Читать книгу Modern Romance August 2019 Books 5-8 - Эбби Грин, Trish Morey - Страница 17

CIRO WAS AWARE that he should be feeling more satisfied than he was. And that irritated the hell out of him.

Lara was standing a few feet away, a vision in a long yellow evening dress. She effortlessly stood out from the crowd. The dress was one-shouldered, revealing the alluring curve of her bare shoulder and the top of her back. A decorative jewel held the dress over her other shoulder. All it needed was a flick of his fingers and it would be undone, letting the dress fall down to expose her beautiful breasts—

Basta! Ciro cursed his overheated imagination.

Her hair was smoothed back and tied low at the nape of her neck in a loose bun. Long diamond earrings glittered from her ears. She wore minimal make-up. She epitomised cool elegance, and yet all he could think about was the fire that lay under her pale skin. The ardent passion with which she’d made love to him last night. It was hard to believe she’d been a novice...but she had been. And that bugged him like a thorn under his skin.

How had he missed it? He who considered himself a connoisseur of women?

He didn’t like getting things wrong. Underestimating people. He’d learnt a harsh and brutal lesson at the hands of those kidnappers. The kidnappers who’d yet to be caught and whom he was still investigating—with not much luck.

Until that day he would have been the first to admit that life had always come easily to him. Blessed with good looks, a keen intellect and a sizeable family fortune, he’d lacked for nothing. But since those days at the hands of violent thugs Ciro had learnt not to be so complacent. And since the day Lara had informed him she’d never had any intention of marrying him he’d learnt not to underestimate anyone.

His cynicism had become even more pronounced. Any kind of easy charm he’d displayed before had become something much darker.

Unbidden, a memory resurfaced at that moment. Lara, not long after they’d met, admitting to him sheepishly that she’d looked him up on the internet. He’d immediately felt betrayed. And disappointed. She was like everyone else. Assessing his worth. Looking for the salacious details of his family history.

And then she’d stunned him with an apparently sincere apology, saying that she should have asked him face to face. Normally he abhorred women trying to get him to reveal personal details, but within seconds he’d been saying to Lara, ‘Ask me now.’

That was the night she’d confided in him about her family and their history. How she had a trust fund worth millions. For the first time in his life someone had surprised Ciro. And it had only added to her allure.

Until she’d pulled the rug out from under his feet.

For the first time in a long time he wanted to know why she’d done it. Created that persona. But something held him back. Some sense of self-preservation. A feeling that he’d be exposing himself if he asked the question.

As if sensing his brooding regard, she turned and looked at him, and for a second Ciro couldn’t breathe. She was so beautiful. And the memory was so vivid. He could almost imagine that the previous two years hadn’t happened.

But they had.

He cast aside memories and nebulous dangerous thoughts. She was here by his side. His. That was all that was important.

He lifted his hand and crooked a finger, silently commanding her to come to him. He saw the way her eyes flashed, the subtle tensing of her shoulders. The resistance to his decree. But then she came. Because she was here in her own milieu and of course she wouldn’t cause a scene.

It was time to remember why he had spent two years keeping tabs on her and why he’d married her at the first opportunity. For revenge, yes, but so much more. He caught Lara’s hand in his, very aware of the absence of his little finger. The reminder firmed his resolve to stop thinking of the past.

He bent his head close to hers, inhaled her scent drifting up to tantalise his nostrils and threatening to dissolve that resolve. He directed Lara to look across the lawn to where heads of state, royalty and A-list celebrities sipped champagne and mingled. ‘Do you see Lord Andrew Montlake over there?’

Lara nodded.

‘He was a friend of your father’s, yes?’

Lara nodded again. ‘Yes—a good friend.’

Ciro smiled. ‘Good, then introduce me. I’ve been trying to get a meeting with him for months, to discuss the chateau he’s selling outside Paris.’

* * *

A few hours later Lara’s feet were aching almost as much as her facial muscles ached from smiling and pretending that it was totally normal to be back in London society with a new husband just over a week after burying her previous husband. She’d felt every searing look and heard every not so discreet whisper and had held her head high with a smile fixed in place.

They were in the back of Ciro’s car now, and she looked out of the window at the streets of London bathed in late summer sunshine. Young couples stood hand in hand outside pubs, drinking and laughing. Carefree.

She’d never had the chance for a life like that. As soon as her uncle had taken over his role as guardian he’d had his nefarious plan mapped out for Lara and she’d been totally unaware of it.

Pushing down the uncharacteristic welling of self-pity, Lara thought of the event they’d just been to. As much as she’d been the centre of attention, so had Ciro. Lara had noticed the looks and whispers directed his way too, the way people’s eyes had widened on his scarred features. It had made her want to stand in front of him and stare them down. Shame them for their morbid fascination.

She’d seen the masterful way he’d operated, winning people around, charming them into submission. He might have needed someone like her for access into this rarefied world, but it wouldn’t be long before he became an indelible part of it. And then her role would be obsolete.

Ciro turned to look at her then, as if aware of her regard. The back of the luxury car suddenly felt tiny. All evening Lara had been acutely aware of Ciro, of his every movement as he’d taken her hand, or touched her arm, or the small of her back. Her skin felt tight and sensitive. Her body ached with a wholly new kind of yearning. And her lower body tightened with need every time his dark gaze rested on her. Like now.

She didn’t feel in control of herself at all any more. If she ever had around this man. And she hated it that he seemed so cool, calm and collected.

If he so much as touched her right now she knew she wouldn’t be able to control her reaction, but he surprised her by saying, ‘We’re going to stay in London for a few days. I have some meetings lined up.’

Lara hid her skittishness and said, ‘Fine.’

And then, just when she thought she could gather herself, he reached for her, taking her hand and tugging her across the divide in the seat, closer to him.

‘What are you doing?’ Lara cast a glance at the driver in front.

Ciro said something in Italian and the privacy window went up, cocooning them in the back of the blacked-out car. The streets outside faded into insignificance as Ciro’s hand sneaked around the back of Lara’s neck, where with deft fingers he loosened her hair so it tumbled over her shoulders.

Lara’s heart rate increased as Ciro’s fingers massaged her neck—and then his hand moved to where the dress was held up by the jewel over one shoulder.

Excitement curled low in her abdomen as she protested weakly, ‘Ciro...we’re in the back of the car...’

He said, ‘Do you know how hard it’s been for me to keep my hands off you all evening?’

She shook her head, mesmerised by the look on his face. She could see it now—the desire bubbling just under the surface, barely restrained—and she felt it reach out and touch her.

With a flick of his fingers the dress opened and loosened around her breasts. She gasped and put a hand up, but Ciro caught her hand and said roughly, ‘Leave it.’

Ciro peeled her dress down, uncovering her breasts. Lara shivered with a mixture of arousal and illicit excitement, aware of the people outside the car on the pavement, where they were stopped at some lights. Only the blacked-out windows and some steel and glass separated her from them and their eyes.

Ciro looked at her and cupped her naked breasts, thumbs moving back and forth over her nipples. ‘So beautiful,’ he breathed.

‘Ciro...’ Lara was almost panting. She stopped talking, afraid of exposing herself even more.

His dark head bent towards her, and when his mouth closed around one tight tingling nipple the spiking pleasure was so intense she speared her hands in his hair. She quickly got lost in the maelstrom Ciro had unleashed in her body, knowing that she was showing her weakness but unable to do anything about it...

* * *

Ciro looked at himself in the mirror of his bathroom and took in his glittering eyes and the still hectic colour on his cheekbones. When they’d returned to the townhouse a short while before Lara had all but fled up the stairs, holding up the top of her dress with one hand, her hair in a tangle.

Ciro had let her go, even though he’d wanted to carry her straight to his bedroom and to his bed. The only thing that had stopped him was the awful suspicion that he’d just exposed himself spectacularly.

Just an hour before he’d been talking with one of Europe’s heads of state, and within minutes of getting into a car with Lara he’d been all over her like a hormone-fuelled teenager.

He splashed cold water on his face, as if that might dilute the heat raging in his body. After a moment he went into his bedroom, restless and edgy. He looked at the interconnecting door between his and Lara’s rooms for a long moment before going over and opening it quietly.

She was in bed. Curled up on one side in a curiously childlike pose, her hair spread out on the pillow. Her breaths were deep and even.

Something about the fact that she could find the equilibrium of sleep so easily made him feel even more exposed.

He went back into his bedroom and closed the door. And then he did the only thing he could do to try and dilute the sexual frustration in his body. He headed for the gym.

* * *

As soon as Lara was sure that Ciro had left her room she turned on her back and sucked in a deep, shuddering breath. She looked up at the ceiling.

She was in her underwear under the covers. She’d heard Ciro moving about next door, and after coming so spectacularly undone in the back of his car had felt far too raw to be able to deal with seeing him again. So she’d dived under the covers and feigned sleep even as her body had mocked her, aching for Ciro’s touch. For him to finish what he’d started.

This evening had been a salutary lesson in the reality of how this marriage would work. Ciro had used her with a ruthless and clinical precision to seek out meetings with the various people he was interested in talking to. She had to remember that was the focal point of the marriage—her desire to make amends to Ciro for what her uncle had done to him.

What she had done to him.

And the other stuff? The physical chemistry? The aching desire he’d awoken in her body?

A man of his extensive experience would surely lose interest soon. Wouldn’t he? And when he did she’d have to live with that. She’d lived with far worse, so she would cope. She’d have to.

* * *

The following days brought a reprieve of sorts for Lara. Ciro was out at meetings all day, and each evening he had a business dinner to attend, where she wasn’t required.

Like a coward, she’d taken the opportunity to make sure she was in bed by the time Ciro came home, pretending to be asleep if he came into her room.

She’d got used to her surroundings—just a stone’s throw from the old apartment she’d shared with Henry Winterborne—but she deliberately made sure to avoid that street if she was out of the house, and she knew the security men must think she was mad, taking such a long way round to go to the shops.

Ciro had issued her with a credit card, and Lara had swallowed her pride and taken it. After two years of feeling trapped, due to her lack of personal finances, she was embarrassed at being beholden to someone else. More than ever she wanted to make her own money. Be independent.

And yet there was something about Ciro handing her some economic freedom that made her feel emotional. A man who had a lot less reason to trust her than her previous husband was trusting her with this.

She’d also got to know the staff who worked in the house: the housekeeper was called Dominique, and there was a groundsman/handyman called Nigel. Dominique hired in staff as and when it was required for entertaining or cleaning, she’d told Lara. But as yet Ciro hadn’t actually ever entertained in the house.

Fleetingly Lara wondered again at the coincidence that had Ciro’s new house right around the corner from where she’d been living.

One evening it was Dominique’s night off—she lived close by, so didn’t stay over at the townhouse—and Lara went into the kitchen, feeling restless.

She’d always loved to cook, so when Henry Winterborne had maliciously turned her from wife into housekeeper she’d welcomed it, far preferring to be in the kitchen than to share space in his presence.

She’d learnt to cook in the first instance from her parents’ housekeeper—a lovely warm woman called Margaret, who had been more like a member of the family than staff. And then over the years she’d continued to cook...usually surreptitiously, because her uncle hadn’t approved of her doing such a menial thing.

‘You were not born to cook and serve, Lara,’ he’d said sharply.

No, she thought bitterly, she’d been born so he could exploit her for his own ends.

She shook her head to get rid of the memory and looked around the gleaming kitchen, instinctively pulling out ingredients from the well-stocked cupboards and shelves.

As she cooked from memory she felt a peace she hadn’t experienced in weeks descend over her. She tuned the radio to a pop station and hummed along tunelessly.

In a brief moment of optimism she thought that if things continued as they were going, and if she could maintain her distance from Ciro, she might actually survive this marriage...

* * *

Ciro had returned home early, to change for a dinner event. He was irritable and frustrated—which had a lot to do with the workload he’d taken on and the fact that he’d barely seen Lara since that first night in London.

Somehow she was always conveniently in bed when he got home, and he was not about to reveal how much he wanted her by waking her up like some kind of rabid animal to demand his conjugal rights.

He wasn’t sure what he’d expected to see on his arrival this afternoon, but it involved an image along the lines of Lara being ready and waiting for him to take her to his bed when he got in.

He set down his briefcase in the hall and loosened his tie. For the first time in his life a woman wasn’t throwing herself at Ciro.

He scowled. The second time in his life.

The first time had also been with Lara. She’d been like a skittish foal around him when they’d first met. It had taken him weeks of seducing her on a level that he hadn’t had to employ for years. If ever.

After she’d revealed herself so spectacularly, and walked out of his hospital room, he’d put it down to being part of her act, but now he had to acknowledge that she had been a virgin. She hadn’t lied about that. At least.

He was about to head up the stairs when a smell caught at his nostrils. A very distinctive smell. Delicious. Mouth-watering. Evocative of his childhood.

He went towards the kitchen, expecting to find Dominique cooking, but when he opened the door it took a second for his eyes to take in the scene.

Lara was bent down at the open oven door, taking something out. She was dressed in jeans and a loose shirt. Bare feet. Her hair was up in a messy knot, and as she turned around with the dish in her hands he saw how the buttons of the shirt were fastened low enough to give a tantalising glimpse of cleavage.

Tendrils of hair framed her face and flushed cheeks. He heard the music. Some silly pop tune. Then realised that Lara was smiling, bending down to sniff the food in the dish. Lasagne, he guessed. It reminded him of the famous lasagne his nonna used to make when he was small, hurtling him back in time.

Ciro was rendered mute and frozen, because he couldn’t deny the appeal of the scene, nor that it had already existed in the deepest recesses of his psyche, even as he would have denied ever wanting such a domestic scenario in his life. At least until he’d met Lara that first time around and suddenly his perspective had shifted to allow such things to exist.

She’d cooked for him one evening; a spaghetti vongole. So mouthwatering that he could still recall how it had tasted, and the look of uncertainty on her face until he’d declared it delicious.

He’d totally forgotten about that until now.

At that second she looked up at him, catching him in a moment between past and present. Between who this woman was and who she wasn’t.

Ciro felt as if there was a spotlight on his head, exposing every flaw—and not just the very physical ones. His scar felt itchy now, compounding his sense of dislocation and exposure. The scar that didn’t seem to bother her in the slightest.

‘What do you think you’re doing?’

Lara looked as frozen as he felt. ‘Cooking.’

‘For who? Your imaginary friends?’

Ciro didn’t have to see the rush of colour into Lara’s cheeks to know he was being a bastard, but this whole scenario was unacceptable to him on a level that he really didn’t want to investigate too closely.

Lara cursed herself for having given in to this urge to do something so domestic, but she refused to let Ciro’s palpable disapproval intimidate her. She wouldn’t let another man tell her she couldn’t cook.

‘It’s lasagne, Ciro, not some subversive act.’

A suspicious look came over his face as he advanced into the kitchen. ‘Why are you doing it, then? Angling to forge a more permanent position in my life by showcasing your domestic skills? As if they might hide your true nature?’

Lara pushed the dish away from the edge of the island, curbing the urge to lift it up and throw it at Ciro’s cynical head. She said through gritted teeth, ‘I really hadn’t thought about it too much. I merely wanted to cook. It’s Dominique’s night off—how else am I going to feed myself?’

Ciro was so close now that Lara could see his long eyelashes casting shadows on his cheeks. They should have diminished his extreme masculinity. They didn’t.

Feeling exasperated now, as well as jittery that Ciro was so close, Lara said, ‘You’ve been out for dinner every night, Ciro. Did you really expect that I’d be sitting here pining away for your company?’

He flushed as if she’d hit a nerve. ‘Clearly I made a mistake in not taking you along to those dinners with me.’

Lara started backing away around the kitchen island, her jitteriness increasing as Ciro advanced. ‘No, it’s fine—honestly. I know those things are work-related...not interesting. I’d only cramp your style.’

Then, as if she hadn’t spoken, Ciro said almost musingly, ‘I had no idea you liked going to bed so early. I seem to remember you telling me that you loved the night-time—after midnight, when everyone else is asleep and the world is finally quiet and at peace.’

Now Lara flushed. He’d remembered that romantic stroll when he’d taken her through deserted Florentine squares under the moonlight? She’d been such a sap, believing he wanted to hear all her silly chattering about everything and anything.

He waved a hand. ‘None of that’s important. There’s only one thing I’m interested in right now, and that’s repairing an area of our marriage that seems to have become neglected, thanks to my workload and your proclivity for early nights.’

Lara could see the explicit gleam in his eye and felt herself responding as if she literally had no agency over her own body.

‘Actually, I think this week is a good example of how this marriage will succeed,’ she blurted out with a sense of desperation. ‘You know, if you want to take a mistress then please go right ahead. It might be better, actually, if we’re to keep things clear and separate. After all, my worth is only really in helping you to network.’

Ciro barked out a laugh and shook his head. ‘Take a mistress and give you grounds for divorce? I don’t think so, cara mia. And you do yourself down. Your worth isn’t only for your social standing and connections—it’s also in the place where I want you right now.’

Lara stopped moving, feeling a sense of inevitability washing over her that, treacherously, she didn’t fight. ‘Where’s that?’

Ciro came and stood in front of her. ‘My bed...under me.’

The lasagne growing cool on the island was forgotten. Everything was distilled down to this moment and the way Ciro was looking at her.

He reached out and she felt air caress her skin. He was undoing her shirt and she slapped at his hands. ‘Stop! What if someone comes in?’

Ciro was spreading her shirt apart now, his hands spanning her waist. She was finding it hard to focus as he tugged her forward.

‘Dominique isn’t here and Nigel has gone home. I passed him on my way in.’

Lara knew all that. They were entirely alone in this vast townhouse. She was so close to his body now that she could smell his scent. It reminded her of Sicily, of the sun baking the ground and something far more sensual and musky. Him.

She knew he was distracting her, and also punishing her on some level for having had the temerity to bring domesticity into this situation, but all she could think about was how she had denied herself his touch all week.

His head was coming closer, and Lara fought a tiny pathetic internal battle before she gave up and allowed Ciro’s mouth to capture hers. He pressed her back against the island but Lara didn’t even notice. Nor did she notice when Ciro pulled off her shirt and undid her bra, freeing her breasts into his hands, bringing her nipples to stinging life.

She squirmed against him, instinctively seeking flesh-on-flesh contact. He smiled against her mouth and Lara felt it, just as he broke the kiss and trailed his mouth down over her jaw and her chest to her breasts, tipping up first one and then the other, so that he could feast on them, sucking and licking and biting gently, causing a rush of hot blood to flow between Lara’s legs, damp and hot.

Suddenly she was being lifted into Ciro’s arms and he was carrying her out of the kitchen and up through the house. Lara’s breathing was uneven. She realised she was bare from the waist up, but she could feel no shame, only a sense of rising desperation.

When they got to Ciro’s bedroom he shed his clothes with indecent haste. Lara was equally ready, pulling off her jeans and panties, her skin prickling with need as she lay back and took in the sight of Ciro standing proudly by the bed, every muscle bulging and taut as he rolled protection on.

She wanted to weep because she was so ready. It made a mockery of the nights when she’d feigned sleep and believed herself to have scored some kind of victory. It had been a pyrrhic victory. Empty.

Ciro came down on the bed by Lara and she bit her lip. He put a thumb there, tugging her lip free, before claiming her mouth in a drugging, time-altering kiss. Ciro’s hands explored every inch of her body until she was incoherent with need, past the point of begging.

But he knew. Of course he knew. Because he was the devil.

He settled his body between her spread legs, and in the same moment that he thrust deep, to the very core of where she ached most, he took her mouth and absorbed her hoarse cry of relief.

It was fast and furious. Lara reached her peak in a blinding rush of pleasure so intense she blacked out for a moment. Ciro’s body locked tight a moment after, his huge powerful frame struggling to contain his own climax. It gave Lara some small measure of satisfaction to see his features twisted in an agony of pleasure as deep shudders racked his frame.

One thing was clear in her mind before a satisfaction-induced coma took her over. Ciro had just demonstrated very clearly where the parameters of this marriage lay: in the bedroom and on the social circuit. Not in the kitchen.

* * *

When Lara woke the next morning she was back in her own bed. She really hated it that Ciro did that. What was he afraid of? she grumbled to herself. Was he afraid he’d wake up and she’d have spun a web around his body, turning him into a prisoner?

The image gave her more than a little dart of satisfaction. The thought of Ciro being totally at her mercy...

She didn’t hear any sounds coming from his bedroom and checked the time, realising that Ciro would have gone to the office already.

After showering and dressing she went downstairs to find Dominique in the kitchen. The woman turned around and smiled widely, and it was only at that moment that Lara had a mortifying flashback and saw her shirt and bra neatly folded on a chair near the door.

She grabbed them, her face burning, gabbling an apology, but the older woman put up a hand.

‘Don’t apologise. It’s your home. I might have been married for twenty years, but I do remember what that first heady year was like.’

Lara smiled weakly, welcoming the change in subject when Dominique said, ‘The lasagne—did you cook it? It smells delicious. I’ve put it in the fridge but I can freeze it if you like.’

Lara had been taught a comprehensive and very effective lesson last night in not expecting to see Ciro sitting down to a home-cooked meal any time soon, so she said, ‘Actually, do you want to take it home with you this evening for you and your family? I thought we’d have a chance to eat it but we won’t.’

Dominique reached for something and handed a folded card to Lara. ‘That reminds me—Ciro left this for you. And, yes, I’d love to take the lasagne home if you’re sure that’s all right? It’ll save me cooking!’

Lara smiled and retreated from the kitchen. ‘Of course. I hope you enjoy it.’

She looked at the card once she was out of sight. The handwriting was strong and slashing.

Be ready to leave for a function at five this evening. Dress for black tie.

No, she could be under no illusions now as to where her role lay.

On her back and at Ciro’s side as his trophy wife.

* * *

Ciro’s driver came for Lara at five. She checked her appearance in the mirror of the hall one last time. The long sleeveless black dress had a lace bodice and a high collar. She’d pulled her hair back into a sleek ponytail and kept jewellery and make-up to a minimum.

The car made its way through the London traffic to one of the city’s most iconic museums. She saw Ciro before he saw her in the car. He was standing by the kerb, where cars were disgorging people in glittering finery.

For a moment Lara just drank him in, in his classic tuxedo. He must have changed at the office. He was utterly mesmerising. She could see other women doing double-takes.

Then he saw the car and she saw tension come into his form. She felt a pang. They might combust in bed, but he still resented her presence out of it. Even if he did need her.

The car drew to a stop and Lara gathered herself as Ciro opened the door and helped her out. Even her hand in his was enough to cause a seismic reaction in her body. But she felt shy after what had happened last night.

Ciro said, ‘You look beautiful.’

She glanced at him, embarrassed. ‘Thank you. You look very smart.’

A small smile tipped up his mouth. ‘Smart? I don’t think I’ve been called that before.’

Lara felt hot. No... Ciro’s lovers would have twined themselves around him and whispered into his ear that he was magnificent. Gorgeous. Sexy.

She felt gauche, but he was taking her elbow in his hand and leading her towards the throng of people entering the huge museum near Kensington Gardens, one of London’s most exclusive addresses.

It was only when they were seated that Lara realised it was a banquet dinner to honour three charities. One of which had Ciro Sant’Angelo’s name on it.

She read the blurb on the brochure.

The Face Forward Charity. Founded by Ciro Sant’Angelo after a kidnapping ordeal left him facially disfigured.

There was an interview with Ciro in which he explained that after his injury he’d realised that any physical disfigurement, not just facial, was something that affected millions of people. And that a lot of disfigurement came about due to birth defects, injuries of some kind—whether through accident, war or gangs—or domestic violence.

His mission statement was that no one should ever be made to feel ‘less’ because of their disfigurement. His charity offered a wide range of treatments, ranging from plastic surgery to rehabilitation and counselling, to help people afflicted. To help them move on with their lives.

Lara looked at Ciro. She was seated on his right-hand side and his scar seemed to stand out even more this evening. A statement.

He glanced at her and arched a brow. She felt hurt that he hadn’t mentioned this before. ‘I didn’t know you’d set up a charity.’

He shrugged minutely. ‘I didn’t think it relevant to tell you.’

Something deeper than hurt bloomed inside Lara then. Something she couldn’t even really articulate.

She stood up abruptly, just as they were serving the starters, and almost knocked over the waiter behind her. Apologising, she fled from the room, upset and embarrassed.

Once outside, in the now empty foyer, she stopped. She cursed herself for bolting like that. The last thing Ciro would want was for people’s attention to be drawn to them.

She heard heavy footsteps behind her. Ciro caught her arm, swinging her around. ‘What the hell, Lara?’

She pulled free, her anger and hurt surging again at the irritated look on his face. ‘I know you don’t like me very much, Ciro, but we’re married now. The least you could have done is tell me what this evening is about. You’re the one concerned with appearances. How do you think it would look if someone struck up a conversation with me about your charity which I know nothing about?’

Ciro felt a constriction in his chest. Lara was right. But he hadn’t neglected to tell her about it in a conscious effort not to include her. He hadn’t told her because he didn’t find it easy to mention the kidnapping. Even now. Even here, where he was in public and talking about something that had arisen out of that experience.

Lara looked...hurt. And then she said, ‘I was there too, you know. I didn’t experience what you experienced, and I’m so sorry that you went through what you did. But they took me too, Ciro. So I do have some idea of what you went through, even if it’s only very superficial. I might not have any physical scars to prove I had that experience, but I had it.’

She turned and went to walk back into the room, but Ciro caught her arm again. For the first time, he felt the balance of power between them shift slightly.

She looked at him, her full mouth set in a line. Her jaw tight.

‘You’re right,’ he said, and the words came easier than he might have expected. ‘I should have told you—and, yes, you were there too.’

‘Thank you.’

Ciro realised in that moment that she had all the regal bearing and grace of royalty, and something inside him was inexplicably humbled. She’d been right to call him out on this. And he wasn’t used to being in the wrong. It was not a sensation he’d expected to feel in the presence of Lara.

Lara felt shaky after confronting Ciro, but his apology defused her anger. She realised now that she’d been hurt because she’d felt left out, which was ridiculous when Ciro had set up the charity well before they’d met again.

After the meal people got up to give speeches, and Lara was a little stunned when Ciro was introduced and he got up to go to the podium. He was a commanding presence. The crowd seemed far more hushed when he spoke. And how could she blame them? He stood out.

His scar also stood out, in a white ridged line down the right side of his face. Most people probably wouldn’t even notice his missing finger, too transfixed by that scar.

He spoke passionately about the psychological effects of being scarred and how, with pioneering plastic surgery treatments, people could have the option of going on to live scar-free lives. Especially children.

There was a slideshow of images of some of the children and people his charity had helped so far, and Lara had tears in her eyes by the time he was finished.

When he came back to the table Lara felt humbled. She’d seen a new depth to Ciro tonight. Ever since she’d met him he’d always projected a charming, carefree attitude to life. He was someone who’d been graced with good looks, wealth and intellect. Taken for granted—as his due. Not any more. That much was blatantly obvious.

When they had returned to the townhouse Lara said, ‘I think what you’re doing is amazing. If there’s ever anything I can do... I’d like to be involved.’

Ciro turned to face her. ‘There is something you can do...right now.’

He took her hand and tugged her towards him.

Instant heat flooded Lara’s body at the explicit gleam in his eyes. ‘Ciro...’ she said weakly.

‘Lara...’ he said, and then he stopped any more words by fusing his mouth to hers.

It was only much later, when Lara was back in her own bed, her body still tingling in the aftermath of extreme pleasure, that she realised he’d effectively dismissed her desire to help with the charity.

Clearly it was an arena, along with the kitchen, that she wasn’t allowed to enter. Which only made Lara determined to do something about it.