Nothing about the fact that Lucy had left home only when her dad, in his quiet way, had urged her to experience more of the world rather than put her life on hold to look after the younger children.
She’d experienced the world all right, but not in the way he’d had in mind.
As for the article, taken from a recent interview with Sylvia, it was a lurid exposé that painted Lucy as an uncaring, amoral gold-digger. It backed up every smear and innuendo that had been aired in the courtroom. Worse, it proved even her family had turned against her.
What would her stepsiblings think now they were old enough to read such malicious gossip?
Lucy’s heart withered and she pressed a hand to her throat, trying to repress rising nausea. Sylvia and she had never been close but Lucy had never thought her stepmother would betray her like this. The article’s spitefulness stole her breath.
Until now she’d believed there was someone believing in her. First her father and, after he died, Sylvia.
She felt bereft, grieving all over again for her dad who’d been steadfastly behind her. Never having known her long-dead mother, Lucy’s bond with her father had been special. His faith and love had kept her strong through the trial.
Lucy had never been so alone. Not even that first night in custody. Even after the conviction when she knew she had years of imprisonment ahead. Nor facing down the taunts and jeers as she’d learned to handle the threats from prisoners who’d tried to make her life hell.
The magazine was a rag but an upmarket one. Sylvia had sold her out for what must be a hefty fee.
Lucy blinked stinging eyes as she stared at the vile publication in her lap.
She thought she’d known degradation and despair. But it was only now that her life hit rock bottom.
And Domenico Volpe was here to see it.
She shivered, chilled to the marrow. How he must be gloating.
‘The coffee will be here soon.’
Lucy looked up to find him standing across from her, watchful. No doubt triumphing at the sight of her down and out. Framed by the massive antique fireplace and a solid wall of books, he looked the epitome of born and bred privilege. From his aristocratically handsome features to his hand stitched shoes he screamed power and perfection.
Once the sight of him had made her heart skip with pleasure. But she’d discovered the real Domenico Volpe when the chips were down. He’d sided with his own class, easily believing the most monstrous lies against her.
Slowly she stood, pride stiffening her weary legs and tilting her chin.
‘It’s time I left.’
Where she’d go she had no idea, but she had to escape.
She had just enough money to get her home to Devon. But now she had no home. Her breath hitched as she thought of Sylvia’s betrayal. She wouldn’t be welcome there.
Pain transfixed her.
‘You can’t leave.’
‘I’m now officially a free woman, Signor Volpe, however much you resent it. If you try to keep my here by force it will be kidnap.’
Even so a shiver of apprehension skated down her spine. She wouldn’t put anything past him. She’d seen his cadre of security men and she knew first hand what they were capable of.
‘You mistake me for one of your recent associates, Ms Knight.’ He snapped the words out as if he wanted to take a bite out of her. ‘I’ve no intention of breaking the law.’
Before she could voice her indignation he continued. ‘You need somewhere private; somewhere the press can’t bother you.’
His words stilled her protest.
‘And?’
‘I can provide that place.’
And pigs might fly.
‘Why would you do that?’ She’d read his contempt. ‘What do you get out of it?’
For the longest moment he stood silent. Only the hint of a scowl on his autocratic features hinted he wasn’t used to being questioned. Tough.
‘There are others involved,’ he said finally. ‘My brother’s widow and little Taddeo. They’re the ones affected the longer this is dragged through the press.’
Taddeo. Lucy had thought of him often. She’d loved the little baby in her care, enjoying his gurgles of delight at their peekaboo games and his wide-eyed fascination as she’d read him picture books. What was he like now?
One look at Domenico Volpe’s closed face told her he’d rather walk barefoot over hot coals than talk about his nephew with her.
‘So what’s your solution?’ She crossed her arms over her chest. ‘Walling me up in the basement car park?’
‘That could work.’ He bared his teeth in a feral smile that drew her skin tight. ‘But I prefer to work within the law.’ He paused. ‘I don’t have your penchant for the dramatic. Instead I suggest providing you with a bolthole till this blows over. Your bag is already in your room.’
Her room.
Lucy groped for the back of the chair she’d just vacated, her hand curling like a claw into the plump, soft leather. She tried to speak but her voice had dried up.
Her room.
The memory of it had haunted her for years. Ever since arriving here she’d been cold to the core because she knew that room was upstairs, on the far side of the building.
‘You can’t expect me to stay there!’ Her voice was hoarse with shock. ‘Even you couldn’t …’ She shook her head as her larynx froze. ‘That’s beyond cruel. That’s sick.’
His eyes widened and she saw understanding dawn. His nostrils flared and he stepped towards her, then pulled up abruptly.
‘No.’ The word slashed the clogged silence. ‘That room hasn’t been used since my brother died. There’s another guest room at your disposal.’
Relief sucked her breath away and loosened her cramped muscles. Slowly she drew in oxygen, marshalling all her strength to regroup after that scare.
‘I can’t stay in this house.’
He met her gaze silently, not asking why. He knew. The memories were too overwhelming.
‘I’ll find my own place.’
‘And how will you do that with the press on the doorstep?’ He crossed his arms over his chest and leaned a shoulder against the fireplace, projecting an air of insouciance that made her want to slap him. ‘Wherever you go they’ll follow. You’ll get no peace, no privacy.’
He was right, damn him. But to be dependent on him for anything stuck in her craw.
The door opened and a maid entered, bearing a tray of coffee and biscuits. The rich aroma, once her favourite, curdled Lucy’s stomach. Instinctively she pressed a hand to her roiling abdomen and moved away. Vaguely she heard him thank the maid, but from her new vantage point near the window Lucy saw only the press pack outside. The blood leached from her cheeks.
Which was worse? Domenico Volpe or the paparazzi who’d hound her for some tawdry story they could sell?
‘If you don’t mind, I’ll take you up on the offer of that room. Just to freshen up.’ She needed breathing space, time away from him, to work out what to do.
Lucy swung round to find him watching her. She should be used to it now. His scrutiny was continual. Yet reaction shivered through her. What did he see? How much of what she strove to hide?
She