She wanted to feel … and to forget.
She knew that, and she pulled him to her to kiss him, hard, to banish the memories. The ghosts.
And then it stopped.
Alessandro pushed himself away from her, back onto his knees. His face was flushed, his breathing ragged. He pulled a hand through his hair and exhaled slowly.
‘We need to stop.’
Meghan stilled, stiffened in shock. Humiliation came—a fast, hot rush of feeling. She was suddenly conscious of how she must look, her hair in a tangle around her face, her lips swollen, cheeks flushed. Her shirt was hitched up around her neck, her bra clasp undone.
And Alessandro was looking at her with a quiet sorrow that made everything they’d just done seem dirty.
‘Why?’ She pulled her top down, and Alessandro stilled her hand.
‘Don’t. You’re lovely.’
‘You’re not looking at me as if you’re thinking that right now,’ Meghan said, her voice coming out far more tremulous than she’d meant it to. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘Nothing’s wrong.’ Alessandro stretched out beside her, tracing one finger along the tender skin of her navel. Meghan shuddered lightly.
‘I’m rushing things,’ he said after a moment. ‘When we make love, it won’t be like this.’
‘Like what?’
‘Rushed. Frenzied. Because we are angry.’
It took a great deal of her pride and courage to say, ‘If I was angry, it was at myself. For wanting you.’
He paused, sitting up on one elbow to regard her thoughtfully. His fingers drifted up to touch her chin, tilting her face so their eyes met. He traced the outline of her lips with a fingertip.
‘He hurt you very much, didn’t he?’
Meghan opened her mouth soundlessly. She hadn’t expected that. Hadn’t expected tenderness on the heels of such passion, understanding coupled with desire. She nodded, helpless to deny what he already knew. ‘Yes, he did.’
Undone by compassion where she’d expected condemnation, she felt tears sting her eyes. She forced them back. Lying next to him, her sorrow plain to see, Meghan felt far more exposed than when her clothes had been rucked up.
She tried to shrug away, but he stilled her with one gentle hand on her shoulder.
‘Don’t hide from me.’
‘What do you want from me?’ Meghan whispered. He wanted her body; she knew that. Understood it, even. Yet now he seemed to be asking for more. Her emotions, her desire, her soul.
Her heart.
Except he didn’t want that, did he? He couldn’t possibly want that.
Alessandro’s eyes darkened even as he continued to stroke her face with tender, absent movements, a gesture of unthinking intimacy. ‘I want you to want me,’ he said at last. There was a hidden vulnerability in his voice that made Meghan ache.
Want him? Of course she wanted him. He had to know it. It was in her every look, her every word.
Her every thought.
‘I do want you,’ she admitted with a little laugh. ‘I think that’s obvious.’
‘But you’re ashamed,’ Alessandro said quietly. ‘Ashamed to be with me.’ There was an ache in his voice, of need and pain, that Meghan couldn’t begin to understand. It almost sounded as if he thought she were ashamed of him … rather than herself.
‘I can’t help that. I … I have a lot to get over, I suppose. When you touch me I want to forget. I want to feel and not to think.’
‘That’s only half of the experience.’ He smiled down at her, his expression softened with tenderness, yet a shadow lingering in his eyes. ‘You can make love with your body and your mind.’
‘I suppose you’re the expert?’ Meghan said, and it came out halfway between a joke and a jibe.
‘Perhaps with the body.’ Alessandro’s mouth tightened briefly before he smiled and brushed the hair back from her forehead, tangling his fingers in the silken strands. ‘Like you, I’m waiting for my mind to catch up.’
Meghan’s mouth opened soundlessly at this admission. We ‘re so alike. Yet they were impossibly different. ‘Where do we go from here?’ she forced herself to ask, though at the moment she didn’t want to know. She didn’t want to leave. She didn’t want Alessandro to leave.
She didn’t know what she wanted.
‘We wait.’
‘For what?’
‘For you to come to me of your own free will, with no shame, no fear, no frenzy. For both of us to give … completely.’
Meghan struggled to sit up, pushing her hair away from her face. Alessandro dropped his hand, still smiling.
‘That’s asking quite a lot.’
‘I don’t mind.’
‘Maybe I do.’
He raised one eyebrow. ‘Do you want to leave me?’
Meghan let out a shaky breath. ‘No. But I should.’
‘Why? What is this should?’
‘Alessandro …’ She closed her eyes, felt his fingers drift along her face. ‘There’s no future for us, is there? I’m not …’
‘You’re not what?’
She bit her lip. How could she explain her doubts, her fears, without opening the Pandora’s box of her past? ‘You thought I was a whore.’ She hadn’t meant to say it, didn’t want to remind him, knew from the chilling silence that she shouldn’t have. Her old wounds were too fresh, the scars raw and red.
Alessandro stiffened, his hand dropping from her face. Meghan opened her eyes.
He rolled off the bed, standing there, his chest brown and bare and glorious, his expression like iron.
‘You still think I invited you here presuming you were a whore, that I hired you for a whore’s work.’ He shook his head, the movement sharp and contemptuous. ‘This is old ground, Meghan. And I’m getting bored with it.’
‘As you’re bored with me?’
His voice was level, almost a drawl. ‘Just about.’
Meghan swallowed painfully. He had the ability to hurt her so easily. ‘But you judged me,’ she whispered.
‘Yes, I did. But you’re the one judging me now.’ There was a moment of taut silence, then Alessandro’s hand slashed through the air. ‘I won’t have it, Meghan. I won’t be judged—condemned on old evidence. I’ve had enough of that!’ His voice was savage, yet as he turned away his head was bowed, as though under a burden too great to bear. ‘I won’t have you throwing one thing I said into my face time and time again,’ he continued in a low voice. ‘I can’t have it. Nothing I ever say or do will prove what I am. You damn me on one piece of flimsy evidence. I will not be damned. Not by you.’ His voice shook slightly. ‘Not by you.’
Meghan stared, stunned by the force of his emotion. Her mind spun.
He turned back to her, his voice now cool. Cold. ‘You must take responsibility for your own actions. Stop blaming me, or that other man, for your own desires. You may have been a victim before, but you are not one now. And I won’t let you act like one.’ He shook his head, his expression suddenly weary. ‘There are too many shadows, Meghan. Perhaps for both of us. I’ll drive you back to Spoleto, or wherever you want to go, tonight. It is better that way. It has to be.’ With that, he gazed at her one last time, smiling sadly, then turned on his heel and left.
CHAPTER SIX
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 fo
ol.
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 v
oice 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.’
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