Lucy turned. She was exhausted, weary beyond imagining after less than an hour at the mercy of the paparazzi, but she couldn’t relax, even in this decadently luxurious vehicle.
Deep-set grey eyes met hers. This time they looked stormy rather than glacial. Lucy was under no illusions that he wanted her here, with him. Despite the nonchalant stretch of his long legs, crossed at the ankles, there was tightness in his shoulders and jaw.
‘What do you want?’
‘To rescue you from the press.’
Lucy shook her head. ‘No.’
‘No?’ One dark eyebrow shot up towards his hairline. ‘You call me a liar?’
‘If you’d been interested in rescuing me you’d have done it years ago when it mattered. But you dropped me like a hot potato.’
Her words sucked the oxygen from the limousine, leaving a heavy, clogging atmosphere of raw emotion. Lucy drew a deep breath, uncaring that he noted the agitated rise and fall of her breasts as she struggled for air.
‘You’re talking about two different things.’ His tone was cool.
‘You think?’ She paused. ‘You’re playing semantics. The last thing you want is to rescue me.’
‘Then let us say merely that your interests and mine coincide this time.’
‘How?’ She leaned forward, as if a closer view would reveal the secrets he kept behind that patrician façade of calm. ‘I can’t see what we have in common.’
He shook his head, turning more fully. Lucy became intensely aware of the strength hidden behind that tailored suit as his shoulders blocked her view of the street.
A jitter of curious sensation sped down her backbone and curled deep within. It disturbed her.
‘Then you have an enviably short memory, Ms Knight. Even you can’t deny we’re linked by a tie that binds us forever, however much I wish it otherwise.’
‘But that’s—’
‘In the past?’ His lip curled in a travesty of a smile. ‘Yet it’s a truth I live with every day.’ His eyes glowed, luminous with emotions she’d once thought him too cold to feel. His voice deepened to a low, bone-melting hum. ‘Nothing will ever take away the fact that you killed my brother.’
CHAPTER TWO
LUCY KNIGHT SHOOK her head emphatically and for one crazy moment Domenico found himself mourning the fact that her blonde tresses no longer swirled round her shoulders. Why had she cut her hair so brutally short?
After five years he remembered how that curtain of silk had enticed him!
Impossible. It wasn’t disappointment he felt.
He’d spent long days in court focused on the woman who’d stolen Sandro’s life. He’d smothered grief, the urgent need for revenge and bone-deep disappointment that he’d got her so wrong. Domenico had forced himself to observe her every fleeting expression, every nuance. He’d imprinted her image in his mind.
Learning his enemy.
It wasn’t attraction he’d felt then for the gold-digger who’d sought to play both the Volpe brothers. It had been clear-headed acknowledgement of her beauty and calculation of whether her little girl lost impression might prejudice the prosecution case.
‘No. I was convicted of killing him. There’s a difference.’
Domenico stared into her blazing eyes, alight with a passion that arrested logic. Then her words sank in, exploding into his consciousness like a grenade. His belly tightened as outrage flared.
He should have expected it. Yet to hear her voice the lie strained even his steely control.
‘You’re still asserting your innocence?’
Her eyes narrowed and her mouth tightened. Was she going to blast him with a volley of abuse as she had Rocco?
‘Why wouldn’t I? It’s the truth.’
She held his gaze with a blatant challenge that made his hackles rise.
How dare she sit in the comfort of his car, talking about his brother’s death, and deny all the evidence against her? Deny the testimony of Sandro’s family and staff and the fair judgement of the court?
Bile surged in Domenico’s throat. The gall of this woman!
‘So you keep up the pretence. Why bother lying now?’ His words rang with the condemnation he could no longer hide.
Meeting her outraged his sense of justice and sliced across his own inclinations. Only family duty compelled him to be here, conversing with his brother’s killer. It revolted every one of his senses.
‘This is no pretence, Signor Volpe. It’s the truth.’
She leaned closer and he caught the scent of soap and warm female skin. His nostrils quivered, cataloguing a perfume that was more viscerally seductive than the lush designer scents of the women in his world.
‘I did not kill your brother.’
She was some actress. Not even by a flicker did she betray her show of innocence.
That, above all, ignited his wrath. That she should continue this charade even now. Her dishonesty must run bone deep.
Or was she scared if she confessed he’d take justice into his own hands?
Domenico imagined his hands closing around that slim, pale throat, forcing her proud head back … but no. Rough justice held no appeal.
He wouldn’t break the Volpe code of honour, even when provoked by this shameless liar.
‘Now who’s playing semantics? Sandro was off balance when you shoved him against the fireplace.’ The words bit out from between clamped teeth. ‘The knock to his head as he fell killed him.’ Domenico drew in a slow breath, clawing back control. The men of his family did not give in to emotion. It was unthinkable he’d reveal to this woman the grief still haunting him.
‘You were responsible. If he’d never met you he’d be alive today.’
Her face tightened and she swallowed. Remarkably he saw a flicker of something that might have been pain in her eyes.
Guilt? Regret for what she’d done?
An instant later that hint of vulnerability vanished.
Had he imagined it? Had his imagination supplied what he’d waited so long to see? Remorse over Sandro’s death?
He catalogued the woman beside him. Rigid back, angled chin, hands folded neatly yet gripping too hard. Her eyes were different, he realised. After that first shocked expression of horror, now they were guarded.
The difference from the supposed innocent he’d met all those
