Perhaps that was understandable. She had no clothing except the ghastly dress she’d been wearing when she’d appeared in his office, and there had been no time for her to get any more. At least some of the afternoon he’d spent in his office had involved ordering her various items via one of his assistants. The villa didn’t contain much in the way of female clothing or anything else, since he never brought any lovers here, or, indeed, anyone.
He was still puzzled as to why he’d brought her here. He’d told himself that it was because, although the de Santi palazzo, deep in the Campania countryside, was a much better place for a prisoner, being, as it was, built along the lines of a medieval castello rather than a palace and thus very secure, it was also a place that she might find frightening with its ancient walls and dark rooms. This villa was brighter, airier, and being on the sea with cliffs on one side made it easily defensible, not to mention the fact that Capri was an island and therefore it was less likely that she would escape.
All very good reasons and justifications for bringing her here, where he never brought anyone. And yet all he could think about was her voice telling him that she could hear the waves from her house in Cornwall and yet had never seen the sea.
You are getting soft, perhaps? Tired of the crusade?
No, of course not. And he would never tire. He needed her unafraid of him and willing to share the information in her head, that was all. And all of this was in aid of lulling those fears, making her relax, and who knew? Perhaps he could even get her to trust him?
She was staring down at her plate, her hands fussing with the silk of her robe as if she didn’t know what to do with either them or herself. He made her uncomfortable, that much was clear. She’d blushed before, when he’d looked at her, and had glanced away, as if she’d felt the sudden tension between them too.
There is tension now?
Vincenzo gritted his teeth, trying to force the thought from his head as Martina and a couple of other staff members bustled over bearing quantities of food. Olives and bread and cheeses. Plates of fresh pasta with the excellent oil that she made from the olives in the gardens, and a tomato sauce to go with it. And a bottle of a very good red wine from the de Santi vineyards themselves.
The consummate professional, Martina arranged the food, poured the wine, then left, taking her staff with her.
Silence fell and he still couldn’t take his gaze from her pale, uncovered shoulder.
Lucy reached for a piece of the fresh bread, but his patience was thinning, and when the robe slipped even more it ran out completely. He shoved back his chair and rose to his feet.
She looked up at him, her eyes wide and startled behind her glasses, and he knew he shouldn’t do this, but he couldn’t stop himself. He moved unhurriedly around the table to where she sat and paused beside her chair. Then gently he lifted the slipping fabric of the robe up and over her shoulder, covering her. A better man wouldn’t have touched her, but he’d always known, deep down, that he wasn’t a better man, so he allowed the backs of his fingers to brush over her bare skin. It was warm and even softer than the silk that covered it.
Her eyes went even wider, that vulnerable mouth of hers opening slightly as her breath caught. Colour flooded her cheeks, making her freckles turn pink, though he was more interested in the row of goosebumps that rose as he touched her.
It would be so easy to push that silk away instead of lifting it up, to uncover instead of conceal. Examine the curves he’d felt when she’d rested in his arms in his office, caress them, see if they were as satiny as the curve of her shoulder.
She was staring at him as if she’d never seen anything like him before in all her life, and though there was fear in her eyes there was also something else. Something that he’d seen in the eyes of other women who’d stared at him just like this one.
She was attracted to him, it was clear.
Perhaps you could use that to your advantage?
The thought streaked through his brain, bright and clear as a comet at midnight, but he dismissed it almost as soon as it had occurred to him. Those were his mother’s tactics and he would never stoop to using those. Just as he would never indulge himself with her. Seduction was not and would never be one of his weapons. He was better than that. He had to be.
He turned away, ignoring the tight feeling in his body as he headed back to his chair. She was still staring at him, a bewildered look on her face.
It occurred to him, as he sat, that the slipping of her robe might have been purposeful, but one look at her expression told him it hadn’t. She seemed to have no guile at all, which was definitely a rarity in a criminal.
‘Why did you do that?’ she asked, her voice slightly husky.
He ignored her. ‘I have ordered clothing for you. It should arrive tomorrow. In the meantime you can continue to wear that robe.’
She frowned and he thought she might push, since he hadn’t answered her question, but she didn’t. Instead, she reached for the bread she’d been going to have before he’d interrupted her.
So, she was uncertain about this...chemistry between them, was she? It certainly seemed that way. She’d had no trouble speaking about other subjects, but she didn’t want to push him on this. Interesting. Perhaps she was inexperienced. He wouldn’t be surprised, given how her father had kept her prisoner.
‘Why are you doing this?’ she asked after a moment, small fingers tearing apart the piece of bread. ‘With the candles and the food. This beautiful house.’
‘What do you mean?’ He reached for his wine and picked up the glass, swirling the liquid around inside it.
That deep crease between her brows was back. ‘I’m a prisoner. A criminal. Yet there are candles on the table.’
‘I did tell you that you wouldn’t have a cell.’ He leaned back in his chair, sipping his wine, letting the flavour warm him, since nothing else did much these days; justice was a cold mistress. ‘The candles were Martina’s idea.’ They were not. They were his. He’d been concerned about the incipient darkness and wanted her to have some light, because he didn’t want a repeat of her panic attack, that was all. But he didn’t want to tell her that. It felt like giving away an advantage. ‘You don’t like them?’
‘Oh, no, they’re lovely. I just...’ She stopped. Then lifted a shoulder as if the subject was one she’d lost interest in, and began layering some of the dip onto her bread with a knife. ‘This smells very good,’ she offered after a moment. ‘I’m quite hungry.’
‘That is obvious,’ he observed dryly as she ate the piece of bread with small, precise bites then proceeded to get herself another. ‘Are you ready to give me some information yet?’
She ate the other piece of bread then picked up her wine glass and took a sip. ‘Is that why there are candles and nice food? You’re hoping to bribe me into giving you what you want early?’