And he did want her. And he was furious about it.
He kept away from her the following day, to give her some distance and to give his recalcitrant body some time to rethink its choices. There were matters that needed his attention anyway. Her father was trying to contact him, no doubt to offer terms for her return, and Vincenzo was almost tempted to see what the man would say, but then, he knew anyway. Armstrong only used either bribery or threats, neither of which would work on Vincenzo. He couldn’t take his daughter by force, either, since he didn’t have the resources to touch her on Capri, not without getting allies at least, and that would take time.
Regardless, Vincenzo could afford to wait. He’d let Armstrong suffer for the next week, or for however long it took Lucy to give him the information he wanted.
So he closeted himself in his office in the villa, dealing with the thousand and one things he had to deal with, while his brain kept replaying the memory of her sitting in the dusk with her robe half-open, the shadowed curves of her body a temptation he hadn’t envisaged. The rounded shape of one breast—fuller than he’d expected, given how small she was—and the graceful arc of one hip. Her skin had been such a pretty pink, highlighted by the red silk she wore, and his desire had risen, thick and hot. Shocking in its intensity.
He wouldn’t have taken her even if she had wanted him, but he knew that she didn’t. Her eyes behind the shelter of her glasses had been very wary, the fear glittering greenly in their depths.
It had angered him, that fear. His desire angered him. Her offer had angered him.
Everything had angered him and so he’d pushed himself to his feet and left before he did something he regretted, such as reaching for her and dragging her across the table and burying that anger between her thighs.
Yet even immersing himself in business didn’t help. He felt restless and unable to concentrate, her presence an itch he couldn’t scratch, and he was further annoyed that he had to wait until the week had ended before he’d get the information he needed to take down her father.
He would have gone back to the de Santi estate himself and left her here if he could have. But he couldn’t. Even though his security was impregnable, he didn’t want to leave anything to chance. He had to be here to keep an eye on her.
She might try to manipulate him again, of course, but if she was hoping that he’d change his mind about her she was mistaken. He would not be changing his mind. She needed to answer for her crimes so justice would be served.
The thought hardened his resolve, though it did nothing for the restlessness that coiled through him as the day progressed into night. He stayed in his office till midnight, and only then did he leave, stalking back to his bedroom in search of sleep.
He didn’t find it, however, and after several hours of lying there, staring at the ceiling, he admitted defeat and slid out of bed, pulling on some jeans and prowling downstairs to the salon that led out onto the big terrace.
It felt hot and airless, so he went to the double doors and pushed them open, allowing the salt-soaked night air and moonlight to pour in. He stood in the doorway a minute and took a deep breath, trying to find his usual clarity of purpose, the bone-deep knowledge that what he was doing was right and necessary.
He couldn’t allow himself to be distracted from it by an inconvenient attraction to the worst possible woman. He wouldn’t. He must keep on with his crusade, right the wrongs his family had perpetrated over the centuries, that his mother had carried into this century too. It would end with him, that was certain.
Behind him came the sound of a soft footstep and a whisper of an indrawn breath, and he was turning, instantly on his guard. He normally had a weapon with him, but since the villa was well-protected he hadn’t bothered with one tonight.
Not that he needed one.
A small figure stood in the darkness near the door to the hall. There was enough moonlight for him to see golden dragons gleaming on red silk and the gloss of dark curls, of light reflected off the round discs of her glasses. The sweet scent of apples reached him and he felt himself go still, his entire body tightening in anticipation.
You’re getting ahead of yourself. She didn’t want you, remember?
He remembered. She’d been made of fear, not desire.
‘I’m sorry,’ she murmured in her husky voice. ‘I didn’t know you were here. I’ll go if you—’
‘What are you doing up, civetta?’ He shouldn’t ask. He should leave her the way he’d left her the night before. Yet he didn’t move.
‘I...couldn’t sleep.’
‘Why not?’
‘I don’t know.’ She shifted on her feet, silk rustling, sounding uncertain and nervous. ‘I was just...restless.’
As he was restless.
Perhaps it’s for the same reason?
Perhaps. But again, last night, he hadn’t seen desire in her when she’d opened her robe. Only uneasiness and nerves.
You could be wrong.
A thread of heat wound its way through him and he found himself wanting to see her face, see what expression was in her hazel eyes.
‘Come here.’ He had to put some effort into not making it sound like an order, but he managed it. Part of him wanted to know if she would come if it wasn’t a command. If she would come because she wanted to.
She hesitated, but only for a moment, and then she came slowly towards him, the moonlight moving over glorious red silk, dark curls, and pale skin.
He could see her face now as she stopped a few feet from him, laid bare in the light coming from behind his back. The moon had bleached all the colour from her cheeks, turning her eyes very dark. With the lenses of her glasses reflecting the light, she looked even more owlish than she normally did.
The night before when he’d told her that she didn’t want him she hadn’t denied it. She’d simply looked at him as if wanting him hadn’t entered her head, even though she’d been fully prepared to offer him sex. And he couldn’t lie to himself. The fact that she hadn’t wanted him had angered him too.
‘Yes?’ The word was tentative, her gaze full of familiar wariness.
‘Perhaps you can’t sleep for the same reason I can’t,’ he said.
‘I...’ She stopped, and her hands moved nervously to the sash of her robe, touching it before falling away again. ‘What reason would that be?’
He might have thought she was deliberately misunderstanding him if he hadn’t known already that she had no guile whatsoever. But, as he was learning, she wasn’t like his mother; her response had the ring of truth to it. She genuinely didn’t know. Which meant that she had no sexual thoughts about him at all, or she was so desperately inexperienced she didn’t recognise them.