Captive in the SpotlightBlackmailed Bride, Innocent Wife Read online

  Surreptitiously she let out a breath of relief.

  Then the car slipped down a ramp. They entered a vast underground car park. A fleet of vehicles, polished to perfection, filled it. She saw limousines, a four wheel drive, a sleek motorbike and a couple of sports cars including a vintage one her dad would have given his eye teeth to drive.

  Out of nowhere grief slammed into her. She’d missed him so long she’d finally learned to repress the waves of loss. But she hadn’t been prepared for this.

  Not now. Not here. Not in front of the man who saw himself as her enemy.

  Maybe grief hit harder because it was her first day of freedom. The day, by rights, when she should be in her dad’s reassuring embrace. But all that was gone. Lucy swallowed the knot of emotion clogging her throat, forcing herself to stare, dry-eyed, around the cavernous space.

  ‘How did you get permission to excavate?’ She was relieved her voice worked. ‘I thought this part of the city was built on the ancient capital.’

  ‘You didn’t know about the basement car park?’ His voice was sceptical.

  Finally, when she knew her face was blank of emotion, Lucy met his stare. ‘I was just the au pair, remember? Not the full-time nanny. I didn’t go out with the family. Besides, Taddeo was so little and your sister-in-law—’ she paused, seeing Domenico’s gaze sharpen ‘—she didn’t want him out and about. It was a struggle to get permission to take him to the park for air.’

  Gun-metal grey eyes met hers and again she felt that curious beat of awareness between them. As if he knew and understood. But that was impossible. Domenico Volpe hated her, believed she’d killed his brother. Nothing would change his mind.

  ‘The car park was necessary for our privacy.’ His shoulders lifted in a shrug that indicated whatever the Volpe family needed the world would provide. Naturally. ‘There was an archaeological survey but fortunately it didn’t find anything precious.’

  Lucy bit back a retort. It wouldn’t matter how precious the remains. The Volpes would have got what they wanted. They always did. They’d wanted her convicted and they’d got their way.

  The car slid to a halt and her door opened.

  Lucy surveyed the big man holding it. Her heart gave a flip of relief as she saw it was the guy who’d tried to strong-arm her into the car earlier. Not a spectre from the past. But embarrassment warred with relief as she recalled how she’d abused him.

  ‘Thank you.’ She slid awkwardly from the seat, not used to a skirt after years in regulation issue trousers.

  Silently he inclined his head.

  Damp palms swiping down her skirt, Lucy located the rest of the security staff. Her heart clenched as she thought she saw a familiar figure in the dim light but when he moved Lucy realised it was another stranger. Her breathing eased.

  ‘This way, signorina.’ The bodyguard ushered her towards a lift.

  Minutes later she found herself in a part of the palazzo she’d never visited. But its grand dimensions, its exquisitely intricate marble flooring and air of otherworld luxury were instantly familiar.

  Her skin prickled as she inhaled that almost forgotten scent. Of furniture polish, hothouse flowers and, she’d once joked, money. Memories washed over her, of those first exciting days in a new country, of her awe at her surroundings, of that last night—

  * * *

  ‘Ms Knight?’ Lucy, he’d called her once. For a few bright, brief hours. Instantly Domenico slammed the memory of that folly into an iron vault of memory.

  She spun around and he saw huge, haunted eyes. Her face had paled and her fine features were pinched.

  The mask slipped at last.

  He should feel satisfaction at her unease in his family home. But it wasn’t pleasure he experienced. He had no name for this hyper-awareness, this knife-edge between antipathy and absorption.

  Sensation feathered through him, like the tickle of his conscience, teasing him for bringing her here.

  Lucy Knight had fascinated him all those years ago. To his chagrin he realised she still did. More than was desirable. It was one thing to know your enemy. Another to respond to her fear with what felt too much like sympathy.

  As he watched the moment of vulnerability was gone. Her face smoothed out and her pale eyebrows arched high as if waiting for him to continue.

  ‘This way.’ He gestured for her to accompany him, conscious of her beside him as they headed to his side of the palazzo. She was a head shorter but kept pace easily, not hesitating for a moment.

  He had to hand it to her; she projected an air of assurance many of his business associates would envy. Twice now he’d seen behind the façade of calm but both times it had been a quick glimpse and the circumstances had been enough to discomfit anyone.

  In his study he gestured for her to take a seat. Instead she prowled the room, inspecting the bookcases, the view from the window and, he was sure, scoping out a possible escape route. There was none.

  Instead of taking one of the sofas near the fireplace as he’d intended, Domenico settled behind his desk.

  ‘Why have you brought me here?’

  She stood directly before the desk, feet planted as if to ground herself ready for attack.

  ‘To talk.’

  ‘Talk?’ The word shot out. ‘You had your chance to talk five years ago. As I recall, you weren’t interested in renewing our acquaintance.’ Her tone was bitter and her eyes glittered with fury.

  The difference between this Amazon and the girl he’d briefly known struck him anew.

  ‘And to separate you and the press.’

  ‘No altruistic rescue then.’ She gave no indication of disappointment, merely met his gaze in frank appraisal.

  ‘Did you expect one?’

  ‘No.’ She answered before he’d finished speaking.

  Why did her readiness to distrust rankle? He hadn’t expected doe-eyed innocence. The scales had been ripped from his eyes long ago.

  ‘Feel free to sit.’

  ‘No.’ She paused. ‘Thank you. I prefer to stand.’ She swallowed hard.

  Thanking him must almost have choked her.

  As having her in his home revolted every sensibility. Was Sandro turning in his grave? No. Sandro would have approved of his actions.

  ‘For how long?’ She watched him closely.

  ‘As long as it takes.’

  She frowned. ‘As long as what takes?’

  Domenico leaned back in his chair. He sensed it was too early to reveal his full intent. Better proceed slowly than rush and have her refuse out of hand.

  ‘For the press to lose interest in this story.’

  ‘There is no story. It happened so long ago.’

  Domenico’s belly clenched. ‘You think what happened means nothing now? That it’s all over?’

  Her head shot up. ‘It is over. I’ve served the sentence for manslaughter and now I’m free. If there was anything I could do to bring your brother back I would.’ She heaved a deep breath that strained her breasts against the dark fabric. ‘But there’s not.’

  ‘You cut off my brother’s life in his prime.’ Anger vibrated in his words and he strove to modulate his voice. ‘You made my sister-in-law a widow before her time. She was barely a wife, still struggling to adapt to motherhood, and suddenly she was alone.’

  Sky blue eyes met his unflinchingly.

  Did none of it matter to her?

  ‘Because of you my nephew will never know his father.’ The words grated from a throat scraped raw with anger. ‘You denied them both that. You left a gaping hole in his life.’

  As she’d ripped a hole in Domenico’s life. Even now he found it hard to believe Sandro was gone. The older brother who’d been his friend, his pillar of strength when their parents had died and Domenico was still a kid. His mentor, who’d applauded his tenacity when he’d branched out as an entrepreneur, building rather than relying on the family fortune and traditions.

  He wanted her to know the pain she’d caused. To feel it. The
civilised man he was knew she’d paid the price society saw fit for her crime. The wounded, grief-stricken one wanted more. Remorse. Guilt. A confession. Something.

  ‘You can’t control the press.’ She spoke as if nothing he’d said mattered, brushing aside so much pain.

  For a full thirty seconds Domenico stared at the woman who’d destroyed so much, yet felt so little. He couldn’t understand how anyone could be so devoid of compassion. He wished he’d never sullied himself by helping her, even if it wasn’t for her benefit.

  But he refused to let Sandro’s family suffer any more because of Lucy Knight.

  ‘I can starve them of fresh news.’

  ‘But there is no news.’

  ‘You’re out of jail. The murderess set free.’

  Her chin jutted. ‘The charge was manslaughter.’

  Domenico bit down the need to tell her legalistic quibbling didn’t change the fact of Sandro’s death. Instead he reached for the glossy pages on his desk.

  ‘There’s still a story. Especially after this.’

  ‘What is it?’ She stepped forward, her expression closed, but he read the rigidity of her slim frame, as if she prepared for the worst.

  For a second Domenico hesitated. Why, he didn’t know. Then he tossed the magazine across the gleaming surface of the desk.

  She tilted her head to read it where it lay, as if not wanting to touch it. He couldn’t blame her. It was the sort of trash he avoided, but Pia, his sister-in-law, was obviously a fan. She’d brought it to his attention, hysterical that the sordid tragedy was being resurrected.

  Eventually Lucy Knight reached out and flipped the page with one finger. The story spread across both pages. Her likeness featured beside the text. Another picture of her and an older man, her father. Then more of a rather hollow-eyed woman and a gaggle of children.

  He watched Lucy Knight’s eyes widen, heard her breath hitch, then a hiss of shock. She’d turned the colour of ash. Even her lips paled. Rapidly she blinked and he could have sworn tears welled in those remarkable eyes.

  Then, with a suddenness that caught him off guard, the woman he’d thought as unfeeling as an automaton swayed off balance and he realised she was going to faint.

  CHAPTER THREE

  LUCY STARED AS the text blurred and dipped. She blinked, torn between gratitude that she couldn’t make out all the snide character assassination and desperation to know the worst.

  She thought she’d experienced the worst in prison. With the loss of her father, her friends, freedom, innocence and self-esteem.

  She’d been wrong.

  This was the final betrayal.

  She struggled to draw breath. It was as if a boulder squashed her lungs. She slammed a hand on the satiny wood of the desk, her damp palm slipping as she fought to steady herself.

  Darkness rimmed her vision and the world revolved, churning sickeningly like a merry-go-round spinning off kilter.

  There was a pounding in her ears and a gaping hole where her heart had been.

  Hard fingers closed around her upper arm.

  It was enough to drag her back to her surroundings. She yanked her arm but the grip tightened. She felt him beside her, imprisoning her against the desk.

  From somewhere deep inside fury welled, a volcanic force that for a glorious moment obliterated the pain shredding her vitals.

  Driven by unstoppable instinct Lucy pivoted, raised her hand and chopped down on the inner elbow of the arm that captured her. At the same time she jabbed her knee high in his groin. Her hand connected with a force that almost matched the strength in that muscled arm. But her knee struck only solid thigh as he sensed her attack and shifted.

  Yet it worked. She was free. She stood facing him, panting from adrenalin and overflowing emotions.

  Gimlet eyes stared down at her. Glittering eyes that bored deep into her soul, as if he could strip away the self-protective layers she’d built so painstakingly around herself and discover the woman no one else knew.

  Her chest rose and fell as she struggled for air. Her pulse thundered. Her skin sizzled with the effervescence in her bloodstream.

  The muzzy giddiness disappeared as she stared back at the face of the man who’d stripped away her last hope and destroyed what was left of her joy at being free.

  Far from fainting, she felt painfully alive. It was as if layers of skin had been scored away, exposing nerve endings that throbbed from contact with the very air in this cloistered mansion.

  ‘Don’t touch me!’

  Instead of backing off from her snarling tone he merely narrowed his eyes.

  ‘You were going to faint.’ The rumble of his voice stirred an echo inside her.

  ‘I’ve never fainted in my life.’ She shoved aside the knowledge that he was right. Until the shock of his touch she’d been about to topple onto his pristine parquet floor.

  ‘You needed support.’ His words betrayed no outrage at her attack. It was as if he, like she, was no longer bothered by social niceties. As if he understood the primitive intensity of her feelings.

  That disturbed her. She didn’t want him understanding anything about her. She didn’t like the sense that Domenico Volpe had burrowed under her skin and was privy to her innermost demons.

  Something shifted in his gaze. There was a subtle difference in those deep-set eyes that now shone silver. Something in the line of his lips. Her eyes lingered there, tracing the shape of a mouth which now, relaxed, seemed designed solely for sensual pleasure.

  A gossamer thread of heat spun from her breasts to her pelvis, drawing tight—a heat she’d felt only once before.

  Had his expression changed, grown warm? Or had something inside her shifted?

  Lucy bit her lip then regretted the movement as his gaze zeroed in on her mouth. Her lips tingled as if he’d reached out and grazed them with a questing finger.

  A shiver of luxurious pleasure ripped through her. Fire ignited deep within, so hot it felt as if she were melting. Her pulse slowed to a ponderous beat then revved out of control.

  She’d known Domenico Volpe was dangerous. But she hadn’t known the half of it.

  She swallowed hard and found her voice, trying to ignore her body’s flagrant response.

  ‘You can move back now. I can stand.’

  He took his time moving. ‘Yet sitting is so much more comfortable, don’t you think?’

  He said no more but that one raised eyebrow told her he saw what she’d rather not reveal. That her surge of energy was short-lived. Lucy felt a dragging at her limbs. Her knees were jelly and the thought of confronting him here, now, was almost too much to bear.

  Had he guessed her visceral response to his flagrant masculinity? That would be the final straw.

  She grabbed the magazine, crushing its pages.

  ‘Thank you. I will take that seat now.’

  He nodded and gestured to a long sofa. Instead she took the black leather swivel chair that looked like something from an exclusive design catalogue, a far cry from the sparse utilitarian furniture she’d grown used to. It was wickedly comfortable and her bones melted as she sank into it. It was massive, built to order, she guessed, for the man who took a seat across from her. Lucy tried to look unfazed by such luxury.

  ‘You didn’t know about the article?’

  Lucy refused to look away from his keen gaze. Confrontation was preferable to running. She’d learned that in a hard school. But looking him in the eye was difficult when her body hummed with the aftermath of what she could only describe as an explosion of sexual awareness.

  ‘No.’ She glanced down at the trashy gossip mag and repressed a shiver. It was like holding a venomous snake in her palm. ‘I had no idea.’

  ‘Would you like something? Brandy? A pot of tea?’

  Startled by his concern, she turned to find Domenico Volpe looking almost as surprised as she was, as if the offer had slipped out without volition.

  It was no comfort to know she must look as bad as she felt for him t
o offer sustenance.

  ‘No. Thank you.’ Accepting anything from him went against every instinct.

  Already he moved towards the desk. Obviously it didn’t matter what she wanted. ‘I’ll order coffee.’

  Lucy’s gaze dropped to the magazine. How could Sylvia have done this? Did she despise Lucy so much?

  Silently her heart keened. Sylvia and the kids had been Lucy’s last bright hope of returning to some remnant of her old life. Of having family again. Of belonging.

  Quotes from the article floated through her troubled mind. Of her stepmother saying Lucy had ‘always been different’, ‘withdrawn and moody’ but ‘hankering after the bright lights and excitement’. That she put her own needs first rather than those of her family. There was nothing in the article about Sylvia’s resentment of her husband’s almost grown daughter, or the fact that Lucy had spent years as unpaid nurserymaid for Sylvia’s four children by a previous marriage. Or that Sylvia’s idea of bright lights was a Saturday night in Torquay and a takeaway meal.

  Nothing about the fact that Lucy had left home only when her dad, in his quiet way, had urged her to experience more of the world rather than put her life on hold to look after the younger children.

  She’d experienced the world all right, but not in the way he’d had in mind.

  As for the article, taken from a recent interview with Sylvia, it was a lurid exposé that painted Lucy as an uncaring, amoral gold-digger. It backed up every smear and innuendo that had been aired in the courtroom. Worse, it proved even her family had turned against her.

  What would her stepsiblings think now they were old enough to read such malicious gossip?

  Lucy’s heart withered and she pressed a hand to her throat, trying to repress rising nausea. Sylvia and she had never been close but Lucy had never thought her stepmother would betray her like this. The article’s spitefulness stole her breath.

  Until now she’d believed there was someone believing in her. First her father and, after he died, Sylvia.

  She felt bereft, grieving all over again for her dad who’d been steadfastly behind her. Never having known her long-dead mother, Lucy’s bond with her father had been special. His faith and love had kept her strong through the trial.