by Annie West
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.
CHAPTER SIX
THEY WERE SILENT as they walked along the beach to the villa. Late afternoon light lengthened their shadows and for the first time in weeks Domenico felt something like peace, listening to the rhythm of
the sea and their matched steps.
Peace, with Lucy Knight beside him!
His business negotiations had reached a crucial phase that would normally have consumed every waking hour. On top of that was Pia’s near hysterical response to the latest press reports, and his own turbulent reactions to the release of his brother’s killer.
And here he was walking with her in the place that was his refuge from the constant demands on his time. Was he mad letting her in here?
Yet the stakes were too high. He had to convince her—
Beside him she stopped. He turned, wondering what had caught her attention.
In the peachy light her hair was a nimbus of gold, backlit by the sun that lovingly silhouetted her shape. She’d taken off her sandals and stood ankle-deep in the froth of gentle waves. She looked...appealing.
His pulse thudded and he realised she was watching him. Her gaze branded his skin.
Instinctively he moved closer, needing to read her expression. What he saw made premonition jitter through him. Was she going to agree to his terms? He schooled his face, knowing better than to rush her.
‘Lucy?’ Her name tasted good on his tongue. Too good. This was business. Business and the protection of his family. It was his duty to protect Taddeo and Pia now Sandro wasn’t here to do it. The thought of Sandro renewed his resolve.
‘I...’ Her gaze skated away and he leaned in, willing her to continue. She drew a deep breath, straining her blouse across ripe breasts. Domenico berated himself for noticing, but he noticed everything about her. Was that an asset or a penalty?
‘You?’ Expectation buzzed. It wasn’t like her to hesitate. She was aggressively forthright.
Her eyes met his and something punched deep in his belly. Gone were her defiance and her anger. Instead he read something altogether softer in her face.
‘I never told you.’ She paused and bit her lip, reminding him in a flash of blinding memory of the girl he’d met all those years ago. The one whose forget-me-not eyes had haunted him with their apparent shock and bewildered innocence. Who’d been a conundrum with her mix of uncertainty and belligerent, caustic defiance.
His belly tightened. There was no logic to the fact she unsettled him as no other woman had.
‘Sorry. I’m usually more coherent.’
‘You can say that again.’
Her lips twisted. Then she straightened, her jaw tensing as she met his eyes head-on.
‘We agreed not to make accusations and I understand there’s no point protesting my innocence.’ She inhaled through flared nostrils. ‘But there’s something you need to hear.’ She paused as if expecting him to cut her off, but Domenico had no intention of interrupting.
‘I’m sorry about your brother.’ Her gaze didn’t waver and Domenico felt the force of her words as a palpable weight. ‘His death was a tragedy for his wife and child, for all his family. He was a good man, a caring one.’ She released a breath that shivered on the air between them. ‘I’m sorry he died and I’m sorry I was involved.’
Stunned, Domenico watched her lips form the words.
After all this time...
He’d never expected an apology, though he’d told himself an admission of guilt would salve the pain of Sandro’s loss.
She didn’t confess, yet, to Domenico’s amazement, her words of regret struck a chord deep inside. He stared at her and she didn’t try to hide, even lifted her face as if to open herself to his scrutiny.
For the first time he felt the barriers drop between them and he knew for this moment truth hovered. Truth and honest regret.
‘Thank you.’ His voice was hoarse from grief that seemed fresh as ever. But with the pain came something like peace.
The cynic in him stood ready to accuse her of an easy lie, a sop to his anger. Yet what he saw in Lucy’s face drowned the voice of cynicism. ‘I appreciate it.’
Her lips twisted in a crooked smile. ‘I’m glad.’ She paused then severed eye contact, turning towards the sea. ‘I wrote to your sister-in-law some time ago, saying the same thing. I’m not sure she even read the letter.’
‘You wrote to Pia?’ It was the first he’d heard of it and usually Pia was only too ready to lean on him for emotional support.
He stared at the woman he’d thought he understood. How well did he know her after all? She confounded his certainties time and again.
She made him feel so many unexpected emotions.
* * *
A day later Domenico stood at his study window, drawn from his computer by the sound of laughter.
On the paved area by the head of the stairs to the beach were Rocco’s niece, Chiara, and Lucy, neat in her denim skirt and blouse. Lucy bent to mark the flagstones in a square chalk pattern and Domenico fought to drag his eyes from the denim tight around her firm backside.
Heat flared as his gaze roved her ripe curves.
Too often he found himself watching Lucy with distinctly male appreciation.
He switched his gaze to Chiara as, shaking her head, she took the chalk and drew her own patterns, circular this time. As she finished, understanding dawned. They were playing a children’s game: Mondo. Watching Chiara gesticulate he guessed she was explaining her game rather than the English Hopscotch, that Lucy had marked.
‘You wanted me, boss?’ Rocco tapped at the door.
Did he? Domenico couldn’t recall. Frustration bit. He’d been distracted all morning. Lucy and her refusal to sign his contract undermined his focus.
‘Have you seen who your niece is playing with?’ His voice grated as he realised it wasn’t Lucy’s obstinacy that distracted him. It was the woman herself—prickly, proud and, he hated to admit it, intriguing in ways that had nothing to do with the danger she posed to his family.
‘They’re good together, aren’t they?’
Domenico frowned. ‘You have no qualms about Chiara playing with a woman who served time for killing a man?’
Not just any man. His brother. Domenico’s breath was harsh in his constricted lungs.
There was a long silence. He turned to find Rocco regarding him steadily. ‘The past is the past, boss. Even the court said it wasn’t premeditated. Besides, she loves children. Anyone can see that.’ He nodded to the garden and Domenico turned to see Lucy ushering Chiara, who’d grown boisterous with excitement, away from the steps.
Domenico felt a sliver of something like shame, seeing her concern for Chiara. Even the prosecution at her trial had acknowledged she’d been a reliable carer for little Taddeo.
‘Mamma trusts her with Chiara. You can’t say better.’
Rocco’s mamma was a redoubtable woman, canny and an excellent judge of character. As housekeeper to the Volpes for over thirty years, she and Sandro between them had brought Domenico up when his parents had died.
‘Maybe Signorina Knight isn’t the woman you think.’
Domenico stiffened. He didn’t need Rocco’s advice, even if he was the best security manager he’d ever had.
Yet once lodged in his brain, his words couldn’t be dismissed.
Was she the same woman he’d heard about all those years ago? Greedy, self-centred, luring his brother into indiscretion under his wife’s nose? If he hadn’t experienced first-hand the powerful tug of her innocent seductress routine he’d never have believed Sandro would be unfaithful.
She had been only eighteen then; had the last years changed her?
He saw glimpses of a far different woman. One with surprising depths—an inner core of strength and what he suspected was her own brand of integrity. One that reminded him a little of the golden girl who’d once snared his attention, but far, far tougher and sassy. Besides, that girl had been a mirage.
Frustration rose. He wasn’t used to uncertainty, either in business or with women. Usually his instincts for both served him well.
Was he seeing what he wanted to see?
More important, did he see what she wanted him to see? Unfamiliar tension coiled in Domenico’s belly.
She’d got under his skin, inserting doubt where previously there’d been certainty.
Why maintain her innocence after all this time? Unbidden, he recalled again her inexperienced legal representative. Would the trial’s outcome have been different with a better lawyer?
A twinge of discomfort pierced him.
Domenico’s mouth tightened. His curiosity had as much to do with attraction at a primal level as it did the need for understanding. This was about more than gagging Lucy Knight from spreading stories that would harm his family.
The stakes were far more personal.
* * *
Lucy was walking back to the villa when a figure loomed before her.
‘How would you like to come snorkelling?’
Suspicion welled as she looked into Domenico’s unreadable grey eyes. True, they’d agreed a truce. True, he let her have the run of the estate, even access to the Internet so she could trawl fruitlessly for jobs—as if anyone would take her on with her history. But taking her on an excursion?
Lucy shook her head. ‘I should check my email.’ As if there was a chance some employer had bothered to respond to the dozens of queries she’d sent. Given the poor economic climate, attracting an employer’s interest would be a miracle. Even if she managed that, there were the hurdles of character and criminal record checks.
‘You can do that when we return. Come on, it will be good to get off the island.’
‘Why?’
What did he want? Remembering his glowering scowl when they’d first met, a fatal boating accident seemed possible. But lately... No, he wasn’t a violent man, just one used to getting what he wanted. And he wanted her to sign his contract. Was he trying to soften her up?
He shrugged and to her chagrin she followed the movement of those wide, straight shoulders with a fascination she still couldn’t conquer.