Come with me. The words were in slashing black ink on a page from a notebook. I can get you away from this. You’ll be safe.

Lucy’s head jerked up.

‘Safe?’ With him?

Domenico nodded. ‘Yes.’

Around them journalists craned to hear. One tried to snatch the note from Lucy’s hand. She crumpled it in her fist. He couldn’t want to help her. Yet she wasn’t fool enough to think she could stay here. Trouble was brewing and she’d be at the centre of it.

Still she hesitated. This close, Lucy was aware of the strength in those broad shoulders, in that tall frame and his square olive-skinned hands. Once that blatant male power had left her breathless. Now it threatened.

He leaned forward. She stiffened as his whispered words caressed her cheek.

‘Word of a Volpe.’

She knew he was proud. Haughty. Loyal. A powerful man. A dangerously clever one. But everything she’d read—and she’d read plenty—indicated he was a man of his word. He wouldn’t sully his ancient family name or his pride by lying.

She hoped.

About the Author

ANNIE WEST has devoted her life to an intensive study of tall, dark, charismatic heroes who cause the best kind of trouble in the lives of their heroines. As a sideline she’s also researched dream-worthy locations for romance—from bustling, vibrant cities to desert encampments and fairytale castles. It’s hard work, but she loves a challenge. Annie lives with her family at beautiful Lake Macquarie, on Australia’s east coast. She loves to hear from readers and you can contact her at www.annie-west.com or at PO Box 1041, Warners Bay, NSW 2282, Australia.

Recent titles by the same author:

DEFYING HER DESERT DUTY

UNDONE BY HIS TOUCH

GIRL IN THE BEDOUIN TENT

PRINCE OF SCANDAL

Did you know these are also available as eBooks? Visit www.millsandboon.co.uk

Captive

in the Spotlight

Annie West

www.millsandboon.co.uk

In memory of our special Daisy, canine member of the family for almost sixteen years and ever-supportive writer’s companion.

And with heartfelt thanks to Josie, Serena and Antony for your advice on Italian language, law and locations.

CHAPTER ONE

FOR FIVE GRIM years Lucy had imagined her first day of freedom. A sky the pure blue of Italian summer. The scent of citrus in the warm air and the sound of birds.

Instead she inhaled a familiar aroma. Bricks, concrete and cold steel should have no scent. Yet mixed with despair and commercial strength detergent, they created a perfume called ‘Institution’. It had filled her nostrils for years.

Lucy repressed a shudder of fear, her stomach cramping.

What if there had been a mistake? What if the huge metal door before her remained firmly shut?

Panic welled at the thought of returning to her cell. To come so close then have freedom denied would finally destroy her.

The guard punched in the release code. Lucy moved close, her bag in one clammy hand, her heart in her mouth. Finally the door opened and she stepped through.

Exhaust fumes instead of citrus. Lowering grey skies instead of blue. The roar of cars rather than birdsong.

She didn’t care. She was free!

She closed her eyes, savouring this moment she’d dreamed of since the terror engulfed her.

She was free to do as she chose. Free to try taking up the threads of her life. She’d take a cheap flight to London and a night to regroup before finishing the trip to Devon. A night somewhere quiet, with a comfortable bed and unlimited hot water.

The door clanged shut and her eyes snapped open.

A noise made her turn. Further along, by the main entrance, a crowd stirred. A crowd with cameras and microphones that blared ‘Press’.

Ice scudded down Lucy’s spine as she stepped briskly in the opposite direction.

She’d barely begun walking when the hubbub erupted: running feet, shouts, the roar of a motorbike.

‘Lucy! Lucy Knight!’ Even through the blood pounding in her ears and the confusion of so many people yelling at once, there was no mistaking the hunger in those voices. It was as if the horde had been starved and the scent of fresh blood sent them into a frenzy.

Lucy quickened her pace but a motorbike cut off her escape. The passenger snapped off shot after shot of her stunned face before she could gather herself.

By that time the leaders of the pack had surrounded her, clamouring close and thrusting microphones in her face. It was all she could do not to give in to panic and run. After the isolation she’d known the eager crush was terrifying.

‘How does it feel, Lucy?’

‘What are your plans?’

‘Have you anything to say to our viewers, Lucy? Or to the Volpe family?’

The bedlam of shouted questions eased a fraction at mention of the Volpe family. Lucy sucked in a shocked breath as cameras clicked and whirred in her face, disorienting her.

She should have expected this. Why hadn’t she?

Because it was five years ago. Old news.

Because she’d expected the furore to die down.

What more did they want? They’d already taken so much.

If only she’d accepted the embassy’s offer to spirit her to the airport. Foolishly she’d been determined to rely on no one. Five years ago British officials hadn’t been able to save her from the grinding wheels of Italian justice. She’d stopped expecting help from there, or anywhere.

Look where her pride had got her!

Lips set in a firm line, she strode forward, cleaving a path through the persistent throng. She didn’t shove or threaten, just kept moving with a strength and determination she’d acquired the hard way.

She was no longer the innocent eighteen-year-old who’d been incarcerated. She’d given up waiting for justice, much less a champion.

She’d had to be her own champion.

Lucy made no apology when her stride took her between a news camera and journalist wearing too much make-up and barely any skirt. The woman’s attempt to coax a comment ended when her microphone fell beneath Lucy’s feet.

Lucy looked neither right nor left, knowing if she stopped she’d be lost. The swelling noise and press of so many bodies sent her hurtling towards claustrophobic panic. She shook inside, her breathing grew choppy, her stomach diving as she fought the urge to flee.

The press would love that!

There was a gap ahead. Lucy made for it, to discover herself surrounded by big men in dark suits and sunglasses. Men who kept the straining crowd at bay.

Despite the flash of cameras and volleys of shouts, here in these few metres of space it was like being in the eye of a cyclone.

Instincts hyper-alert, Lucy surveyed the car the security men encircled. It was expensive, black with tinted windows.

Curious, she stepped forward, racking her brain. Her friends had melted away in these last years. As for her family—if only they could afford transport like this!

One of the bodyguards opened the back door and Lucy stepped close enough to look inside.

Grey eyes snared her. Eyes the colour of ice under a stormy sky. Sleek black eyebrows rayed up towards thick, dark hair cropped against a well-shaped head.

The clamour faded and Lucy’s breath snagged as her eyes followed a long, arrogant nose, pinched as if in rejection of the institutional aroma she carried in her pores. High, angled cheekbones scored a patrician face. A solid jaw and a firm-set mouth, thinned beyond disapproving and into the realm of pained, completed a compelling face that might have stared out from a Renaissance portrait.

Despite the condemnation she read there, another emotion blasted between them, an unseen ripple of heat in the charged air. A ripple that drew her flesh tight and made the hairs on her arms rise.

‘Domenico Volpe!’

Air hissed from Lucy’s lungs as if from a puncture wound. Her hand tightened on her case and for a moment she rocked on her feet.

Not him! This was too much.

‘You recognise me?’ He spoke English with the clear, rounded vowels and perfect diction of a man with impeccable lineage, wealth, power and education at his disposal.

Which meant his disapproving tone, as if she had no right even to recognise a man so far beyond her league, was deliberate.

Lucy refused to let him see how that stung. Blank-faced withdrawal was a tactic she’d perfected as a defence in the face of aggression.

How could his words harm her after what she’d been through?

‘I remember you.’ As if she could forget. Once she’d almost believed … No. She excised the thought. She was no longer so foolishly naïve.

The sight of him evoked a volley of memories. She made herself concentrate on the later ones. ‘You never missed a moment of the trial.’

The shouts of the crowd were a reminder of that time, twisting her insides with pain.

He didn’t incline his head, didn’t move, yet something flickered in his eyes. Something that made her wonder if he, like she, held onto control by a slim thread.

‘Would you have? In my shoes?’ His voice was silky but lethal. Lucy remembered reading that the royal assassins of the Ottoman sultan had used garrottes of silk to strangle their victims.

He wouldn’t lower himself to assault but he wouldn’t lift a finger to save her. Yet once long ago, for a fleeting moment, they’d shared something fragile and full of breathless promise.

Her throat tightened as memories swarmed.

What was she doing here, bandying words with a man who wished her only ill? Silently she turned but found her way blocked by a giant in a dark suit.

‘Please, signorina.’ He gestured to the open car door behind her. ‘Take a seat.’

With Domenico Volpe? He personified everything that had gone wrong in her life.

A bubble of hysterical laughter rose and she shook her head.

She stepped to one side but the bodyguard moved fast. He grasped her arm, propelling her towards the car.

‘Don’t touch me!’ All the shock and grief and dismay she battled rose within her, a roiling well of emotions she’d kept pent up too long.

No one had the right to coerce her.

Not any more.

Not after what she’d endured.

Lucy opened her mouth to demand her release. But the crisp, clear order she’d formulated didn’t emerge. Instead a burst of Italian vitriol spilled out. Words she’d never known, even in English, till her time in jail. The sort of gutter Italian Domenico Volpe and his precious family wouldn’t recognise. The sort of coarse, colloquial Italian favoured by criminals and lunatics. She should know, she’d met enough in her time.

The bodyguard’s eyes widened, his hand dropping as he stepped back. As if he was afraid her lashing tongue might injure him.

Abruptly the flow of words stopped. Lucy vibrated with fury but also with something akin to shame.

So much for her pride in rising above the worst degradations of imprisonment. As for her pleasure, just minutes ago, that she’d left prison behind her … Her heart fell. How long would she bear its taint? How irrevocably had it changed her?

Despair threatened but she forced it down.

Fingers curling tight around the handle of her bag, she stepped forward and the bodyguard made way. She kept going, beyond the cordon that kept Domenico Volpe from the straining paparazzi.

Lucy straightened her spine. She’d rather walk into the arms of the waiting press than stay here.

‘I’m sorry, boss. I should have stopped her. But with the media watching …’

‘It’s okay, Rocco. The last thing I want is a press report about us kidnapping Lucy Knight.’ That would really send Pia into a spin. His sister-in-law was already strung out at the news of her release.

He watched the crowd close round the slim form of the Englishwoman and something that felt incredibly like remorse stirred.

As if he’d failed her.

Because she’d looked at him with unveiled horror and chosen the slavering mob rather than share a car with him? That niggling sense of guilt resurfaced. Nonsense, of course. In the light of day logic assured him she’d brought on her own destruction. Yet sometimes, in the dead of night, it didn’t seem so cut and dried.

But he wasn’t Lucy Knight’s keeper. He never had been.

Five years ago he’d briefly responded to her air of fresh enthusiasm, so different from the sophisticated, savvy women in his life. Until he’d discovered she was a sham, trying to ensnare and use him as she had his brother.

Domenico’s lips firmed. She’d looked at him just now with those huge eyes the colour of forget-me-nots. A gullible man might have read fear in that look.

Domenico wasn’t a gullible man.

Though to his shame he’d felt a tug of unwanted attraction to the woman who’d stood day after day in the dock, projecting an air of bewildered innocence.

Her face had been a smooth oval, rounded with youth. Her hair, straight, long and the colour of wheat in the sun, had made him want to reach out and touch.

He’d hated himself for that.

‘She’s some wildcat, eh, boss? The way she let fly—’

‘Close the door, Rocco.’

‘Yes, sir.’ The guard stiffened and shut the door.

Domenico sat back, watching the melee move down the street. A few stragglers remained, their cameras trained on the limousine, but the tinted windows gave privacy.

Just as well. He didn’t want their lenses on him. Not when he felt … unsettled.

He swiped a hand over his jaw, wishing to hell Pia hadn’t put him in this situation. What did the media frenzy matter? They could rise above it as always. Only the insecure let the press get to them. But Pia was emotionally vulnerable, beset by mood swings and insecurities.

It wasn’t the media that disturbed him. He ignored the paparazzi. It was her, Lucy Knight. The way she looked at him.

She’d changed. Her cropped hair made her look like a raunchy pixie instead of a soulful innocent. Her face had fined down, sculpted into bone-deep beauty that had been a mere promise at eighteen. And attitude! She had that in spades.

What courage had it taken to walk back into that hungry throng? Especially when he’d seen and heard, just for a moment, the pain in her hoarse curses.

For all the weeks of the trial she’d looked as if butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth. How had she hidden such violent passion, such hatred so completely?

Or—the thought struck out of nowhere—maybe that dangerous undercurrent was something new, acquired in the intervening years.

Domenico sagged in his seat. He should ignore Pia’s pleas and his own ambivalent reactions and walk away. This woman had been nothing but trouble since the day she’d crossed his family’s threshold.

He pressed the intercom to speak to the driver. ‘Drive on.’

Twenty minutes till the bus came.

Could she last? The crowd grew thicker. It took all Lucy’s stamina to pretend they didn’t bother her. To ignore the cameras and catcalls, the increasingly rough jostling.

Lucy’s knees shook and her arm ached but she didn’t dare put her case down. It held everything she owned and she wouldn’t put it past one of the paparazzi to swipe it and do an exposé on the state of her underwear or a psychological profile based on the few battered books she possessed.

The tone of the gathering had darkened as the press found, instead of the easy prey they’d expected, a woman determined not to cooperate. Didn’t they realise the last thing she wanted was more publicity?

They’d attracted onlookers. She heard their mutterings and cries of outrage.

She widened her stance, bracing against the pushing crowd, alert to the growing tension. She knew how quickly violence could erupt.

She was just about to give up on the bus and move on when the crowd stirred. A flutter, like a sigh, rippled through it, leaving in its wake something that could almost pass for silence.

The camera crews parted. There, striding towards her was the man she’d expected never to see again: Domenico Volpe, shouldering through the rabble, eyes locked on her. He seemed oblivious to the snapping shutters as the cameras went into overdrive and newsmen gabbled into microphones.

He wore a grey suit with the slightest sheen, as if it were woven from black pearls. His shirt was pure white, his tie perfection in dark silk.

He looked the epitome of Italian wealth and breeding. Not a wrinkle marred his clothes or the elegant lines of his face. Only his eyes, boring into hers, spoke of something less than cool control.

A spike of heat plunged right through her belly as she held his eyes.

He stopped before her and Lucy had to force herself not to crane her head to look up at him. Instead she focused on the hand he held out to her.

The paper crackled as she took it.

Come with me. The words were in slashing black ink on a page from a pocketbook. I can get you away from this. You’ll be safe.

Her head jerked up.

‘Safe?’ With him?

He nodded. ‘Yes.’

Around them journalists craned to hear. One tried to snatch the note from Lucy’s hand. She crumpled it in her fist.

It was mad. Bizarre. He couldn’t want to help her. Yet she wasn’t fool enough to think she could stay here. Trouble was brewing and she’d be at the centre of it.

Still she hesitated. This close, Lucy was aware of the strength in those broad shoulders, in that tall frame and his square olive-skinned hands. Once that blatant male power had left her breathless. Now it threatened.

But if he’d wanted to harm her physically he’d have found a way long before this.

He leaned forward. She stiffened as his whispered words caressed her cheek. ‘Word of a Volpe.’

He withdrew, but only far enough to look her in the eye. He stood in her personal space, his lean body warming her and sending ripples of tension through her.

She knew he was proud. Haughty. Loyal. A powerful man. A dangerously clever one. But everything she’d read, and she’d read plenty, indicated he was a man of his word. He wouldn’t sully his ancient family name or his pride by lying.

She hoped.

Jerkily she nodded.

‘Va bene.’ He eased the case from her white-knuckled grip and turned, propelling her through the crowd with his palm at her back, its heat searing through her clothes.

Questions rang out but Domenico Volpe ignored them. With his support Lucy rallied and managed not to stumble. Then suddenly there was blissful space, a cordon of security men, the open limousine door.

This time Lucy needed no urging. She scrambled in and settled herself on the far side of the wide rear seat.

The door shut behind him and the car accelerated away before she’d gathered herself.

‘My bag!’

‘It’s in the boot. Quite safe.’

Safe. There it was again. The word she’d never associated with Domenico Volpe.

Slowly 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 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.

A gossamer thread of heat spun from her breasts to her pelvis, drawing tight—a heat she’d felt only once before.

Had his expression changed, grown warm? Or had something inside her shifted?

Lucy bit her lip then regretted the movement as his gaze zeroed in on her mouth. Her lips tingled as if he’d reached out and grazed them with a questing finger.

A shiver of luxurious pleasure ripped through her. Fire ignited deep within, so hot it felt as if she were melting. Her pulse slowed to a ponderous beat then revved out of control.

She’d known Domenico Volpe was dangerous. But she hadn’t known the half of it.

She swallowed hard and found her voice, trying to ignore her body’s flagrant response.

‘You can move back now. I can stand.’

He took his time moving. ‘Yet sitting is so much more comfortable, don’t you think?’

He said no more but that one raised eyebrow told her he saw what she’d rather not reveal. That her surge of energy was short-lived. Lucy felt a dragging at her limbs. Her knees were jelly and the thought of confronting him here, now, was almost too much to bear.

Had he guessed her visceral response to his flagrant masculinity? That would be the final straw.

She grabbed the magazine, crushing its pages.

‘Thank you. I will take that seat now.’

He nodded and gestured to a long sofa. Instead she took the black leather swivel chair that looked like something from an exclusive design catalogue, a far cry from the sparse utilitarian furniture she’d grown used to. It was wickedly comfortable and her bones melted as she sank into it. It was massive, built to order, she guessed, for the man who took a seat across from her. Lucy tried to look unfazed by such luxury.

‘You didn’t know about the article?’

Lucy refused to look away from his keen gaze. Confrontation was preferable to running. She’d learned that in a hard school. But looking him in the eye was difficult when her body hummed with the aftermath of what she could only describe as an explosion of sexual awareness.

‘No.’ She glanced down at the trashy gossip mag and repressed a shiver. It was like holding a venomous snake in her palm. ‘I had no idea.’

‘Would you like something? Brandy? A pot of tea?’

Startled by his concern, she turned to find Domenico Volpe looking almost as surprised as she was, as if the offer had slipped out without volition.

It was no comfort to know she must look as bad as she felt for him to offer sustenance.

‘No. Thank you.’ Accepting anything from him went against every instinct.

Already he moved towards the desk. Obviously it didn’t matter what she wanted. ‘I’ll order coffee.’

Lucy’s gaze dropped to the magazine. How could Sylvia have done this? Did she despise Lucy so much?

Silently her heart keened. Sylvia and the kids had been Lucy’s last bright hope of returning to some remnant of her old life. Of having family again. Of belonging.

Quotes from the article floated through her troubled mind. Of her stepmother saying Lucy had ‘always been different’, ‘withdrawn and moody’ but ‘hankering after the bright lights and excitement’. That she put her own needs first rather than those of her family. There was nothing in the article about Sylvia’s resentment of her husband’s almost grown daughter, or the fact that Lucy had spent years as unpaid nurserymaid for Sylvia’s four children by a previous marriage. Or that Sylvia’s idea of bright lights was a Saturday night in Torquay and a takeaway meal.

Nothing about the fact that Lucy had left home only when her dad, in his quiet way, had urged her to experience more of the world rather than put her life on hold to look after the younger children.

She’d experienced the world all right, but not in the way he’d had in mind.

As for the article, taken from a recent interview with Sylvia, it was a lurid exposé that painted Lucy as an uncaring, amoral gold-digger. It backed up every smear and innuendo that had been aired in the courtroom. Worse, it proved even her family had turned against her.

What would her stepsiblings think now they were old enough to read such malicious gossip?

Lucy’s heart withered and she pressed a hand to her throat, trying to repress rising nausea. Sylvia and she had never been close but Lucy had never thought her stepmother would betray her like this. The article’s spitefulness stole her breath.

Until now she’d believed there was someone believing in her. First her father and, after he died, Sylvia.

She felt bereft, grieving all over again for her dad who’d been steadfastly behind her. Never having known her long-dead mother, Lucy’s bond with her father had been special. His faith and love had kept her strong through the trial.

Lucy had never been so alone. Not even that first night in custody. Even after the conviction when she knew she had years of imprisonment ahead. Nor facing down the taunts and jeers as she’d learned to handle the threats from prisoners who’d tried to make her life hell.

The magazine was a rag but an upmarket one. Sylvia had sold her out for what must be a hefty fee.

Lucy blinked stinging eyes as she stared at the vile publication in her lap.

She thought she’d known degradation and despair. But it was only now that her life hit rock bottom.

And Domenico Volpe was here to see it.

She shivered, chilled to the marrow. How he must be gloating.

‘The coffee will be here soon.’

Lucy looked up to find him standing across from her, watchful. No doubt triumphing at the sight of her down and out. Framed by the massive antique fireplace and a solid wall of books, he looked the epitome of born and bred privilege. From his aristocratically handsome features to his hand stitched shoes he screamed power and perfection.

Once the sight of him had made her heart skip with pleasure. But she’d discovered the real Domenico Volpe when the chips were down. He’d sided with his own class, easily believing the most monstrous lies against her.

Slowly she stood, pride stiffening her weary legs and tilting her chin.

‘It’s time I left.’

Where she’d go she had no idea, but she had to escape.

She had just enough money to get her home to Devon. But now she had no home. Her breath hitched as she thought of Sylvia’s betrayal. She wouldn’t be welcome there.

Pain transfixed her.

‘You can’t leave.’

‘I’m now officially a free woman, Signor Volpe, however much you resent it. If you try to keep my here by force it will be kidnap.’

Even so a shiver of apprehension skated down her spine. She wouldn’t put anything past him. She’d seen his cadre of security men and she knew first hand what they were capable of.

‘You mistake me for one of your recent associates, Ms Knight.’ He snapped the words out as if he wanted to take a bite out of her. ‘I’ve no intention of breaking the law.’

Before she could voice her indignation he continued. ‘You need somewhere private; somewhere the press can’t bother you.’

His words stilled her protest.

‘And?’

‘I can provide that place.’

And pigs might fly.

‘Why would you do that?’ She’d read his contempt. ‘What do you get out of it?’

For the longest moment he stood silent. Only the hint of a scowl on his autocratic features hinted he wasn’t used to being questioned. Tough.

‘There are others involved,’ he said finally. ‘My brother’s widow and little Taddeo. They’re the ones affected the longer this is dragged through the press.’

Taddeo. Lucy had thought of him often. She’d loved the little baby in her care, enjoying his gurgles of delight at their peekaboo games and his wide-eyed fascination as she’d read him picture books. What was he like now?

One look at Domenico Volpe’s closed face told her he’d rather walk barefoot over hot coals than talk about his nephew with her.

‘So what’s your solution?’ She crossed her arms over her chest. ‘Walling me up in the basement car park?’

‘That could work.’ He bared his teeth in a feral smile that drew her skin tight. ‘But I prefer to work within the law.’ He paused. ‘I don’t have your penchant for the dramatic. Instead I suggest providing you with a bolthole till this blows over. Your bag is already in your room.’

Her room.

Lucy groped for the back of the chair she’d just vacated, her hand curling like a claw into the plump, soft leather. She tried to speak but her voice had dried up.

Her room.

The memory of it had haunted her for years. Ever since arriving here she’d been cold to the core because she knew that room was upstairs, on the far side of the building.

‘You can’t expect me to stay there!’ Her voice was hoarse with shock. ‘Even you couldn’t …’ She shook her head as her larynx froze. ‘That’s beyond cruel. That’s sick.’

His eyes widened and she saw understanding dawn. His nostrils flared and he stepped towards her, then pulled up abruptly.

‘No.’ The word slashed the clogged silence. ‘That room hasn’t been used since my brother died. There’s another guest room at your disposal.’

Relief sucked her breath away and loosened her cramped muscles. Slowly she drew in oxygen, marshalling all her strength to regroup after that scare.

‘I can’t stay in this house.’

He met her gaze silently, not asking why. He knew. The memories were too overwhelming.

‘I’ll find my own place.’

‘And how will you do that with the press on the doorstep?’ He crossed his arms over his chest and leaned a shoulder against the fireplace, projecting an air of insouciance that made her want to slap him. ‘Wherever you go they’ll follow. You’ll get no peace, no privacy.’

He was right, damn him. But to be dependent on him for anything stuck in her craw.

The door opened and a maid entered, bearing a tray of coffee and biscuits. The rich aroma, once her favourite, curdled Lucy’s stomach. Instinctively she pressed a hand to her roiling abdomen and moved away. Vaguely she heard him thank the maid, but from her new vantage point near the window Lucy saw only the press pack outside. The blood leached from her cheeks.

Which was worse? Domenico Volpe or the paparazzi who’d hound her for some tawdry story they could sell?

‘If you don’t mind, I’ll take you up on the offer of that room. Just to freshen up.’ She needed breathing space, time away from him, to work out what to do.

Lucy swung round to find him watching her. She should be used to it now. His scrutiny was continual. Yet reaction shivered through her. What did he see? How much of what she strove to hide?

She banished the question. She had better things to do than worry about that. Nothing would change Domenico Volpe’s opinion. His reluctant gestures of solicitude were evidence of ingrained social skills, not genuine concern.

‘Of course. Take as long as you like. Maria will show you up.’

Lucy assured herself it wasn’t satisfaction she saw in that gleaming gaze.

‘No! I said I can’t talk. I’m busy.’ Sylvia’s voice rose and Lucy thought she discerned something like anxiety as well as anger in her stepmother’s words. She gripped the phone tighter.

‘I just wanted—’

‘Well, I don’t want. Just leave me alone! Haven’t you done enough damage to this family?’

Lucy opened her mouth but the line went dead.

How long she sat listening to the dialling tone she didn’t know. When she finally put the receiver down her fingers were cramped and her shoulders stiff from hunching, one arm wrapped protectively around her stomach.

So that was it. The severing of all ties.

A piercing wail of grief rose inside her but she stifled it. Lucy told herself it was better to face this now than on the rose-covered doorstep of the whitewashed cottage that had been home all her life.

Yet she couldn’t quite believe it. She’d rung her stepmother hoping against hope there’d been some dreadful mistake. That perhaps the press had published a story with no basis. That Sylvia hadn’t betrayed her with that character assassination interview.

Forlorn hope! Sylvia wanted nothing to do with her.

Which left Lucy with nowhere to go. She had no one and nothing but a past that haunted her and even now wouldn’t release its awful grip.

Slowly she lifted her head and stared at the panelled door separating the bedroom from the second-floor corridor.

It was time she laid the ghost of her past to rest.

She wasn’t in the room he’d provided but she hadn’t tried to leave. His security staff would have alerted him. There was only one place she could be, yet he hadn’t thought she’d have the gall to go back there.

Domenico’s stride lengthened as he paced the corridor towards the side of the palazzo that had housed Sandro’s apartments. Fury spiked as he thought of Lucy Knight there, in the room where she’d taken Sandro’s life. It was an intrusion that proved her contempt for all he and his family had lost. A trespass that made his blood boil and his body yearn for violence.

The door was open and he marched across the threshold, hands clenched in iron fists, muscles taut and fire in his belly.

Then he saw her and stopped dead.

He didn’t know what he’d expected but it wasn’t this. Lucy Knight was huddled on the floor before the ornate fireplace, palm pressed to the floorboards where Sandro had breathed his last. Domenico remembered it from the police markers on the floor and photos in court.

Her face was the colour of travertine marble, pale beyond belief. Her eyes were dark with pain as she stared fixedly before her. She was looking at something he couldn’t see, something that shuttered her gaze and turned it inwards.

The hair prickled at his nape and he stepped further into the room.

She looked up and shock slammed him at the anguish he saw in her face. Gone was the sassy, prickly woman who’d fought him off when he’d dared touch her.

The woman before him bore the scars of bone-deep pain. It was clear in every feature, so raw he almost turned away, as if seeing such emotion was a violation.

A shudder passed through him. Shock that instead of the anger he’d nursed as he strode through the house, it was something like pity that stirred.

‘I’m sorry.’ Her voice was a rasp of laboured air. ‘It shouldn’t have happened. I was so young and stupid.’ Her voice faded as she looked down at the patina of old wood beneath her hands. ‘I should never have let him in.’

Domenico crossed the room in a few quick strides and hunkered beside her, his heart thumping.

She admitted it?

It didn’t seem possible after all this time.

‘If I hadn’t let him in, none of it would have happened.’ She drew a breath that shook her frame. ‘I’ve gone over it so often. If only I hadn’t listened to him. If only I’d locked the door.’

Domenico frowned. ‘You had no need to lock the door against my brother. I refuse to believe he would have forced himself on you.’

The idea went against everything he knew about Sandro. His brother had been a decent man. A little foolish in his choice of wife, but honourable. A loving brother and doting father. A man who’d made one mistake, led astray by a beautiful, scheming seductress, but not a man who took advantage of female servants.

That blonde head swung towards him and she blinked. ‘I wasn’t talking about your brother. I was talking about the bodyguard, Bruno.’ Her voice slowed on the name as if her tongue thickened. Domenico heard what sounded like fear in her voice. ‘I shouldn’t have let Bruno in.’

Domenico shot to his feet. Disappointment was so strong he tasted it, a rusty tang, on his tongue.

‘You still stick to that story?’

The bruised look in her eyes faded, replaced by familiar wariness. Her mouth tightened and for an instant Domenico felt a pang almost of loss as she donned her habitual air of challenge.

A moment later she was again that woman ready to defy the world with complete disdain. Even curled up at his feet she radiated a dignity and inner strength he couldn’t deny.

How did she do it? And why did he let it get to him? She was a liar and a criminal, yet there was something about her that made him wish things were different.

There always had been. That was the hell of it.

His gut dived. Even to think it was a betrayal of Sandro.

‘I don’t tell stories, Signor Volpe.’ She got to her feet in a supple movement that told him she hadn’t spent the last years idle. ‘Bruno killed your brother but—’ she raised her hand when he went to speak ‘—don’t worry, you won’t hear it from me again. I’m tired of repeating myself to people who won’t listen.’

She made to move past him but his hand shot out to encircle her upper arm. Instantly she tensed. Would she try to fight him off as she had downstairs? He almost wished she would. There’d be a primitive satisfaction in curbing her temper and stamping his control on that fiery, passionate nature she hid behind the untouchable façade.

Heat tingled through his fingers where he held her. He braced himself but she merely looked at him, eyebrows arching.

‘You wanted something?’ Acid dripped from her words.

Domenico’s eyes dropped to her mouth, soft pink again now that colour had returned to her face. The blush pink of rose petals at dawn.

A pulse of something like need thudded through his chest. He told himself it was the urge to wring her pretty neck. Yet his mouth dried when he watched her lips part a fraction, as if she had trouble inhaling enough air. There was a buzzing in his ears.

Her eyes widened and Domenico realised he’d leaned closer. Too close. Abruptly he straightened, dropping her arm as if it burnt him.

‘I want to know what you plan to do.’

He didn’t have the right to demand it. Her glittering azure gaze told him that. But he didn’t care. She wasn’t the only one affected by this media frenzy. He had family to protect.

‘I want to find somewhere private, away from the news hounds.’

He nodded. ‘I can arrange that.’

‘Not here!’ The words shot out. A frisson shuddered through the air, a reminder of shadows from the past.

‘No, not here.’ He had estates in Italy as well as in California’s Napa Valley and another outside London. Any of them would make a suitable safe house till this blew over.

‘In that case, I accept your generous offer, Signor Volpe. I’ll stay in your safe haven for a week or so, until this furore dies down.’

She must be more desperate than she appeared. She hadn’t even asked where she’d be staying. Or with whom.

CHAPTER FOUR

LUCY WOKE TO silence.

Cocooned in a wide comfortable bed with crisp cotton sheets and the fluffiest of down pillows, she lay, breathing in the sense of peace.

She felt … safe.

The realisation sideswiped her.

Who’d have thought she’d owe Domenico Volpe such a debt? A solid night’s sleep, undisturbed till late morning judging by the sunlight rimming the curtains. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d slept so long or so soundly.

Lucy flung back the covers, eager to see where she was. Last night she’d left from the helipad on the roof of the palazzo and headed into darkness. Domenico Volpe had said merely she’d go to one of his estates, somewhere she could be safe from press intrusion.

After yesterday’s traumas that had been good enough for her. She desperately needed time to lick her wounds and decide what to do. With no friends, no job and very little money the outlook was grim.

Till she pulled back the curtains and gasped. Strong sunlight made her blink as she took in a vista of wide sky, sea and a white sand beach below a manicured garden.

It was paradise. The garden had an emerald lawn, shade trees and sculpted hedges. Pots of pelargoniums and other plants she couldn’t identify spilled a profusion of flowers in a riot of colours, vivid against the indigo sea.

Unlatching the sliding glass door, Lucy stepped onto a balcony. Warmth enveloped her and the scent of growing things. Birds sang and she heard, like the soft breath of a sleeping giant, the gentle shush of waves. Dazzled, she stared, trying to absorb it all. But her senses were overloaded. Tranquillity and beauty surrounded her and absurdly she felt the pinprick of hot tears.

She’d dreamed of freedom but had never imagined a place like this. Her hands clenched on the railing. It was almost too much to take in. Too much change from the grey, authoritarian world she’d known.

A moment later she’d scooped up a cotton robe and dragged it on over her shabby nightgown. She cinched the tie at her waist as she pattered down the spiral staircase from her balcony.

Reflected light caught her eye and she spied a huge infinity pool that seemed to merge with the sea beyond. Turf cushioned her bare feet as she made for the balustrade overlooking the sea. Yet she stopped time and again, admiring an arbour draped with scented flowers, a pool that reflected the sprawling villa, unexpected groves and modern sculptures.

‘Who are you? I’m Chiara and I’m six.’ The girl’s Italian had a slight lisp.

Lucy turned to meet inquisitive dark eyes and a sunny smile. Automatically her lips curved in response to the girl’s gap-toothed grin, stretching facial muscles Lucy hadn’t used in what seemed a lifetime.

‘I’m Lucy and I’m twenty-four.’

‘That’s so old.’ The little girl paused, looking up from her hidey-hole behind a couple of palm trees. ‘Don’t you wish you were six too?’

Unfamiliar warmth spread through Lucy. ‘Today I do.’ How wonderful to enjoy all this without a care for the future that loomed so empty.

It had been years since she’d seen a child, much less talked with one. Looking into that dimpled face, alight with curiosity, she realised how much she’d missed. If things had been different she’d have spent her life working with children. Once she had the money behind her to study, she’d intended to train as a teacher.

But her criminal record made that impossible.

‘Will you play with me?’

Lucy stiffened. Who would want her daughter playing with an ex-con? A woman with her record?

‘You’d better talk to your mummy first. You shouldn’t play with strangers, you know.’

The little girl’s eyes widened. ‘But you’re not a stranger. You’re a friend of Domi’s, aren’t you?’

‘Domi?’ Lucy frowned. ‘I don’t know—’

‘This is his house.’ Chiara spread her hands wide. ‘The house and garden. The whole island.’

‘I see. But I still can’t play with you unless your mummy says it’s all right.’

‘Uncle Rocco!’ The little girl spoke to someone behind Lucy. ‘Can I play with Lucy? She says I can’t unless Mummy says so but Mummy’s away.’

Lucy spun round to see the stolid face of the big security guard she’d lambasted outside the prison. Did it have to be him of all people? Heat flushed her skin but she held his gaze till he turned to the little girl, his features softening.

‘That’s for Nonna to decide. But it can’t be today. Signorina Knight just arrived. You can’t bother her with your chatter.’ He took the child by the hand and, with a nod at Lucy, led her to the villa.

Lucy turned towards the sea. Still beautiful, it had lost some of its sparkle.

At least Rocco hadn’t betrayed his horror at finding his niece with a violent criminal. But he’d hurried to remove her from Lucy’s tainted presence.

Pain jagged her chest, robbing her of air. Predictable as his reaction was, she couldn’t watch them leave. Her chest clamped around her bruised heart and she sagged against the stone balustrade.

Lucy had toughened up years ago. The naïve innocent was gone, replaced by a woman who viewed the world with cynicism and distrust. A woman who didn’t let the world or life get to her any more.

Yet the last twenty-four hours had been a revelation.

She’d confronted the paparazzi, then Domenico Volpe, learnt of Sylvia’s betrayal and faced the place where her life had changed irrevocably. Now she confronted a man’s instinct to protect his niece, from her.

All tore at her precious self-possession. It had taken heartache, determination and hard-won strength to build the barriers that protected her. She’d been determined never to experience again those depths of terror and pain of her first years in prison. Until now those barriers had kept her strong and safe.

Who’d have thought she still had the capacity to hurt so much?

She leant on the railing, eyes fixed on the south Italian mainland in the distance.

Domenico took in her slumped shoulders and the curve of her arms around her body, hugging out a hostile world.

It reminded him of the anguish he thought he’d spied yesterday in her old room at the palazzo. She’d hunched like a wounded animal over the spot Sandro had died. The sight had poleaxed him, playing on protective instincts he’d never expected to feel around her.

Almost, he’d been convinced by that look of blind pain in her unfocused eyes. But she’d soon disabused him. It had been an act, shrewd and deliberate, to con him into believing her story of innocence.

Innocent? The woman who’d seduced his brother then killed him?

He’d once fancied he felt a connection with the girl who’d burst like pure sunshine into his world. But before he could fall completely under her spell tragedy and harsh truth had intervened, revealing her true colours.

A breeze flirted with her wrap, shifting it against the curve of her hip and bottom.

She didn’t look innocent.

He remembered her trial. The evidence of Sandro’s Head of Security and of Pia, Sandro’s widow, that Lucy Knight had deliberately played up to Sandro, flirting and ultimately seducing him.

When it became clear her relationship with Sandro was core to the case against her, Lucy Knight had offered to have a medical test proving her virginity.

You could have heard a pin drop in the courtroom as all eyes fixed on her nubile body and wide, seemingly innocent eyes. Every man in that room had wondered about the possibility of being her first. Even Domenico.

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