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‘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 years ago was astounding. She’d certainly given up playing the ingénue.
She looked brittle. He sensed she directed all her energy into projecting that façade of calm.
Domenico knew it was a façade. Years of experience in the cutthroat world of business had made him an expert in body language. There was no mistaking the tension drawing her muscles tight or the short, choppy breaths she couldn’t quite hide.
How much would it take to smash through to the real Lucy Knight? What would it take to make her crack?
‘If you admitted the truth you’d find the future easier.’
‘Why?’ She tilted her head like a bright-eyed bird. ‘Because confession is good for the soul?’
‘So the experts say.’
He shifted into a more comfortable position as he awaited her response. Not by a flicker did he reveal how important this was to him.
Why, he didn’t know. She’d already been proven guilty in a fair trial. Her guilt had been proclaimed to the world. But seeing her so defiant, Domenico faced an unpalatable truth. He realised with a certainty that ran deep as the blood he’d shared with his brother that this would never be over till Lucy Knight confessed.
Closure, truth, satisfaction, call it what you would. Only she could lay this to rest.
He hated her for the power that gave her.
‘You think I’ll be swayed by your attempts at psychology?’ Her mouth curled in a hard little smile he’d never seen in all those weeks of the trial. ‘You’ll have to do better than that, Signor Volpe. If the experts couldn’t extract a confession, you really think you will?’
‘Experts?’
‘Of course. You didn’t think I was living in splendid isolation all this time, did you?’ Her words sounded bitter but her expression remained unchanged. ‘There’s a whole industry around rehabilitating offenders. Didn’t you know? Social workers, psychologists, psychiatrists.’ She turned and looked out of the window, her profile serene.
Domenico fought the impulse to shake the truth from her.
‘Did you know they assessed me to find out if I was insane?’ She swung her head back around. Her face was blank but for the searing fire in her eyes. ‘In case I wasn’t fit to stand trial.’ She paused. ‘I suppose I was lucky. I can’t recommend jail as a positive experience but I suspect an asylum for the criminally insane is worse. Just.’
Something passed between them. Some awareness, some connection, like a vibration in the taut air. Something that for a moment drew them together. It left Domenico unsettled.
Any connection with Lucy Knight was a betrayal of Sandro.
Anger snarled in his veins. ‘You’re alive to complain about your treatment. You didn’t give my brother that option, did you? What you did was irrevocable.’
‘And unpardonable. Is that why you spirited me away from the press? So you can berate me in private?’
She lounged back in her corner and made a production of crossing her legs as if to reinforce her total lack of concern. Even in her drab navy skirt and jacket there was no hiding the fact she had stunning legs. He was honest enough to admit it was one of the things that had drawn him the day they met. That and her shy smile. No wonder she’d always worn a skirt in court, trying to attract the male sympathy vote.
It hadn’t worked then and it didn’t work now.
‘What a ripe imagination you have.’ He let his teeth show in his slow smile and had the satisfaction of seeing her stiffen. ‘I have better things to do with my time than talk with you.’
‘In that case, you won’t mind if I enjoy the view.’ She turned to survey the street with an intense concentration he knew must be feigned.
Until he realised she hadn’t seen anything like it for five years.
It was even harder than she’d expected being near Domenico Volpe. Sharing the same space. Talking with him.
A lifetime ago they’d shared a magical day, perfect in every way. By the time they’d parted with a promise to meet again she’d drifted on a cloud of delicious anticipation. He’d made her feel alive for the first time.
In a mere ten hours she’d fallen a little in love with her debonair stranger.
How young she’d been. Not just in years but experience. Looking back it was almost inconceivable she’d ever been that naïve.
When she’d seen him again it had been at her trial. Her heart had leapt, knowing he was there for her as she stood alone, battered by a world turned into nightmare. She’d waited day after day for him to break his silence, approach and offer a crumb of comfort. To look at her with warmth in his eyes again.
Instead he’d been a frowning dark angel come to exact retribution. He’d looked at her with eyes like winter, chilling her to the bone and shrivelling her dreams.
A shudder snaked through her but she repressed it. She was wrung out after facing the paparazzi and him, but refused to betray the fact that he got to her.
She should demand to know where they were headed, but facing him took all her energy.
Even his voice, low and liquid like rich dark chocolate laced with honey, affected her in ways she’d tried to suppress. It made her aware she was a healthy young woman programmed to respond to an attractive man. Despite his cold fury he made her aware of his masculinity.
Was it the vibration of his deep voice along her bones? His powerful male body? Or the supremely confident way he’d faced down the press as if he didn’t give a damn what they printed? As if challenging them to take him on? All were too sexy for her peace of mind.
The way he looked at her disturbed, his scrutiny so intense it seemed he searched to find the real Lucy Knight. The one she’d finally learned to hide.
Lucy stifled a laugh. She’d been in prison too long. Maybe what she needed wasn’t peace and quiet but a quick affair with an attractive stranger to get her rioting hormones under control.
The stranger filling her mind was Domenico Volpe.
No! That was wrong on so many levels her brain atrophied before she could go further.
She made herself concentrate on the street. No matter what pride said, it was a relief to be in the limo, whisked from the press in comfort.
Yet there’d be a reckoning. She’d given up believing in the milk of human kindness. There was a reason Domenico Volpe had taken her side. Something he wanted.
A confession?
Lucy pressed her lips together. He’d have a long wait. She’d never been a liar.
She was so wrapped in memories it took a while to realize the streets looked familiar. They drove through a part of Rome she knew.
Lucy straightened, tension trickling in a rivulet of ice water down her spine as she recognised landmarks. The shop where she’d found trinkets to send home to her dad and Sylvia, and especially the kids. The café that sold mouth-watering pastries to go with rich, aromatic coffee. The park where she’d taken little Taddeo under Bruno’s watchful eye.
The trickle became a tide of foreboding as the limousine turned into an all too familiar street.
She swung around. Domenico Volpe watched her beneath lowered lids, his expression speculative.
‘You can’t be serious!’ Her voice was a harsh scrape of sound.
‘You wanted somewhere free from the press. They won’t bother you here.’
‘What do you call that?’ The pavement before the Palazzo Volpe teemed with reporters. Beyond them the building rose, splendid and imposing, a monument to extreme wealth and powerful bloodlines. A reminder of the disastrous past.
Lucy’s heart plunged. She never wanted to see the place again.
Was that his game? Retribution? Or did he think returning her to the scene of the crime would force a confession?
Nausea swirled as she watched the massive palazzo grow closer. Horror drenched her, leaving her skin clammy as perspiration broke out beneath the cloth of her suit.
‘Stop the car!’
‘Why? I wouldn’t have thought you squeamish.’ His eyes were glacial again.
She opened her mouth to argue, then realised there was no point. She’d been weak to go with him and she had to face the consequences. Hadn’t she known he’d demand payment for his help?
Lucy lifted one shoulder in a shrug that cost her every ounce of energy. ‘I thought you wouldn’t like the press to know we were together. But on your head be it. I’ve got nothing more to lose.’
‘Haven’t you?’ His tone told her he’d make it his business to find her soft spot and exploit it.
Let him try. He had no notion how a few years in jail toughened a girl.
He fixed his gaze on her, not turning away as the vehicle slowed to enter a well-guarded entrance. The crowd was held back by stony-faced security men. Anxiously Lucy scanned them but couldn’t recognise any familiar faces.
Surreptitiously she let out a breath of relief.
Then the car slipped down a ramp. They entered a vast underground car park. A fleet of vehicles, polished to perfection, filled it. She saw limousines, a four wheel drive, a sleek motorbike and a couple of sports cars including a vintage one her dad would have given his eye teeth to drive.
Out of nowhere grief slammed into her. She’d missed him so long she’d finally learned to repress the waves of loss. But she hadn’t been prepared for this.
Not now. Not here. Not in front of the man who saw himself as her enemy.
Maybe grief hit harder because it was her first day of freedom. The day, by rights, when she should be in her dad’s reassuring embrace. But all that was gone. Lucy swallowed the knot of emotion clogging her throat, forcing herself to stare, dry-eyed, around the cavernous space.
‘How did you get permission to excavate?’ She was relieved her voice worked. ‘I thought this part of the city was built on the ancient capital.’
‘You didn’t know about the basement car park?’ His voice was sceptical.
Finally, when she knew her face was blank of emotion, Lucy met his stare. ‘I was just the au pair, remember? Not the full-time nanny. I didn’t go out with the family. Besides, Taddeo was so little and your sister-in-law—’ she paused, seeing Domenico’s gaze sharpen ‘—she didn’t want him out and about. It was a struggle to get permission to take him to the park for air.’
Gun-metal grey eyes met hers and again she felt that curious beat of awareness between them. As if he knew and understood. But that was impossible. Domenico Volpe hated her, believed she’d killed his brother. Nothing would change his mind.
‘The car park was necessary for our privacy.’ His shoulders lifted in a shrug that indicated whatever the Volpe family needed the world would provide. Naturally. ‘There was an archaeological survey but fortunately it didn’t find anything precious.’
Lucy bit back a retort. It wouldn’t matter how precious the remains. The Volpes would have got what they wanted. They always did. They’d wanted her convicted and they’d got their way.
The car slid to a halt and her door opened.
Lucy surveyed the big man holding it. Her heart gave a flip of relief as she saw it was the guy who’d tried to strong-arm her into the car earlier. Not a spectre from the past. But embarrassment warred with relief as she recalled how she’d abused him.
‘Thank you.’ She slid awkwardly from the seat, not used to a skirt after years in regulation issue trousers.
Silently he inclined his head.
Damp palms swiping down her skirt, Lucy located the rest of the security staff. Her heart clenched as she thought she saw a familiar figure in the dim light but when he moved Lucy realised it was another stranger. Her breathing eased.
‘This way, signorina.’ The bodyguard ushered her towards a lift.
Minutes later she found herself in a part of the palazzo she’d never visited. But its grand dimensions, its exquisitely intricate marble flooring and air of otherworld luxury were instantly familiar.
Her skin prickled as she inhaled that almost forgotten scent. Of furniture polish, hothouse flowers and, she’d once joked, money. Memories washed over her, of those first exciting days in a new country, of her awe at her surroundings, of that last night—
‘Ms Knight?’ Lucy, he’d called her once. For a few bright, brief hours. Instantly Domenico slammed the memory of that folly into an iron vault of memory.
She spun around and he saw huge, haunted eyes. Her face had paled and her fine features were pinched.
The mask slipped at last.
He should feel satisfaction at her unease in his family home. But it wasn’t pleasure he experienced. He had no name for this hyper-awareness, this knife-edge between antipathy and absorption.
Sensation feathered through him, like the tickle of his conscience, teasing him for bringing her here.
Lucy Knight had fascinated him all those years ago. To his chagrin he realised she still did. More than was desirable. It was one thing to know your enemy. Another to respond to her fear with what felt too much like sympathy.
As he watched the moment of vulnerability was gone. Her face smoothed out and her pale eyebrows arched high as if waiting for him to continue.
‘This way.’ He gestured for her to accompany him, conscious of her beside him as they headed to his side of the palazzo. She was a head shorter but kept pace easily, not hesitating for a moment.
He had to hand it to her; she projected an air of assurance many of his business associates would envy. Twice now he’d seen behind the façade of calm but both times it had been a quick glimpse and the circumstances had been enough to discomfit anyone.
In his study he gestured for her to take a seat. Instead she prowled the room, inspecting the bookcases, the view from the window and, he was sure, scoping out a possible escape route. There was none.
Instead of taking one of the sofas near the fireplace as he’d intended, Domenico settled behind his desk.
‘Why have you brought me here?’
She stood directly before the desk, feet planted as if to ground herself ready for attack.
‘To talk.’
‘Talk?’ The word shot out. ‘You had your chance to talk five years ago. As I recall, you weren’t interested in renewing our acquaintance.’ Her tone was bitter and her eyes glittered with fury.
The difference between this Amazon and the girl he’d briefly known struck him anew.
‘And to separate you and the press.’
‘No altruistic rescue then.’ She gave no indication of disappointment, merely met his gaze in frank appraisal.
‘Did you expect one?’
‘No.’ She answered before he’d finished speaking.
Why did her readiness to distrust rankle? He hadn’t expected doe-eyed innocence. The scales had been ripped from his eyes long ago.
‘Feel free to sit.’
‘No.’ She paused. ‘Thank you. I prefer to stand.’ She swallowed hard.
Thanking him must almost have choked her.
As having her in his home revolted every sensibility. Was Sandro turning in his grave? No. Sandro would have approved of his actions.
‘For how long?’ She watched him closely.
‘As long as it takes.’
She frowned. ‘As long as what takes?’
Domenico leaned back in his chair. He sensed it was too early to reveal his full intent. Better proceed slowly than rush and have her refuse out of hand.
‘For the press to lose interest in this story.’
‘There is no story. It happened so long ago.’
Domenico’s belly clenched. ‘You think what happened means nothing now? That it’s all over?’
Her head shot up. ‘It is over. I’ve served the sentence for manslaughter and now I’m free. If there was anything I could do to bring your brother back I would.’ She heaved a deep breath that strained her breasts against the dark fabric. ‘But there’s not.’
‘You cut off my brother’s life in his prime.’ Anger vibrated in his words and he strove to modulate his voice. ‘You made my sister-in-law a widow before her time. She was barely a wife, still struggling to adapt to motherhood, and suddenly she was alone.’
Sky blue eyes met his unflinchingly.
Did none of it matter to her?
‘Because of you my nephew will never know his father.’ The words grated from a throat scraped raw with anger. ‘You denied them both that. You left a gaping hole in his life.’
As she’d ripped a hole in Domenico’s life. Even now he found it hard to believe Sandro was gone. The older brother who’d been his friend, his pillar of strength when their parents had died and Domenico was still a kid. His mentor, who’d applauded his tenacity when he’d branched out as an entrepreneur, building rather than relying on the family fortune and traditions.
He wanted her to know the pain she’d caused. To feel it. The civilised man he was knew she’d paid the price society saw fit for her crime. The wounded, grief-stricken one wanted more. Remorse. Guilt. A confession. Something.
‘You can’t control the press.’ She spoke as if nothing he’d said mattered, brushing aside so much pain.
For a full thirty seconds Domenico stared at the woman who’d destroyed so much, yet felt so little. He couldn’t understand how anyone could be so devoid of compassion. He wished he’d never sullied himself by helping her, even if it wasn’t for her benefit.
But he refused to let Sandro’s family suffer any more because of Lucy Knight.
‘I can starve them of fresh news.’
‘But there is no news.’
‘You’re out of jail. The murderess set free.’
Her chin jutted. ‘The charge was manslaughter.’
Domenico bit down the need to tell her legalistic quibbling didn’t change the fact of Sandro’s death. Instead he reached for the glossy pages on his desk.
‘There’s still a story. Especially after this.’
‘What is it?’ She stepped forward, her expression closed, but he read the rigidity of her slim frame, as if she prepared for the worst.
For a second Domenico hesitated. Why, he didn’t know. Then he tossed the magazine across the gleaming surface of the desk.
She tilted her head to read it where it lay, as if not wanting to touch it. He couldn’t blame her. It was the sort of trash he avoided, but Pia, his sister-in-law, was obviously a fan. She’d brought it to his attention, hysterical that the sordid tragedy was being resurrected.
Eventually Lucy Knight reached out and flipped the page with one finger. The story spread across both pages. Her likeness featured beside the text. Another picture of her and an older man, her father. Then more of a rather hollow-eyed woman and a gaggle of children.
He watched Lucy Knight’s eyes widen, heard her breath hitch, then a hiss of shock. She’d turned the colour of ash. Even her lips paled. Rapidly she blinked and he could have sworn tears welled in those remarkable eyes.
Then, with a suddenness that caught him off guard, the woman he’d thought as unfeeling as an automaton swayed off balance and he realised she was going to faint.
CHAPTER THREE
LUCY STARED AS the text blurred and dipped. She blinked, torn between gratitude that she couldn’t make out all the snide character assassination and desperation to know the worst.
She thought she’d experienced the worst in prison. With the loss of her father, her friends, freedom, innocence and self-esteem.
She’d been wrong.
This was the final betrayal.
She struggled to draw breath. It was as if a boulder squashed her lungs. She slammed a hand on the satiny wood of the desk, her damp palm slipping as she fought to steady herself.
Darkness rimmed her vision and the world revolved, churning sickeningly like a merry-go-round spinning off kilter.
There was a pounding in her ears and a gaping hole where her heart had been.
Hard fingers closed around her upper arm.
It was enough to drag her back to her surroundings. She yanked her arm but the grip tightened. She felt him beside her, imprisoning her against the desk.
From somewhere deep inside fury welled, a volcanic force that for a glorious moment obliterated the pain shredding her vitals.
Driven by unstoppable instinct Lucy pivoted, raised her hand and chopped down on the inner elbow of the arm that captured her. At the same time she jabbed her knee high in his groin. Her hand connected with a force that almost matched the strength in that muscled arm. But her knee struck only solid thigh as he sensed her attack and shifted.
Yet it worked. She was free. She stood facing him, panting from adrenalin and overflowing emotions.
Gimlet eyes stared down at her. Glittering eyes that bored deep into her soul, as if he could strip away the self-protective layers she’d built so painstakingly around herself and discover the woman no one else knew.
Her chest rose and fell as she struggled for air. Her pulse thundered. Her skin sizzled with the effervescence in her bloodstream.
The muzzy giddiness disappeared as she stared back at the face of the man who’d stripped away her last hope and destroyed what was left of her joy at being free.
Far from fainting, she felt painfully alive. It was as if layers of skin had been scored away, exposing nerve endings that throbbed from contact with the very air in this cloistered mansion.
‘Don’t touch me!’
Instead of backing off from her snarling tone he merely narrowed his eyes.
‘You were going to faint.’ The rumble of his voice stirred an echo inside her.
‘I’ve never fainted in my life.’ She shoved aside the knowledge that he was right. Until the shock of his touch she’d been about to topple onto his pristine parquet floor.
‘You needed support.’ His words betrayed no outrage at her attack. It was as if he, like she, was no longer bothered by social niceties. As if he understood the primitive intensity of her feelings.
That disturbed her. She didn’t want him understanding anything about her. She didn’t like the sense that Domenico Volpe had burrowed under her skin and was privy to her innermost demons.
Something shifted in his gaze. There was a subtle difference in those deep-set eyes that now shone silver. Something in the line of his lips. Her eyes lingered there, tracing the shape of a mouth which now, relaxed, seemed designed solely for sensual pleasure.