The Italian's Final Redemption - Jackie Ashenden Page 0,20

found the time to whisk her away from London almost as soon as she’d agreed to pay his price for a week of freedom, and into Italy.

Once he put his mind to it, things certainly got done, she’d give him that, and if this was part of the taste of freedom he was offering her, then she was going to take it.

She wasn’t sure what had changed his mind back in England, because it had seemed as if he was hell-bent on handing her to the authorities immediately. And she’d just about given up. She hadn’t wanted to mention her mother—that was a private pain she wouldn’t reveal to anyone—and so she’d waited for his judgment, feeling her defeat sweep through her.

And then he’d said that he would give her one week. It hadn’t been exactly what she’d hoped for, but it was better than nothing. And it might be enough time for her to get him to change his mind about handing her over to the police. Because if he’d changed his mind once, then maybe he could change it again. If she was...persuasive enough.

You will have to be.

The thought was a warning and it made her afraid, so she ignored it. She was very good at ignoring the things that scared her, at seeing only what was right in front of her, and, since the sea was right in front of her now, that was where she looked.

Except she couldn’t quite ignore the presence of the man beside her, no matter how hard she tried. His warmth was distracting, as was his intriguing scent. She’d never even thought a man could smell intriguing, but he did. It was disconcerting, too, that she could still feel how he’d held her hand when she’d burned herself on the tea, the heat of his skin on hers and then the cold press of the ice.

She’d been afraid of him then and she still was, yet she was drawn to him as well and she didn’t understand how that could be. His strength and his power were both attractive and terrifying, as was the merciless way he looked at her, the cold ruthlessness of him, and yet how tightly he’d held her when she’d panicked.

No, she didn’t understand how she could find him so fascinating and yet be so terrified of him at the same time. He was a panther, sunning himself on a rock, and she couldn’t help wandering closer, wondering what it would be like to run her hands over his fur...

You’re thinking of touching him now?

Lucy stared hard at the ocean. No, she definitely was not thinking of touching him. He was her enemy. He didn’t care that she hadn’t wanted to do any of the things her father had forced her into doing. In his eyes she was guilty and he would hand her over to the police once this week was done.

A creeping sense of cold threatened, only to vanish as the helicopter eventually soared over a big jewel of an island, all green with soaring cliffs and lots of expensive and very grand-looking mansions.

Ten minutes later they were coming in to land on a rolling flat green lawn that seemed to stretch to the edge of the ocean itself, an old, sprawling building constructed out of white stone sitting in the middle of it. There were lots of terraces and balconies, beautifully laid-out formal gardens and winding paths, the sun glittering off the sea beyond.

De Santi got out of the helicopter, ducking his head beneath the lazily turning rotors as he held the door open for her. She slipped out into the cool, salty air, the hot sun providing a delightful contrast. She wanted to just stand there and look around, but de Santi’s fingers gripped her elbow and she was being guided along one of the paths and up some stone steps towards the big house.

A few people in uniform met them on a beautiful terrace that overlooked the sea, guards and probably housekeepers, all greeting de Santi in rapid Italian. He issued a few of what sounded like orders and then ushered her through some open double doors and into a large white room with big, deep sofas upholstered in a thick, textured white fabric. The floor was parquet and worn, as if centuries of feet had walked over it, the walls were white, with a few pieces of artwork here and there, decoratively displayed. A few antique pieces of furniture—shelves and a sideboard—also