Within the hard framework of his features his devastating mouth turned uncompromisingly grim. ‘I wasn’t the one responsible for causing you pain in the past, and I certainly did nothing to make you weep. Except in bed.’
His continual references to the passion they had shared were unsettling her beyond belief. As he probably intended them to, she realised, catching a different sound now from the darkest corners of her mind. The sound of herself sobbing with desire at the enslaving, unparalleled pleasure he was giving her. But there were other things too. Things she didn’t want to remember, which his disturbing presence alone was bringing back to her.
‘Your family hated me.’
‘That was my family.’
‘Especially your father.’
His face took on the cast of an impregnable steel mask. ‘And with good cause, I think. In the end.’
She wanted to ask him why. What it was she had done to make him despise her so much. But he was still too cold, too distant and far too unapproachable. And anyway she was afraid of what hearing the truth might do to her.
‘How is he? Your father?’ she enquired tentatively.
‘My father’s dead.’
From the way he said it he might easily be implying that she had had something to do with it. Oh, no! She couldn’t have, surely? she thought, shuddering at the hard, cold emotion she saw in his eyes which seemed to be piercing her like shards of ice.
‘He’s dead,’ he reiterated. ‘As you would have known if you hadn’t been so tied up with making a name for yourself.’
‘Oh, I had a name, Andreas.’ It rushed back at her, hurtful and destructive. ‘And it wasn’t very complimentary. But I suppose you think I deserved what your grandmother called me?’
Her voice was low and controlled. She was determined not to let him see her trembling. And it wasn’t just the remembered pain of that time that was ripping through her memory banks and slashing at her now with such wounding cruelty, but the cold way she had just been informed that Giuseppe Visconti had died.
She wanted to ask Andreas what had happened but was even too cowardly to do that. Instead she dropped her head into her hands and groaned as a sudden vision flashed before her eyes.
It was of plate glass and fluorescent lighting where once there had been red and white chequered curtains and candlelit windows; an internet café where the little restaurant had been. She had found herself standing outside it once a couple of years ago, not even realising why, or what she was doing there. She only remembered that the experience had chilled her to the bone.
* * *
Watching her, Andreas frowned—and then reminded himself what a good actress she was.
‘I’m afraid I’m not really taken in by this display of crocodile tears,’ he said bluntly, but as she lifted her head and dragged her fingers down her face the dark smudges under her eyes and her pallor shocked him. ‘Are you all right?’ he asked, concerned.
‘I’m fine.’
‘No, you’re not. I think you’d better come with me.’ He was urging her up from her chair before she had time to think.
‘Where are we going?’ she asked weakly as he bundled her into a waiting lift in the lobby.
‘As I said, we have to talk,’ he said, setting the lift in motion.
* * *
Released now from the pressure of his hand at her elbow, but finding his whole persona too disturbing in such a confined space, Magenta stepped as far away from him as she could.
A faint smile touched the firm, masculine mouth, as though he knew exactly why she had done that.
‘And, as I said, what about?’ She could feel the blood returning to her face and was managing to gather her wits about her again. ‘There isn’t any other vacancy, is there? You just wanted me to stay behind so that you could taunt me with whatever it is you think I did to you in the past. So go ahead. Get it all out of your system!’
At least then she might know, once and for all, what it was all about.
Instead he merely laughed, and that soft, mirthless laugh seemed as controlled and calculated as everything else about him. Then, with a suddenness that had Magenta’s instincts leaping onto red alert, he reached out and caught one end of her scarf. Winding it carefully around his finger, he drew her gently into his dominating sphere.
‘Is this a fashion thing?’ He tugged lightly at the silk. ‘Or is its purpose merely to conceal the remnants of your current lover’s carnal appetite?’
‘How dare you?’ She made to push him away, only to find her hands trapped between his own and the warm hard wall of his chest.
‘Yes, I dare,’ he growled, and his head came down, stopping with his mouth just a breath from hers.