‘You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to,’ Alessandro said quietly. ‘But I think that it would help me to understand.’
Meghan forced herself to look up, blinking through a haze of devastated emotion and memory. ‘What is there to understand?’
‘Why you’re so suspicious. Afraid. Ashamed.’
‘I’m not!’
Alessandro simply inclined his head.
‘Let’s just say I’m coming out of a bad relationship,’ she finally managed. Meghan bit her lip, took in a shuddering breath. She felt cold, empty, even though the waves of emotion Alessandro had caused to crash through her still lapped at her nerves, her senses. ‘Look, I’m suspicious, and I don’t know what kind of man you are. You tricked me into coming here, after all.’
Alessandro’s face was harsh in its sincerity. ‘I promise you, I won’t hurt you.’
‘You might not mean to,’ Meghan muttered.
His face blanked for a second, and he inclined his head in silent, brutal acknowledgement. Meghan looked down.
Alessandro leaned forward, rested a hand on her arm. His fingers were gentle, caressing, yet they burned. Made her ache, made her want to know how they would feel on her skin. All over her skin.
Meghan stared at his hand, the clean strength of it on her own pale fingers, as he murmured, ‘Stay, Meghan. Spend the night— alone—and we can have the day tomorrow. To enjoy. Be tourists, if you like.’
‘And see what happens?’
‘Why must you think of the future? Let us just enjoy each other’s company. It brings me pleasure to be with you, to look at you. Do you not feel the same?’
His voice was a caress, and Meghan found herself nodding, helpless. ‘Yes …’
‘Then let us enjoy it,’ Alessandro said simply. ‘Enjoy each other. And leave it at that.’ He removed his hand, and Meghan felt bereft. Stupid to want his touch. Foolish to crave it when she knew it could only lead to hurt. Pain and shame.
‘And then I leave,’ she stipulated.
Alessandro shrugged. ‘If that is your desire.’
‘It is.’
‘Very well.’ He gazed at her, one hand curled around the stem of his wine glass, his eyes glittering.
‘I’ll sleep in the spare bedroom,’ she said after a moment. He smiled and nodded.
‘You know where it is? I can show you, if you like.’
‘N-no,’ she stammered. ‘That’s not necessary.’
He chuckled, enjoying her discomfiture. ‘As you wish.’
Meghan lifted her chin. ‘And I’ll lock the door,’ she added with her last mustered spirit, and for a moment Alessandro looked almost hurt.
‘I’ll take your word for it,’ he said quietly.
The lights had been dimmed in her bedroom, the covers turned back. Meghan saw that a hot water bottle had been thoughtfully placed between the smooth cotton sheets and a nightgown—also cotton, and surprisingly modest—had been laid out on a chair.
She felt like a treasured guest. A captive guest. Yet she had chosen these bonds. She couldn’t blame Alessandro any more.
This was her choice.
This was her desire.
Her hand hovered over the lock. She knew Alessandro would not try to come in; even to suggest it had been an insult. She was in control now.
Yet the fear she’d lived with for six long months was too deeply ingrained into her soul, her spirit. Biting her lip, Meghan turned the key, heard the audible click, and somehow knew Alessandro had heard it as well.
Too tired to think any more, to wonder what Alessandro intended to do or how she might respond, she changed and slipped into bed. Sleep blessedly came within a few minutes.
When she woke, sunlight was filtering through the linen curtains and casting shifting patterns on the floor.
Her eyes reminded him of sunlight.
Gilded words, or the truth? Meghan sighed and leaned back against the pillows. Her experience with Stephen had caused her to question everything that came out of a man’s mouth, to think the worst of every admiring look he might give.
To doubt and to fear.
When would it stop? Meghan wondered. When would she stop? Yesterday morning she couldn’t have imagined ever wanting a man again. She certainly couldn’t have imagined the desire she would feel, as potent as a drug, as heady as new wine.
Desire.
Meghan closed her eyes. That was all it was. Desire. Sex.
Not love.
Never love.
She could not, absolutely could not, fall in love with Alessandro di Agnio.
Love was dangerous. Love made you a fool and a victim.
Meghan was never going to fall in love again.
So, she thought with a rueful smile, all she needed to do was enjoy this day and make sure not to fall in love with Alessandro. Tonight she would leave Spoleto, and his life, for ever.
The thought made her wince. She wasn’t ready to leave. How ridiculous, when only twelve hours ago she’d shrilly demanded her release.
Impatient with the thoughts chasing circles in her head, she threw off the covers. She would enjoy the day. Then she would say goodbye.
That was simply how it had to be.
A light knock sounded at the door, and Meghan whirled in surprise. ‘Who is it?’ she asked carefully, in Italian.
‘Ana, signorina. I’ve brought you some clothes.’
‘Just a moment …’ Meghan hurried to the door and turned the key. ‘Come in.’
The housekeeper bustled in, her expression ominously neutral as she placed a bundle of clothes on top of the bureau. ‘Signor di Agnio thought you might wish for a change of clothes.’
‘That was thoughtful of him.’
Ana inclined her head in what could have been a nod or a shrug. Her expression remained bland as she waited for Meghan’s dismissal.
‘Where did they come from?’ Meghan asked, her curiosity piqued.
‘The clothes?’ Ana’s mouth thinned in disapproval. ‘They belong to Signor di Agnio’s wife.’
‘What?’ Meghan stared at the housekeeper, her eyes wide with shock. Alessandro was married? ‘His wife?’ she repeated.
Ana inclined her head. ‘Paula di Agnio. She lives in Rome.’
Married. Somehow Alessandro had forgotten to mention that little detail. Did he think it wasn’t important? That she wouldn’t care?
Meghan closed her eyes. Liar. She’d begun to believe Alessandro was different, that even if he only wanted sex at least he was honest about it.
He was a liar, like all the rest.
Like Stephen.
And she’d fallen for it, begun to believe his tender little act, because her heart and body still cried out for understanding, compassion.
Love.
No. Not that. Not that any more. Ever.
‘Is there anything else you need, signorina?’ Ana asked diffidently. ‘There are toiletries in the bathroom. A toothbrush, deodorant—whatever you