An Inheritance of Shame - By Kate Hewitt Page 0,25

innate sense of loss. Incredibly, she still wanted him. Gently he tucked her hair behind her ears, wiped the traces of tears from her face. He smiled, his features softened into something almost like tenderness.

‘Dio, I didn’t mean it to be as fast as that.’

She laughed shakily; already this was so different from before. From what she knew. Seven years ago there had been no pillow talk, no exchange at all. Afterwards he’d drawn her to him and she’d curled around his body, silent, singing with an ill-found happiness, and they’d both fallen asleep.

When she’d woken up with the dawn he had already left. She hadn’t even been surprised, not really.

‘There’s nothing wrong with fast.’

‘Next time it will be slow.’

Next time? The words, spoken with so much certainty, shocked her. Surely there would be no next time with Angelo.

He tugged on her fingers. ‘Come upstairs.’

‘Where?’

But he didn’t answer, just led her up the winding staircase and then into what was clearly the master bedroom, and then into the huge marble en suite bathroom.

‘You’re covered in sand. And tears. Let me wash you.’

Wash her? It seemed like an incredibly intimate, tender thing to do, so different from the frantic urgency of what had happened before. This was new, uncertain territory, thrilling and scary. She didn’t know this Angelo.…And yet as he led her to the huge glassed-in shower with a wry, tender smile she felt like she’d always know him.

That boy. That girl.

She stood still as Angelo turned on the taps and then slowly stripped the clothes from her body, sliding her skirt down her legs and the T-shirt over her head. Underwear came next, his movements gentle and unhurried, until she was completely naked before him.

She shivered slightly as she stood there; this felt, weirdly, more revealing than what they’d done just moments ago. Angelo swept his gaze over her body and she reacted underneath his considering stare, a splotchy blush appearing across her chest. He laughed softly.

‘Mi cucciola, are you embarrassed?’

‘Yes,’ she said, blushing further. She crossed her arms over her breasts. ‘You’ve never actually seen me naked before. And…and don’t call me that.’

He frowned before yanking his T-shirt over his head and tossing it to the floor. ‘Call you what?’

Lucia was momentarily distracted by the sight of his chest, all hard, golden muscle with a sprinkling of dark hair veeing down to the unbuttoned waistband of his jeans. She swallowed dryly. ‘Mi cucciola. You called me that when we were children.’ My puppy. Lucia had never known if he’d meant it or not, but her heart had thrilled every time the endearment had slipped so carelessly from his lips. And no matter how tender he seemed now, she knew he’d changed. She had. This was still only, and ever could be, a one-night stand. Another one.

‘I’m not that girl any more, Angelo,’ she said quietly. ‘And you’re not that boy.’

Slowly he reached out and wiped the trace of a tear from her cheek with his thumb. ‘Am I not?’ he asked softly, and she shook her head.

‘You know you aren’t.’

‘I don’t know anything any more.’ Smiling although his eyes were dark he wrapped his hand around the back of her neck and drew her to him, kissing her gently on the lips. Lucia closed her eyes, felt her heart twist inside her.

She couldn’t let him be that boy again. She’d fallen in love with that boy, and he’d broken her heart. She knew he didn’t love her, had never loved her, and if she believed in an Angelo that was different from the ruthless and determined tycoon he’d become she’d be lost. Broken. Again.

If he really was that boy inside, underneath, she wouldn’t be able to walk away after one night. And she had to, for her own sake. One night, on her terms this time, and then in the morning she’d walk away. For ever.

Angelo broke the kiss to gaze at her, a question in his eyes. ‘What are you thinking?’ he asked softly.

‘Nothing.’ She swallowed, tried to smile. ‘Nothing important.’

He smiled, the curve of his mouth primal and possessive as he led her into the shower. Lucia had never bathed with a man before. She’d never been with a man except Angelo, had never had the opportunity or the desire. She’d only wanted Angelo. She’d only loved Angelo.

She had to stop thinking like that.

She watched as Angelo poured some expensive-smelling shower gel onto his hands, smiling at her, his eyes glinting in the dim light.

‘What are