Picture of Innocence(27)

‘Time for you to leave, Mr Zanelli,’ she said curtly. ‘We have nothing more to discuss and I need to lock up.’ She glanced back at him. ‘I don’t want any more customers or uninvited visitors.’

He did not respond—didn’t move. He was towering over her, intimidating her with his presence, and suddenly the hall seemed smaller. Lucy had had enough. ‘Goodnight, and good riddance. Is that plain enough for you?’ she mocked, parroting the words he had said to her the last time she had seen him, and she reached for the handle to open the door again.

But Lorenzo was quicker, and before she could react a strong hand had clamped around her waist and pulled her hard against his body, trapping her arm against her side while the other hand slid beneath the heavy fall of her hair to tug her head back. Deliberately he bent and pressed his mouth against the pulse that beat erratically in her throat, and she felt it like a flame.

‘Don’t,’ she gasped, and pushed against his chest with her hand while his mouth seared up her slender neck. ‘Let go of me, you great brute. I hate you,’ she flung at him savagely.

‘No, you don’t.’ His head came up. His eyes were black in his hard, masculine face, and Lucy could not control the slight tremor in her limbs. ‘You want me. But then women like you can’t help themselves,’ he said contemptuously.

She punched his chest with a curled fist, but it was like hitting a brick wall. She lifted her knee and suddenly he whirled her round, making her head spin. Before she could draw breath, let alone find her feet, his head lowered, and she moaned in protest as his mouth came down hard and ruthless against her lips, forcibly parting them, demanding her surrender.

For a moment she made herself stay rigid in his arms, but then her mouth trembled in helpless response and she succumbed to the powerful passion of his kiss. When he finally released her she stumbled back and deliberately wiped her hand across her mouth, but to her shame she could not wipe away so easily the warring sensations inside her.

‘You should not have done that, Mr Zanelli,’ she snapped.

Lorenzo stared down at her, his broad shoulders tense, his face expressionless. ‘Maybe not, but you provoked me—and if I have succeeded in shutting you up long enough to listen it was well worth it. And you can drop the “Mr Zanelli”—you know my name and you have used it too intimately to pretend otherwise. Now, we can go up to your apartment and I’ll tell you why I am here.’

Lucy looked at him warily, silently conceding it was a bit childish calling him Mr Zanelli. Her real problem was that she didn’t trust him, but short of throwing him out—which was a physical impossibility—she hadn’t much choice but to listen to what he had to say.

‘And it isn’t what you are thinking,’ he drawled, with a sardonic lift of one ebony brow. Though his body was telling him different …

‘I’ll listen, but not here,’ Lucy conceded. ‘I usually go into town on Saturday evening to eat. You can come with me.’ She wanted Lorenzo out of her home and among other people—simply because her own innate honesty forced her to admit she didn’t trust herself alone with him.

‘My car or yours?’ Lorenzo asked as, after locking up the gallery, they walked out into the front yard that doubled as a car park.

‘Neither.’ Lucy flicked a glance up at him. ‘We can walk down the hill—it is not far.’

Stepping onto the grass verge that ran down the side of the road and Lorenzo joined her, but didn’t look too comfortable when a Jeep whizzed past with a group of four young men on board.

‘Hi, Lucy!’ they all yelled, and waved. Lucy waved back.

‘Friends of yours?’ Lorenzo asked.

‘Yes—students in my weekly art class at the high school. Now, why don’t you start talking? I’m listening.’

Another car went by and tooted its horn, and Lucy waved again.

‘No. I’d prefer to wait until we reach the restaurant,’ Lorenzo said, adding, ‘Less interruptions.’ And more time for him to regain his self-control.

He’d had no idea she taught art—but then he did not really know her except in the biblical sense. And he didn’t want to. Lucy Steadman infuriated him, enraged him and aroused him, and he did not like it—did not like her. But he did need her silence, and in his experience the best way to get anything from a woman was to humour her for a while—let her think she was in control.

Lucy hid a smile. He was in for a rude awakening if he was expecting a restaurant.

Lorenzo looked around with interest when they reached the main road. Set in a narrow valley, Looe was very picturesque, with a stone bridge that spanned the tidal river to the other side of town. Lucy led him down the main street that wound its way alongside the harbour and the river to the beach. He couldn’t believe the number of tourists around, or the amount of people that Lucy knew. Every few yards someone stopped her to say hello.