A Night In His Arms. Annie West

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.’