A Night In His Arms. Annie West

spent the weeks of the trial trying to learn every nuance of her reactions—not that it had got him far. She’d been an enigma. But in the days since her release he’d been able to concentrate on little but her and he’d learned a lot. Enough to make him question his earlier, too easy assumptions.

      ‘You’re no coward. You faced the paparazzi.’ He added quietly, ‘You faced me.’

      Her eyes widened, acknowledgement if he’d needed it, of just how hard she’d found the last several days.

      He remembered her hunched on the floor in the palazzo, her hand splayed where Sandro had breathed his last. Her blind pain had been almost unbearable to witness. What strength of character had it taken to face the place? The same strength it took to face him with an air of proud independence despite the tremors racking her.

      Something hard and unforgiving inside him eased. Something that had already cracked when she’d expressed regret for Sandro’s death. When he’d seen her playing with little Chiara. When he’d held her close and been torn between protectiveness and an utterly selfish desire for her soft, bountifully feminine body.

      ‘There’s nothing to tell.’ But her eyes were clouded and her mouth white-rimmed. Her tension reignited the protectiveness that had enveloped him as he held her and felt the waves of fear shudder through her.

      ‘Liar.’

      She flinched, her face tightening.

      ‘I thought we’d agreed to leave the accusations behind.’ There was desperate hauteur to her expression but she couldn’t mask her pain.

      ‘I’m not talking about the past. I’m talking about now. Here.’ His slashing hand encompassed the scene that had just played out. ‘You were scared out of your wits.’

      Her pale eyebrows rose. ‘Nothing scares me. After the last few years I’m unshockable.’

      Looking into her unblinking gaze he almost believed her. Yet her desperate panting breath against his throat, the clutch of her hands and the feel of her body’s response to overwhelming fear had been unmistakable.

      Domenico stepped close and she stiffened. He kept going till he stood a breath away. Her face tilted up to his as he’d known it would. Lucy had proven time and again that she was no coward. She faced what she feared.

      Until today. In the darkness of the boatshed.

      His heart beat an uneven rhythm as he realised only true terror would have made this woman run.

      ‘Who is he, Lucy?’ He lifted a hand to her jaw, stroking his thumb over her silken flesh, feeling the jittering pulse. ‘Who are you afraid of?’

      Her eyelids flickered. She pressed into his touch and pleasure swirled deep inside.

      ‘Bruno.’ The word was a whisper. ‘Bruno Scarlatti. Your brother’s Head of Security.’

      * * *

      Domenico read her fear and knew she spoke the truth. He wanted to assure her she was safe. He wanted to tug her close and not let her go.

      Because she was scared?

      Or because he wanted an excuse to touch her?

      He dropped his hand. ‘Why are you afraid of him?’

      ‘It doesn’t matter.’ Her mouth flattened.

      ‘Did he visit you behind bars?’ Had he threatened her?

      ‘Him! Visit me? You’ve got to be kidding. In five years my only visitors were a couple of criminologists writing a book on female offenders and crimes of passion.’ Sarcasm dripped from her voice. ‘They found me such a fascinating study.’

      She shouldered away from him, into the sun. Yet she rubbed her hands up her arms as if to warm herself.

      Stunned, he let himself be distracted. In five years she’d had no personal visitors? What about her family and friends? Then he remembered the tawdry exposé interview with her stepmother. Lucy’s family relationships were strained. But to be alone so long?

      He felt no triumph, only regret as he read her grim tension, the way she battled not to show emotion.

      ‘Tell me, Lucy.’ His voice was gruff. ‘Why are you afraid of Bruno Scarlatti?’

      His gaze held hers and almost he thought he’d won. That she trusted him enough to tell him.

      She shrugged but the movement was stiff as if her muscles had seized up. ‘We agreed not to talk about the past. Let’s abide by that. You wouldn’t appreciate what I have to say.’

      She turned towards the water.

      There was no point trying to force her to talk. She’d proved time and again that she didn’t bow to pressure.

      But her terror couldn’t be denied.

      Something had happened. Something that frightened one of the most composed, self-sufficient women he knew.

      He thought of her evidence at the trial. She’d claimed it was Bruno Scarlatti, not Sandro, who’d come to her room that night. He’d heard about the scene between Sandro and Lucy when earlier that day she’d pleaded for immediate leave to visit her sick father. Understandably, Sandro had refused, concerned that with Pia unwell and the nanny off work due to illness, they needed the au pair, Lucy. The meeting had ended with Lucy shouting she’d find a way to leave despite her contract.

      Her story was that Bruno had said he’d help her persuade the boss to give her leave and she’d innocently let him into her room. Once inside, he’d allegedly attacked her, tried to rape her. Sandro had heard the noise and come to her aid, but in the scuffle with Bruno he’d knocked his head against the antique fireplace and died.

      Domenico rubbed a hand over his tense jaw, remembering all the holes in her story. The court had dismissed it. There was too much evidence of her guilt.

      Pia had given evidence, backed by diary notes, that Sandro and Lucy had had a passionate affair. Bruno’s evidence had been the same. He’d revealed her as a seductive tease who knew her power over men and bragged about twisting the boss around her little finger. He’d seen her and Sandro together, given dates and times.

      Sandro had given her expensive treats, like the exquisite jewellery found in her room the night he died. The household had heard her threaten Sandro when he’d refused to let her go.

      That night he’d been drinking, torn no doubt between concern for his wife and the fight with his mistress. He’d gone to Lucy’s room with an expensive gift to salve her anger. But they’d fought again, she’d shoved him and, unsteady on his feet, he’d fallen and cracked his skull. As for Lucy blaming Bruno—he had an alibi.

      Pia had found Sandro bleeding to death, cradled in Lucy’s arms.

      Domenico shivered, recalling the moment he’d discovered Lucy’s identity—the image of her in a bloodstained nightdress with a blanket around her shoulders, being escorted to a police car outside the palazzo. Sandro was dead and she’d been arrested.

      Domenico hadn’t even been able to blame Sandro for his fatal attraction to the young Englishwoman. He knew how difficult Pia could be and guessed that in the months following childbirth she’d been particularly demanding.

      More importantly, Domenico had first-hand experience of Lucy’s power. He’d fallen under her spell in just a few hours. What must it have been like for Sandro, facing such temptation in his own home every day? That didn’t excuse the affair. But Sandro was only human.

      Who was Domenico to judge when he’d felt attraction sizzle the moment he’d looked into Lucy Knight’s eyes? That knowledge had twisted guilt deep in his gut ever since.

      He shifted his focus to the woman walking along the beach. Her head was bowed and her arms were wrapped tight around her body.

      Confusion filled him as he recalled the fear that had racked her as he’d held her.