Читать книгу One Night In… - Кейт Хьюит, Оливия Гейтс - Страница 27

MEGHAN sat back on the bed, her mind still numb, yet whirling. Spinning horribly with implications she had pushed away, refused to consider.

You may have been a victim before, but you are not one now.

She lay back against the rumpled sheets and mussed pillows, an ache of regret throbbing through her, threatening to rise up into an overwhelming howl of misery.

She’d wanted control. She’d entered Alessandro’s villa—his life—so she could prove something to herself. To him.

She’d wanted to prove that she was in control, that she wasn’t a victim. She’d been determined to show how she could be in control of her own life, her own body.

She’d failed spectacularly.

She was such a fool.

She took a deep, shuddering breath. If she wanted control this was the time to take it with both hands, and show Alessandro she understood.

Meghan pushed the tangled mass of hair back from her flushed face. A glance in the mirror confirmed her suspicions; she was a mess. She splashed cold water on her face, yanked a brush through her hair until it lay in waves against her shoulders, and changed into a fresh pair of jeans from her haversack. She picked one of her favourite blouses, a silky, cream wraparound that emphasised the clean lines of her throat and collar-bone and left all the rest to the imagination, barely hinting at the soft curves it hid.

It was wrinkled and cheap, but it was clean, and it was hers. She didn’t want to wear borrowed clothes for this.

Taking another breath, in a vain attempt to calm her wildly beating heart, she walked downstairs.

The villa was quiet, cloaked in darkness, but Meghan saw a lamp burning in the lounge. The double doors were closed, although one had escaped its latch.

It was enough of an invitation. It would have to be.

Meghan pushed the door open with her fingertips. Alessandro stood in the centre of the room, his back half turned, staring at one of the vivid oil paintings on the wall with a preoccupied scowl. When she saw the ferocity of his expression Meghan almost turned back.

Then he saw her. He stilled, then turned slightly towards her, one eyebrow raised, his face now frighteningly impassive, as if a mask had dropped into place. He didn’t speak.

‘I wanted to tell you I’m sorry,’ Meghan began, her voice thready. ‘You were right.’

‘Oh?’ He gave her nothing—no quarter, no mercy.

‘I was acting like a victim,’ Meghan continued painfully, her face flushing with humiliated acknowledgement, ‘and it wasn’t fair to you. Despite our … beginnings, you’ve given me nothing but honesty and understanding since then. I realise that now.’ She swallowed, bowed her head in submission, and waited for his judgement.

Alessandro was silent. Meghan could hear her heart pounding.

‘How convenient for you,’ he said after a long moment, his voice dry, and yet with a chill.

‘Alessandro, please.’ Meghan looked up, took a step forward, reached a hand out in helpless appeal before dropping it. The man she’d thought she was beginning to know was warm, vibrant, alive.

The man in front of her now was a shadow of that man, no more than a reflection in ice.

He did not have compassion in his eyes. Tenderness did not soften his face. His eyes were black and cold, the beauty of his face made up only of harsh planes and angles.

‘You really do want me to leave,’ she said unsteadily.

He shrugged, an elegant twisting of his broad shoulders. ‘Maybe you were right. Maybe I’m bored with you, as you suggested.’

Meghan felt sick. Alessandro was a man who didn’t bluff. She should have known she’d wasted all her chances. She took a step backwards. ‘I’ll go and get my things.’

‘Are you quite certain you want to return to Spoleto?’ His expression was sardonic. ‘You did say you were finished there.’ He raised his eyebrows, coldly amused. ‘So where are you going now, Meghan? Where are you running to? Have you decided that yet?’

‘I’m not running,’ Meghan retorted automatically, and Alessandro gave a sharp bark of laughter.

‘Oh, no? But you give such a good impression of it.’ He shook his head in disbelief. ‘You’re not a woman. You’re a child. So young and naïve. You look to others to condemn or absolve you. You blame them for your mistakes—your choices—and you run away when it gets too hard. You have to take responsibility for your actions, Meghan. Lord knows I did—much as it hurt.’

Meghan jerked back from the verbal assault. He’d assessed and discarded her whole character in a matter of seconds. He’d given her reasons, motivations, faults, without understanding the truth.

Without knowing it.

‘Don’t,’ she whispered. ‘You don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘No? Then tell me.’ Alessandro’s face darkened even as he shoved his hands in his pockets, his body chillingly relaxed. ‘Tell me about Stephen. He was married, you said? And you didn’t know?’

Meghan’s eyes widened in shock. ‘No, I didn’t! I told you that! He never told me … I never …’

‘Yes, you’ve told me many things.’ He made it sound as if she’d offered him a tissue of lies. ‘This place you lived— Stanton Springs, was it? A small town? You told me you were—what was the phrase?—a smalltown girl.’

‘Yes,’ Meghan whispered wretchedly. ‘It was a small place.’ She knew where this was going, knew where he was leading her without mercy, without understanding. Without forgiveness. And she could do nothing but follow—follow down this damnable path to its terrible destination.

‘I’ve heard about these towns in America. Friendly places, yes? Everyone knows everyone else. You all say hello in the street. Like one of those American television shows.’ His eyes glinted with both knowledge and power.

‘Yes,’ Meghan agreed softly. ‘It’s just like that.’

He lifted his chin, prepared for the final thrust. ‘So tell me now, how is it that you didn’t know he was married? Because you did know, didn’t you, Meghan?’ His eyes were like blue flames, burning into hers, into her consciousness, her soul. Searing her. ‘You must have known who he was. You must have said hello to his wife. You must have lived a lie. Isn’t that right? That’s what is eating you alive—why you have these shadows. Why you can’t move on. You knew, and you pretended you didn’t. Even to yourself. You knew, Meghan.’

It was too much—too close to the truth, and yet so horribly far from it. ‘I didn’t know!'Meghan shouted. Tears spurted from her eyes and her voice choked. ‘I didn’t know, it wasn’t that small a town. He told me he was single! Damn you—damn you to hell, Alessandro di Agnio! I don’t care what you say—what he said— I didn’t know!’

He stilled, tensed. ‘What did he say?’

‘He said I should have known … that no one would believe I didn’t know,’ she choked out. The words, the confessions, tumbled from her lips. They’d been stamped down for so long, and now they couldn’t come fast enough. ‘He said everyone would assume I’d known—he was a model citizen, so was his wife. How could I not have known?’

‘Indeed,’ Alessandro said in a soft voice.

‘But I didn’t.’ She was begging now, pleading for him to understand, to believe—as foolish a gesture as she knew that had to be. Who begged their accuser to understand? ‘I didn’t. I realise now how naïve I was. He was so charming, so … taken with me. I never stopped to question, to wonder why we always met in hotel rooms, seedy restaurants. I assumed he just wanted to keep a low profile because of his job. I thought it all so thrilling, but it’s obvious now. Back then … then I was so starstruck, thinking myself so lucky, so in love, that I had no idea … no idea …’ Her voice trailed off brokenly.

‘No idea?’ Alessandro prompted coolly.

‘No idea of what I was getting into,’ Meghan finished in a whisper. ‘No idea what would happen. No idea that someone could think …’

‘Think what?’

This was dangerous. Memories were dangerous. Her vision blurred and she clutched blindly at the chair. ‘He thought I was nothing more than a whore,’ she said, her voice so low that Alessandro leaned forward to hear. ‘A whore,’ she repeated disbelievingly. ‘If you wonder why I thought that was what you meant by services, if you can’t understand why it hurts so much that you thought that of me—even for a moment—then now you know.’

Alessandro regarded her quietly for a moment. ‘Why would he think that?’ he asked. ‘Is there something you’re not telling me?’

‘He just did.’ Meghan cut off a half-sob, took a shuddering breath. Her nerves were shattered, her emotions splintered. She felt as if Alessandro could sweep the broken pieces of her into his hand and blow them away. ‘He just did, anyway.’ Her voice came out dull, flat. She pressed her fist to her mouth, bit down on her knuckles. Hard. She couldn’t say more. She couldn’t tell him any more.

‘And you started to believe it?’ he surmised thoughtfully.

Meghan swung round to face him, horrified. ‘No, of course I didn’t! I would never—!’

‘Yes, you did,’ Alessandro countered softly. ‘You’ve believed it all this time, haven’t you? You think it was your fault. And you’ve never forgiven yourself.’

‘What?’ She jerked back as if she’d been slapped. ‘Forgive myself? You think I need that?’ She shook her head so hard her hair tangled against her face, and she brushed it away in one angry, impatient gesture. ‘I forgave myself a long time ago—if there was anything to forgive. Which there wasn’t.’ Her breathing hitched and she forced herself to sound calm.

There was no truth in what Alessandro was saying. There was no sense. Could he actually think she was to blame for what had happened? For what she hadn’t known? For what had happened next…?

‘Perhaps there wasn’t anything to forgive,’ Alessandro agreed evenly. ‘But you blamed yourself all the same, didn’t you? You tell me now you didn’t know. But maybe there was a little whisper in your heart. Deep down you thought, you must have known. You must have at least suspected.’

Meghan stared at him transfixed. Horrified. She felt stripped bare … again. This time more vulnerable than ever before, and it hurt. It hurt so much. More than physical blows. Still, she could not look away from Alessandro’s gaze, his eyes blazing with knowledge. Knowledge of her heart, her mind.

‘Maybe I did,’ she whispered, the words torn from her.

‘That’s why you thought I was propositioning you outside the restaurant.’

‘You were—’

‘No. I told you. Richard Harrison—the man here earlier— wanted to proposition you.’ Alessandro’s lips curled in distaste. ‘I wanted no part in that plan.’

‘You still thought—’

‘Yes.’ He held up a hand, cutting her off. ‘Until you told me I was talking to the wrong kind of woman.’ He smiled sadly, spreading his hands wide. ‘It stunned me at first. But what kind of woman assumes she’s being propositioned that way? Not a true whore—because that kind of woman would take it in her stride, sidle up to me and make an offer. Another woman—most women—would ask me what I meant, perhaps, or assume that since I’d called you out of the restaurant I naturally wanted your services as a waitress. But you didn’t. And it made me wonder.’

Meghan swallowed. Her throat was dry, as if it were coated in sandpaper. ‘What did it make you wonder?’ she whispered huskily.

‘It made me wonder why you thought you were a whore when you so obviously weren’t. That’s why you flirted that way, isn’t it? Why you stayed at that hostel—why you never reported Paulo. Why you keep thinking I’m treating you like one, thinking of you as one. Because you think you deserve it.’

Meghan shook her head. ‘I don’t deserve it.’ Her voice broke, and she couldn’t keep the tears from clogging her throat, her eyes. She blinked them back; they fell anyway, tracing silver tracks down her face. ‘I don’t.’

Wordlessly Alessandro put his arms around her, drawing her to him. Meghan let herself be pulled against him, let him tuck her chin against his chest.

He couldn’t see her face, yet his thumb still traced her cheek, wiping away the tear that slipped softly, silently down—as if he’d followed its track with his heart. He was holding her as close as a lover, as gently as a child.

‘Mia gattina, of course you don’t. Of course. I know that. Perhaps you know it in your mind, but not in your heart. Where it matters.’

She closed her eyes. For a long moment there was nothing but the sound of their own ragged breathing. Alessandro stroked her hair softly.

‘What … what happens now?’ Meghan asked in little more than a whisper.

Alessandro tensed, then sighed, a shuddering breath that made Meghan realise he was not as much in control as she’d thought. She’d been laid bare, but somehow, in some way, so had he.

He understood.

Why? How?

‘What happens now?’ Alessandro repeated almost musingly. She felt rather than saw his smile. ‘Now you marry me.’

The silence in the room was deafening, a roaring in her ears. Meghan froze, then forced herself to move away. She stared at him, looking for humour, for mockery. For something to tell her he was not, could not possibly be, serious. There was nothing in his face to indicate he was joking. He looked bland, impassive, yet Meghan suspected that blank look was his brand of armour. What did that mask hide? What emotions? What hopes?

Marriage?

Meghan shook her head.

‘You’re joking.’

‘Do you really think I would joke about marriage?’

She shook her head slowly, hating the sudden flare of hope and need that he had ignited within her. ‘Why would you want to marry me?’

‘Just because you think so little of yourself doesn’t mean I do.’

‘You just acted like you thought very little of me indeed,’ Meghan said through stiff, numb lips. ‘You called me a child, you blamed me for what happened—’

‘I drove you to confession,’ Alessandro corrected quietly. ‘Absolution.’

‘Oh, is that what that was?’ Meghan slapped her forehead in a parody of understanding. ‘Sorry. Silly me. Because it sure didn’t feel that way. It felt like you were condemning me for every single thing I thought you didn’t believe!’

‘I don’t,’ Alessandro said calmly. ‘Not now. But I knew you did, and I had to show you that. Only then would you be able to move on. Stop blaming, stop being the victim.’

‘Thanks for the psychotherapy.’ Meghan turned away in disgust—disgust at herself for falling into his trap, and for the damn thing working.

He knew her better than she knew herself, and it didn’t make sense. It wasn’t fair. She didn’t like feeling so vulnerable, so exposed, so raw.

And yet, she realised with sudden, sweet surprise, it was a relief.

It was a relief to be known and not judged. To be accepted, not condemned. To not carry the burden of her secrets, her shame, alone.

‘Marry me, Meghan.’

It was tempting. Far, far too tempting. To marry a man she barely knew, a man she shouldn’t trust.

Except she did trust him. More, she knew, than she’d ever trusted anyone else.

‘Alessandro, it’s crazy.’ She tried to laugh; it came out as a wobble. ‘We barely know each other.’

‘Actually, I think I know you rather well.’

That much was true. How had he slipped beneath her defences, her skin? When had it happened? How had she not seen, felt, realised until now, when she was exposed and empty and he was tempting her with promises, with hope?

With a second chance.

‘I don’t know you,’ Meghan pointed out. That was true, too. She didn’t understand him at all—couldn’t fathom how such tenderness could be coupled with a refusal to love, how his smiles hid a seething darkness, a vulnerable need so at odds with the strength and control he radiated.

‘You know you can trust me, at least. Don’t you?’

‘Yes …’ She just didn’t know where that trust would lead her.

‘So why not?’

‘ Why? Why not an affair? A few days at your villa and then a sweet parting? Isn’t that what you had in mind all along?’ Her chin lifted in challenge even as the words rent her soul.

Alessandro raised his eyebrows. ‘Is that all you think you’re worth? An affair? Not marriage?’

‘I thought you thought that was all I was worth,’ Meghan responded quietly.

He inclined his head in cool acknowledgement. ‘Now you know that’s not true.’

Meghan tried to laugh, to pierce the unreality of the situation. ‘You haven’t fallen in love with me, have you?’ She’d meant it as a joke, but it fell horribly flat. It came out as a plea, a prayer.

‘No,’ he said slowly. ‘But then you haven’t fallen in love with me either. We don’t believe in love, remember? Or was that a lie?’ His expression turned hard for a moment.

She looked away, out of the window. Twilight was descending on the hills with a purple softness, a peace was cloaking the world that felt so removed from the shattered atmosphere of this room.

‘No, it wasn’t a lie.’ She’d loved Stephen, and he’d used it to his advantage, to control her, time and time again. She’d accepted the snubs, the sneaking around, the hasty moments and couplings, because she’d thought that was what you did when you loved someone. You accepted whatever they gave. You gave whatever they were willing to take.

No matter how much it hurt. No matter how much it cost.

‘Good.’

She looked at him curiously. How could such a gentle and tender man be so hard, so unforgiving? ‘Have you ever been in love?’

‘No.’

‘Never? And you never want to be?’

‘No. Love is a cheap emotion, used to manipulate and blame. I’m not interested in love.’

‘You’ve loved someone, surely?’

Alessandro’s mouth twisted in a bitter smile. ‘My heart’s not broken, if that’s what you mean.’

Meghan shook her head. ‘There must be some reason why you don’t want to love … be loved. It’s a natural human desire. You know my reason. What’s yours?’

His eyes narrowed, blackened. ‘Don’t analyse me, Meghan. Don’t try. Just understand this. I won’t love you. Ever. And I won’t be loved.’ His voice tightened ominously. ‘And, Meghan, if you think you can make me change my mind, you can’t. I don’t love. Anybody. Not even my mother, my father. Not you. You should know that from the start. I thought, in fact, that such a … condition might appeal to you. No danger—isn’t that right?’ He smiled mockingly. ‘Our hearts don’t need to be involved. Won’t be involved.’

She would have had to have been deaf not to hear the warning. ‘But why should I marry you?’ she protested, hating how weak her voice sounded.

His smile was lethal, predatory, possessing. ‘You desire me. It is a good basis for marriage.’

‘Physical desire?’ Meghan didn’t bother keeping the disbelief from her voice. ‘Sex?’

He shrugged, unperturbed. ‘Why not? If we were married there would be no shame in that.’ His gaze roamed over her again.

Meghan felt a blush stain the tender skin between her breasts, crawl up her throat. She watched Alessandro watch that humiliating, revealing stain, a smile playing about his lips. He stared at her, his expression smouldering, daring her to respond, to deny what pulsated between them.

‘A high price for you to pay to sleep with me,’ Meghan couldn’t help but jibe, and Alessandro slashed his hand through the air.

‘Do not debase yourself to me. Ever.’ He paused, his words becoming a caress, a temptation. ‘You would have security, Meghan. No more waitressing, no more grotty hostels. No more running.’

‘I don’t need you for that,’ she whispered.

‘No, but it would help, wouldn’t it? What about when you go back home?’

‘I’m not going back home!’

‘Not now,’ Alessandro agreed, his tone far too placid, too convincing. ‘But never? Can you honestly say you will never see your family again?’

Meghan swallowed. ‘I don’t know.’

‘If you are married to me you can go home with your head held high, a husband at your side. A rather powerful husband. I could buy out all the poky little shops in that town if you wanted me to.’

Meghan managed a shaky laugh. ‘I’m not interested in revenge.’

‘I’m not talking about revenge. I’m talking about power. Power that won’t be abused. Power that you will have at your disposal. The power not to be ashamed. Afraid.’

Colour scorched her cheeks once more. Alessandro caught her hand in his, stroked the tender skin of her palm.

‘Can you tell me you don’t want that?’ he asked softly. ‘Can you tell me that isn’t tempting to you?’

Meghan looked down. His finger stroked her palm, her wrist, her heart. How did he know? How could he possibly guess the thoughts racing through her mind so easily?

Power. The thought called to her with a siren song, lured her forward to a treacherous future. She could be secure. She could live without fear. Safe from the past, the knowing looks, the scorching shame.

She couldn’t wander her way through Europe for ever; it was a half-life at best. She’d put off thinking of the future because she was afraid to face it.

She knew she could start over in another town, begin another life, but the prospect held no appeal. The shame would still be there—the fear that someone would believe what Stephen had, would act as Stephen had.

With Alessandro as her husband she would never need to be afraid again. She would be in control … with him. She could hold her head high.

She could finally have power, and it would not be abused.

She shook her head. It was crazy, but it was tempting.

‘And what do you get out of this bargain?’ she asked after a moment, uneasy suspicion rippling through her.

‘I get a wife who won’t expect me to love her. A wife I desire. Most women want to marry for love. I’m not interested in deceiving or disappointing them. The women who don’t want to marry for love are usually after money. Mine. I’m not interested in them either.’

It sounded chilling, as soulless as a business transaction at a bank. ‘If you’re so against love,’ Meghan asked quietly, ‘why marry at all?’

He hunched one shoulder in a half-shrug. ‘I told you before. It’s not easy being alone.’

‘Get a dog,’ she snapped, and he smiled faintly.

‘I don’t want a dog.’

‘What do you want, Alessandro?’ Meghan asked, and she held her breath for the answer.

His expression stilled, blanked. Although his face was a mask, she sensed the urgency underneath. ‘I want you.’

Meghan’s heart lurched. Yearned. This was what she wanted to hear. Yet she was still afraid. She couldn’t trust it. Not this time. Not again. ‘Why me?’

‘I don’t know,’ he admitted, with an honesty that stung just a little. ‘But I want you, Meghan. I want a life … a life that’s different. A life together.’

‘But without love?’ Meghan clarified, after her heart had stopped stumbling. ‘It sounds kind of cold.’

‘It doesn’t have to be.’

‘Tell me how.’

‘Companionship, desire, affection.’ He ticked them off on his fingers. ‘Don’t those mean something to you?’

All too much. ‘What’s the difference?’ Meghan challenged. ‘Wouldn’t you call those things love?’

He levelled her with one knowing look. ‘Would you?’

No. Love was needing someone like air or water. Needing despite the desire or affection. Needing even though it hurt, even though pain sliced through you, even though it killed you.

She glanced away. ‘What about children?’ There was an ache of longing like a physical pain, deep in her belly.

‘Do I want them? Yes. I need an heir. Someone to run Di Agnio Enterprises when I am gone. Someone to pass it on to.’

‘And would you love your children?’ Meghan asked, her throat raw and aching.

Alessandro paused. ‘I would certainly give them every affection, every opportunity.’

Meghan shook her head. Was it possible to have affection and desire—to enjoy them—without love? She didn’t know. Didn’t know if she could take the risk to find out.

His hand circled her wrist and he pulled her towards him, caressing her with his words. ‘You can stop running, Meghan. You can stop hiding who you are, what happened to you. I already know, and I accept you. I believe you. Does it really matter if I don’t love you?’

She was so near she could feel his breath feathering her face. She lifted her head, saw the truth, the heat blazing in his eyes.

She was tired of running. Of being alone, afraid, ashamed.

‘I wasn’t looking to be rescued,’ she said in a low voice.

He smiled, skimming his fingers along her cheek. ‘We never are.’

‘And you? Will I be enough for you?’ Meghan asked, a thread of uncertainty, of fear, in her voice. ‘What if you get tired of being married? Being married to me? What then?’

Alessandro looked down at her, blinked slowly as he took in her words. When he spoke his voice was quiet, yet as strong and taut as a wire. ‘I honour my promises,’ he said. ‘I honour my word. No matter what you … or anyone … thinks. That is the man I am. The man I mean to be.’ He spoke with a fierce determination that roughened his tone and burned in his eyes.

She wanted to believe. She wanted to so much.

‘It can happen,’ he promised softly. ‘It can happen for both of us. We can forget the past, what people thought, what they believed. We can be something new—something wonderful and true—to each other.’

It sounded wonderful. But was it real? And could it happen without love? And what was he running from?

‘I … I need to think about it,’ she said, her voice a raw whisper. ‘It’s too big a decision to make so quickly.’

‘I can give you tonight,’ Alessandro said. ‘Tomorrow I have to return to Milan, to deal with business. Insulting Richard Harrison—as satisfying as it was—is sure to have repercussions.’

‘And if I say no in the morning?’ Meghan asked, transfixed by the unreality of the situation.

‘I’ll take you to the station in Spoleto. Or the airport— wherever you’d like to go.’

A ticket to her next destination. The thought had no appeal. Her travelling, once exciting and vibrant, was now just another excuse to run away.

Yet the realisation that he would dismiss her so easily—so coldly—chilled her to the marrow.

‘And if I say yes?’ she whispered.

‘You come with me to Milan, meet my family, and we get married.’

Alessandro spread his hands, smiling, although there was a coolness, a remoteness in his eyes that stung Meghan’s soul. Who was this man? Would she ever understand him?

‘As soon as possible.’

‘That easy?’ she asked, in both disbelief and hope.

‘That easy.’

The sky was inky black, studded with stars, as Alessandro prowled along the terrace outside. He’d already knocked back a glass of whisky, the fiery liquid burning all the way to his gut, and it hadn’t helped.

What had he done?

He’d asked Meghan Selby—a virtual stranger—to marry him. A pretty young woman he’d mistaken for a whore—who’d mistaken herself for a whore.

He laughed aloud—a rasping sound that echoed in the still night and held no humour.

He didn’t think Meghan was a whore. She was, he thought with something close to regret, far too innocent. Too naïve … about him.

He recalled the aching vulnerability in her eyes, the shadows of both remembered and anticipated pain, and cursed himself— not for a fool, but for a madman.

A devil.

What kind of a man but a devil offered marriage to a woman who had been so badly hurt—who surely deserved only love and tenderness when he could offer her neither?

He could pretend to be tender. He could say the right words, do the right things. Because he knew what the response would be, the response he wanted.

He knew how to play her.

He was good at that. He’d always been good at that.

Alessandro raked a hand through his hair and cursed softly. He’d finished with hurting people, with acting selfishly and leaving ruin and grief in his wake.

That was his old life. He’d put it aside two years ago, along with the memory of a smoking ruin and the still, lifeless form of his older brother.

And yet now he was risking not only his own soul—which he’d long since condemned—but someone else’s.

Meghan’s.

A woman who deserved so, so much more than he could give.

A woman who deserved so much more than him.

He stared out at the midnight sky, at the sliver of moon, pale and luminous, suspended above a still world, silent save for the rustling of leaves in the olive trees.

Eyes like sunlight on an olive grove.

Why had he asked her to marry him?

She would have agreed to an affair. He could have worked her out of his system, left her at the train station with a diamond bracelet and no backward glances.

He’d done it before. Many times.

So why marriage? Why now? Why her?

Because I’m not that man any more. I don’t want to be that man any more.

His lips twisted into a smile—a smile of self-loathing and also of self-acknowledgement.

He was that man. That wouldn’t change. He could pose, he could pretend, but underneath ultimately he knew who he was. Everyone knew who he was.

Everyone but Meghan.

He wasn’t like her—judged, condemned falsely by one twisted man. He’d been condemned by the truth.

The truth of who he was.

And yet … he wanted her. Wanted her with a desire that shook him, paralysed him with its blinding need, its power. Even made him a little bit afraid.

He wanted a saviour.

The realisation made him hurl his whisky tumbler onto the paving stones, where it shattered. Some things couldn’t be fixed.

Not the tumbler. Not him.

He was past redemption, past saving. He knew that; he’d been told it many times. He saw it in his own soul and he accepted the truth, as everyone who knew him had accepted it.

No matter how hard he tried, how far he ran, it wouldn’t change.

He couldn’t change.

She could change me.

It was a joke; it wasn’t fair. He couldn’t expect Meghan to save him, love him. Didn’t want it.

Didn’t want to need it.

He didn’t want—shouldn’t want—some pathetic, needy smalltown girl trying to fix him. Trying to love him. No matter what she said, he knew she would start to love him. He saw it in her eyes—the hope and the fear.

I won’t love … or be loved.

Except she had eyes like sunlight, and when she smiled he felt … hope.

But there was no hope, could be no hope. Not for him.

He was damned.

If he married Meghan he would be dragging her down with him.

Taking her with him to hell.

But he still wanted her. And he would have her. No matter what it took. No matter what it cost.

Because, Alessandro acknowledged with a bitter, mocking toast to himself, that was the kind of man he was. He was a selfish bastard who took his pleasures where he could, how he could, no matter who he hurt.

And he would hurt Meghan. He might try not to for a while, but the truth would out.

His own nature would out.

No matter what he’d tried to prove in the last two years, the reality was his own blackened soul … and what it would do to Meghan.

Hating himself, Alessandro turned back inside.