De Santi had mentioned something about a late dinner, which meant she had a bit of time beforehand, judging from the light outside the window. She stared at the door for a moment, then crossed over to it and gingerly tried the handle, expecting it to be locked.
It turned easily.
A wave of some emotion she couldn’t identify washed through her. So she wasn’t locked in, the way she was at home. He’d genuinely meant what he said when he’d told her she was free to wander.
Lucy stepped back from the door, the knot inside her almost coming undone. Then she turned and went over to the bed, got onto it and lay back, curling up on the white quilt. She felt tired, and now she knew the door wasn’t locked the urge to get out and explore had left her for the moment. She closed her eyes instead, only for a second.
At least, it should have been a second.
When she opened her eyes again the light had changed, long streaks of twilight painting the white walls in vivid pinks and reds and oranges. She lay there a second, getting her bearings, remembering where she was and what was happening. Then she slipped off the bed.
She felt hungry now and ready to eat, so she went into the bathroom to get her underwear, looking around to see if Martina had brought her dress back. But not only had the dress not been returned, her underwear had gone too.
Lucy frowned, wrapping the silk robe more tightly around her. Annoying. She felt underdressed wearing only a dressing gown with nothing underneath it. There was nothing to be done about it, however, and, left with little choice, she eventually had to venture out of the bedroom wearing only the robe belted tightly at her waist.
The house was quiet and she encountered no one as she retraced the route Martina had led her on earlier, back into the big white lounge and out to the stone terrace again. It was beautiful in the twilight, the white stone glowing, the view framed by ancient olive trees, the table set for dinner.
Lucy stared at the table for a second, her chest feeling a little tight. There were candles and a white tablecloth and pretty wine glasses. It looked special. Not like a table set for a criminal and a prisoner.
Was this his doing? Or his staff? Did they know who she was? Perhaps they thought she was his girlfriend or his lover...
The tightness inside her twisted, making her feel hot. Disturbed, she turned away from the table and went to the edge of the terrace bounded by a low stone parapet. She sat down on it and looked out over the sea, taking in the amazing view.
There were so many boats, yachts with white sails and launches creating wakes, big super-yachts—floating palaces for the rich and famous—and smaller fishing boats. She imagined being on one and heading out to sea towards the setting sun, leaving everything behind to disappear over the edge of the horizon...
Maybe that would be her one day, finally escaping.
You think you really deserve to escape? Your mother didn’t, so why should you?
Despite the view and the peace of the twilight, a chill whispered over her skin, curling through her soul.
Then a footstep sounded on the rough stone behind her, and she turned, thankful for the distraction, even though she knew who it was already.
It was him. De Santi. He’d obviously come through the French windows from the lounge area, and now he stopped as he approached the table, his dense black gaze flicking over her.
He’d removed his suit jacket, his white business shirt open at the neck, his sleeves rolled up. His skin was a smooth, dark olive, the muscles beneath it lean and sinewy. He should have looked casual and relaxed, but he didn’t. Somehow the open shirt and rolled-up sleeves only served to make him appear even more ruthless, even more intimidating. The warrior angel ready to do battle.
He said nothing as he pulled a chair out and sat down, his movements loose and fluid. The setting sun bathed the almost medieval lines of his aristocratic face in gold, which should have softened him. Again, though, it was as if his presence rejected any attempts to mitigate it and instead the light simply illuminated even more strongly his dark ruthlessness.
He frightened her. Mesmerised her. Compelled her. She didn’t know why. Yet again, she couldn’t understand how a man could scare her and yet make her want to keep looking at him, as if she’d miss something if she glanced away.
Kathy, her mother, had been afraid of Lucy’s father, she knew that much. It hadn’t always been that way, Kathy had told her once. He had used to be a good man. But the years had turned him darker and he’d fallen in with bad people, and she had become afraid. Lucy had asked why they couldn’t go away and live somewhere else. Her mother had only looked sadly at her and said, ‘I love him.’ As if that was explanation enough.
Lucy had never understood that. All it told her was if love was staying with someone who hurt you, then that was something very much to be avoided.
Not that love had any place here, with this man.
‘Don’t be like me,’ her mother had said and yet here she was, inexplicably drawn to a dangerous man, and that scared her too.
He leaned back in his chair, his gaze still roving over her in a way that suggested he was hungry and she looked like something good to eat. It brought colour to her cheeks, made a strange, buzzing tension collect in the space between them and then go crackling over her skin like sparks.
Her cheeks were hot, her breathing oddly short, and the sound of her heartbeat echoed in her head. What was happening to her?
You know. You are more like your mother than you thought.
Lucy dragged her gaze away, back to the boats, an unfamiliar fluttering sensation in the pit of her stomach. No, that wasn’t true. She didn’t know enough about men to have any opinion on whether she was like her mother in that regard. Why would she? The only contact she’d had with them had been to be threatened by them. None of them had ever made her feel like...this.
‘Sit at the table,’ de Santi ordered coolly. ‘Now, if you please.’
He didn’t know what was wrong with him. Miss Lucy Armstrong was sitting on the stone parapet, the long twilight falling over her like gold dust, setting fire to the scarlet silk of the dressing gown and making the dragons embroidered on it dance. The colour made her skin look like porcelain and she must have done something to her hair because instead of the mat of dark brown, there was a wealth of glossy chestnut curls falling down her back. The gold in the embroidery of the robe picked up glints of gold in the depths of her hazel eyes and somehow, within the space of a few hours, this small, dull civetta had turned into something of a siren.
He couldn’t take his eyes off her.
She slipped off the parapet she was sitting on, fumbling with the silk of the dressing gown as a bit caught on the rough stone. One side slipped a little off one shoulder, revealing a quantity of pale skin, and it was clear she wasn’t aware of it because she didn’t put the material back in place. Instead, she tied the belt tighter and came over to the table, pulling out the chair opposite him and sitting down. The movement made the fabric that should have covered her shoulder slip further down her arm, making it very apparent she was not wearing a bra.