‘Do you go alone?’ Sandro enquired, almost negligently studying his fingernails. ‘Or do you have company on your journey?’
Polly tensed. ‘That,’ she said, ‘is no concern of yours.’
‘Then let us make it my concern,’ he said softly. ‘Because I wish to know the truth. Do you live alone?’
The question seemed to hang in the air between them while her mind ran in frantic circles, looking for a way out.
Useless to go on telling him it was none of his business. That would not deter him. On the other hand, it would be a humiliation to admit that since him, there had been no one in her life. That she existed in self-imposed celibacy.
She could invent a lover, but she’d always been a terrible liar, and the risk of him seeing through her story was too great.
And then, as if a light had dawned, she realised there was no need for invention after all.
Polly lifted her chin, and faced him. ‘No,’ she said, very clearly. ‘I don’t live alone.’
It was no more than the truth, she thought. And it might just set her free …
Sandro was very still suddenly, little golden fires leaping in his eyes as his gaze met hers. He said, ‘And, naturally, your companion is male?’ He watched her swift, jerky nod.
There was another silence, then he said harshly, ‘Do you love him?’
Unbidden, an image of Charlie’s small sleeping face invaded her mind, and her mouth curved involuntarily, instinctively into tenderness.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘And I always will.’
As soon as she spoke the words, she knew they were a mistake. That she’d snatched at a means of escape from him, without fully considering the consequences. And that she could have gone too far.
‘You dare to tell me that?’ His voice crackled with suppressed anger.
Her heart jolted nervously, but she knew that she had to finish what she’d started. That she had no other choice.
She tilted her chin defiantly. ‘What did you expect? That I’d stay single in memory of you? Like you remained celibate for me?’ she added scornfully. ‘Dream on—please.’
Sandro’s eyes were fixed on her, a slow flame burning in their depths. ‘And how long has he been part of your life? The truth.’
She touched the tip of her tongue to her dry lips. ‘Two years—or so.’
‘So,’ he said slowly. ‘You went from my arms to his.’ His gaze went over her, measuring and contemptuous. ‘I see you wear no ring.’
She swallowed. ‘That’s my own choice.’
‘And have you whispered the same promises to him that you once made to me?’ His voice was quiet. Compelling.
She hesitated, choosing her words with care. ‘He knows that I’ll—always be there for him.’
‘How touching,’ Sandro said softly. ‘Yet you left him to come to Italy.’ His sudden smile was cool. Dangerous. ‘And to me.’
‘I believed I was working for the contessa,’ Polly returned fiercely, trying to conceal the fact that she was shaking inside, nearing the edge of panic. ‘I had no idea that she could be a relation of yours—or that you were even in the region. If I’d known, I wouldn’t be here.’
She flung back her head. ‘So, how did you persuade her to do your dirty work? Bribery—or blackmail?’
His mouth thinned. ‘You are not amusing, carissima. Be very careful.’
‘Why?’ she challenged recklessly. ‘I already know the lengths you’re prepared to go to—when there’s something you want.’
Or when you’ve stopped wanting …
You sent me away, she thought. So why are you here now, tormenting me like this—reviving all these unwanted memories?
Her throat ached suddenly at the thought of them. But that was a weakness she couldn’t afford, because the room seemed to be shrinking, the walls closing in, diminishing the space between them. A space she needed to maintain at all costs.
‘I wonder if that’s true.’ Sandro’s voice was quiet—reflective. ‘Perhaps you don’t know me as well as you think.’
‘Well,’ she said, ‘that hardly matters any more.’ She paused. ‘And I don’t think there’s much point in continuing this discussion either.’
His smile twisted. ‘Then we agree on something at last.’
‘So, if you can tell me where to find my shoes and jacket, I’ll go.’
‘Back to him? Your innamorato?’
‘Back to my life,’ Polly said, lifting her chin. ‘In which you have no part, signore.’
‘I can hardly argue with that,’ Sandro shrugged. ‘You will find your belongings in the bedroom, Paola mia.’
He did not, she noticed, offer to fetch them for her, as the Sandro she’d once known would have done.
Don’t fool yourself, she thought as she trod, barefoot, into the bedroom and paused, looking around her. As he said—you never really knew him at all.
Her jacket and bag were on a small sofa by the window, her shoes arranged neatly beneath it. As she reached them she was aware of a sound behind her, and turned.
Sandro had followed her, she realised, her heart missing a beat. She hadn’t been aware of his approach, because he too had discarded his shoes. But the noise she’d heard was the sound of the door closing behind him, shutting them in together.
And now he was leaning back against its panels, watching her with hooded eyes, his expression cool and purposeful as, with one hand, he began to unfasten the buttons on his shirt.
Polly felt the breath catch in her throat. With a supreme effort, she controlled her voice, keeping it steady. ‘Another game, signore?’
‘No game at all, signorina.’ Cynically, he echoed her formality. ‘As I am sure you know perfectly well.’
She had picked up her bag, and was holding it so tightly that the strap cut into her fingers. ‘I—I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
Sandro tutted. ‘Now you’re being dishonest, bella mia, but I expected that.’ He allowed his discarded shirt to drop to the floor, and began to walk towards her.
She swallowed. ‘I think you must be going crazy.’
‘Possibly,’ he said with sudden harshness. ‘And I want to be sane again.’ He halted, the topaz eyes blazing at her. ‘You are under my skin, Paola. In my blood, like a fever that refuses to be healed. And that is no longer acceptable to me. So, I plan to cure myself of you once and for all—and in the only possible way.’
‘No.’ She stared back at him, her appalled heart thudding frantically. ‘No, Sandro. You can’t do this. I—I won’t let you.’
‘You really believe you have a choice?’ He gave a short laugh. ‘I know better.’
She backed away until her retreat was cut off by the wall behind her. Until he reached her.
‘Please, Sandro,’ she whispered. ‘Please let me go.’
He laughed again, touching a finger to her trembling lips, before outlining the curve of her jaw, and stroking down the delicate line of her throat to the neckline of her dress.
‘Once I have finished with you, carissima,’ he drawled insolently, ‘you are free