The Italian's Final Redemption - Jackie Ashenden Page 0,41

around, his obsidian gaze catching hers, the ferocity in it driving all the air from her lungs.

Had that fierceness always been there? Had she simply not seen it? Or was this new?

No, it had always been there, the driving force of his will allied with the flame of purpose. A man who would stop at nothing to get what he wanted or to do what was right. Who wouldn’t let anything get in his way, not mercy, not sympathy, not tenderness. No soft feeling at all.

Yet...last night he’d been nothing but gentle with her—at least initially. Until she’d shown him that she didn’t need gentleness.

He kept talking, the tone of his voice not changing one iota, holding her gaze with his. She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move. The seething tension that gathered around him held her fast.

Something was wrong. He was angry. No, more than that. He was furious.

Male anger was always something to be wary of. Her father’s rages had been terrifying and she’d seen the consequences of that rage first-hand. After her mother had died, being in his vicinity had always made her go icy with fear and she tried to avoid him at all costs when he was like that.

Yet, even though Vincenzo seemed no less angry, she wasn’t scared. His was a coldly controlled anger and the threat of violence that hovered around him wasn’t directed at her. He told her he would never hurt her and she’d believed him then; she believed him now too.

She didn’t back away and leave the room the way she might have done even a week earlier. Instead she lifted her chin and stood there, waiting for him to finish. She’d been going to ask him why he’d left her that morning, but now she wanted to know why he was so angry. Was it her father? Business? What?

Quite suddenly he disconnected the call and flung the phone back down on the desk with a clatter. ‘What do you want?’ There was an edge to his cool voice. ‘I told Martina I wasn’t to be disturbed.’

Lucy took a breath, studying the hard cast of his features and the black glitter of his eyes. ‘Why are you angry?’

‘Why do you think? I gave orders that I wasn’t to be interrupted and yet here you are.’

‘That’s not why.’ Something more was going on here, she was sure of it. The hot breath of his fury was too intense to be about a mere interruption. ‘Is it my father?’

He muttered something vicious under his breath and looked away, the tension pouring off him.

The urge to go around the desk and put her hands on those hard, muscled shoulders to ease him was almost overwhelming. But they’d only had one night together and she couldn’t presume anything. He probably wouldn’t welcome it anyway.

She clasped her hands in front of her instead. ‘Vincenzo?’

‘You should leave.’ The words were bitten out. ‘I’m not in the mood for conversation.’

‘Why? What’s happened?’

He lifted his head, his gaze clashing with hers again. The darkness in it made it hard to breathe. ‘You happened, civetta.’

Shock slid down her spine. She stared at him, not understanding. ‘What do you mean, I happened?’

He straightened, a muscle in his jaw leaping. ‘Last night you compromised my moral code and it cannot happen again.’ The anger threading through his voice was like hot metal piercing a block of ice, making his accent more pronounced. ‘I do not sleep with my prisoners.’

Oh. So that was the issue. She was the issue. And he regretted it.

A heavy disappointment settled in her stomach, though she knew she had no right to be disappointed. There had been no promises made, no indication that it would happen again. She’d just assumed, because it had been so good...

For you. But perhaps not for him.

Her mouth dried, the disappointment turning inward, growing sharp edges. ‘I...see,’ she said huskily. ‘I didn’t mean—’

‘You didn’t mean to sleep with me? Is that what you’re trying to say? You didn’t mean to compromise me? Or cause me to forget everything I stand for?’ He gave a harsh laugh. ‘You overestimate your charms, Miss Armstrong. It wasn’t you and your lovely body, believe me. It was my own weakness.’

The edges were razor-sharp, cutting her, pain seeping through her. She wanted to turn away and leave the room, run away and hide. She’d thought that what had happened between them had been special, had been precious, and now he was looking at her as if it had meant