Читать книгу A Night In His Arms: Captive in the Spotlight / Meddling with a Millionaire / How to Seduce a Billionaire - Annie West - Страница 14

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 night. 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.

Who was Domenico to judge when he’d felt attraction sizzle the moment he’d looked into Lucy Knight’s eyes? That knowledge had twisted guilt deep in his gut ever since.

He shifted his focus to the woman walking along the beach. Her head was bowed and her arms were wrapped tight around her body.

Confusion filled him as he recalled the fear that had racked her as he’d held her.

Because she thought she’d seen Bruno Scarlatti.

Because he’d killed Sandro?

The thought stopped the breath in Domenico’s lungs. It wasn’t possible. The court had been through all the evidence, right down to Lucy’s fingerprints on the expensive necklace Sandro had given her that night. It had been a lovers’ quarrel. And there was a witness who put Scarlatti elsewhere when Sandro died.

And yet... Again that frisson of unease stirred. That sense that something wasn’t right.

Domenico forced himself to concentrate on proven facts. The evidence supported Lucy’s guilt yet she was scared of Scarlatti. Had one part of her story been true? Had he tried to force himself on her?

There’d been an avid hunger in Scarlatti’s eyes whenever he’d looked across the courtroom at Lucy. Domenico had noticed immediately, ashamed as he was of his own response to her.

Domenico’s hands clenched so hard he found himself shaking. Could that be it? The idea hollowed his belly.

He wished Scarlatti was here now. Domenico needed an outlet for his churning fury.

* * *

‘Scarlatti no longer works for the Volpe family.’

Lucy spun to find Domenico a few paces away, eyes shaded by wraparound sunglasses. She felt at a disadvantage, wondering what the lenses hid from view.

‘Why not?’

‘He was dismissed years ago. Rocco found evidence that he’d...bothered one of the maids.’

‘Bothered?’ Why wasn’t she surprised? Bruno was a slime ball who wouldn’t take no for an answer.

‘She complained he was pestering her. A bit of digging revealed she wasn’t the first.’

Lucy bit her lip. The temptation to spill her own story about Bruno was strong. But Domenico had heard it in court. He hadn’t believed it then and wouldn’t now. Defeat tasted sour on her tongue.

Why should it matter after all this time that he didn’t believe her? Instead of getting easier to bear, it grew harder.

Nothing had changed. She’d let herself be lulled into believing it had.

Domenico was weakening her, subtly undermining her ability to keep the unsympathetic world at bay.

‘Don’t worry, he’s long gone.’

She nodded. What was there to say?

‘Now, let’s get out on the water.’

‘I’ve changed my mind. I’ll stay ashore.’

‘Why? So you can hide in your room and brood?’

Lucy’s eyes widened. ‘I never hide!’

‘Isn’t that what you’re doing now?’

She knew Domenico’s tactic. He deliberately baited her, yet she couldn’t resist the challenge. The one thing, the only thing she’d had on her side all these years had been her resolute strength. An ability to tough out the worst the criminal justice system could throw at her and pretend it didn’t matter.

She’d forced herself to morph from a scared, desperate teenager into a woman who could look after herself no matter what.

There was more than pride at stake. It was her faith in her one tangible asset—strength in the face of adversity.

Without that, how could she face the future that loomed like a black hole? She had no family now. No friends. No prospects, as each day’s job-hunting proved. If she let herself weaken she’d never survive.

Lucy met Domenico’s gaze, reading anticipation in his stillness. He expected her to make a run for it, damn him.

‘Where’s your boat?’

* * *

Three hours later she was a different woman. The mutinous set of her mouth had eased into a smile that made Domenico’s belly flip over. Her haunted expression had disappeared. Now her eyes shone pure forget-me-not blue, rivalling the sky for brightness.

He’d only once before seen a woman lit from within like this. It had been Lucy then too. Her enthusiasm was contagious.

He shook his head, unable to believe her avid enthusiasm was anything but real this time. There’d been no primping, not even a comb or mirror in the bag she’d brought. No coy looks or subtle feminine blandishments. Her focus had been on the boat and the sensation of speed as they circled the island. Her husky laughter still echoed in his ears. She’d been like a kid on a roller coaster for the first time—delighted and delightful in her glee.

‘Did you see the size of that octopus?’ She surfaced beside him, grinning as she removed the snorkel’s mouthpiece. ‘It’s amazing, and the way it moves!’

‘Do you like octopus? I could catch it for our dinner.’ Like a smitten youth showing off for a pretty girl. Like the man he’d been that first day in Rome. He’d turned from a cabinet of ornate jewellery and fallen into the cerulean depths of her gaze.

Yet even that thought couldn’t dim Domenico’s good mood. He’d enjoyed the last couple of hours more than any he could remember in months.

She was a pleasure to be with. Her questions had stimulated rather than bored him. She’d made him see the place through fresh, appreciative eyes.

How long since he’d enjoyed such simple pleasures? Usually when he visited he was busy, finishing work or entertaining guests who were too sophisticated to get excited about snorkelling or a speedboat ride.

‘No.’ She reached out and put a restraining hand on his shoulder when he would have dived back under. ‘Thank you, but I’d rather you let it be.’

‘Squeamish about seeing your dinner before it appears on your plate?’ He kept his eyes on her face though it was her slim hand on his shoulder that stole his attention.

‘Maybe.’ Her smile turned wistful. ‘Can’t we just leave him alone? Free?’

Something about the way she said that last word made him pause. Was that what she’d enjoyed so much? The freedom of their afternoon on the water?

It struck him that this was a massive change from the restrictions she’d known behind bars. He couldn’t imagine such a life. How had she coped?

He wasn’t in the business of feeling sorry for her. Yet seeing her so different from the touchy, self-protective woman he’d known, Domenico couldn’t completely suppress a sense of connection between them.

His motive in being with her had been to soften her into accepting his deal—her silence for a big chunk of money. But somewhere in the past days he’d found himself wanting her company. He’d told himself he needed to understand the woman who threatened his family, but that wasn’t all. Not any more.

He wanted to be with her. He wanted...

‘In that case we’ll leave it be.’ He looked at the westering sun. ‘It’s time to stop. Come on.’

* * *

Lucy wrapped an oversized beach towel around herself, conscious of Domenico’s gaze lingering as he’d helped her aboard. His eyes had shone silver as he took in the swimsuit moulding her body. It had only been for a second before he’d looked away, but that had ignited a slow, curling heat inside. His look had seared her to the core and shivers still rippled across her skin.

The trouble was, though they were on opposing sides, the old attraction was back, stronger than before.

Worse, she’d begun to like him.

He put her at ease and made her smile, and it wasn’t just about him trying to persuade her to sign his contract. There was the way he was with little Chiara—like an honorary uncle instead of the man who employed half her family. The way he treated Lucy—always straight down the line. The way he’d held her this afternoon.

It scared her how much his concern had meant to her.

‘Why did you never speak to me at the trial?’

Horrified, she heard the words slip out. Did she really want to break the afternoon’s spell by dredging up the past? It seemed she did. ‘I thought you’d talk to me at least. Acknowledge me.’

There. It was out in the open finally.

She turned her gaze on him. To her amazement, colour flushed his tanned face, rising high on those lean cheeks.

‘Would it have changed anything?’

Lucy’s lips firmed. It wouldn’t have changed the trial’s outcome but it would have meant everything to her.

‘When I saw you there I thought you’d come to support me.’ Her mouth twisted. She’d felt utterly alone, her family so far away. ‘Until I found out who you were.’

His eyes widened, something like shock tensing his face.

‘Surely you knew that already.’

‘How could I? I only knew your first name, remember?’

They’d had such a short time together, less than a day. Her chest tightened. It wasn’t his fault she’d fallen under his spell so utterly. That she’d read too much into simple attraction. She’d been so inexperienced. Domenico was the first man to make her heart flutter.

She looked into his stunned eyes and realised what a little fool she’d been. What had her claim on him been? An afternoon’s pleasant company compared with supporting his family in crisis.

All this time she’d blamed him for not hearing her out. How could he, with Pia clinging hysterically to him? With the weight of his brother’s death weighing him down?

How could she have expected him to leave those responsibilities for her, a woman he barely knew? Simply because she’d woven juvenile fantasies about him! Suddenly she felt a million years older than the immature girl who’d stood in the dock.

She raised her hand when he went to speak.

‘Forget it, Domenico. It doesn’t matter now.’ To her surprise, it was true. Clinging to pain only held her back.

If this afternoon had shown her one thing it was that life was worth living—here, now. She intended to grab it by the throat and make the most of it. No point repining over what couldn’t be changed.

‘I’m thirsty. Do you have anything?’

Still Domenico stared, a strange arrested look in his eyes. ‘There’s beer or soft drink.’ He stepped closer and now it wasn’t his expression that held her.

He’d wiped the excess water away but hadn’t wrapped a towel around himself. She drank in the sight of his gold-toned body, powerfully muscled and mouth-wateringly tempting. His low-slung board shorts emphasised his virile masculinity.

‘Juice?’ she croaked.

He poured her a glass then collected a beer and sat down.

‘We’re not going ashore?’

He shrugged and Lucy couldn’t help but watch the way muscle and sinew moved across his shoulders and chest. In Rome he wore a suit like a man bred for formal dress. But his tailored clothes hid a body that spoke to her on the deepest, most elemental level. A level that made her forget herself.

‘Not unless you’re in a rush. Sunset over the island looks terrific from here. I thought you’d enjoy it.’

Lucy had no doubt she would, if she could tear her eyes from him.

‘Thank you for this afternoon,’ she said brightly. ‘I’ve never done anything like this before.’ Better to babble, she decided, than to gawk silently. Why didn’t he cover himself?

‘You’ve never been snorkelling?’

‘Or for a ride in a speedboat. I’ve never been in a boat.’

His eyebrows rose. ‘Never?’

Lucy smiled. She couldn’t help it. His look of amazement was priceless. ‘I’m a landlubber. I’ve never even been in a canoe.’

‘But you can swim.’

‘Even in England we’ve got public indoor pools, you know.’ She paused. ‘That’s why I jumped at the chance to work in Italy, to see the Mediterranean.’ Pleasure rose at the sight of the azure sea, the sky turning blush pink over Domenico’s island and, when she turned, the dazzling view of villages clinging to the mainland.

It was the embodiment of those fantasies she’d had as a girl: sun, sand and an exotic foreign location. Even a sun-bronzed hunk with mesmerising good looks.

How naïve she’d been, yearning for adventure.

‘You lived far from the sea?’

She sipped her juice. ‘Not far. But our interests were all on dry land.’

‘Our?’

‘My dad and me.’ She paused, registering the familiar pang of loss, but with her attention on the breathtaking view, the pain wasn’t as sharp as usual. ‘He was a bus driver and mad about vintage cars. I spent my childhood visiting displays of old automobiles or helping him fix ours.’ She smiled. ‘He’d have loved that one you have at the palazzo.’

Her smile faded and her throat tightened as it often did when she thought of her dad and the precious time they’d lost. ‘He died just after the trial.’

She turned to find Domenico looking as grim as she’d ever seen him. This time the shiver that ran through her wasn’t one of pleasure but chill foreboding.

‘I’m sorry for your loss, Lucy.’ He stood and moved towards her, then shifted abruptly away.

‘It’s no one’s fault,’ she murmured, refusing to listen to the little voice that said she should have found some way to see her beloved dad before he passed on. The voice of guilt, reminding her of all she’d put him through when he was so ill.

‘But you wanted to be with him.’

Surprised, she looked up and saw understanding in his eyes. Of course. He’d been overseas when his brother had died. He knew how it felt to be far away at such a time.

‘Yes.’ Her voice was hoarse.

‘He would have known. He would have understood.’

‘I know, but it doesn’t make it easier, does it?’

He was silent so long she thought she’d overstepped the mark, referring however obliquely to his own loss.

‘No, it doesn’t.’ His mouth twisted. ‘I was in New York when Sandro died. I kept telling myself it would never have happened if I’d been in Rome.’

Lucy bit her lip but finally let the words escape. ‘It wouldn’t have made any difference.’ Did he want to hear that from the woman he thought responsible?

His eyes darkened, then he nodded. ‘You’re right. It’s just that Sandro was—’ he frowned ‘—special. Our parents died when I was young and Sandro was more than a big brother.’

‘He was a good man,’ she said. He hadn’t been perfect. She’d wished he’d got specialist help for his wife’s depression. Yet though she didn’t agree, she understood his reluctance not to upset her when she saw outside help as proof she was a bad mother.

As an employer he’d been decent. Looking back, she realised what a quandary she’d put him in with her hysterical demand to leave immediately for England. Of course he’d put his family’s needs first. She’d been young and overwrought, convinced a delay of a few days would make a difference to her father.

‘Sandro was the one who taught me to swim, and to snorkel.’ Domenico smiled wistfully. ‘And, come to that, how to drive a speedboat.’

‘My dad taught me how to strip down an engine.’ Her mouth curved reminiscently. ‘And how to make a kite and fly it. He even came to ballet classes when I was little and too shy to go alone.’

‘He sounds like a perfect father.’

‘He was.’

‘You never wanted to be a mechanic or a driver like him?’

‘No. I wanted to be a teacher. Working with children was always my dream. But that’s not possible now.’ She kept her voice brisk, refusing to wallow in self-pity.

‘What will you do?’ He sounded grave, as if her answer mattered.

Lucy looked at the sunset glowing amber and peach, rimmed with gold, then across to the mainland, where the dying sun gilded the coastline into something fantastic. It was the most exquisite view. She stored the memory against the empty days ahead, when life would be all struggle.

‘I took a bookkeeping course. I thought there’d be more chance of getting a job working with figures than with people, given my record.’ Except she doubted she’d be left alone long enough to find a job. This was a temporary respite. Once she left, the press would hound her. Who would employ her?

Abruptly she put her glass down and stood. ‘Isn’t it time we headed back?’ She needed to be alone, to sort out the problems she’d avoided while she was here. She’d been living in a fantasy world. Soon she’d face reality.

Lucy spun away. But the deck was slick where she’d dripped seawater. Her foot shot out beneath her. She flailed but was falling when Domenico grabbed her and hauled her to him.

She told herself it was the shock of almost falling that made adrenalin surge and her heart thump. It had nothing to do with the look in Domenico’s stormy eyes or the feel of his hot, damp body against hers.

‘You can let me go.’ Her breasts rose and fell with her choppy breathing.

Lucy put her hands on his arms to push herself away. Instead her fingers curled around the tensile strength of his biceps as if protesting the need to move.

‘What if I don’t want to let you go?’ His voice was so deep its vibration rumbled through her.

Bent back over his arm, she watched his face come closer. His gaze moved to her mouth and her heart gave a mighty leap as she read his intent.

‘No!’ Her voice was breathless. ‘I don’t want this!’

He shook his head. ‘I thought we’d agreed, Lucy. No more lies.’ For a moment longer he watched her, waiting for the protest they both knew she wouldn’t make.

Then slowly, deliberately, he lowered his head.