The Italian's Final Redemption - Jackie Ashenden Page 0,13

reminded, a deep rumble in her ear.

So she breathed and kept on breathing as she became conscious of more, that she was being held by someone very strong and very hot, and that the warmth of their body was helping her to relax, making the panic—and it had definitely been panic—recede.

Strange how the fact of being held made her feel safe, because she definitely did feel safe. And that was an unfamiliar feeling in itself, since it had been a long time since she’d felt safe anywhere. So she held on to it, kept it tight in her grasp, not wanting to move, not even wanting to breathe in case the feeling disappeared.

But she had to breathe and she kept on breathing, and she became aware of where she was. Of what had happened. Of whose arms surrounded her and who it must be holding her so tightly.

Vincenzo de Santi. Who was going to put her in a cell.

Lucy opened her eyes.

She was sitting on a sofa in the same expensive, luxurious office she remembered, in the lap of the same man who’d stared at her so intensely from across that big desk. A man with black eyes and the face of a warrior angel.

His powerful arms were around her and she was leaning against his chest as if it were her favourite pillow. Her glasses were gone and everything was blurry, but she remembered those eyes and that face. They would haunt her dreams.

She must have had a panic attack. How humiliating.

And then she realised that two other men were standing in front of the sofa, dressed in black uniforms. Tall, powerful men... The guards, come to take her away.

Instantly cold fear poured through her veins, her hands clutching on to de Santi’s shirt, and she was pressing herself against him, as if he could keep her safe.

You idiot. He’s the one who wants to imprison you.

Her fingers were going cold again and she could hear the frantic rush of someone’s frightened breathing. Hers.

‘Out,’ de Santi ordered flatly, then said something else, deep and low in fluid Italian.

The guards instantly turned and left the office, closing the door behind them.

‘Keep breathing,’ he murmured. ‘Relax your muscles.’

Helpless to do anything else, Lucy did what he said, leaning against his very hard chest and cushioned by the expensive wool of his suit. His body was so warm and the beat of his heart was in her ear, a steady, relentless sound. She concentrated on that, since it had worked so well before, and her breathing slowed, her muscles losing their rigidity.

It was strange to be held like this. She couldn’t remember the last time anyone had held her. Not since her mother had died, certainly. She’d been around seven then, so...a long time. And definitely not by a man. Were all men this hot? This hard?

You’re an idiot. He wants to put you in a cell.

The thought made her stiffen again, his arms tightening in response.

‘No,’ he said casually and without emphasis. ‘Be still.’

And, since those arms gave her no other choice, she did so. Yet, though the panic lost its bite, the fear wouldn’t go away. Not now she was fully aware of who held her and where she was. And what he was going to do.

‘What happened?’ she asked, her voice rusty-sounding. ‘Did I faint?’

‘Very briefly.’

The low rumble of his voice was oddly comforting, though she had no idea why. ‘Why are you holding me?’

‘Because you were shaking and you’d gone very cold.’ He shifted slightly, the movement of his powerful body beneath her sending a bolt of some strange sensation through her. ‘I removed your glasses for safety’s sake.’

She blinked, remembering something. ‘And my computer?’

‘It’s on the sofa beside me, along with your handbag.’

A brief silence fell.

Lucy closed her eyes again, suddenly exhausted. She’d been operating on nothing but adrenaline since she’d woken up this morning with her plan in place, and now, the panic attack having burned through all the rest of her reserves, she had nothing left.

She was literally in the arms of her enemy, the prospect of a cell in front of her, and all she wanted to do was sleep.

Pathetic. Do you really want your mother to die for nothing? Pull yourself together.

Lucy gritted her teeth and forced herself to ignore her own weariness.

‘Do you have panic attacks often, Miss Armstrong?’ he asked after a moment.

‘Not usually.’ She hadn’t had one for weeks, not since she’d stopped resisting her father. But did the nightmares