it matter? In a week you’ll be in custody and then you’ll never see him again.

  That thought hurt and so she ignored it in favour of slipping out of bed and heading for the shower in the en-suite bathroom. She washed herself, enjoying the cool water falling on various aching parts of her body, and when she was done she wrapped the familiar red robe around herself—which was the only item of clothing to hand—and went back to her own room.

  The clothes he’d bought for her that had arrived the day before had been put away by Martina, and so she had to pull open the drawers on the big oak dresser and hunt through them. They were all very expensive, in beautiful fabrics, and all her size, and she, who’d never been much of a clothes person, found herself smiling as she pulled out a light, gauzy dress made out of pale green silk.

  It was pretty, and when she put it on she could see how the colour brought out the green in her eyes. Immediately, her first thought was about what Vincenzo would think if he saw her in it and whether he would like it.

  Your mother would have liked it too.

  Oh, she would. She’d loved dressing Lucy up and Lucy had loved it too, but after Kathy had died she’d lost all interest in her appearance. Faint glimmers of interest were returning, though.

  Perhaps it was silly to want to look nice for a man, especially a man who was still her enemy in many ways, but she decided she didn’t care if it was silly or not and kept the dress on. She attempted to do something with her mass of hair, but, since she wasn’t sure what, having never paid much attention to styling it before, she left it loose. Besides, she was hungry and wanted some breakfast.

  She went downstairs to the terrace, where all the main meals of the day were served, hoping to find Vincenzo already there. But he wasn’t. The table was set and food was on it, but the place was empty.

  The disappointment she’d felt on waking returned and she turned around to go back inside and search for him, only to stop.

  Why was she going to find him? What did she think she’d say? They’d spent the night together, that was all. No promises had been made, nothing had been said.

  He’d given her pleasure and it had been the most incredible experience of her life, but he was still who he was. That hadn’t changed. Nothing had changed.

  But perhaps you have.

  A strange feeling pulsed through her, part certainty, part strength. As if last night he’d given her some of his, along with the pleasure.

  Yes, she had changed. She felt...different. More sure. Less afraid. And maybe if she had the urge to find him, to tell him that she wanted him again, then she should do it. He’d told her to be honest, that it was precious, so why shouldn’t she be honest with him?

  Avoiding things and hiding was what she’d done in the past and that had kept her safe. But safety was beginning to look overrated to her now. He’d given her a night without fear, a night of pleasure and warmth, and she wanted more.

  She only had a few days left of it, after all—if she couldn’t change his mind, that was.

  First, though, she would eat.

  Fifteen minutes later, full of coffee, bacon and some delicious pastries, Lucy went to find Martina to ask where Vincenzo was. Through some emphatic gestures, she understood that he was in his office and wasn’t to be disturbed.

  That gave her a moment’s pause. Did that apply to just her or did that mean he didn’t want to be disturbed by anyone? She only needed five minutes. That was allowable, wasn’t it? Deciding that it was, she made her way to his office.

  It was at the other end of the villa and the door was closed, so Lucy gave it a discreet knock. When there was no reply she stood there a second, debating, but then, nothing ventured, nothing gained, so she opened it quietly and went in.

  The room was large, with fabulous views out over another terrace, a formal garden below that
led all the way to the edge of the cliff and then the sea. A big desk stood near a set of high, arched windows and behind it stood the tall, powerful figure of Vincenzo.

  He faced the windows with his back to the door, talking on the phone in his beautiful Italian, his voice calm and casual-sounding. His usual tone.

  He wasn’t in a suit today, wearing a pair of well-worn jeans that sat low on his hips and a faded blue T-shirt. As casual as his voice. A man doing a bit of light work on the weekend.

  Except there was nothing casual about the tension that gathered in his broad shoulders and back, and even standing where she was by the door she could sense it. Was something bad happening? Did it have to do with her father?

  She slipped into the room and closed the door behind her, moving over to the desk and pausing in front of it. Obviously hearing her footstep, he swung around, his obsidian gaze catching hers, the ferocity in it driving all the air from her lungs.

  Had that fierceness always been there? Had she simply not seen it? Or was this new?

  No, it had always been there, the driving force of his will allied with the flame of purpose. A man who would stop at nothing to get what he wanted or to do what was right. Who wouldn’t let anything get in his way, not mercy, not sympathy, not tenderness. No soft feeling at all.

  Yet...last night he’d been nothing but gentle with her—at least initially. Until she’d shown him that she didn’t need gentleness.

  He kept talking, the tone of his voice not changing one iota, holding her gaze with his. She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move. The seething tension that gathered around him held her fast.

  Something was wrong. He was angry. No, more than that. He was furious.

  Male anger was always something to be wary of. Her father’s rages had been terrifying and she’d seen the consequences of that rage first-hand. After her mother had died, being in his vicinity had always made her go icy with fear and she tried to avoid him at all costs when he was like that.