Читать книгу A Night In His Arms - Annie West - Страница 13

CHAPTER FIVE

DAMN THE WOMAN.

Domenico paced his study, furious he hadn’t broken the deadlock. Lucy Knight still rejected his offer.

It stuck in his craw to give her anything but it was the only way to stop her selling her story. Then what privacy would Pia and Taddeo have? The scandal could go on for years, dogging Taddeo as he grew.

Money was the obvious lever to get what he needed. She was desperate for cash. If she’d had funds she’d have spent it on a top-flight defence team.

A splinter of discomfort pierced him, remembering her inexperienced, under-prepared lawyer. Watching his ineffectual efforts had made Domenico actually consider intervening to organise a more capable defender.

To defend the woman who’d killed Sandro!

Perhaps if he hadn’t known she was guilty he would have. But how could he doubt the overwhelming evidence against her?

A mere week before Sandro’s death Lucy Knight had bumped into Domenico, literally, at an exhibition of baroque jewellery. He was supervising the inclusion of some family pieces but had been distracted, outrageously so, by the charms of the delightful young Englishwoman who’d blushed and stammered so prettily. She’d looked at the gems with unfeigned delight and at him with something like awe.

Yet it was her hesitation to accept his spur of the moment invitation to coffee that had hooked him. How long since a woman had even pretended to resist him?

Coffee had turned into a stroll through the Forum, lunch at a tucked away trattoria and an afternoon sightseeing. He’d enjoyed himself more than he could remember with a woman who was just Lucy to his Domenico. A woman whose eyes sparkled with unconcealed awareness, yet who trembled with innocent hesitation when he merely took her hand. She was smart, fun and refreshingly honest. Enough to make him believe he’d found someone special and rare.

She’d evoked a slew of emotions. Passion, delight and a surprising protectiveness that had kept him from sweeping her off to his bed then and there. For the connection between them had been sizzling, each touch electric.

She’d been different from every other woman, her impact so profound he’d suggested meeting again when he returned to Rome.

In New York he’d counted the hours to his return.

Till he’d seen Lucy in a news report, doused in his brother’s blood as she was led away by the police.

His heart stuttered at the memory.

Then piece by piece he’d heard from Pia and Sandro’s staff the truth about Lucy. How she’d seduced his brother and flaunted her power over him.

She must have known who Domenico was at the gallery and engineered the meeting. Why stick with Sandro, whose wife was already making a fuss about his affair, when his brother—just as rich and single to boot—was available? And just as susceptible.

Domenico thrust a hand through his hair. He’d fallen for her with an ease that shamed and angered him.

No. She’d brought on the result of the trial herself.

Yet he couldn’t douse his awareness of her. The delicacy of her features snagged his attention again and again, as did the proud, wilful angle of her jaw that appealed even as it repelled.

All afternoon he’d watched her. She appeared fascinated by the grounds, apparently content with the tranquillity here. Which made him wonder what her life had been like behind bars that she should revel in solitude.

There it was again. This unholy interest in the woman. She should mean nothing to him but a problem to be solved. Instead he found himself...intrigued.

And that tiny dead of night niggle was back, disturbing his rest.

He strode to the window, hands jammed in his pockets.

She gave him no peace. There she was at the end of the garden. The afternoon sun burnished her hair, making it glint like gold as she tipped her head back. Her obvious sensual delight was far too alluring, the way she held her arms open to embrace the heat, her deep breaths that drew his eyes to her delectable breasts.

She stiffened, head turning and arms folding in a classic defensive pose. Her tension was obvious as a figure approached from the villa. Rocco, his Head of Security.

Rocco held out a broad-brimmed hat. For a moment she stood stiff, as if unwilling to accept it. Then Rocco spoke and her defensive posture eased. She took the hat and put it on. Rocco spoke again and she shook her head. Was that laughter he caught in the distance?

Domenico stared, fascinated. Lucy Knight was so wary, stiffening the instant he or his security staff came near. To see her relaxed and laughing... Why? Because Rocco had offered her protection from the sun? It was a simple consideration anyone would offer.

Yet look how she responded. Now they were in conversation. She must be asking about landmarks for he pointed to the mainland and she nodded, leaning close.

Domenico frowned, not liking the swirl of discontent that rose as he watched them together.

The difference in her was remarkable. Domenico recalled the way her face had lit up at lunch when the maid served a delicious tiramisu, saying it was the cook’s speciality, prepared to welcome the new guest. Lucy’s eyes had widened then softened with appreciation and shock before she realised he was watching and looked away. Later she’d made a point of telling the maid how much she’d enjoyed the dessert.

The tiramisu was a little thing, a familiar courtesy to a guest, yet Lucy Knight had responded with surprised delight.

Was she so unused to consideration or kindness?

Given how she’d lived for the past several years it wasn’t surprising.

What had she said when she’d rejected his offer out of hand? That she didn’t respond to threats?

Domenico’s brain snapped into gear. He’d seen her proud defiance, her cool calm and her haughty, almost self-destructive need to assert her independence. Look at the way she’d faced the paparazzi.

If the threats didn’t work...what would she respond to?

Perhaps there was another way to get what he needed.

Instead of demands, persuasion might be more effective. Didn’t they say you could catch more flies with honey than vinegar?

* * *

Lucy shut her eyes and listened to the drowsy hum of bees in the garden and, below, the soft shush of waves. She was so incredibly lethargic, mind and body reacting as if, for the first time in years, she didn’t need to be constantly on guard. It was easy to relax here, too easy, given she had a future to organise and decisions to make. She should—

‘I thought I’d find you here.’ The deep voice swirled across her nerve ends, jerking them into tingling life.

She sat up abruptly in the low sun lounger. Standing between her and the sun was her host. For a moment she saw only an imposing silhouette, rampantly male with those broad shoulders, long legs and classically sculpted head. Her heart quickened with something other than surprise.

She scrambled to rise.

‘Don’t move.’ He put his hand out to stop her and sank onto a nearby seat.

She subsided, then gathered herself. Obviously he was here to demand she sign his contract. So much for the peace he’d promised!

She sat straight, knees together, watching suspiciously.

‘I thought I’d take you on a tour of the grounds.’

Lucy stared at him, but he returned her disbelieving look blandly.

‘Why?’

His black brows arched infinitesimally and ridiculously she felt a sliver of jab at her brusqueness. As if she cared what he thought of her manners. Once upon a time she’d have bantered polite words but not now. He’d forfeited her trust.

‘If you’re going to stay you should learn the lie of the land.’

He sounded so reasonable. So civilised.

But then he was a civilised man. Look at the way he’d invited her to sit at his table today, as if she was a guest, not the enemy. She’d seen the tension in him, had felt its echo in her own discomfort, but if he was able to bear her company she refused to let him know how confused and edgy she was in his.

‘You don’t want to spend time with me.’ The words grated from her tight throat. ‘Why suggest it?’ The words sounded churlish, but it was the truth.

She waited for his annoyance to show, but his face remained impassive. What was he thinking?

‘You’re a guest in my villa and—’

‘Hardly.’ Her fingers curved around the edge of her seat. ‘More a burden.’

‘I invited you here.’ He paused as if expecting her to interrupt. ‘As your host I have an obligation. I need to ensure your safety.’

‘Safety?’ Incredulous, she surveyed the delightful garden. ‘Don’t tell me, you have meat-eating killer ants that prey on people who fall asleep on the lawn?’

Was that a smile she saw, quickly suppressed? The fleeting hint of a dimple in that lean cheek was ridiculously attractive. Her response to it scared her. ‘Or rabid guard dogs who can sniff out an ex-convict if they stray near anything precious?’

No smile now with that blatant reminder of reality. Lucy told herself she preferred it that way. The last thing she needed was to find the man appealing again.

‘No animal dangers but there are things you need to be wary of, including an old well and some sink holes.’ He paused, obviously waiting for her assent.

What could she say? His offer sounded reasonable, though the chances of her falling down a hole were nil.

He wanted something. Why else seek her out?

To badger her into signing his contract? She was strong enough to withstand threats.

Besides, she was curious. She hated to admit it but it still felt as if there was unfinished business between them. Surely a little time in his company would erase that unsettling notion? Then she could leave without that niggle at her consciousness. It would be a relief to banish him from her thoughts.

‘If you think it necessary, by all means show me the dangers of your island.’

‘Va bene.’ He stood and extended a hand.

Lucy pretended not to notice. The last thing she needed was physical contact with a man whose presence threw her senses into overdrive.

She stood quickly, brushing down her skirt.

‘The first thing you must remember is to wear a hat at all times.’

‘Like you do?’ She stared pointedly at his dark hair, bare to the blazing sun.

Again that hint of a dimple marked his cheek, playing havoc with her insides. Lucy drew herself up, quenching the memory of how his smile had once made her heart skip and her mind turn to mush.

Clearly she’d been a passing amusement. Had he laughed at her gaucheness and wide-eyed wonder at Rome? And at being escorted by a stranger so handsome and attentive he’d all but made her swoon?

‘I’m used to southern summers and I’ve got the skin for it.’ He was right. His olive skin was burnished a deep bronze that enhanced the decisive contours of his face. ‘Whereas you—’

‘Have been behind bars.’ Her chin jutted.

He shook his head slowly. ‘You shouldn’t finish other people’s sentences. I was going to say you have a rare complexion. Cream and roses.’ He leaned closer. ‘And quite flawless.’

His eyes roved her face so thoroughly she felt his regard like the graze of a hand, making her flesh tingle. Her breath quickened and something unfamiliar spiralled deep inside, like the swoop and dip of swallows on the wing.

‘Your English is good but the phrase is peaches and cream.’ As if she believed he meant it! Prison pallor was more like. She looked away, needing to break the curious stillness that encompassed them.

‘I say what I mean.’ His voice was a low rumble from far too close. He raised his hand as if to touch her, and then let it drop. ‘Your skin has the lustre of new cream, or of pearls, with just a hint of rose.’

Lucy swung round to face him fully, hands on hips as she leaned forward to accuse him of making fun at her expense. She was no longer a gullible young thing to be taken in by smooth talk.

But the look on his face stole the harsh response from her lips.

It stole her breath too.

There was no laughter in his expression. He looked stunned, as if shocked at his own words.

Burnished pewter eyes met hers, making her blood pound.

Something arced between them, something like static electricity that drew the hairs at her nape erect and dried her mouth.

Abruptly they moved apart.

* * *

She wasn’t the woman he’d thought he knew.

Domenico watched her navigate the dusty path at the far end of the island with alacrity, as if exploring a semi-wilderness was high on her list of things to do. Her head swung from side to side as she took in the spectacular views and the countryside he always found so restful.

What had happened to the girl who thrived on bright lights and male attention? Who hankered after expensive jewellery and the excitement of a cosmopolitan city filled with boutiques, nightclubs, bars and men?

Was she hiding her boredom? She did a good job.

She’d even forgotten to scowl at him and her face had lost that shuttered look in the last half hour. Relaxed, she looked younger, softer.

Dangerously attractive.

There was a vibrancy about her he hadn’t seen since the day they’d met.

Perhaps she’d been seduced by the warmth of the afternoon and the utter peace of the place. She’d changed. The tension radiating from her like a shield was gone.

She paused, eyes on a butterfly floating past, as if its simple beauty fascinated her.

As she fascinated him.

The realisation dropped into his thoughts like a stone plummeting into a calm millpond.

How could it be? He carried Sandro’s memory strong within him. Any interest in her should be impossible.

Yet why had he chosen to oversee her stay here? It wasn’t necessary. A lawyer could witness her signing the contract.

The truth was Domenico was here because something about Lucy Knight made him curious even now. Something he couldn’t put his finger on. Something he needed to understand before she walked out of his life for ever.

‘Is that a ruined castle?’ The husky thread of pleasure in her voice brought Domenico back to the present.

‘It is.’

‘Yet you built your villa on the opposite end of the island.’

He shrugged. ‘The aspect is better there. This was built to defend, not enjoy.’

‘Strange,’ she mused as they stopped to take in the scene. ‘I had pegged you as someone who’d rather rebuild the old family estate than start afresh. After all, you live in the family palazzo in Rome.’

She shifted abruptly and he had the impression she wished she hadn’t spoken. The palazzo conjured memories of what lay between them.

‘You think I’m bound by tradition?’

She lifted her shoulders. ‘I have no idea. I don’t know you.’

That was the problem, Lucy decided. She’d thought she knew Domenico Volpe. All those weeks during the trial he’d been like an avenging angel, stonily silent and chillingly furious, waiting for her to be convicted. His eyes, cold as snow yet laser-hot when they rested on her, had told her all she needed to know about him.

Yet now she found him approachable—courteous and civilised. As if his lethal anger had never existed. She caught glimpses of the man she’d been wildly attracted to all those years ago. The man who’d made such an impression that in her innocence she’d thought she’d found The One.

Lucy stole a look as he stared at the tumbled stones. His severe features held a charisma that threatened to steal her breath. Abruptly she looked away, hating her quickened pulse.

‘Because I honour family tradition doesn’t mean I live in the past.’

He lounged against a stone wall beyond which was a deep ravine. A moat, she supposed, staring at the castle beyond. But though she kept her eyes on the view, she was supremely aware of her companion. In faded denim jeans that clung to powerful thighs and a dark short-sleeved shirt that revealed the sinewy strength of his tanned forearms, he looked far too real. Too earthy and sexy. She’d never seen him like this.

Lucy told herself a change of clothes meant nothing. Yet she couldn’t suppress the idea that she was closer to the real Domenico Volpe than in his city mansion.

She shied from asking herself why she wanted to know him at all.

Lucy shrugged. ‘I thought you’d prefer the castle.’

‘To lord it over my subjects?’

She shook her head. This man didn’t need external proof of his authority. It was all there—stamped in the austere beauty of his face. He’d been born to wealth but he’d grown into a man used to command.

‘Since family tradition means so much, you could restore the place.’

‘Ah, but this is an acquisition, not an inheritance. I bought it years ago to celebrate my first success.’

Lucy turned to meet his gaze. ‘Success?’

‘Si.’ His brows rose and she caught a flash of steel in his eyes. ‘Or did you think we Volpes have no need of work? That we sit on our inherited wealth and do nothing?’ His tone bit.

Once she’d have thought that was precisely what his family did, after seeing the ultra-luxurious way his brother and sister-in-law lived. Pia had never lifted a finger to do anything for herself, or her child.

Instantly guilt flared, twisting Lucy’s stomach. Pia might have been completely spoiled but her lack of involvement with little Taddeo had stemmed from her inability to bond with the baby. Lucy knew how much guilt and shame, not to mention fear that had caused the poor woman. No wonder she’d been insecure.

‘I see that’s exactly what you think.’

‘Sorry?’ Lucy blinked and turned, surprised to find herself so close to the man who now loomed over her.

‘You view us as lazy parasites, perhaps?’ His voice was low and amused but Lucy knew in her bones that amusement hid anger.

‘Not at all.’ She tilted her chin to meet his stare unflinchingly. ‘I know your wealth began with your inheritance but you struck out on your own as an entrepreneur, risking your capital on projects others wouldn’t touch. Your flair for managing risk made you the golden-haired boy of the European business world when other ventures were collapsing around you. You have a reputation for hard work and phenomenal luck.’

‘It’s not luck,’ he murmured. ‘It’s careful calculation.’

Lucy shrugged. ‘Whatever the reason, the markets call you Il Volpe, the fox, for good reason.’

‘Fascinating that you should know so much about me.’ His voice brushed across her skin like the touch of rich velvet. A ripple of pleasure followed it.

Instinctively Lucy made to step back, then stopped.

Never back down. Never retreat. Weakness shown was an invitation to be walked over.

‘It seemed prudent to know what I was up against.’

His eyebrows soared. ‘We weren’t in conflict.’

‘No?’ She shook her head. ‘Your family’s influence put me behind bars.’

His eyes narrowed to deadly slits. Heat sizzled at the look he gave her.

‘Let’s get this straight. My family did no more than wait the outcome of the trial.’

Lucy opened her mouth to protest but his raised hand stopped her.

‘No! You imply what? That we rigged the trial? That we bribed the police or judiciary?’ He shook his head in a fine show of anger. ‘The evidence convicted you, Ms Knight. Nothing else.’ He paused and she watched him grapple for control, his strong features taut, his muscles bunched.

He drew a deep breath and Lucy saw his wide chest expand. When he spoke his voice was crisp. ‘You have my word as a Volpe on it. We live within the law.’

There was no mistaking his emotion. It was almost convincing.

‘You don’t believe me?’ His eyes narrowed.

In truth she didn’t know. There was no doubt she’d been disadvantaged by the quality of her legal team compared with the ruthless efficiency and dogged determination of the prosecution. And it was obvious that sympathy lay with Pia, the beautiful grieving widow and young mother. Lucy knew that sympathy had given Pia’s evidence more weight than it deserved. At Lucy’s expense.

Plus Bruno Scarlatti, Sandro’s bodyguard and the prosecution’s chief witness, was ex-police. He’d shone in court. His evidence had been clear and precise, unclouded by emotion. That evidence had damned her and swayed the court. She was sure his ex-police status had weighed with the investigators too, though she had no proof.

‘I...don’t know.’ For the first time confusion filled her, not the righteous indignation that had burned so long.

‘I’m not used to having my word doubted.’ Hauteur laced Domenico’s tone.

Lucy’s lips curled in a sour half smile. ‘Believe me, it doesn’t get any easier with time.’

His eyes widened as he realised she was talking about herself. She almost laughed, but there was nothing funny about it.

Even after all this time, bearing the burden of public guilt was like carrying an open wound. She wondered if she’d ever feel whole again while she carried that lie with her. It had changed her life irrevocably.

Now the dreams she’d cherished about starting afresh seemed just that—dreams. How could they not, with Sylvia’s cruel betrayal and the eager press waiting to scoop more stories? How would she find the peace she craved to build a new life?

She turned away, her joy in the place forgotten.

‘Wait.’ The word stabbed the silence.

‘What?’ Reluctantly she faced him.

‘This—’ his hand slashed between them ‘—isn’t helpful.’

‘So?’

‘So—’ his nostrils flared as he breathed deep ‘—I propose a truce. You’re my guest. I’ll treat you as such and you’ll reciprocate. No more accusations, by either of us.’

Was this to soften her up so she’d sign his paper? Or was it, a little squiggle of hope tickled her, because he had doubts about her guilt?

No. That hope died as it was born. He’d shown no doubt in court. Not once. He’d spurned her as if she were unclean. He didn’t want to absolve her, just strike an accord that would give them peace while they shared the villa.

Peace. That was what she craved, wasn’t it?

‘Agreed.’ Lucy put her hand out and, after a surprised glance, he took it.

She regretted it as soon as his fingers enveloped hers. Fire sparked and spread from his touch, running tendrils of heat along her arm to her cheeks, breasts and belly. Even down her legs, where her knees locked against sudden weakness.

She sucked in a shocked breath at the intensity of that physical awareness.

Did he feel it? His eyes gleamed deep silver and his sculpted lips tightened.

His next words were the last she expected to hear.

‘So you will call me Domenico, si? And I’ll call you Lucy.’

Time warped. It was as if they were back in Rome, chance met strangers, her heart thundering as their eyes locked for the first time.

His gaze bored into hers, challenging her to admit the idea of his name on her lips discomfited her. Or was it the sound of her own name, like a tantalising caress in his rich, deep voice, that made her pulse falter?

‘I don’t think—’

‘To seal our truce,’ he insisted, his gaze intent as if reading the thrill of shock snaking through her.

‘Of course.’ She refused to let him fluster her, especially over something so trivial.

Yet it didn’t feel trivial. It felt... Lucy groped for a word to describe the sensations assailing her but failed.

With a nod he released her and stepped away. Yet Lucy still felt the imprint of his hand on hers and her spine tingled at the memory of him saying her name with that delicious hint of an accent.

She had the uncomfortable feeling she’d just made a huge mistake.