Yet he hadn’t. No, he’d darted forward as her glasses had fallen off her nose and she’d started to list to the side, pulling her into his arms and going to sit on the sofa with her in his lap. Holding her tight as she’d shivered and trembled. She’d been so pale, and without her glasses guarding her face he was able to see clearly the scattering of freckles across her small, straight nose. A delicate, vulnerable face, with a decidedly stubborn, pointed chin and that luscious, full mouth. Not beautiful and yet not without charm. Her lashes were long and thick and dark, the same as the untidy mass of hair flowing over his arm. And he’d been surprised by the feel of decidedly feminine curves against him. He could have sworn she’d be very slight and skinny, but she definitely wasn’t. No, she was warm and soft. And then when she’d come to and had seen his guards, and had clutched at his shirt, trying to press herself closer against him, as if he could protect her...
His chest had gone oddly tight and he’d sent his security away before he’d even had a chance to think straight.
Why had he done that? Why had he held her so tightly? What on earth was the feeling that had coiled inside him, because he could have sworn he was immune to both pity and sympathy? He should have ignored her and had her dragged away, treating her panic like the award-winning performance it no doubt was...
Yet he didn’t think it was a performance. Her panic had been real.
He watched her as the unmarked, nondescript car he’d used to transport them both to his house in one of the quieter parts of Kensington drew up to the kerb. Since assassination attempts were a daily part of his life and since Armstrong would now no doubt be aware of where his daughter was, Vincenzo had sent a decoy limo heading in the direction of the city, while he’d bundled Lucy and himself into another car out the back of the auction house.
There had been no incidents in the short trip and nothing out of the ordinary now as his bodyguards checked the quiet square where his house was situated. He had a few in London and he changed where he stayed with each visit.
So far no one had worked out that this place was his and so it was relatively safe. He still hadn’t decided what he was going to do with her though. He had to fly back to Naples in the next couple of days to deal with a few issues with one of the de Santi business subsidiaries, and hadn’t expected to be dealing with Michael Armstrong’s notorious daughter. Hadn’t expected to be giving her a week’s reprieve from justice, either.
It interfered with his plans and he didn’t like it.
The bodyguards pulled open the door and Lucy got out. He followed, striding past her and up the stairs to the front door. It opened immediately, one of his housekeepers having been alerted to his presence on the drive over.
Lucy was hustled inside and directed to the lavishly appointed sitting room at the front of the house, with the opaque windows that made looking inside very difficult.
His housekeeper had put some refreshments on a small tray—tea and some expensive chocolate chip biscuits—on a table next to one of the armchairs and Vincenzo guided Lucy over to the chair and made her sit down.
She glared crossly at him from underneath her curtain of hair, her hazel eyes looking very green behind the lenses of her glasses.
A strange woman. Almost catatonic with fear one moment then angry the next. Was this another performance for his benefit? Or had her fear been the performance? But no, it couldn’t have been. He’d already decided it wasn’t, hadn’t he?
‘Drink the tea,’ he ordered. ‘And have a biscuit. You could probably do with the sugar.’
‘I don’t want a biscuit. Or the tea.’ She continued to glare at him for no reason that he could see. ‘What are you going to do with me?’
He turned away, pacing over to the fireplace and stopping, laying a hand on the marble mantelpiece.
It was a good question. What was he going to do with her? He could leave her alone in this house for the next week, which would be the most logical thing, and have his security team get the answers he required from her. And yet...he was strangely reluctant to do so.
He’d told her that he hadn’t wanted a broken tool and he hadn’t lied. It had been the most likely explanation for his catching her before she’d fallen off the chair and holding her. It certainly wasn’t because he felt sorry for her. No, if she was frozen with fear then he wouldn’t be able to get any information out of her at all, so he’d had to do something. She was to be the scalpel with which he cut out the corruption that was Michael Armstrong, but one couldn’t cut with a broken blade. That blade had to be sharp and whole.
His thoughts scattered then rearranged themselves with their usual orderly precision. If he wanted the information she held in her head, he would need to be careful with her. He would need to be subtle and delicate. His usual methods would break her, which meant he would have to try a different approach.
Leaving her to his security team ran the risk of breaking her and, since that couldn’t happen, the most logical thing was to deal with her himself.
Something coiled inside him, a certain sense of...anticipation. He ignored it the way he ignored most of his emotions, since there was absolutely no reason for it. No, handling her personally would be the best option all round and, though he couldn’t really afford the time it would take for a more delicate interrogation, he’d make time.
The information she held was valuable. Michael Armstrong was powerful in England and did a lot of work for several Russian families, as well as some for French and Italian families that he was also in the process of dealing with. Taking Armstrong down would be a blow and would effectively end their influence in England.
It would be worth it.
Are you sure that’s the only reason you want to deal with her personally?
A sudden memory filled him, of the softness of her in his lap, her hair over his arm, her fingers clutching his shirt. She’d smelled sweetly of apples ripening in the sun, reminding him of summertime in the valley at his family’s palazzo. Playing as a boy with Gabriella, before his mother had used him and changed everything.
‘Mr de Santi,’ Lucy said from behind him. ‘What are—’
‘Drink your tea,’ he interrupted, staring down at the empty fireplace, going over plans in his head. ‘I will not have you fainting on me again.’
There was an annoyed silence behind him, then came the clink of a cup on a saucer.
He straightened and turned around.
She was holding the cup in her hand, sipping very pointedly on the tea, still looking highly irritated. A less perceptive man might have thought her fear had vanished, but he could see that it hadn’t. Her knuckles had remained quite white and there was a certain darkness to her eyes.
Her father had locked her in a room in a basement with no windows when she wouldn’t do what he told her...