‘I was a virgin.’
He winced. He’d been trying his best to forget that little nugget. ‘If it’s an apology you’re after then I apologise, but, as I explained at the time, I didn’t know.’
‘I told you...’
‘You told me you’d never had a serious boyfriend before.’
‘Exactly!’
‘And as I told you before, not having a serious boyfriend does not equate to being a virgin.’
‘It does—did—for me.’
‘How was I supposed to know that? You’re a twenty-six-year-old woman.’ He’d thought virgins of that age were extinct, a thought he kept to himself. Cara’s skin had gone as red as her hair. He didn’t particularly fancy being on the receiving end of a punch in the face in front of his entire family, even if she would need a stepladder to reach him. There was something of a ferocious Jack Russell about her at that moment.
‘You used me,’ she said, almost snarling. ‘You let me believe you were serious, and that we would see each other again.’
‘When? Tell me, when did I say we would see each other again?’
‘You said you wanted me to come to your new house in Paris so I could advise you where to place the Canaletto painting you bought in the auction.’
He shrugged. ‘That was business talk. You know about art and I needed an expert’s eye.’ He still needed one; he’d bought his Parisian home to showcase his art collection, but the entire lot was still in storage.
‘You said it while dipping your finger in champagne and then placing it in my mouth so I could suck it off.’
A flare of heat stirred in his groin. That particular moment had been during their last meal together, shortly before she’d agreed to join him in his hotel room and spend the night with him.
He cut his thoughts off the direction they were headed. The last thing he needed at that moment was to remember anything further about that night. It was becoming uncomfortable enough in his underwear as it was.
‘Why didn’t you steal my phone from the outset? Why string me along for a whole weekend?’ Her eyes were no longer firing hostility at him. All he saw in them was bewilderment.
It had been easier dealing with Aunt Carlotta’s jabbering mouth than with this. Okay, he got that Cara felt humiliated—he hardly recalled his actions that weekend with pride—but surely it was time for her to get over it?
‘I couldn’t steal your phone because you keep your handbag pressed so tightly to you I knew it would be impossible to steal.’ Even now, she had the long strap placed diagonally over her neck and across her chest, the bag itself tucked securely under her arm.
‘I’m surprised you didn’t arrange for someone to mug me. I’m sure between you and your brother you know enough shady people to do the job. It would have saved you wasting a weekend of your precious time.’
‘But you could have got hurt,’ he argued silkily. A strange shiver rippled through his belly at the thought, a feeling dismissed before it was properly acknowledged.
He’d had enough. He’d behaved atrociously but it had been necessary. He wasn’t prepared to spend the rest of the evening apologising for it. He’d never told her an actual lie—how she’d interpreted his words was nothing to do with him. ‘You share a house with three other women, which made breaking into your home too risky, and you keep your phone on you when you’re working. If you’d left your handbag unattended just once throughout that weekend, I would have taken it, but you didn’t—you didn’t let it out of your sight.’
‘So now it’s my fault?’ she demanded, hands on hips.
Cara had to be one of the shortest people he’d ever met, certainly on a par with his great-aunt Magdalena. In the four months since he’d last seen her, she’d lost weight, making her seem more doll-like than he remembered. Yet, whether it was the long flaming hair or the ferocity blazing from her eyes, she stood tall and unapologetic before him, as if a tank would not be enough to knock her down.
He bit back another oath. ‘What’s done is done. I’ve apologised and as far as I’m concerned that’s the end of the matter. It’s been four months. I suggest you forget about it and move on.’
With that, he stalked away, striding towards Luca and Grace, ready to tell them he was leaving.
‘Actually, it’s not the end of the matter.’
Something in the tone of her voice made him pause.
‘It’s impossible for me to “forget about it and move on”.’
A shiver of something that could be interpreted as fear crawled up his spine...
* * *
Cara watched Pepe’s back tense and all the muscles beneath his crisp pink shirt bunch together.
Only Pepe could get away with a pink linen shirt, unbuttoned at the neck, and snug-fitting navy chinos for his own niece’s christening. The shirt wasn’t even tucked in! Yet he still oozed masculinity. If she could, she’d rip all the testosterone from him—and there must be buckets of it—and flush it down the toilet. Standing next to him in the church, she had been acutely aware of how overdressed she looked in comparison, and had fumed at the unfairness of it all—he was the one underdressed for the occasion. With his long Roman nose, high cheekbones, trim black goatee covering his strong chin and his ebony hair quiffed at the front, Pepe looked as if he’d stepped off a catwalk.
She’d truly thought she’d been prepared. In her head she’d had everything planned out. She would be calm. She would politely ask for five minutes of his time, explain the situation and tell him what she wanted. Above all else, she would be calm.
Under no circumstances would she let him know of her devastation when she’d awoken alone in his hotel suite, or her terror when the stick in her hand had turned pink.
She would be calm.
All her good intentions had been thrown by the wayside when she’d taken one look at his handsome face and wanted to knock his perfect white teeth out.
The whole time she’d been next to him at the christening, even while they were making their respective promises as Lily’s godparents, all she could think was how much she wanted to cause him bodily harm. She’d even found herself gazing at the silver scar that ran down his cheek, wishing she could track the culprit down and shake his hand. Or her hand. She’d asked Pepe about the scar during their weekend together but he’d evaded the question with his customary ease. She hadn’t pushed the matter but it had tugged at her. All she’d wanted to do was trace a finger down it and make it magically disappear.
Who, she’d wondered, could have hated him enough to do such a thing? Pepe was charm personified. Everyone adored him. Or so she’d thought.
Now it wouldn’t surprise her in the least to discover a queue of people wishing to perform bodily harm on him.
The violence of her thoughts and emotions shocked her. She was a pacifist. She’d attended anti-war demos, for cripes’ sake!
She’d spent the past four months castigating herself for being stupid enough to fall for Pepe Mastrangelo’s seduction. She should have known it wasn’t her he was interested in. After all, he’d never displayed the slightest interest in her before. Not once.
On her frequent trips to Sicily to visit Grace, they would often make a foursome for evenings out. Luca had terrified her, had done from the moment she’d met him. Pepe, on the other hand, had been fun and charming. After a few dates she’d been able to converse with him as easily as she could with Grace. Tall and utterly gorgeous, he was the type of man females from all generations and all persuasions would pause to take a second look at.
However