She didn’t know why it hypnotised her but it did.
Liar. You know exactly why you’re letting it hypnotise you.
Okay, so, yes, she did. Staring at the sea was infinitely better than being conscious of the man sitting so closely beside her. Tall and powerful and utterly silent. He hadn’t said a word the whole trip, at least not to her. He’d spent most of it on the phone talking to other people or looking intently at his laptop. A busy man, was Vincenzo de Santi, with a vast family business to run—since both his parents were now in prison and he had no other siblings, he had to run it alone—and a personal mission to take down as many of the European crime syndicates as he could.
Except somehow he’d found the time to whisk her away from London almost as soon as she’d agreed to pay his price for a week of freedom, and into Italy.
Once he put his mind to it, things certainly got done, she’d give him that, and if this was part of the taste of freedom he was offering her, then she was going to take it.
She wasn’t sure what had changed his mind back in England, because it had seemed as if he was hell-bent on handing her to the authorities immediately. And she’d just about given up. She hadn’t wanted to mention her mother—that was a private pain she wouldn’t reveal to anyone—and so she’d waited for his judgment, feeling her defeat sweep through her.
And then he’d said that he would give her one week. It hadn’t been exactly what she’d hoped for, but it was better than nothing. And it might be enough time for her to get him to change his mind about handing her over to the police. Because if he’d changed his mind once, then maybe he could change it again. If she was...persuasive enough.
You will have to be.
The thought was a warning and it made her afraid, so she ignored it. She was very good at ignoring the things that scared her, at seeing only what was right in front of her, and, since the sea was right in front of her now, that was where she looked.
Except she couldn’t quite ignore the presence of the man beside her, no matter how hard she tried. His warmth was distracting, as was his intriguing scent. She’d never even thought a man could smell intriguing, but he did. It was disconcerting, too, that she could still feel how he’d held her hand when she’d burned herself on the tea, the heat of his skin on hers and then the cold press of the ice.
She’d been afraid of him then and she still was, yet she was drawn to him as well and she didn’t understand how that could be. His strength and his power were both attractive and terrifying, as was the merciless way he looked at her, the cold ruthlessness of him, and yet how tightly he’d held her when she’d panicked.
No, she didn’t understand how she could find him so fascinating and yet be so terrified of him at the same time. He was a panther, sunning himself on a rock, and she couldn’t help wandering closer, wondering what it would be like to run her hands over his fur...
You’re thinking of touching him now?
Lucy stared hard at the ocean. No, she definitely was not thinking of touching him. He was her enemy. He didn’t care that she hadn’t wanted to do any of the things her father had forced her into doing. In his eyes she was guilty and he would hand her over to the police once this week was done.
A creeping sense of cold threatened, only to vanish as the helicopter eventually soared over a big jewel of an island, all green with soaring cliffs and lots of expensive and very grand-looking mansions.
Ten minutes later they were coming in to land on a rolling flat green lawn that seemed to stretch to the edge of the ocean itself, an old, sprawling building constructed out of white stone sitting in the middle of it. There were lots of terraces and balconies, beautifully laid-out formal gardens and winding paths, the sun glittering off the sea beyond.
De Santi got out of the helicopter, ducking his head beneath the lazily turning rotors as he held the door open for her. She slipped out into the cool, salty air, the hot sun providing a delightful contrast. She wanted to just stand there and look around, but de Santi’s fingers gripped her elbow and she was being guided along one of the paths and up some stone steps towards the big house.
A few people in uniform met them on a beautiful terrace that overlooked the sea, guards and probably housekeepers, all greeting de Santi in rapid Italian. He issued a few of what sounded like orders and then ushered her through some open double doors and into a large white room with big, deep sofas upholstered in a thick, textured white fabric. The floor was parquet and worn, as if centuries of feet had walked over it, the walls were white, with a few pieces of artwork here and there, decoratively displayed. A few antique pieces of furniture—shelves and a sideboard—also displayed various other artworks as well as being stuffed full of books and other knick-knacks.
The place was cool and quiet, and she could hear the sound of the sea. It might have bothered her, that sound, reminding her of things she didn’t want to think about, but it felt different here. The air smelled different, was hotter, drier, and she could see the sea right there in front of her.
‘Where are we?’ she asked, as de Santi finished speaking with one of the uniformed women.
‘Capri,’ he said shortly. ‘This is Villa de Santi, my family’s holiday villa.’
She blinked, staring around the room. ‘A holiday villa? This is...pretty amazing.’
‘It’s built on the remains of a historic Roman palace and has been in my family for generations. My family’s actual estate is inland, near Naples, but I thought you would prefer to be near the sea.’ He gestured towards the doors. ‘You may wander at your leisure around the grounds, and don’t worry, you’ll be completely safe. My security is excellent.’
As if she’d needed any extra confirmation of his power... He had another house—no, estate—somewhere else on the mainland. But then, her research had confirmed that his resources were vast. An auction house in London was only the tip of the iceberg.
You will never escape him.
It was a strange thing to think when escaping him wasn’t what she actually wanted, or at least not right now. She only wanted to change his mind about handing her over to the authorities.
Even though you deserve it?
No, she didn’t. That was her fear talking. She ignored the thought. ‘But only around the grounds,’ she asked, to clarify. ‘Not anywhere else?’
His eyes were dark as midnight and just as impenetrable. ‘Of course not anywhere else. Your freedom is of a specific kind, civetta, and entirely at my pleasure.’
Not that she expected a different kind of answer. And this was already better than the house in Cornwall. Yes, she was still a prisoner, but at least she could see the sea. She could maybe even swim if she was lucky.
‘Why do you call me that?’ She frowned at him, distracted from swimming for a second. ‘What does it mean? Is it “filthy prisoner” in Italian?’
An odd expression flickered over his face. ‘No. It’s nothing.’
‘If it’s nothing, then why say it?’
‘It means “little owl.”’ He turned abruptly away. ‘We will have a late dinner out on the terrace there. Martina will show you to your room and collect you when it’s time to eat.’ He was already moving towards the door. ‘My staff do not speak English, so do not attempt to use them for any escape plans.’
She wasn’t thinking of escape plans. ‘Little owl?’ she echoed blankly.
But he’d already vanished through the doorway.
How strange. Why would he call her that? Was she particularly owl-like? Perhaps it was an Italian term of disdain?
She had no more time to think of it, however, as one of the uniformed women bustled in, letting out a stream of musical Italian and gesturing at her.
Lucy followed her as the woman led her through the echoing halls of the house. It was a wonderful place, the ancient walls whitewashed, giving it a light and airy feel. Sometimes the flooring was smooth
tiles, sometimes it was parquet, but there were always beautiful artworks on those whitewashed walls and richly coloured rugs on those floors. It was an intoxicating combination of simplicity and richness, the scent of the sea everywhere and the sound of the waves permeating the house. And she felt the hard knot inside her loosening a little further.
Martina showed her to a big room on the next floor, with that warm wood on the floor and those lovely white walls. Gauzy curtains hung over big windows that looked out over the intense blue of the sea, and there was a big, dark oak bedstead covered in white pillows and a white quilt against one wall. Through one door was a blue-tiled bathroom, and through another what looked like a dressing room.
Martina, still talking, disappeared then came back with a length of lustrous red fabric thrown over one arm. She laid it across the bed, gesturing emphatically at Lucy’s dress. Lucy frowned then looked down at what she was wearing. ‘What? I don’t understand.’
Five minutes later it was apparent what Martina wanted, her firm hands briskly divesting Lucy of her handbag and then her dress. Shocked, Lucy could only stand there as Martina draped the red fabric around her shoulders, then tied it around her waist with a long red sash. The housekeeper stepped back, gave Lucy a satisfied look, then, holding Lucy’s dress between one thumb and forefinger, as if it were something nasty she’d picked up after her dog, she went through the door and closed it behind her.
Well, that was interesting.
Lucy took a breath, looking down at herself again. It appeared that she was wrapped in the most gorgeous Chinese robe made out of thick, brilliant red silk and embroidered all over with gold dragons.
Clothes hadn’t ever interested her, mainly because she had no one to dress for. She’d never cared about her appearance, didn’t even think about it. But there was something...cool and delicious about the feeling of the silk against her skin.
Not sure what else to do, she poked around the room, picking various things up and examining them before putting them back down. And when she’d examined everything thoroughly, she went into the bathroom and examined that too.
The shower was vast and, since the journey had been a long one, she decided a shower was in order. Half an hour later, feeling better than she had in the past twenty-four hours, or even longer than that, she towelled herself dry and then considered her dirty underwear. She didn’t really want to put it back on, so she didn’t, wrapping herself up in the red silk dressing gown again and wandering out into the bedroom.
De Santi had mentioned something about a late dinner, which meant she had a bit of time beforehand, judging from the light outside the window. She stared at the door for a moment, then crossed over to it and gingerly tried the handle, expecting it to be locked.
It turned easily.
A wave of some emotion she couldn’t identify washed through her. So she wasn’t locked in, the way she was at home. He’d genuinely meant what he said when he’d told her she was free to wander.
Lucy stepped back from the door, the knot inside her almost coming undone. Then she turned and went over to the bed, got onto it and lay back, curling up on the white quilt. She felt tired, and now she knew the door wasn’t locked the urge to get out and explore had left her for the moment. She closed her eyes instead, only for a second.
At least, it should have been a second.
When she opened her eyes again the light had changed, long streaks of twilight painting the white walls in vivid pinks and reds and oranges. She lay there a second, getting her bearings, remembering where she was and what was happening. Then she slipped off the bed.
She felt hungry now and ready to eat, so she went into the bathroom to get her underwear, looking around to see if Martina had brought her dress back. But not only had the dress not been returned, her underwear had gone too.
Lucy frowned, wrapping the silk robe more tightly around her. Annoying. She felt underdressed wearing only a dressing gown with nothing underneath it. There was nothing to be done about it, however, and, left with little choice, she eventually had to venture out of the bedroom wearing only the robe belted tightly at her waist.
The house was quiet and she encountered no one as she retraced the route Martina had led her on earlier, back into the big white lounge and out to the stone terrace again. It was beautiful in the twilight, the white stone glowing, the view framed by ancient olive trees, the table set for dinner.
Lucy stared at the table for a second, her chest feeling a little tight. There were candles and a white tablecloth and pretty wine glasses. It looked special. Not like a table set for a criminal and a prisoner.
Was this his doing? Or his staff? Did they know who she was? Perhaps they thought she was his girlfriend or his lover...
The tightness inside her twisted, making her feel hot. Disturbed, she turned away from the table and went to the edge of the terrace bounded by a low stone parapet. She sat down on it and looked out over the sea, taking in the amazing view.
There were so many boats, yachts with white sails and launches creating wakes, big super-yachts—floating palaces for the rich and famous—and smaller fishing boats. She imagined being on one and heading out to sea towards the setting sun, leaving everything behind to disappear over the edge of the horizon...
Maybe that would be her one day, finally escaping.
You think you really deserve to escape? Your mother didn’t, so why should you?
Despite the view and the peace of the twilight, a chill whispered over her skin, curling through her soul.
Then a footstep sounded on the rough stone behind her, and she turned, thankful for the distraction, even though she knew who it was already.
It was him. De Santi. He’d obviously come through the French windows from the lounge area, and now he stopped as he approached the table, his dense black gaze flicking over her.
He’d removed his suit jacket, his white business shirt open at the neck, his sleeves rolled up. His skin was a smooth, dark olive, the muscles beneath it lean and sinewy. He should have looked casual and relaxed, but he didn’t. Somehow the open shirt and rolled-up sleeves only served to make him appear even more ruthless, even more intimidating. The warrior angel ready to do battle.
He said nothing as he pulled a chair out and sat down, his movements loose and fluid. The setting sun bathed the almost medieval lines of his aristocratic face in gold, which should have softened him. Again, though, it was as if his presence rejected any attempts to mitigate it and instead the light simply illuminated even more strongly his dark ruthlessness.
He frightened her. Mesmerised her. Compelled her. She didn’t know why. Yet again, she couldn’t understand how a man could scare her and yet make her want to keep looking at him, as if she’d miss something if she glanced away.
Kathy, her mother, had been afraid of Lucy’s father, she knew that much. It hadn’t always been that way, Kathy had told her once. He had used to be a good man. But the years had turned him darker and he’d fallen in with bad people, and she had become afraid. Lucy had asked why they couldn’t go away and live somewhere else. Her mother had only looked sadly at her and said, ‘I love him.’ As if that was explanation enough.
Lucy had never understood that. All it told her was if love was staying with someone who hurt you, then that was something very much to be avoided.
Not that love had any place here, with this man.
‘Don’t be like me,’ her mother had said and yet here she was, inexplicably drawn to a dangerous man, and that scared her too.
He leaned back in his chair, his gaze still roving over her in a way that suggested he was hungry and she looked like something good to eat. It brought colour to her cheeks, made a strange, buzzing tension collect in the space between them and then go crackling over her skin like sparks.
Her cheeks were hot, her breathing oddly short, and the sound of her heartbeat echoed in her head. What was ha
ppening to her?
You know. You are more like your mother than you thought.
Lucy dragged her gaze away, back to the boats, an unfamiliar fluttering sensation in the pit of her stomach. No, that wasn’t true. She didn’t know enough about men to have any opinion on whether she was like her mother in that regard. Why would she? The only contact she’d had with them had been to be threatened by them. None of them had ever made her feel like...this.
‘Sit at the table,’ de Santi ordered coolly. ‘Now, if you please.’
He didn’t know what was wrong with him. Miss Lucy Armstrong was sitting on the stone parapet, the long twilight falling over her like gold dust, setting fire to the scarlet silk of the dressing gown and making the dragons embroidered on it dance. The colour made her skin look like porcelain and she must have done something to her hair because instead of the mat of dark brown, there was a wealth of glossy chestnut curls falling down her back. The gold in the embroidery of the robe picked up glints of gold in the depths of her hazel eyes and somehow, within the space of a few hours, this small, dull civetta had turned into something of a siren.
He couldn’t take his eyes off her.
She slipped off the parapet she was sitting on, fumbling with the silk of the dressing gown as a bit caught on the rough stone. One side slipped a little off one shoulder, revealing a quantity of pale skin, and it was clear she wasn’t aware of it because she didn’t put the material back in place. Instead, she tied the belt tighter and came over to the table, pulling out the chair opposite him and sitting down. The movement made the fabric that should have covered her shoulder slip further down her arm, making it very apparent she was not wearing a bra.
Perhaps that was understandable. She had no clothing except the ghastly dress she’d been wearing when she’d appeared in his office, and there had been no time for her to get any more. At least some of the afternoon he’d spent in his office had involved ordering her various items via one of his assistants. The villa didn’t contain much in the way of female clothing or anything else, since he never brought any lovers here, or, indeed, anyone.
The Italian's Final Redemption (Mills & Boon Modern) Page 6