Читать книгу A Night In His Arms - Annie West - Страница 11

CHAPTER THREE

LUCY STARED AS the text blurred and dipped. She blinked, torn between gratitude that she couldn’t make out all the snide character assassination and desperation to know the worst.

She thought she’d experienced the worst in prison. With the loss of her father, her friends, freedom, innocence and self-esteem.

She’d been wrong.

This was the final betrayal.

She struggled to draw breath. It was as if a boulder squashed her lungs. She slammed a hand on the satiny wood of the desk, her damp palm slipping as she fought to steady herself.

Darkness rimmed her vision and the world revolved, churning sickeningly like a merry-go-round spinning off kilter.

There was a pounding in her ears and a gaping hole where her heart had been.

Hard fingers closed around her upper arm.

It was enough to drag her back to her surroundings. She yanked her arm but the grip tightened. She felt him beside her, imprisoning her against the desk.

From somewhere deep inside fury welled, a volcanic force that for a glorious moment obliterated the pain shredding her vitals.

Driven by unstoppable instinct Lucy pivoted, raised her hand and chopped down on the inner elbow of the arm that captured her. At the same time she jabbed her knee high in his groin. Her hand connected with a force that almost matched the strength in that muscled arm. But her knee struck only solid thigh as he sensed her attack and shifted.

Yet it worked. She was free. She stood facing him, panting from adrenalin and overflowing emotions.

Gimlet eyes stared down at her. Glittering eyes that bored deep into her soul, as if he could strip away the self-protective layers she’d built so painstakingly around herself and discover the woman no one else knew.

Her chest rose and fell as she struggled for air. Her pulse thundered. Her skin sizzled with the effervescence in her bloodstream.

The muzzy giddiness disappeared as she stared back at the face of the man who’d stripped away her last hope and destroyed what was left of her joy at being free.

Far from fainting, she felt painfully alive. It was as if layers of skin had been scored away, exposing nerve endings that throbbed from contact with the very air in this cloistered mansion.

‘Don’t touch me!’

Instead of backing off from her snarling tone he merely narrowed his eyes.

‘You were going to faint.’ The rumble of his voice stirred an echo inside her.

‘I’ve never fainted in my life.’ She shoved aside the knowledge that he was right. Until the shock of his touch she’d been about to topple onto his pristine parquet floor.

‘You needed support.’ His words betrayed no outrage at her attack. It was as if he, like she, was no longer bothered by social niceties. As if he understood the primitive intensity of her feelings.

That disturbed her. She didn’t want him understanding anything about her. She didn’t like the sense that Domenico Volpe had burrowed under her skin and was privy to her innermost demons.

Something shifted in his gaze. There was a subtle difference in those deep-set eyes that now shone silver. Something in the line of his lips. Her eyes lingered there, tracing the shape of a mouth which now, relaxed, seemed designed solely for sensual pleasure.

A gossamer thread of heat spun from her breasts to her pelvis, drawing tight—a heat she’d felt only once before.

Had his expression changed, grown warm? Or had something inside her shifted?

Lucy bit her lip then regretted the movement as his gaze zeroed in on her mouth. Her lips tingled as if he’d reached out and grazed them with a questing finger.

A shiver of luxurious pleasure ripped through her. Fire ignited deep within, so hot it felt as if she were melting. Her pulse slowed to a ponderous beat then revved out of control.

She’d known Domenico Volpe was dangerous. But she hadn’t known the half of it.

She swallowed hard and found her voice, trying to ignore her body’s flagrant response.

‘You can move back now. I can stand.’

He took his time moving. ‘Yet sitting is so much more comfortable, don’t you think?’

He said no more but that one raised eyebrow told her he saw what she’d rather not reveal. That her surge of energy was short-lived. Lucy felt a dragging at her limbs. Her knees were jelly and the thought of confronting him here, now, was almost too much to bear.

Had he guessed her visceral response to his flagrant masculinity? That would be the final straw.

She grabbed the magazine, crushing its pages.

‘Thank you. I will take that seat now.’

He nodded and gestured to a long sofa. Instead she took the black leather swivel chair that looked like something from an exclusive design catalogue, a far cry from the sparse utilitarian furniture she’d grown used to. It was wickedly comfortable and her bones melted as she sank into it. It was massive, built to order, she guessed, for the man who took a seat across from her. Lucy tried to look unfazed by such luxury.

‘You didn’t know about the article?’

Lucy refused to look away from his keen gaze. Confrontation was preferable to running. She’d learned that in a hard school. But looking him in the eye was difficult when her body hummed with the aftermath of what she could only describe as an explosion of sexual awareness.

‘No.’ She glanced down at the trashy gossip mag and repressed a shiver. It was like holding a venomous snake in her palm. ‘I had no idea.’

‘Would you like something? Brandy? A pot of tea?’

Startled by his concern, she turned to find Domenico Volpe looking almost as surprised as she was, as if the offer had slipped out without volition.

It was no comfort to know she must look as bad as she felt for him to offer sustenance.

‘No. Thank you.’ Accepting anything from him went against every instinct.

Already he moved towards the desk. Obviously it didn’t matter what she wanted. ‘I’ll order coffee.’

Lucy’s gaze dropped to the magazine. How could Sylvia have done this? Did she despise Lucy so much?

Silently her heart keened. Sylvia and the kids had been Lucy’s last bright hope of returning to some remnant of her old life. Of having family again. Of belonging.

Quotes from the article floated through her troubled mind. Of her stepmother saying Lucy had ‘always been different’, ‘withdrawn and moody’ but ‘hankering after the bright lights and excitement’. That she put her own needs first rather than those of her family. There was nothing in the article about Sylvia’s resentment of her husband’s almost grown daughter, or the fact that Lucy had spent years as unpaid nurserymaid for Sylvia’s four children by a previous marriage. Or that Sylvia’s idea of bright lights was a Saturday night in Torquay and a takeaway meal.

Nothing about the fact that Lucy had left home only when her dad, in his quiet way, had urged her to experience more of the world rather than put her life on hold to look after the younger children.

She’d experienced the world all right, but not in the way he’d had in mind.

As for the article, taken from a recent interview with Sylvia, it was a lurid exposé that painted Lucy as an uncaring, amoral gold-digger. It backed up every smear and innuendo that had been aired in the courtroom. Worse, it proved even her family had turned against her.

What would her stepsiblings think now they were old enough to read such malicious gossip?

Lucy’s heart withered and she pressed a hand to her throat, trying to repress rising nausea. Sylvia and she had never been close but Lucy had never thought her stepmother would betray her like this. The article’s spitefulness stole her breath.

Until now she’d believed there was someone believing in her. First her father and, after he died, Sylvia.

She felt bereft, grieving all over again for her dad who’d been steadfastly behind her. Never having known her long-dead mother, Lucy’s bond with her father had been special. His faith and love had kept her strong through the trial.

Lucy had never been so alone. Not even that first night in custody. Even after the conviction when she knew she had years of imprisonment ahead. Nor facing down the taunts and jeers as she’d learned to handle the threats from prisoners who’d tried to make her life hell.

The magazine was a rag but an upmarket one. Sylvia had sold her out for what must be a hefty fee.

Lucy blinked stinging eyes as she stared at the vile publication in her lap.

She thought she’d known degradation and despair. But it was only now that her life hit rock bottom.

And Domenico Volpe was here to see it.

She shivered, chilled to the marrow. How he must be gloating.

‘The coffee will be here soon.’

Lucy looked up to find him standing across from her, watchful. No doubt triumphing at the sight of her down and out. Framed by the massive antique fireplace and a solid wall of books, he looked the epitome of born and bred privilege. From his aristocratically handsome features to his hand stitched shoes he screamed power and perfection.

Once the sight of him had made her heart skip with pleasure. But she’d discovered the real Domenico Volpe when the chips were down. He’d sided with his own class, easily believing the most monstrous lies against her.

Slowly she stood, pride stiffening her weary legs and tilting her chin.

‘It’s time I left.’

Where she’d go she had no idea, but she had to escape.

She had just enough money to get her home to Devon. But now she had no home. Her breath hitched as she thought of Sylvia’s betrayal. She wouldn’t be welcome there.

Pain transfixed her.

‘You can’t leave.’

‘I’m now officially a free woman, Signor Volpe, however much you resent it. If you try to keep my here by force it will be kidnap.’

Even so a shiver of apprehension skated down her spine. She wouldn’t put anything past him. She’d seen his cadre of security men and she knew first hand what they were capable of.

‘You mistake me for one of your recent associates, Ms Knight.’ He snapped the words out as if he wanted to take a bite out of her. ‘I’ve no intention of breaking the law.’

Before she could voice her indignation he continued. ‘You need somewhere private; somewhere the press can’t bother you.’

His words stilled her protest.

‘And?’

‘I can provide that place.’

And pigs might fly.

‘Why would you do that?’ She’d read his contempt. ‘What do you get out of it?’

For the longest moment he stood silent. Only the hint of a scowl on his autocratic features hinted he wasn’t used to being questioned. Tough.

‘There are others involved,’ he said finally. ‘My brother’s widow and little Taddeo. They’re the ones affected the longer this is dragged through the press.’

Taddeo. Lucy had thought of him often. She’d loved the little baby in her care, enjoying his gurgles of delight at their peekaboo games and his wide-eyed fascination as she’d read him picture books. What was he like now?

One look at Domenico Volpe’s closed face told her he’d rather walk barefoot over hot coals than talk about his nephew with her.

‘So what’s your solution?’ She crossed her arms over her chest. ‘Walling me up in the basement car park?’

‘That could work.’ He bared his teeth in a feral smile that drew her skin tight. ‘But I prefer to work within the law.’ He paused. ‘I don’t have your penchant for the dramatic. Instead I suggest providing you with a bolthole till this blows over. Your bag is already in your room.’

Her room.

Lucy groped for the back of the chair she’d just vacated, her hand curling like a claw into the plump, soft leather. She tried to speak but her voice had dried up.

Her room.

The memory of it had haunted her for years. Ever since arriving here she’d been cold to the core because she knew that room was upstairs, on the far side of the building.

‘You can’t expect me to stay there!’ Her voice was hoarse with shock. ‘Even you couldn’t...’ She shook her head as her larynx froze. ‘That’s beyond cruel. That’s sick.’

His eyes widened and she saw understanding dawn. His nostrils flared and he stepped towards her, then pulled up abruptly.

‘No.’ The word slashed the clogged silence. ‘That room hasn’t been used since my brother died. There’s another guest room at your disposal.’

Relief sucked her breath away and loosened her cramped muscles. Slowly she drew in oxygen, marshalling all her strength to regroup after that scare.

‘I can’t stay in this house.’

He met her gaze silently, not asking why. He knew. The memories were too overwhelming.

‘I’ll find my own place.’

‘And how will you do that with the press on the doorstep?’ He crossed his arms over his chest and leaned a shoulder against the fireplace, projecting an air of insouciance that made her want to slap him. ‘Wherever you go they’ll follow. You’ll get no peace, no privacy.’

He was right, damn him. But to be dependent on him for anything stuck in her craw.

The door opened and a maid entered, bearing a tray of coffee and biscuits. The rich aroma, once her favourite, curdled Lucy’s stomach. Instinctively she pressed a hand to her roiling abdomen and moved away. Vaguely she heard him thank the maid, but from her new vantage point near the window Lucy saw only the press pack outside. The blood leached from her cheeks.

Which was worse? Domenico Volpe or the paparazzi who’d hound her for some tawdry story they could sell?

‘If you don’t mind, I’ll take you up on the offer of that room. Just to freshen up.’ She needed breathing space, time away from him, to work out what to do.

Lucy swung round to find him watching her. She should be used to it now. His scrutiny was continual. Yet reaction shivered through her. What did he see? How much of what she strove to hide?

She banished the question. She had better things to do than worry about that. Nothing would change Domenico Volpe’s opinion. His reluctant gestures of solicitude were evidence of ingrained social skills, not genuine concern.

‘Of course. Take as long as you like. Maria will show you up.’

Lucy assured herself it wasn’t satisfaction she saw in that gleaming gaze.

* * *

‘No! I said I can’t talk. I’m busy.’ Sylvia’s voice rose and Lucy thought she discerned something like anxiety as well as anger in her stepmother’s words. She gripped the phone tighter.

‘I just wanted—’

‘Well, I don’t want. Just leave me alone! Haven’t you done enough damage to this family?’

Lucy opened her mouth but the line went dead.

How long she sat listening to the dialling tone she didn’t know. When she finally put the receiver down her fingers were cramped and her shoulders stiff from hunching, one arm wrapped protectively around her stomach.

So that was it. The severing of all ties.

A piercing wail of grief rose inside her but she stifled it. Lucy told herself it was better to face this now than on the rose-covered doorstep of the whitewashed cottage that had been home all her life.

Yet she couldn’t quite believe it. She’d rung her stepmother hoping against hope there’d been some dreadful mistake. That perhaps the press had published a story with no basis. That Sylvia hadn’t betrayed her with that character assassination interview.

Forlorn hope! Sylvia wanted nothing to do with her.

Which left Lucy with nowhere to go. She had no one and nothing but a past that haunted her and even now wouldn’t release its awful grip.

Slowly she lifted her head and stared at the panelled door separating the bedroom from the second-floor corridor.

It was time she laid the ghost of her past to rest.

* * *

She wasn’t in the room he’d provided but she hadn’t tried to leave. His security staff would have alerted him. There was only one place she could be, yet he hadn’t thought she’d have the gall to go back there.

Domenico’s stride lengthened as he paced the corridor towards the side of the palazzo that had housed Sandro’s apartments. Fury spiked as he thought of Lucy Knight there, in the room where she’d taken Sandro’s life. It was an intrusion that proved her contempt for all he and his family had lost. A trespass that made his blood boil and his body yearn for violence.

The door was open and he marched across the threshold, hands clenched in iron fists, muscles taut and fire in his belly.

Then he saw her and stopped dead.

He didn’t know what he’d expected but it wasn’t this. Lucy Knight was huddled on the floor before the ornate fireplace, palm pressed to the floorboards where Sandro had breathed his last. Domenico remembered it from the police markers on the floor and photos in court.

Her face was the colour of travertine marble, pale beyond belief. Her eyes were dark with pain as she stared fixedly before her. She was looking at something he couldn’t see, something that shuttered her gaze and turned it inwards.

The hair prickled at his nape and he stepped further into the room.

She looked up and shock slammed him at the anguish he saw in her face. Gone was the sassy, prickly woman who’d fought him off when he’d dared touch her.

The woman before him bore the scars of bone-deep pain. It was clear in every feature, so raw he almost turned away, as if seeing such emotion was a violation.

A shudder passed through him. Shock that instead of the anger he’d nursed as he strode through the house, it was something like pity that stirred.

‘I’m sorry.’ Her voice was a rasp of laboured air. ‘It shouldn’t have happened. I was so young and stupid.’ Her voice faded as she looked down at the patina of old wood beneath her hands. ‘I should never have let him in.’

Domenico crossed the room in a few quick strides and hunkered beside her, his heart thumping.

She admitted it?

It didn’t seem possible after all this time.

‘If I hadn’t let him in, none of it would have happened.’ She drew a breath that shook her frame. ‘I’ve gone over it so often. If only I hadn’t listened to him. If only I’d locked the door.’

Domenico frowned. ‘You had no need to lock the door against my brother. I refuse to believe he would have forced himself on you.’

The idea went against everything he knew about Sandro. His brother had been a decent man. A little foolish in his choice of wife, but honourable. A loving brother and doting father. A man who’d made one mistake, led astray by a beautiful, scheming seductress, but not a man who took advantage of female servants.

That blonde head swung towards him and she blinked. ‘I wasn’t talking about your brother. I was talking about the bodyguard, Bruno.’ Her voice slowed on the name as if her tongue thickened. Domenico heard what sounded like fear in her voice. ‘I shouldn’t have let Bruno in.’

Domenico shot to his feet. Disappointment was so strong he tasted it, a rusty tang, on his tongue.

‘You still stick to that story?’

The bruised look in her eyes faded, replaced by familiar wariness. Her mouth tightened and for an instant Domenico felt a pang almost of loss as she donned her habitual air of challenge.

A moment later she was again that woman ready to defy the world with complete disdain. Even curled up at his feet she radiated a dignity and inner strength he couldn’t deny.

How did she do it? And why did he let it get to him? She was a liar and a criminal, yet there was something about her that made him wish things were different.

There always had been. That was the hell of it.

His gut dived. Even to think it was a betrayal of Sandro.

‘I don’t tell stories, Signor Volpe.’ She got to her feet in a supple movement that told him she hadn’t spent the last years idle. ‘Bruno killed your brother but—’ she raised her hand when he went to speak ‘—don’t worry, you won’t hear it from me again. I’m tired of repeating myself to people who won’t listen.’

She made to move past him but his hand shot out to encircle her upper arm. Instantly she tensed. Would she try to fight him off as she had downstairs? He almost wished she would. There’d be a primitive satisfaction in curbing her temper and stamping his control on that fiery, passionate nature she hid behind the untouchable façade.

Heat tingled through his fingers where he held her. He braced himself but she merely looked at him, eyebrows arching.

‘You wanted something?’ Acid dripped from her words.

Domenico’s eyes dropped to her mouth, soft pink again now that colour had returned to her face. The blush pink of rose petals at dawn.

A pulse of something like need thudded through his chest. He told himself it was the urge to wring her pretty neck. Yet his mouth dried when he watched her lips part a fraction, as if she had trouble inhaling enough air. There was a buzzing in his ears.

Her eyes widened and Domenico realised he’d leaned closer. Too close. Abruptly he straightened, dropping her arm as if it burnt him.

‘I want to know what you plan to do.’

He didn’t have the right to demand it. Her glittering azure gaze told him that. But he didn’t care. She wasn’t the only one affected by this media frenzy. He had family to protect.

‘I want to find somewhere private, away from the news hounds.’

He nodded. ‘I can arrange that.’

‘Not here!’ The words shot out. A frisson shuddered through the air, a reminder of shadows from the past.

‘No, not here.’ He had estates in Italy as well as in California’s Napa Valley and another outside London. Any of them would make a suitable safe house till this blew over.

‘In that case, I accept your generous offer, Signor Volpe. I’ll stay in your safe haven for a week or so, until this furore dies down.’

She must be more desperate than she appeared. She hadn’t even asked where she’d be staying. Or with whom.