The Italian's Final Redemption (Mills & Boon Modern) Page 12

  And only when she convulsed around him, did he allow himself to thrust hard and deep and fast, letting himself fall over that edge too, tumbling end over end, and down into peace with her.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  LUCY TRIED TO crawl out from under the blanket thrown over one of the sofas in the salon downstairs, only for a powerful male arm to hook around her waist and draw her back in again.

  ‘No, you don’t,’ Vincenzo growled, pulling her up against his very hot and very naked body. ‘I haven’t finished with you yet.’

  She gave a long-suffering sigh, running a hand down the warm, velvety skin of his back, loving the feel of all that hard muscle beneath her palm, despite the fact that she’d spent most of the day running her hands all over his body. ‘But I’m hungry. Lunch was hours ago.’

  He moved, settling himself over her, his weight a delicious pressure pinning her down. ‘You’re always hungry.’

  ‘So are you.’ She shivered as he pressed his mouth to her throat.

  ‘It’s true.’ He moved lower, nuzzling against her breast. ‘Luckily I have all the food I need right here.’

  ‘Yes, but I don’t.’ The word ended on a gasp as he took her nipple in his mouth, the hot pressure making everything inside her go tight.

  She couldn’t want him again, surely? They’d done nothing else all day.

  After the encounter in his office that morning, he’d been insatiable, taking her upstairs almost immediately and laying her out across the bed, setting about exploring every inch of her body. He’d been slow and relentless and she was pretty sure she’d screamed. More than once.

  He’d sent Martina away for the rest of the day after that and forbidden his security to come into the house. Then he’d made her lunch himself, feeding it to her as she lay in bed wrapped only in a sheet. Once lunch had finished, he’d taken her yet again, and she’d fallen asleep in his arms. She’d woken to find herself downstairs on the sofa in the salon, the doors open, and a naked Vincenzo sitting on the floor leaning back against the sofa, doing something on his laptop. He’d known she was awake instantly and had put aside the computer, joining her on the cushions. They’d lost another hour like that and now she was feeling well rested, physically sated, and ravenous.

  In other words, she’d never felt better in her entire life. Apart from being hungry, of course.

  She pushed at his muscular shoulders. ‘Vincenzo. Food.’

  Finally, he lifted his head and gave her a measuring look. ‘Very well. But you let me organise it, yes?’

  ‘Okay.’ She had no problems with that. If he wanted to feed her the way he’d fed her lunch, she was more than happy.

  But Vincenzo clearly had a bigger plan than a simple meal in mind, because he made her stay where she was for at least half an hour, before finally coming to get her and leading her down a couple of hallways and out to a small private terrace shielded from view by trees and potted bushes.

  A big outdoor bath sat on the stone floor of the terrace and steam rose from the water. Candlelight leapt and flickered from holders placed on various surfaces, casting a gentle glow over everything.

  Her chest constricted as he urged her towards the bath, his hand gentle at her back.

  ‘This is beautiful, Vincenzo,’ she said huskily. ‘Is it for me?’

  ‘Yes.’ He eased the robe he’d put around her off her shoulders. ‘There’s no beach here and it’s too late to swim from the rocks. We have a pool built into the cliff but it’s a bit cool at night. I thought you’d enjoy being outside and in some warm water in case you’re sore.’

  She was slightly...achy. And parts of her that were a little chafed would like some warm water to ease them. She definitely would enjoy that.

  Then again, she already was enjoying everything he’d already given her, just as she was very determinedly only thinking about what was happening now and not what would happen in a few days, when he handed her over. It wasn’t relevant to this moment and, since this moment was all she had, she’d enjoy every single second of it.

  She slipped naked into the bath, the water delightfully scented and warm.

  ‘I’ll be back,’ Vincenzo murmured and disappeared into the house.

  Sighing, Lucy leaned her head back on the bath, loving the soothing effect of the water and the sound of the waves at the base of the cliffs below the house. The stars studded the black sky, the candlelight flickering, and yet another moment presented itself. A moment of peace and tranquillity and utter safety.

  Her father couldn’t reach her here. No one could. She was protected by Vincenzo and he’d let nothing touch her.

  He will give you up, you know this...

  But that thought wasn’t part of the moment and so she ignored it, counting the stars above her head and letting herself drift in the water.

  She must have drifted to sleep too, because she opened her eyes maybe only seconds later, to find Vincenzo had returned and had set a tray of food plus a bottle of white wine and wine glasses down on a stone table near the bath. He’d pulled on a pair of jeans, but wore nothing else, and so she lay there for a few moments, watching the play of muscles moving beneath his tanned skin as he opened the wine and poured it.

  And she didn’t need to see clearly to know he was beautiful. Stunningly masculine and so physically powerful. Also so fierce and passionate, and not at all the cold, judgmental angel he’d appeared to be when she’d first met him.

  He’d told her that he had no mercy and yet with her he’d been nothing but kind. Demanding, true, yet also gentle. And his ruthlessness hid a protective nature that she found almost unbearably attractive.

  You feel something for him...

  Lucy forced her gaze away, the water around her suddenly not quite as warm as it had been. She was only admiring him. It didn’t mean anything emotionally.

  Her skin prickled and she looked up again to find that he’d turned from the table and was now watching her, a familiar expression of hunger on his blunt, aristocratic features. ‘I was going to ask if you wanted some dinner now, but maybe we could wait five minutes. I suddenly have a very strong urge to have a bath.’

  She flushed at the heat in his eyes. ‘Dinner first,’ she said firmly. ‘It would be very unfortunate if I starved to death at a vital moment.’

  He stared at her a second and then, much to her delight, his hard mouth curved into one of the most glorious smiles she’d ever seen. It softened the stern lines of his face, making him seem much more approachable and incredibly sexy. ‘That would, indeed, be unfortunate. Perhaps I’ll wait, then.’ He picked up a large white towel he’d draped over a nearby stone bench. ‘Come, civetta. Get out of the bath and let me dry you.’

  She could have done it herself, but she didn’t want to, getting out of the bath and letting him dry her off and wrap her in the lovely red silk robe. It made her feel cared for, and it had been a long time since she’d felt cared for, so she would let herself enjoy it while it lasted.

  Not that you deserve it. Not when your mother died because of you.

  Lucy ignored the thought.

  A few minutes later she was seated on one of the stone benches, cushioned by mounds of pillows, a plate full of cold meats, salad, cheeses and delicious fresh-baked bread in her lap. A glass of wine sat on the back of the bench at her elbow, while Vincenzo lounged in a chair opposite, ostensibly making sure her plate was full. To ‘build up her strength’ since it was apparent he had plans for the rest of the evening. Plans that obviously featured her.

  ‘This is wonderful,’ she said, picking up an olive. ‘Thank you.’

  He inclined his head in wordless acknowledgement, sipping on his wine as she slowly chewed the olive, relishing the sharp, salty taste.

  ‘This whole place is wonderful,’ she went on, gesturing around them at the villa and its grounds. ‘Did you come here a lot as a child?’
<
br />   ‘Not often. I do spend a lot of time here now, however.’

  ‘Oh? Why is that?’

  ‘The palazzo is...medieval and dark. I prefer this villa. It’s much lighter, and being near the sea is pleasant.’

  There was something in his voice she couldn’t place. An edge. She wanted to ask him what it meant, but the mood between them was relaxed and easy and she didn’t want to upset it.

  ‘I think that was the worst thing about the house in Cornwall,’ she said instead. ‘It was near the sea, but it had no view. I could hear the waves but I could never see them.’

  ‘You weren’t allowed to go out at all?’ This time there was no edge in his voice, the question utterly neutral. ‘Not even for a drive?’

  ‘No.’ She didn’t see the harm in telling him. It was only the truth, after all. ‘Perhaps I could have argued for a trip to the beach, but I couldn’t see the point. It would only make me want what I couldn’t have.’ The story of her life, really. ‘Easier to take a virtual trip via my computer.’

  Vincenzo frowned. ‘So you never left the house?’

  ‘Dad would sometimes take me to London.’ She reached for her wine and took a sip herself, enjoying the cool bite of it. ‘But not often. I didn’t like going anyway. It meant meetings with some of his contacts and friends and they scared me.’

  Vincenzo’s frown became fierce, the glitter of his eyes sharper. ‘Why? Did they hurt you?’

  She could hear the promise of retribution in his voice and it set up a small, warm glow inside her, even though she knew it shouldn’t. ‘No. Dad wouldn’t have been pleased with them if they had and they were afraid of him.’

  ‘You were afraid of him too.’

  ‘I was,’ she agreed. ‘I am.’

  ‘And yet you escaped him.’ Vincenzo tilted his head, his black gaze focusing on her as if he’d never seen anything so interesting in his life. ‘What made you run, civetta? Was it opportunity or had you been planning it?’

  They hadn’t talked of anything personal the whole day and she’d been more than happy with that. But now tension crawled through her. Talking about this would involve explaining about the promise she’d made to her mother, and how her mother had died, and the reason for it...

  Then he’ll know exactly how guilty you really are.

  A kernel of ice settled in the pit of her stomach. She didn’t want to tell him. She wanted him to keep thinking of her as someone worth savouring, someone worth taking care of. She didn’t want this warmth between them to end. There was still a chance she could convince him to change his mind about handing her over to the police, but if she told him the real reason for her mother’s death, that chance would be gone.

  She looked down at her plate, picking up a red cherry tomato and eating that to give herself a moment or two to think, even though her appetite had vanished.

  No, she couldn’t lie to him. He valued her honesty, which meant she’d have to tell him the truth, face his judgment. Accept her own guilt, because she couldn’t hide from it any longer.

  Lucy gathered her courage and met his gaze head-on. ‘I ran because of a promise I made to my mother. She wanted me to survive, get free any way I could, but it took me a long time to be brave enough to do it. I killed her, you see. The story was that she tripped and fell against a window, sliced her arm, and bled to death. But that’s not what happened.’ Her jaw ached, but she forced herself to go on. ‘Dad had a lot of secret meetings and I was curious about them. I’d always try and eavesdrop, pretend I was a spy, stupid things like that. I knew I wasn’t supposed to. Mum warned me not to, that Dad would get very angry if he caught me, and there would be consequences. But... I couldn’t help myself.’

  She took a breath, her hands now in her lap, her fingers twisting. ‘He did catch me that day. And Mum was right, he was furious. He was going to hit me, but she put herself between him and me, and caught the blow instead. It knocked her into a window, which broke, cutting a major artery.’ She felt very cold all of a sudden, as if she’d been plunged head first into a pool of snow melt. ‘Dad did nothing. He just walked out, leaving me to try and help her. There was so much blood...and I couldn’t.’ Lucy’s throat closed up. ‘She made me promise to escape, to have a life away from him. To be happy. And then...she died.’

  There was no expression at all on Vincenzo’s face, but a fierce light burned in his midnight eyes. ‘Lucy,’ he said softly.

  ‘And you’re right,’ she went on, because she had to say it now. ‘I am a criminal. I’m guilty of all those crimes I committed for my dad. But mainly I’m guilty of being the reason for her death. If I’d only listened to her, if I hadn’t been so curious, so s-stupid, if I’d just done what I was told, Dad wouldn’t have found me. He wouldn’t have got so angry. And he wouldn’t have tried to hit me, and then Mum wouldn’t have died. I killed her, Vincenzo. It was my fault.’

  Of course it is. And you deserve everything that’s coming to you.

  Fear came bubbling up at the insidious voice inside her head, a black wave of it, and she had to turn away, unable to face Vincenzo’s dark gaze and the judgment that would no doubt be there, sticking like a splinter in her heart.

  She didn’t know when his opinion of her had begun to matter so much, but it did, and she couldn’t bear it. She didn’t want the way he looked at her or treated her, with so much gentleness and kindness, to change, yet it would, and she couldn’t avoid that.

  She deserved his condemnation, not soft candles, and delicious food, and a warm bath.

  Face it like your mother faced her death, coward.

  Lucy swallowed and lifted her head, determined now, forcing herself to look into his eyes. Because her mother hadn’t hesitated to put herself in physical danger to protect her, and so she couldn’t hesitate now.

  ‘I appreciate everything you’ve done for me, Vincenzo,’ she said, her voice hoarse. ‘But I don’t deserve it. Not any of it.’

  She’d prepared herself to meet his judgment—that much was clear from the look on her face. And, given how pale she’d gone, it was obvious that she was expecting that judgment not to be in her favour.

  He hadn’t meant to have this discussion with her, not here, not now. But that was his own fault. He’d been the one to ask her why she’d escaped when she had. And, of course, she’d answered him with her customary honesty.

  And he wasn’t sure what horrified him more: that she blamed herself for her mother’s death or that she expected him to blame her as well.

  You told her she was guilty, that she was a criminal.

  That was true, he had. But how could he think she was either? After that?

  Her little chin was lifted, her eyes shadowed behind the lenses of her glasses, the green lost in the darkness. She was brave to tell him what she had. And it had cost her. He could see the cost in the gleam of tears she was trying not to let fall, that fogged her glasses, and in the tension that surrounded her.

  She’d sat up so straight on the stone bench, telling him in a steady voice about her mother’s death. About how her mother had defended her, protected her, and in the end bled to death right in front of her. And for that, Lucy blamed herself.

  ‘I don’t deserve it. Not any of it...’

  She was a criminal and she was guilty. The crimes she’d committed for her father couldn’t be erased. But what she wasn’t guilty of was her mother’s death.

  ‘How old were you when that happened?’ he asked carefully.

  ‘Seven.’

  Dear God. She’d watched her mother die at seven...

  His heart contracted painfully tight. He wanted to put his wine down, cross the space between them, gather her into his arms, take the pain he saw in her eyes away with his touch. But he had to make this clear to her first.

  The law was a logical thing and emotion had no part in justice. And he wanted her to know, unequiv
ocally, that, from a legal standpoint at least, she was blameless.

  ‘And did you stab your mother with that piece of glass?’ he asked.

  She blinked. ‘No. She fell against the window because Dad hit her.’

  ‘She died of blood loss, yes?’

  Lucy nodded and he could see her swallow. This was so very painful for her. Her jaw and shoulders were so tight. She looked very fragile, so very vulnerable.

  His heart contracted even tighter, but he ignored it.

  ‘You could not have killed your mother, Lucy,’ he said in a neutral voice. ‘If you had picked up a piece of glass and stabbed her with it, then that would be a different story. But you didn’t.’

  She shook her head. ‘I didn’t listen. I should have—’

  ‘You were seven,’ he cut across her gently. ‘You were a child. What seven-year-old listens to everything their parents tell them?’

  The look on her face was bleak. ‘She was afraid and yet she still protected me. She stepped in front of Dad and took the blow meant for me. And if she hadn’t she wouldn’t have fallen against the glass and—’ Her voice cracked.

  Vincenzo put his glass down then and rose from his chair, giving in to his own instinct, because the sight of those barely suppressed tears... He couldn’t sit there, letting her cry, and not offer any comfort. He couldn’t.

  Crossing to the bench she was on, he sat down and pulled her into his arms before she could protest, holding her the way he had days ago in his office in London.

  Immediately she turned her head, burying her face against his chest, her shoulders shaking in a silent sob, and it made him ache that her instinct was to turn to him for comfort. It made him want to hold her tight, protect her, be deserving of the trust she’d put in him.

  He disentangled her momentarily to take her glasses off so they didn’t hurt her, laying them down on the arm of the bench next to him, then he gathered her in his arms once more and held her close, stroking her thick, glossy curls.

  ‘She was only doing what any mother would,’ he said. ‘She was protecting her child.’ His own mother, for all her faults, would have done the same. But not out of any maternal instinct. She would have done it for her own ends, not his.