She’d revealed herself at last. Lily had no idea what that meant, only that it was done and there was no taking it back.
Much too soon, Rafael led her from the boat and into the waiting loggia level of his family’s palazzo, his temper a living thing that walked beside them, between them, thicker than the Venice night all around them and stronger than the hand wrapped around her arm. It didn’t occur to her to defy him. She didn’t imagine it would do her any good.
And if she was honest with herself, Lily knew that as much as she’d tried to avoid this moment of unfortunate truth, a far deeper part of her was glad. Not that she’d succumbed to that destructive passion again, the way she always did like the addict she was—but that there would be no more lies.
She told herself that was a good thing, as she handed off her cape to the waiting servant and shivered—though not because she was cold. It was time for honesty, however ugly. It was past time.
Rafael strode through the collection of rooms on the second level, more commonly rented out for things like art exhibits these days than for giving parties like the one they’d just left, then up the stairs she’d come down what seemed like a lifetime ago to the private family living suites above. He kept that seemingly polite hand anchored in the small of her back, guiding her where he wanted her to go, and somehow she didn’t quite dare disobey him. Not when she sensed he was holding on the pretense of civility by the skin of his teeth, if that. When a glance at his set, hard face made her think of wild and untamed things, uncontrollable passions, and challenges she hoped she was too wise these days to take.
She hoped.
He ushered her into the vast common room in the center of the bedroom suites that rambled over the upper floor, commanding views of lovely, snowy Venice in all directions. Then he left her standing there in the center of all that opulent art and ancient craft, from the frescoes that adorned the walls to the stunning sweep of paintings to the elegance of the furnishings themselves. An excessive example of the Castelli wealth—and its power—in a single overwarm room, with the brooding fury of Rafael at its center. She watched him stride over to the carved wood cabinet that served as a bar in the corner and pour himself something rich and dark into a heavy-looking tumbler. He tossed it back, then poured himself another, and only then did he turn to face her.
Only then did Lily fully comprehend that she’d simply stood there where he’d left her, like a windup doll waiting to be played with again. Or as if she was awaiting his judgment. As if she deserved his condemnation—but she shied away from that thought almost as soon as it formed.
Rafael was not the victim here. Neither was she. Or they both were, perhaps, and of the same wild passion.
And she told herself that the fact she was still standing there had nothing to do with that glimpse of something like hurt she thought she’d seen on his face when he’d come after her on the steps of the palazzo across the canal. So dark and tormented, and she knew she’d put that there. She knew she’d done that to him, no matter who was the victim here.
Lily had left him, and in the worst way imaginable. That was undeniable. Why should she care if knowing what she’d done hurt him? Hadn’t she already hurt him—and everyone else she knew? What could one more hurt matter, set against all the rest?
But she found she was pressing the heel of her hand against her chest, as if that might make it—her—feel less hollow.
“Take off that mask,” he rasped at her, and the great room they stood in felt closer. Tighter all around her, as if he could control the walls themselves with that terrible voice. “It’s time to face each other, after all this time. Don’t you think?”
And the truth was, Lily had forgotten she wore the mask at all. Just as she’d forgotten how cold it had been outside until now, when the heat wrapped around her and made her chilled skin seem obvious. Almost painful. She thought there was some shade of meaning in that, as if even the weather was conspiring with Rafael, forcing her to feel all the things she’d vowed she’d never feel again.
But it was time for the truth. For honesty, however brutal.
She pulled the mask from her face and cast it down on the nearest settee that sat with its high back facing her, and she told herself there was no reason whatsoever she should feel vulnerable, suddenly, without it. How had it protected her? The truth was, it hadn’t. She could still feel his possession like a pulsing brand between her legs, hot and wild.
He hadn’t touched her mask. He’d taken her instead.
And she’d let him. She’d more than let him—she’d encouraged him.
Neither one of them had caused this mad thing between them, she knew that. They were both its victim. They were both equally lost in it. They always had been.
“Now,” Rafael said, when she looked at him again, still in that voice far darker than the snowy December night at the windows. “Explain.”
“You already know what happened.”
“No.” He looked something more than simply angry. Something more, too, than hurt, and she felt that like a fluttering unease deep in her belly. “I know that you died, supposedly. And I know that I then saw you years later on a street in a funny little corner of America. I have drawn conclusions about what must have happened between those two events while you were busy playing identity games, but no. I do not know what happened.” She saw his hand tighten around his glass. She felt it as if it had tightened around her, instead. “I certainly don’t know why.”
Lily had spent five years trying to answer these questions to her own satisfaction—but it was something else to answer to him. To Rafael, who was the reason behind all of the terrible decisions she’d made in her life, one way or another. She swallowed, found her throat dry and tucked her arms beneath her chest as if that could bolster her against him. Or against this story she’d never wanted to tell.
She still didn’t.
“Maybe it’s better to let these things lie,” she suggested, shocked that her voice sounded so small. She cleared her throat, tried to stand taller. “Please remember that I didn’t want to be found.”
“Believe me, I remember.” His voice was a lash. He swirled the liquid in his glass, his dark eyes on her, and she had the distinct impression he could see all the fine hairs on the back of her neck and along her arms stand up. “And you are stalling.”
“What does it matter why?” She fought to sound calm, no matter what she might feel inside. “What can knowing why do except make things worse?”
“You let me think you were dead,” he hurled at her, and she realized as he did how much he’d been holding back before, out there on the canal. He wasn’t restraining himself now, and it took everything she had to keep from flinching away from all that rough emotion. “You let the whole world think you were dead. What kind of person would visit her own death on the people who loved her?”
“You didn’t love me,” she threw back at him before she had time to temper that. He stiffened, but it was said. There was no taking it back. And besides, it was true. This was about truth. “You were obsessed. You were addicted, maybe. To the secrecy. To the twistedness. To the sheer delight in all the sneaking around and the excitement of all that passion. I know. I was there. But love? No.”
“You’ve done enough, I think, without lecturing me on how I felt.”
“I know what you felt,” she retorted. “I felt what you felt.”
“Evidently not,” he gritted out. “Or you would not have sent a car over the side of a cliff and walked away