me in the darkness and...’
‘I’m sorry, signorina.’ The big man looked solemn. ‘I didn’t mean—’
‘No. Don’t apologise.’ Lucy’s smile was more convincing now, though it felt like a rictus stretch of stiff muscles. ‘It was my mistake.’
‘It’s okay, Salvo.’ Domenico’s deep voice was balm to shredded nerves. ‘Everything’s fine. You can leave us.’
With one last troubled look the man left and Lucy sagged. The rush of adrenalin was fading. She felt almost nauseous in the aftermath.
‘Lucy? Come and sit in the shade.’
Suddenly, as if her brain had just engaged, she became fully conscious of how intimately they stood. The press of hard muscle and solid bone supporting her. The reassuring beat of his heart beneath her palm. The need to lean closer and lose herself in his embrace. The flare of pleasure at the differences between them—he was so utterly masculine against her melting weakness.
That realisation made her snap upright on a surge of horrified energy.
‘I’m sorry.’ Humiliation blurred her words as she struggled to remove herself from his hold. What must he think of her, clinging to him?
Bile churned her stomach. She knew what he must think. The prosecution at the trial had painted her as a femme fatale, using the promise of her body to win expensive favours from her indulgent boss. Domenico probably thought she was trying a similar tactic to win sympathy.
A shudder of self-loathing passed through her and she broke free. How could she have turned to him?
Her pace was uneven but she managed the few steps to the boatshed, putting her hand to its wall for support.
Stifling her shame and embarrassment, Lucy forced herself to turn. He stood, frowning, the line of his jaw razor-sharp and his grey eyes piercing.
‘Now we’re alone you can tell me who you thought you were running from. Who are you scared of?’
‘SCARED?’ LUCY GAVE a shaky laugh. Her hand dropped from the wall and she straightened. She swayed and Domenico discovered the heat curling through his belly had turned to anger.
It was a welcome change from the surge of hunger he’d known as she’d melted against him.
‘Tell me, Lucy.’ His tone was one his business associates obeyed without question.
Her chin jutted obstinately. ‘There’s nothing to tell. I saw someone coming towards me in the dark and panicked.’
Domenico shook his head. ‘You don’t panic.’
‘How would you know? You’re hardly an expert on me.’
But he was.
He’d spent the weeks of the trial trying to learn every nuance of her reactions—not that it had got him far. She’d been an enigma. But in the days since her release he’d been able to concentrate on little but her and he’d learned a lot. Enough to make him question his earlier, too easy assumptions.
‘You’re no coward. You faced the paparazzi.’ He added quietly, ‘You faced me.’
Her eyes widened, acknowledgement if he’d needed it, of just how hard she’d found the last several days.
He remembered her hunched on the floor in the palazzo, her hand splayed where Sandro had breathed his last. Her blind pain had been almost unbearable to witness. What strength of character had it taken to face the place? The same strength it took to face him with an air of proud independence despite the tremors racking her.
Something hard and unforgiving inside him eased. Something that had already cracked when she’d expressed regret for Sandro’s death. When he’d seen her playing with little Chiara. When he’d held her close and been torn between protectiveness and an utterly selfish desire for her soft, bountifully feminine body.
‘There’s nothing to tell.’ But her eyes were clouded and her mouth white-rimmed. Her tension reignited the protectiveness that had enveloped him as he held her and felt the waves of fear shudder through her.
‘Liar.’
She flinched, her face tightening.
‘I thought we’d agreed to leave the accusations behind.’ There was desperate hauteur to her expression but she couldn’t mask her pain.
‘I’m not talking about the past. I’m talking about now. Here.’ His slashing hand encompassed the scene that had just played out. ‘You were scared out of your wits.’
Her pale eyebrows rose. ‘Nothing scares me. After the last few years I’m unshockable.’
Looking into her unblinking gaze he almost believed her. Yet her desperate panting breath against his throat, the clutch of her hands and the feel of her body’s response to overwhelming fear had been unmistakable.
Domenico stepped close and she stiffened. He kept going till he stood a breath away. Her face tilted up to his as he’d known it would. Lucy had proven time and again that she was no coward. She faced what she feared.
Until today. In the darkness of the boatshed.
His heart beat an uneven rhythm as he realised only true terror would have made this woman run.
‘Who is he, Lucy?’ He lifted a hand to her jaw, stroking his thumb over her silken flesh, feeling the jittering pulse. ‘Who are you afraid of?’
Her eyelids flickered. She pressed into his touch and pleasure swirled deep inside.
‘Bruno.’ The word was a whisper. ‘Bruno Scarlatti. Your brother’s Head of Security.’
* * *
Domenico read her fear and knew she spoke the truth. He wanted to assure her she was safe. He wanted to tug her close and not let her go.
Because she was scared?
Or because he wanted an excuse to touch her?
He dropped his hand. ‘Why are you afraid of him?’
‘It doesn’t matter.’ Her mouth flattened.
‘Did he visit you behind bars?’ Had he threatened her?
‘Him! Visit me? You’ve got to be kidding. In five years my only visitors were a couple of criminologists writing a book on female offenders and crimes of passion.’ Sarcasm dripped from her voice. ‘They found me such a fascinating study.’
She shouldered away from him, into the sun. Yet she rubbed her hands up her arms as if to warm herself.
Stunned, he let himself be distracted. In five years she’d had no personal visitors? What about her family and friends? Then he remembered the tawdry exposé interview with her stepmother.
