He was always impervious. He didn’t let any of those emotional storms touch him, refusing to be manipulated by tears or curses, or white-faced panic. Much of the time it was all for show anyway, people thinking they could get him to change his mind with a few moving emotional scenes. They were always wrong.
His mother had been the queen of emotional manipulation and he could see through such fakery very easily.
So he wasn’t sure what had made him gather Michael Armstrong’s daughter up in his arms as her eyes had rolled back into her head and she’d nearly fallen off her chair. It was just the kind of thing that some people tried to get his sympathy or his pity, and so he should have let her fall onto the ground. Or let his security drag her off to the small office bathroom he’d planned on locking her in.
Yet he hadn’t. No, he’d darted forward as her glasses had fallen off her nose and she’d started to list to the side, pulling her into his arms and going to sit on the sofa with her in his lap. Holding her tight as she’d shivered and trembled. She’d been so pale, and without her glasses guarding her face he was able to see clearly the scattering of freckles across her small, straight nose. A delicate, vulnerable face, with a decidedly stubborn, pointed chin and that luscious, full mouth. Not beautiful and yet not without charm. Her lashes were long and thick and dark, the same as the untidy mass of hair flowing over his arm. And he’d been surprised by the feel of decidedly feminine curves against him. He could have sworn she’d be very slight and skinny, but she definitely wasn’t. No, she was warm and soft. And then when she’d come to and had seen his guards, and had clutched at his shirt, trying to press herself closer against him, as if he could protect her...
His chest had gone oddly tight and he’d sent his security away before he’d even had a chance to think straight.
Why had he done that? Why had he held her so tightly? What on earth was the feeling that had coiled inside him, because he could have sworn he was immune to both pity and sympathy? He should have ignored her and had her dragged away, treating her panic like the award-winning performance it no doubt was...
Yet he didn’t think it was a performance. Her panic had been real.
He watched her as the unmarked, nondescript car he’d used to transport them both to his house in one of the quieter parts of Kensington drew up to the kerb. Since assassination attempts were a daily part of his life and since Armstrong would now no doubt be aware of where his daughter was, Vincenzo had sent a decoy limo heading in the direction of the city, while he’d bundled Lucy and himself into another car out the back of the auction house.
There had been no incidents in the short trip and nothing out of the ordinary now as his bodyguards checked the quiet square where his house was situated. He had a few in London and he changed where he stayed with each visit.
So far no one had worked out that this place was his and so it was relatively safe. He still hadn’t decided what he was going to do with her though. He had to fly back to Naples in the next couple of days to deal with a few issues with one of the de Santi business subsidiaries, and hadn’t expected to be dealing with Michael Armstrong’s notorious daughter. Hadn’t expected to be giving her a week’s reprieve from justice, either.
It interfered with his plans and he didn’t like it.
The bodyguards pulled open the door and Lucy got out. He followed, striding past her and up the stairs to the front door. It opened immediately, one of his housekeepers having been alerted to his presence on the drive over.
Lucy was hustled inside and directed to the lavishly appointed sitting room at the front of the house, with the opaque windows that made looking inside very difficult.
His housekeeper had put some refreshments on a small tray—tea and some expensive chocolate chip biscuits—on a table next to one of the armchairs and Vincenzo guided Lucy over to the chair and made her sit down.
She glared crossly at him from underneath her curtain of hair, her hazel eyes looking very green behind the lenses of her glasses.
A strange woman. Almost catatonic with fear one moment then angry the next. Was this another performance for his benefit? Or had her fear been the performance? But no, it couldn’t have been. He’d already decided it wasn’t, hadn’t he?
‘Drink the tea,’ he ordered. ‘And have a biscuit. You could probably do with the sugar.’
‘I don’t want a biscuit. Or the tea.’ She continued to glare at him for no reason that he could see. ‘What are you going to do with me?’
He turned away, pacing over to the fireplace and stopping, laying a hand on the marble mantelpiece.
It was a good question. What was he going to do with her? He could leave her alone in this house for the next week, which would be the most logical thing, and have his security team get the answers he required from her. And yet...he was strangely reluctant to do so.
He’d told her that he hadn’t wanted a broken tool and he hadn’t lied. It had been the most likely explanation for his catching her before she’d fallen off the chair and holding her. It certainly wasn’t because he felt sorry for her. No, if she was frozen with fear then he wouldn’t be able to get any information out of her at all, so he’d had to do something. She was to be the scalpel with which he cut out the corruption that was Michael Armstrong, but one couldn’t cut with a broken blade. That blade had to be sharp and whole.
His thoughts scattered then rearranged themselves with their usual orderly precision. If he wanted the information she held in her head, he would need to be careful with her. He would need to be subtle and delicate. His usual methods would break her, which meant he would have to try a different approach.
Leaving her to his security team ran the risk of breaking her and, since that couldn’t happen, the most logical thing was to deal with her himself.
Something coiled inside him, a certain sense of...anticipation. He ignored it the way he ignored most of his emotions, since there was absolutely no reason for it. No, handling her personally would be the best option all round and, though he couldn’t really afford the time it would take for a more delicate interrogation, he’d make time.
The information she held was valuable. Michael Armstrong was powerful in England and did a lot of work for several Russian families, as well as some for French and Italian families that he was also in the process of dealing with. Taking Armstrong down would be a blow and would effectively end their influence in England.
It would be worth it.
Are you sure that’s the only reason you want to deal with her personally?
A sudden memory filled him, of the softness of her in his lap, her hair over his arm, her fingers clutching his shirt. She’d smelled sweetly of apples ripening in the sun, reminding him of summertime in the valley at his family’s palazzo. Playing as a boy with Gabriella, before his mother had used him and changed everything.
‘Mr de Santi,’ Lucy said from behind him. ‘What are—’
‘Drink your tea,’ he interrupted, staring down at the empty fireplace, going over plans in his head. ‘I will not have you fainting on me again.’
There was an annoyed silence behind him, then came the clink of a cup on a saucer.
He straightened and turned around.
She was holding the cup in her hand, sipping very pointedly on the tea, still looking highly irritated. A less perceptive man might have thought her fear had vanished, but he could see that it hadn’t. Her knuckles had remained quite white and there was a certain darkness to her eyes.
Her father had locked her in a room in a basement with no windows when she wouldn’t do what he told her...
Vincenzo felt something inside him shift and tighten. He’d asked her how often she refused to do her father’s bidding and she’d said not very often. He could understand why if that panic attack was anything to go by. There were many ways to break a person’s spirit, and leaving them alone locked up in the dark would c
ertainly do it.
Except she wasn’t quite broken, was she? There were glimmers of defiance and stubbornness in her hazel eyes, and certainly a broken woman would never have got up the gumption to escape her father in the first place.
Brave. He’d give her that at least.
‘I’m drinking, see?’ She lifted her cup again.
‘Good.’ He gave her a critical look, noting the colour in her cheeks. Probably she wouldn’t faint again, and certainly not if he didn’t threaten her with a cell. ‘Are you going to give me the information I want?’
‘About my father?’
‘Si.’
Her gaze turned wary. ‘I’m not sure. You might hand me over to the authorities if I do.’
A strange restlessness took hold of him and he wasn’t sure if it was irritation or something else. ‘I told you I would give you a week and I meant it.’
‘A week of what?’ She peered up at him from beneath her lowered brows, her wealth of dark hair curtaining her face again. ‘A week of being in a cell?’
‘There will be no cell, I’ve said so already.’
‘But you didn’t say what else there will be. I operate best with clear parameters, Mr de Santi.’
It was definitely irritation, he decided. ‘Are you trying to bargain with me, civetta? Because I should tell you now that you are in no position to do so. You are only out of a cell at my pleasure and I can put you in one at any time.’
She continued to glare at him, but her hand was shaking a little, the tea in her cup rippling in response. And he had the oddest urge to put his own hand around hers to steady her. Or perhaps gather her into his arms again and hold her until she’d stopped shaking. Ridiculous. Where on earth were these urges coming from? He’d thought he’d put his protective instincts behind him a long time ago, especially when it came to women. Women were treacherous—more so than men, as he had good reason to know. His father had been ineffectual and weak, while it had been his mother who was the dangerous one. Small and exquisite and utterly merciless when it came to putting the de Santi name and its poisonous history before everything.
Even before her own son.
‘But if you do that, I won’t tell you anything,’ Lucy pointed out. ‘And you want me to tell you things, don’t you?’
He gritted his teeth. ‘I do not make bargains with prisoners.’
Lucy put her tea down, the saucer clattering on the table as she did so, tea spilling on her hand. She gave a little hiss of pain and he found himself instantly moving over to the table and reaching for one of the napkins on the tray, taking her small hand in his and dabbing the tea away gently.
She tried to pull her fingers from his, but he held on. He shouldn’t give in to these urges and he knew it, but the hot liquid had burned her.
Because you are scaring her.
But he scared a lot of people. Why should scaring her feel so different?
‘Let me go,’ she murmured. ‘It’s just a little burn.’
He ignored her. Beside the tea and the plate of biscuits was a glass of water with ice in it, so he took one of the ice cubes out of the glass, wrapped the napkin around it and then pressed it gently against the burn on her hand.
‘What do you want?’ he heard himself ask, even though he’d told himself he wouldn’t. That he definitely would enter into no negotiations with her.
Her hand trembled lightly in his grip and then, slowly, steadied.
‘What do you mean?’ she asked, her voice husky.
‘You wanted a week of a normal life, you said. Is that the kind of thing you’re talking about?’ Her fingers were slender, her skin pale. Her hand looked very small in his. He couldn’t think why he was tending to a tiny burn in this way. What was it about her that was making him do this? She wasn’t beautiful and she wasn’t charming. She didn’t flutter her eyelashes and seduce him the way some women did. She didn’t weep and she didn’t scream. She was only scared. And wary. And guarded. Trying to stay in control even when he had all the power.
‘You can’t give me a normal life,’ she said. ‘You’re going to hand me over to the authorities.’
He glanced up from her hand. ‘You don’t think you deserve to face justice for your crimes?’
Colour tinged her cheekbones and her gaze wavered. But he could read her very easily. She was ashamed and he thought that was genuine. Which meant she also thought she was guilty.
Your mother never thought she was guilty.
That was true, she hadn’t. Not once. Not even when the police had dragged her away. It was a war, she’d kept telling him. And sometimes in a war there were casualties.
But it wasn’t a war. Because if it had been, he’d have felt like a solider and not a murderer.
‘No,’ Lucy said, a little less certain now. ‘I don’t think that. I mean, I—’
‘You have broken the law, Miss Armstrong. Numerous times.’ Her hand in his pulled against his hold, but he didn’t let her go, and he didn’t look away. ‘Do you think you should not have to answer for that?’
He could see her pulse beating very fast at the base of her throat, and as he watched she swallowed. She was radiating fear again and that angered him, though he didn’t understand why. Because she had to fear him. She was supposed to.
As if she hasn’t spent most her life being scared.
He didn’t know if that was the case or why he should care even if it was. She wasn’t any different from any other criminal. Her father might have forced her compliance by locking her in a dark basement, but that didn’t change the fact that she had committed a crime.
Your mother used the same tactics on you, or had you forgotten?
No, that had been different. This little brown bird had only been locked in a room, fear keeping her in line, while his mother had used a far sharper tool. His mother had used his own love for her against him.
But Lucy didn’t do what you did...
‘I know I broke the law,’ she said quietly. ‘I know that. I hid his money for him and I helped him make more, and no I didn’t do it legally. And I...’ She stopped and pain flickered through her gaze. ‘I know what he did with that money. But I was forced into it. I didn’t want to do it, not any of it.’ All the breath went out of her then and her shoulders slumped. ‘I guess if that doesn’t make a difference to you, then it doesn’t. All I wanted was...a taste of what it would be like to be free.’ Her voice had got soft, her fingers lax in his. She was staring down at her lap, all the defiance and mulishness leached out of her.
She looked defeated.
It should have satisfied him that he’d managed to break her, should have counted it as a win, and yet he didn’t feel satisfied. And this didn’t feel like winning.
This felt as if he’d destroyed something fragile and precious, and he didn’t understand why. In fact, none of this made any sense. She was a criminal, regardless of whether she’d been forced into it or not, and as far as he was concerned she was guilty. He should have no feeling about her whatsoever. So why he should feel something tight in his chest and an anger in his soul he had no idea.
Perhaps it was only that he was annoyed with himself at his own clumsiness with her. He wasn’t supposed to break her after all. He was supposed to be subtle. It wasn’t his usual way—he preferred the direct approach, always—but he was going to have to try it at least, that much was clear. He didn’t want her so terrified that she was useless to him, and if he carried on the way he was going that was exactly what she would be.
It was time for what the English called the ‘softly, softly’ approach.
‘Give me your other hand,’ he said quietly, and when she did so without protest he laid it over the top of the hand he was holding, keeping the napkin pressed to her skin.
Then he released her and straightened, looking down into her pale face. ‘I can give you a week. No, it
will not be complete freedom, but I can give you a small taste of it none the less. The price, though, remains the same. All the information you have on your father and your expertise to take down anyone associated with him.’ He hesitated then said, ‘If you do this, I will put in a good word with the authorities. Perhaps it will help make your sentence lighter.’
Her forehead creased, her gaze still wary. But he could see something glowing in it, something that looked a little like hope.
Poor civetta. She shouldn’t hope. Hope was merely a drug to ease the pain and it only made everything worse when it ran out.
‘Okay,’ she said slowly. ‘How do I know that you’ll keep your word, though? That you won’t put me in a cell or hand me over to the authorities the moment I give you anything?’
‘You won’t know.’ He was not in the habit of sugar-coating anything and he didn’t now. ‘My word shall have to suffice.’
CHAPTER FOUR
LUCY TRIED NOT to be excited, but she couldn’t help it as the small private jet touched down in Naples. She’d never left England before, had barely even left Cornwall, and now here she was in an entirely different country. It was almost overwhelming.
De Santi had dealt with customs technicalities with astonishing ease. He’d somehow produced a passport for her, even though she’d never had one, and she’d barely had a chance to look around after disembarking the aircraft before she found herself bundled into a helicopter. Then they were in the air again, flying over the sprawling city of Naples and then over the deep blue water of the ocean.
She couldn’t drag her gaze from the sight of it. She didn’t know where they were going—de Santi hadn’t told her—and she didn’t care. All that mattered was the wide blue of the water below her.
Finally, the sea. She’d listened to the waves at night in her bedroom in her Cornwall prison, but the house had no views and so she’d never seen the source of the sounds. Never seen such an expanse of blue.
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