shoes into her bag. Just as well she didn’t have much to pack. She’d be done in no time.
Then what? the little voice in the back of her head piped up. Back to the town where you almost caused a riot simply walking down the street?
She’d talk to Domenico—
No, not him.
She’d talk to Rocco. Surely a security expert could suggest how she could get away and lose herself in the crowds of a big city in England. Anonymity was all she asked. She had no hope of ever getting that in Italy. Not with the press hot on her trail.
Unless she gave in and sold her story.
Her stomach cramped at the idea of lowering herself like Sylvia, her stepmother. That betrayal cut deep. How could Sylvia have done it?
Lucy needed the money, now more than ever. But she needed her self-respect too.
She grabbed a shirt and slapped it on top of the shoes, fighting the hot prickle of tears.
What was happening to her? She hadn’t cried in years, not till Chiara’s accident. Now she wanted to curl up and blub out her self-pity. It was as if her defences had collapsed, leaving her prey to weakness she’d thought she’d conquered years before.
She looked at the winking lights of the mainland.
A few hours ago she’d been happy. Happier than she’d believed possible. The day had been glorious, the surroundings spectacular, and she’d basked in Domenico’s approval and solicitude. She’d blossomed into a woman she barely recognised, who actually believed good things might come to pass. Who believed Domenico saw beyond the surface to the woman she was at heart, or was before the last years had scarred her.
She dragged a deep breath into constricted lungs.
He’d been kind, caring, fun. She’d enjoyed his company. More, she’d believed he’d enjoyed hers. And though he hadn’t kissed her again, she’d felt the weight of it between them, a potent presence. A promise.
But there could never be more between them. She tried to tell herself he was softening her up to convince her to sign his contract. But she rejected the idea.
Why?
Because she’d fallen for him.
Her hands clenched so hard the nails bit crescents into her flesh.
Pathetic, wasn’t she? As if he’d ever care for her.
Maybe those years in jail had warped her judgement—made her ready to succumb to the tiniest hint of caring. She was ready for passion and more, for tenderness, because they’d been denied her so long. That had to be the reason. How else could she explain the way she’d fallen for Domenico like a ripe plum?
She was doing the right thing, getting on with life. This time tomorrow she’d be in anonymous London.
‘What do you think you’re doing?’
His voice slid like a finger of dark arousal down her spine. Lucy trembled and clutched her clothes tight. Her heart pounded so hard it seemed in danger of bursting free.
‘Packing.’ She didn’t turn. This was difficult enough already. Domenico made her weak in too many ways.
Her pulse thundered as she waited for his response. Maybe he’d turn and leave, glad to be rid of her.
When he spoke again he was so close his words wafted warm air on her neck. She shivered with longing.
‘No, you’re not.’
Lucy spun round, dropping clothes from nerveless fingers.
‘I beg your pardon?’ She drew herself up. ‘Don’t tell me what to do.’
But her defiance was hollow. Her heart wasn’t in it. Especially when the sight of his arrogant, endearing, brooding features clamped a different sort of pain around her chest.
She yearned for him to pull her into his embrace as he had earlier and convince her that everything would be okay.
Except it wouldn’t. Nothing could make this right.
‘You’re not the sort to run away when things get tough.’
Lucy’s eyes widened at the compliment.
Or did he just see her as prison-tough and able to weather anything?
‘Watch me!’ She turned to her case but he grabbed her upper arm and hauled her round towards him.
Shock froze her. Some part of her brain rehearsed the quick, violent action that would make him break his hold, yet she made no move to free herself.
‘You’re not a coward.’
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