An Inheritance of Shame - By Kate Hewitt Page 0,52

her a quick glance and nod.

‘Oh, yes.’

There was something about his grimly certain tone that made her feel even more uneasy. ‘Which horse?’

Angelo paused, then answered crisply, ‘Cry of Thunder to win.’

Lucia didn’t know a thing about horse racing, but from hearing the chatter and gossip in the staff room, she did know that Cry of Thunder was an upstart contender from Spain, a horse that no one was backing because of course everyone wanted Gio Corretti’s Sicilian-bred horse to win.

Everyone except Angelo.

‘Cry of Thunder?’ she repeated after a moment. ‘He’s not likely to win, is he?’

Angelo hesitated for only a second. ‘No.’

‘So why are you betting on him, then?’

He shifted in his seat. ‘There are more important things than money.’

‘Of course there are.’ Angelo’s tone had been repressive, but Lucia couldn’t ignore the deepening unease she felt, prickling along her spine and souring her stomach. ‘But a horserace…betting, gambling…that’s about money, surely? About winning?’

Angelo glanced at her, and his expression was completely unreadable. All the emotion and need, the hope and happiness, she’d once seen in his eyes was veiled, masked. His eyes were flat and dark, the colour of moss on stone. ‘It’s definitely about winning,’ he finally said, which was no answer at all.

A few other guests entered the VIP box then, and Angelo stood as he said hello to several expensive-suited corporate types. Lucia saw one of the women, a sleek brunette, flick a dismissive glance first towards her frivolous hair clip and then at her shoes. She fought not to blush. Damn her shoes anyway. If she’d been trying to fool anybody, she obviously wasn’t. Everyone could see how she didn’t belong here.

And she wasn’t trying to fool anybody, Lucia reminded herself fiercely. This was not her world. She didn’t want it to be Angelo’s world. She wanted to go home.

‘All right?’ Angelo asked, and reached for the champagne bottle to top up her barely touched flute.

‘Yes.’ Lucia smiled tightly. Every muscle in her body ached with tension, and the evening had barely started. She glanced at Angelo, who was leaning forward, his body looking as tense as hers felt. He wasn’t enjoying himself either, she thought suddenly, and she felt a flicker of something almost like relief. Maybe they weren’t so different at all. Neither of them wanted to be here.

They didn’t talk much as more people took their seats and then the race started. Lucia watched the horses, elegantly sinuous, eat up the track, clouds of dust billowing behind them and the sea a sunlit shimmer on the horizon. She couldn’t tell what was going on, but it was over soon enough—and Cry of Thunder had come in fifth. Gio Corretti’s horse had won.

‘How much did you lose?’ she asked, smiling, trying to keep it light, and Angelo shrugged.

‘It doesn’t matter.’

After the race they went with the other VIPs into a glittering ballroom. Tuxedoed waiters passed around yet more champagne as well as chocolate-dipped strawberries, caviar, pâté. Food Lucia had never had before and didn’t really like, although she helped herself to several strawberries. Angelo kept surveying the ballroom, his eyes narrowed as if he were looking for someone. He barely spoke to Lucia, and her unease turned to pure feminine annoyance.

‘Angelo—’

‘Come here.’ He took her elbow, striding forward towards a man Lucia recognised from earlier, Gio Corretti—a son of Benito Corretti, a cousin of Angelo’s.

The man inclined his head slightly in cool acknowledgement and Angelo smiled back, although there was no friendliness or warmth in that curving of lips. He looked hard, unyielding, ruthless. Underneath her hand his arm felt as if it had been hewn from granite, forged from steel.

‘You lost quite a bit tonight,’ Gio remarked as he shook Angelo’s outstretched hand. Angelo’s smile deepened, became even colder.

‘Pocket change, Gio.’

‘Ah.’ Gio Corretti nodded slowly. ‘I see.’

Lucia didn’t see anything at all. The men stared at each other, Angelo cold, Gio chillingly remote. Lucia felt like screaming at them to behave—but of course, to all intents and purposes, they were behaving. No fisticuffs, no hurling of insults. Just this cold, hard, glittering anger. Like the diamonds Angelo had wanted to buy for her, costly and soulless.

‘I’m not the one you’re fighting, you know,’ Gio said quietly, and Angelo’s whole body stiffened as if he’d been jerked on a string.

‘Who said I’m fighting?’

‘Aren’t you?’

‘It’s business.’

‘Some business.’ Gio shrugged, turned away, and Angelo stood there, his whole body quivering with tension, with anger. With hurt.

Lucia could feel it coming off him in waves,