The Italian's Final Redemption - Jackie Ashenden Page 0,29

but she’d never even been partially naked in front of anyone, let alone a man she was afraid of. A man she’d only known a matter of hours. A stranger.

It made her feel very vulnerable. But she was tired of feeling alone and powerless. Tired of feeling afraid all the time and so she didn’t look away. He might be frightening, yet she refused to give in to her fear.

His face remained unreadable, his eyes glittering. ‘Are you trying to manipulate me with sex, Miss Armstrong? Because I should warn you now, I don’t respond well to it.’

She shivered slightly at the chill in the words. Clearly she was on dangerous ground. ‘I...didn’t intend it that way, no.’

‘Then what did you intend? Do you think I’m a man who would be swayed by such things?’

The urge to cover herself returned, stronger this time as his gaze slid slowly down her body, dipping to where her robe opened. But she didn’t move. She had the distinct impression that he was not...unaffected.

‘I don’t know,’ she said, her voice hoarse. ‘Are you?’

He lifted his gaze to hers again, unhurried. ‘No. I am not. Especially when the woman concerned is afraid of me and doesn’t want me.’

A little shock went through her. Did she want him? She’d never wanted anyone before, so how would she know? Was it possible to want someone you were afraid of?

But it’s not just fear that you feel for him.

The shock deepened as she stared at him in the darkness, the light from the candles flickering over his strong features, touching on the harsh planes and angles of his face, shadowing the deeper darkness of his eyes and the hollow of his throat...

She wanted to tell him that she didn’t think it was only fear that she felt for him, but her hesitation must have given her away, because he moved abruptly, shoving back his chair with some force. He didn’t say anything, merely gave her one last, fierce look that she couldn’t interpret, then turned and left her sitting there in the dark, with her robe open and the shock getting deeper and wider inside her.

Vincenzo didn’t know what to do. He was furious, both with himself for wanting what he shouldn’t, and with Miss Lucy Armstrong for offering something he couldn’t help wanting and in such a way as to ensure he could never take it.

Not only was she a criminal whose crimes had hurt people, but she’d also used her body as a bargaining chip. She’d said that she hadn’t meant it that way, yet he felt manipulated all the same.

‘Ask Gabriella out, Vincenzo,’ his mother had told him all those years ago. ‘Go to the cinema and have some dessert afterwards. Get her to tell you what her father’s movements are, especially whether he’s planning on returning home after the play on Friday night or whether he’s going out. And if he’s going out, we need to know where.’

He’d been older then, eighteen, and starting to suspect that his beloved mother’s casual requests were never as casual as they seemed, and so of course he asked why this was necessary. Why he couldn’t just enjoy a date with his childhood friend and whom he was beginning to have feelings for.

‘Oh, it’s just some family business, my handsome boy. Nothing to be concerned about. I like to keep tabs on people. You know that.’

And she’d given him the most radiant smile, and he’d forgotten his doubts and suspicions. All he’d wanted was to make his mother happy.

Of course it was just business. Of course it was nothing to be concerned about.

So he’d taken Gabriella out and casually asked her about her father, then later relayed the information to his mother. And two days later, Gabriella’s father had died in a hit. No one knew which family had been responsible, but Vincenzo had known. And so had Gabriella.

She’d realised Vincenzo had betrayed her. That he was the one who’d got her beloved father killed and that he’d made her complicit in it too. That the downfall of her own family was her fault, and all because a childhood friend had asked her a few seemingly simple questions.

He’d never forgotten the sound of Gabriella’s devastated voice ringing in his ears as she’d called him the next day, confronting him with what he’d done, full of fury and grief. Nothing he could say would have made it better, because he knew what he’d done just as she had.

Afterwards, he’d