displayed various other artworks as well as being stuffed full of books and other knick-knacks.
The place was cool and quiet, and she could hear the sound of the sea. It might have bothered her, that sound, reminding her of things she didn’t want to think about, but it felt different here. The air smelled different, was hotter, drier, and she could see the sea right there in front of her.
‘Where are we?’ she asked, as de Santi finished speaking with one of the uniformed women.
‘Capri,’ he said shortly. ‘This is Villa de Santi, my family’s holiday villa.’
She blinked, staring around the room. ‘A holiday villa? This is...pretty amazing.’
‘It’s built on the remains of a historic Roman palace and has been in my family for generations. My family’s actual estate is inland, near Naples, but I thought you would prefer to be near the sea.’ He gestured towards the doors. ‘You may wander at your leisure around the grounds, and don’t worry, you’ll be completely safe. My security is excellent.’
As if she’d needed any extra confirmation of his power... He had another house—no, estate—somewhere else on the mainland. But then, her research had confirmed that his resources were vast. An auction house in London was only the tip of the iceberg.
You will never escape him.
It was a strange thing to think when escaping him wasn’t what she actually wanted, or at least not right now. She only wanted to change his mind about handing her over to the authorities.
Even though you deserve it?
No, she didn’t. That was her fear talking. She ignored the thought. ‘But only around the grounds,’ she asked, to clarify. ‘Not anywhere else?’
His eyes were dark as midnight and just as impenetrable. ‘Of course not anywhere else. Your freedom is of a specific kind, civetta, and entirely at my pleasure.’
Not that she expected a different kind of answer. And this was already better than the house in Cornwall. Yes, she was still a prisoner, but at least she could see the sea. She could maybe even swim if she was lucky.
‘Why do you call me that?’ She frowned at him, distracted from swimming for a second. ‘What does it mean? Is it “filthy prisoner” in Italian?’
An odd expression flickered over his face. ‘No. It’s nothing.’
‘If it’s nothing, then why say it?’
‘It means “little owl.”’ He turned abruptly away. ‘We will have a late dinner out on the terrace there. Martina will show you to your room and collect you when it’s time to eat.’ He was already moving towards the door. ‘My staff do not speak English, so do not attempt to use them for any escape plans.’
She wasn’t thinking of escape plans. ‘Little owl?’ she echoed blankly.
But he’d already vanished through the doorway.
How strange. Why would he call her that? Was she particularly owl-like? Perhaps it was an Italian term of disdain?
She had no more time to think of it, however, as one of the uniformed women bustled in, letting out a stream of musical Italian and gesturing at her.
Lucy followed her as the woman led her through the echoing halls of the house. It was a wonderful place, the ancient walls whitewashed, giving it a light and airy feel. Sometimes the flooring was smooth tiles, sometimes it was parquet, but there were always beautiful artworks on those whitewashed walls and richly coloured rugs on those floors. It was an intoxicating combination of simplicity and richness, the scent of the sea everywhere and the sound of the waves permeating the house. And she felt the hard knot inside her loosening a little further.
Martina showed her to a big room on the next floor, with that warm wood on the floor and those lovely white walls. Gauzy curtains hung over big windows that looked out over the intense blue of the sea, and there was a big, dark oak bedstead covered in white pillows and a white quilt against one wall. Through one door was a blue-tiled bathroom, and through another what looked like a dressing room.
Martina, still talking, disappeared then came back with a length of lustrous red fabric thrown over one arm. She laid it across the bed, gesturing emphatically at Lucy’s dress. Lucy frowned then looked down at what she was wearing. ‘What? I don’t understand.’
Five minutes later it was apparent what Martina wanted, her firm hands briskly divesting Lucy of her handbag and then her dress. Shocked, Lucy could only stand there as Martina draped the red fabric around her shoulders, then tied it