The Italian's Final Redemption (Mills & Boon Modern) Page 4

  The line between her brows was deep, a carved furrow of worry or of concentration. Or maybe both. ‘I know what being a prisoner means, believe me. I guess it’s too much to ask for a week of a normal life.’

  Vincenzo frowned. ‘A normal life? Is that what you were expecting when you came to me? That I would simply let you go?’

  Her gaze behind her glasses wavered, colour staining her cheeks, softening the drawn look on her face. ‘Yes. I was hoping that you would help me...disappear, if I gave you the information you want.’

  ‘Disappear?

  ‘You give me a new identity, help me get to the States or somewhere else, away from Dad. And then I could vanish where no one would ever find me.’

  For a second all Vincenzo could do was stare at her, conscious of a certain shock echoing through him. Did she really think he would help her? That she, a known criminal, would put herself in terrible danger simply on the expectation that he would do exactly what she asked? She was either very stupid or very arrogant, or maybe a combination of both.

  Then again, as he’d already thought, she wasn’t stupid. And the woman huddled in her chair in an ugly dress with her hair in her eyes definitely didn’t seem arrogant either.

  Perhaps she’s telling the truth. Perhaps she genuinely thought you would save her.

  A foolish belief. He wasn’t in the business of saving people. He was in the business of delivering them to justice. And if she thought she would be different, then she was wrong. Mercy was a luxury he couldn’t afford.

  ‘Then I’m afraid you’re destined for disappointment,’ he said, keeping his voice hard. ‘You should have been more thorough with your research, Miss Armstrong. I keep telling you that I am not a merciful man. You should have listened.’ He pushed himself out of his chair and strolled around the desk towards the door.

  Her eyes had gone very wide and she didn’t move, obviously frozen in place by fear. A gentler man might have felt sorry for her, but he had no gentleness left in him.

  He crushed the ghost of that strange emotion he’d suspected was pity. Crushed it flat completely. Then he unlocked his office door and opened it. ‘Get Security, Raoul,’ he ordered casually, not raising his voice. ‘This prisoner needs a cell.’

  CHAPTER THREE

  LUCY SHIVERED. A cell.

  There had been a few times when she hadn’t wanted to do what her father had told her, when she’d pushed against the bars imprisoning her, and his response had always been the same. Since she was too valuable for him to kill or maim, he would drag her down to the basement in that house in Cornwall—or get one of his guards to do it—and lock her in one of the tiny rooms there. The room had no windows and when the door closed the darkness was absolute. A crushing weight that stole her breath. She never knew how long he would leave her there, but it always felt like aeons.

  She hated the darkness. Hated that room. And without fail, whenever he dragged her out of it, she would always do what he asked. Until eventually she learned to always do what he asked every time.

  She’d thought that when she’d escaped her father she’d leave that room behind her for ever. It seemed she was wrong.

  Vincenzo de Santi had always been the variable she couldn’t predict and yet she should have been able to. She’d ascribed to him a morality that it was clear he didn’t have, and in retrospect she didn’t even know why she’d thought he would help her in the first place.

  He was everything the rumours had said about him. Cold, incorruptible, ruthless. Without a shred of mercy. He stood there staring at her, so tall, so powerful, a certain cold, brutal beauty to him that her stupid brain couldn’t help appreciating even as everything inside her felt as if it was collapsing in terror.

  You’re not brave, not like your mother.

  No, that was true. She wasn’t. She was made of fear instead and that fear in turn had made her stupid. She’d thought that the knowledge in her head would be worth more to him than her physical presence. More than the weight of her own crimes.

  She was wrong.

  ‘Please.’ The word was a scraped thread of sound, which was all she could muster up. ‘Not a cell.’

  Begging now?

  Her mother hadn’t begged. Her mother had been fearless, stepping between her and her enraged father, taking the blow that had been meant for her.

  She could only dream of being that brave, that strong.

  The sound of footsteps came and two security guards dressed in black appeared in the doorway. She knew how skilled they were. She’d watched them in the camera feed de Santi had shown her. There was no escape for her. There never had been.

  Always, in every way, she was trapped.

  Fear had locked all her muscles, her breathing getting faster. They would drag her away, wouldn’t they? Drag her into a hole, into the darkness, and she would be trapped there. It was like dying, that darkness. A weight that would crush all the life and the breath out of her...

  The guards came towards her and her vision wavered, turning black around the edges. The darkness was coming for her. It would swallow her whole.

  She opened her mouth to scream but there was no air in her lungs, no air anywhere, and she was falling, falling into that blackness, and there was no end to it...

  ‘Breathe, civetta,’ a deep, cold voice ordered in her ear. ‘Breathe.’

  It was to be obeyed, that voice. It brooked no argument. So she tried, sucking in air, pushing back against the crushing weight on her chest and the darkness pressing in.

  A wave of dizziness caught her, making her tremble. She was so cold. She couldn’t feel her fingers or her toes.

  ‘Breathe,’ the voice ordered again, and so she did.

  More dizziness and she was trembling even harder. But something was around her, something strong. Something hot. Holding her. The heat made her feel less cold and she was held very tightly, which seemed to ease the shaking.

  A warm scent surrounded her, cedar and sandalwood, oddly comforting, and she could have sworn she could hear the beating of someone’s heart. It was strong and steady and slow, and she found herself trying to breathe to match that rhythm. In fact, if she concentrated, it steadied the frantic race of her own heartbeat too.

  Gradually the tight pull of her muscles relaxed and the cold feeling in her hands and feet began to ease, the weight on her chest lifting. Everything was still dark, but as her consciousness returned she gradually realised that it was because her eyes were closed.

  And then she realised something else: that the thing holding her was a person and the strong bands around her were arms. That the warmth was someone’s body. She was lying against someone and it was their heart she could hear beating.

  Shock rippled through her.

  ‘Breathe,’ the voice reminded, a deep rumble in her ear.

  So she breathed and kept on breathing as she became conscious of more, that she was being held by someone very strong and very hot, and that the warmth of their body was helping her to relax, making the panic—and it had definitely been panic—recede.

  Strange how the fact of being held made her feel safe, because she definitely did feel safe. And that was an unfamiliar feeling in itself, since it had been a long time since she’d felt safe anywhere. So she held on to it, kept it tight in her grasp, not wanting to move, not even wanting to breathe in case the feeling disappeared.

  But she had to breathe and she kept on breathing, and she became aware of where she was. Of what had happened. Of whose arms surrounded her and who it must be holding her so tightly.

  Vincenzo de Santi. Who was going to put her in a cell.

  Lucy opened her eyes.

  She was sitting on a sofa in the same expensive, luxurious office she remembered, in the lap of the same man who’d stared at her so intensely from across that big desk. A man with black eyes and the face of a warrior angel.

>   His powerful arms were around her and she was leaning against his chest as if it were her favourite pillow. Her glasses were gone and everything was blurry, but she remembered those eyes and that face. They would haunt her dreams.

  She must have had a panic attack. How humiliating.

  And then she realised that two other men were standing in front of the sofa, dressed in black uniforms. Tall, powerful men... The guards, come to take her away.

  Instantly cold fear poured through her veins, her hands clutching on to de Santi’s shirt, and she was pressing herself against him, as if he could keep her safe.

  You idiot. He’s the one who wants to imprison you.

  Her fingers were going cold again and she could hear the frantic rush of someone’s frightened breathing. Hers.

  ‘Out,’ de Santi ordered flatly, then said something else, deep and low in fluid Italian.

  The guards instantly turned and left the office, closing the door behind them.

  ‘Keep breathing,’ he murmured. ‘Relax your muscles.’

  Helpless to do anything else, Lucy did what he said, leaning against his very hard chest and cushioned by the expensive wool of his suit. His body was so warm and the beat of his heart was in her ear, a steady, relentless sound. She concentrated on that, since it had worked so well before, and her breathing slowed, her muscles losing their rigidity.

  It was strange to be held like this. She couldn’t remember the last time anyone had held her. Not since her mother had died, certainly. She’d been around seven then, so...a long time. And definitely not by a man. Were all men this hot? This hard?

  You’re an idiot. He wants to put you in a cell.

  The thought made her stiffen again, his arms tightening in response.

  ‘No,’ he said casually and without emphasis. ‘Be still.’

  And, since those arms gave her no other choice, she did so. Yet, though the panic lost its bite, the fear wouldn’t go away. Not now she was fully aware of who held her and where she was. And what he was going to do.

  ‘What happened?’ she asked, her voice rusty-sounding. ‘Did I faint?’

  ‘Very briefly.’

  The low rumble of his voice was oddly comforting, though she had no idea why. ‘Why are you holding me?’

  ‘Because you were shaking and you’d gone very cold.’ He shifted slightly, the movement of his powerful body beneath her sending a bolt of some strange sensation through her. ‘I removed your glasses for safety’s sake.’

  She blinked, remembering something. ‘And my computer?’

  ‘It’s on the sofa beside me, along with your handbag.’

  A brief silence fell.

  Lucy closed her eyes again, suddenly exhausted. She’d been operating on nothing but adrenaline since she’d woken up this morning with her plan in place, and now, the panic attack having burned through all the rest of her reserves, she had nothing left.

  She was literally in the arms of her enemy, the prospect of a cell in front of her, and all she wanted to do was sleep.

  Pathetic. Do you really want your mother to die for nothing? Pull yourself together.

  Lucy gritted her teeth and forced herself to ignore her own weariness.

  ‘Do you have panic attacks often, Miss Armstrong?’ he asked after a moment.

  ‘Not usually.’ She hadn’t had one for weeks, not since she’d stopped resisting her father. But did the nightmares count? Maybe they didn’t.

  ‘What is it about a cell that frightens you?’

  She hadn’t wanted him to know the depth of her fear, but that ship had long since sailed. And perhaps, if he knew, it might make him more sympathetic towards her. Useful, given the fact that she was still hoping to change his mind and have him not hand her over to the police.

  ‘There’s a room in the basement of our house in Cornwall. My father locks me in there sometimes when I won’t do what I’m told. It’s dark. There are no windows.’ A shiver coursed through her, making de Santi’s arms tighten once more.

  ‘I see,’ he said, his tone very neutral. ‘And do you not do what you’re told often?’

  As a child, she’d been fearless and curious, always getting into things she wasn’t supposed to, which had made her father angry. Her mother had shielded her from the worst of his rages—until she hadn’t been able to shield her any more and Lucy found out just how much her mother had protected her.

  ‘I used to,’ she said, because there was no need to get into that. ‘Not so much any more.’

  ‘Except for escaping from him.’

  ‘Yes, except for that.’ She had relaxed against him fully now, the warmth of his body stealing through her. How could such a cold man be so warm? It didn’t make any sense. ‘Why are you so hot?’ she asked, opening her eyes again. ‘Are you sick?’

  His face was blurry and she couldn’t read it, but she could feel his muscles tighten beneath her as if in surprise. ‘No, I’m not sick.’ There was a thread of something in his tone, marring the casual sound of it, but she couldn’t tell what it was. ‘Are you dizzy? Still a little faint?’

  ‘No. I’m okay now, I think.’

  Instantly he moved, gathering her gently without a word and shifting her off his lap and onto the sofa. The whole of her left side where she’d been resting against him felt hot, the withdrawal of his arms like a loss, which was very strange and she didn’t understand it, not one bit. A wave of sudden vulnerability flooded through her, and she fussed with her dress, hoping he hadn’t noticed.

  It seemed he hadn’t though, because he moved over to the desk, picking something up off it and holding it out to her. Her glasses.

  ‘Thank you,’ she murmured awkwardly, taking them and putting them back on.

  De Santi was leaning against his desk, his arms folded, his dark gaze fixed on her with unnerving intensity.

  Lucy wanted to stand up, not have him loom so threateningly over her, but she wasn’t sure if her legs would even support her, so she stayed where she was and lifted her chin instead. ‘I suppose you’re now going to put me in a cell?’

  ‘I haven’t decided,’ he said.

  An echo of fear shivered through her once again, but she borrowed some of her mother’s courage and steeled herself against it, meeting his gaze head-on. ‘If it’s to be a cell, then you’ll have to either drug me or knock me unconscious, because I won’t go in there willingly.’

  ‘Clearly.’ He continued to stare at her for a couple of moments longer, then he muttered to himself in Italian again, and abruptly reached into the pocket of his suit trousers and brought out a slim, complicated-looking phone. Pushing a button, he raised it to his ear, then began to speak in rapid Italian, his gaze still resting on her.

  The feeling of unease widened. What was he going to do with her now? Would he really drug her or knock her unconscious and put her in a cell?

  Then again, he’d obviously had every intention of doing just that before and he hadn’t. She’d had her panic attack and, instead of simply picking her up and dumping her in whatever holding facility he’d intended to put her in, he’d held her in his lap instead. Calming her down, soothing her.

  Perhaps he isn’t as merciless as he told you he was?

  Certainly a merciless man wouldn’t have held her like that and eased her fear. A merciless man—and she knew all about merciless men—would have dumped her in that cell and left her there, panic attack or not.

  Something hard inside her, a knot that had pulled so tight it felt as if she’d never get it undone, relaxed slightly. Perhaps there was hope, then. Perhaps she might change his mind after all. Perhaps she might be able to make good on the promise she’d made to her mother after all.

  She swallowed, and smoothed her dress again, keeping her gaze on the green fabric while listening to the fluid lilt of his voice.

  Eventually, he stopped spea
king and she looked up at him. He slipped his phone back into his pocket, his dark gaze impenetrable. ‘You can relax. There will be no cell for you.’

  Relief swept through her and it was a good thing she was sitting down, otherwise she would have fallen. ‘Oh?’ she managed thickly. ‘Then where will you keep me?’

  ‘I have a house here in London. You will be going there.’ His gaze was as hard and sharp as obsidian. ‘It’s not a cell, Miss Armstrong, but believe me, it is still a prison.’

  She didn’t doubt that, not for a second. Yet somehow the knot inside her had become a little less tight. It wasn’t freedom, no, but at least it wasn’t some dark hole where she would be left for hours on end.

  ‘I didn’t think you had any mercy left,’ she said, which in retrospect probably wasn’t the wisest of things to say to him.

  He only looked at her, his expression as neutral as his tone. ‘As I said, I don’t like my tools broken. And you’re no use to me if you’re catatonic with fear.’

  Lucy swallowed again. Perhaps she was wrong after all. Perhaps the way he’d held her and soothed her had purely been from self-interest.

  Why do you care what his reasons are? You’re safe. That’s the only thing that matters.

  It was true. And she didn’t care about his reasons. She only wanted to know so she had hope that she might be able to change his mind about handing her over to the police. That hope was still there, especially if he thought of her as useful.

  In which case, she would make herself as useful as she possibly could for as long as she possibly could.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said.

  ‘Don’t thank me yet.’ His gaze was very intent. ‘You’re not going alone.’

  Vincenzo took a dim view of people’s emotional...difficulties. He’d encountered them many times in his little crusade for justice and they always left him cold. Some people pleaded with him, weeping and going to pieces, while others got angry, throwing punches and shouting curses. Some even did what Miss Lucy Armstrong did, collapsing in fear as their lives unravelled before their eyes.