Captive in the Spotlight

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.