A Night In His Arms. Annie WestЧитать онлайн книгу.
you,’ she said at last. ‘That would be...nice.’
Was that a flash of pleasure in Domenico’s eyes? Not triumph as she’d half expected. Her brow puckered.
‘Good.’ He pointed her to the pool house. ‘You’ll find what you need up there. Don’t forget a hat. I’ll meet you at the boat.’
* * *
Fifteen minutes later Lucy hurried down the steps to the beach. She’d rifled through a treasure trove of designer swimwear, finally selecting the plainest one-piece she could find. No way was she flaunting herself before Domenico in a barely there string bikini. Nevertheless she felt strangely aware of the Lycra clinging to her body under her skirt and shirt. It reminded her of the flicker of heat she saw in his eyes, and her body’s inevitable reaction—a softening deep inside.
So often she found him watching her, the hint of a frown on his wide forehead, as if she was some enigma he had to puzzle. Or was he calculating how long she’d hold out against the fortune he offered?
On condition she stopped proclaiming her innocence.
She set her jaw. The first thing she’d do when she found work was pay back the price of this swimsuit. Even if it took her months on the basic wage!
Lucy stepped into the boatshed, trying to calculate how much a designer swimsuit would set her back.
It was dim inside and it took a moment for her eyes to adjust. She blinked at the sleek outline of the speedboat moored inside. Was this the boat they were taking?
She turned, wondering if she should wait outside, when movement caught her eye.
On the far side of the boat a man came towards her—thickset with a bullish head and broad neck that spoke of blatant strength. He moved with surprising agility. His dark suit blended with the shadows but, as her eyes adjusted to the gloom, she caught the crooked line of a broken nose and hands the size of dinner plates.
The hair at her nape stood on end and terror engulfed her. She froze, recognition filling her.
The rusty taste of blood on her bitten tongue roused her. She drew a shuddering breath and catapulted towards the door. With every step she imagined one of those heavy hands grabbing her, capturing her, punishing her.
Lucy’s breath sawed through constricted lungs as she reached, hands outstretched, for the door. Her legs seemed to slow as if in a nightmare. She knocked over some tins that clattered to the floor and almost fell but kept going, eyes on the sunlit rectangle of freedom ahead, desperation driving her.
With a sob of fear she plunged outside, blinded by light, only to find her flight stopped by a hard, hot body.
He’d never held her but she knew it was Domenico. The scent of warm spice and pine, and something else, something so profound she had no name for it, told her it was him in the millisecond before his arms came round her, hugging her close.
‘Please,’ she gasped. ‘Watch out! He’s here. He’s—’
She struggled to turn, but Domenico’s grip was firm. She was plastered to him, her face pressed to his collarbone. One hand held her head against him and his other arm lashed protectively around her waist.
Lucy felt heat, strength and solidity. Safety. His heart beat steadily against her raised palm and, despite her fear relief weakened her knees. Tendrils of heat invaded her ice-numbed body, counteracting the horror that filled her.
‘Lucy? What is it?’ His deep voice ruffled her hair and wrapped itself around her.
She shook her head. ‘Be careful! He—’
‘I’m sorry, sir.’ An unfamiliar voice came from behind her. ‘I was putting provisions in the boat. I didn’t mean to scare the lady.’
Lucy turned her head, eyes widening at the man who emerged from the boatshed.
He was a stranger.
Her heart leapt even as reaction set in and her knees buckled. She clung to Domenico. His grip tightened, holding her against him as if she belonged there.
Later she’d regret clinging to him, but now she was too overwhelmed by a sense of deliverance from danger.
It wasn’t him.
The knowledge beat a rapid tattoo in her blood. She took in the worried face and bright eyes of the stranger. What she’d thought a bodyguard’s suit was a casual uniform of dark trousers and shirt. The man was an employee, but not the one she’d feared. Even the crooked jut of his nose was different and his eyes held none of the gleaming malice she remembered.
In face of the stranger’s concern Lucy tried to summon a reassuring smile but it wobbled too much.
‘Lucy?’ Domenico’s broad palm rubbed her back and comforting heat swirled from the point of contact. She pressed closer, arching into him.
‘I’m sorry.’ Her voice was husky. She turned as far as she could within Domenico’s firm embrace. She should step free but couldn’t dredge the strength to stand alone. ‘I...overreacted. I saw someone coming towards me in the darkness and...’
‘I’m sorry, signorina.’ The big man looked solemn. ‘I didn’t mean—’
‘No. Don’t apologise.’ Lucy’s smile was more convincing now, though it felt like a rictus stretch of stiff muscles. ‘It was my mistake.’
‘It’s okay, Salvo.’ Domenico’s deep voice was balm to shredded nerves. ‘Everything’s fine. You can leave us.’
With one last troubled look the man left and Lucy sagged. The rush of adrenalin was fading. She felt almost nauseous in the aftermath.
‘Lucy? Come and sit in the shade.’
Suddenly, as if her brain had just engaged, she became fully conscious of how intimately they stood. The press of hard muscle and solid bone supporting her. The reassuring beat of his heart beneath her palm. The need to lean closer and lose herself in his embrace. The flare of pleasure at the differences between them—he was so utterly masculine against her melting weakness.
That realisation made her snap upright on a surge of horrified energy.
‘I’m sorry.’ Humiliation blurred her words as she struggled to remove herself from his hold. What must he think of her, clinging to him?
Bile churned her stomach. She knew what he must think. The prosecution at the trial had painted her as a femme fatale, using the promise of her body to win expensive favours from her indulgent boss. Domenico probably thought she was trying a similar tactic to win sympathy.
A shudder of self-loathing passed through her and she broke free. How could she have turned to him?
Her pace was uneven but she managed the few steps to the boatshed, putting her hand to its wall for support.
Stifling her shame and embarrassment, Lucy forced herself to turn. He stood, frowning, the line of his jaw razor-sharp and his grey eyes piercing.
‘Now we’re alone you can tell me who you thought you were running from. Who are you scared of?’
‘SCARED?’ LUCY GAVE a shaky laugh. Her hand dropped from the wall and she straightened. She swayed and Domenico discovered the heat curling through his belly had turned to anger.
It was a welcome change from the surge of hunger he’d known as she’d melted against him.
‘Tell me, Lucy.’ His tone was one his business associates obeyed without question.
Her chin jutted obstinately. ‘There’s nothing to tell. I saw someone coming towards me in the dark and panicked.’
Domenico shook his head. ‘You don’t