The Italian's Final Redemption - Jackie Ashenden Page 0,43

know you care about that, but I don’t.’

‘You should care. I’m going to hand you over to the police and they’re going to put you in a cell, and there will be no one to ease your fear then, civetta. No one to hold you or calm you.’

Something vulnerable inside her shivered, but she ignored it.

You won’t be able to change his mind. He’ll never release you.

She ignored that too.

‘I know that,’ she said and didn’t look away.

‘You will get no gentleness from me. No mercy.’

Lucy arched a brow, her own temper stirring. ‘Did I ask for any?’

He muttered something low and vicious in Italian, then continued in English, ‘You don’t know what you’re asking for.’

She lifted her chin even higher. ‘Then show me.’

There was only the desk between them. Only a paltry length of wood that he could have reached across and dragged her over the top of at any time. It was all he could do to stop himself from doing just that.

She looked so beautiful this morning in a green silk dress that made her skin look creamy and deepened the chestnut of her hair, making her eyes seem greener too. The fabric was sheer and he could see the curvaceous shape of her through it, and it made him so hard he could barely think.

Then again, he’d been trying to think all morning and been unable to, his mind full of her. He’d thought going to his study and burying himself in work would be the answer, but it wasn’t. Even the news he’d just received, about how Armstrong wanted to do a deal for her return, hadn’t distracted him.

The whole night had been a mistake and he knew it. That moment of clarity, of purity, when pleasure had annihilated all thought and he’d lost himself in the darkness of her eyes, had been the turning point. If it had only been sex between them, if she’d been just another in the long line of women he’d had before, then it wouldn’t have mattered. He’d have taken his pleasure as often as he could with her and the rest of the world be damned.

But she wasn’t just another woman and it wasn’t only sex. He’d known it wouldn’t be the moment she’d told him that she wanted him to be her first. And it certainly hadn’t felt like only sex when he’d touched her, when he’d buried himself inside her.

There was something in the way she looked at him, the way she touched him, as if he was her white knight, a man who would save her, not lock her in a cell. A man who would protect her, keep her safe. A man she trusted...

But he could never be those things for her. Not if he didn’t want to compromise his entire life up to this point. Justice had always been his driving force and he didn’t allow himself to be swayed or manipulated. Wouldn’t allow his emotions to be twisted or turned the way his mother had twisted and turned them. Yet somehow Lucy had done both.

Correction. She hadn’t done it; he’d allowed it to happen. The problem was him, not her. He’d been weak. He should be burning with the holy fire of justice, not the sensual flame of desire.

Yet that flame wouldn’t go out and now she was here, so close, offering him more of what his body so desperately wanted, and the need inside him wouldn’t be leashed.

She was a criminal, though. She’d broken the law. She was his prisoner. She was everything he’d been fighting against and he couldn’t allow himself to have her.

But why not? She wants you. And no one need know. You’ve told her that you won’t be kind and you won’t show mercy, and that you’re still going to hand her over to the law, so she will have no expectations. After all, you’ve already crossed the line once...

His hands clenched tight, all the reasons for holding back suddenly seeming spurious. Maybe he was turning this into a bigger issue than it needed to be. Yes, he’d thought the night before had been about more than sex, but it didn’t need to continue like that. She wasn’t a virgin any more. And besides, it would only be for another few days and then the time limit he’d imposed would be up. He would give her over to the police and hopefully by then this madness—because it couldn’t be anything other than madness—would have left him.

The look