Capelli’s Captive Virgin Read online

  ‘And you witnessed the rows.’

  ‘Rows, sex—my parents didn’t seem to think we needed protecting from what was going on. I think they were little more than children themselves.’ Lindsay sighed. ‘I don’t know which was worse—their rows or their divorce. Ruby was the result of one of my parents’ many abortive attempts at reconciliation. It didn’t work. In fact, having Ruby made things worse. The responsibility of a young baby made it harder for my mother to have a relationship with Dad, so she just abdicated responsibility.’

  ‘So who looked after her?’

  Lindsay brushed a speck of dust from her skirt. ‘I did.’

  Alessio frowned. ‘You were seven years old. How could you possibly look after a baby?’

  ‘I’d been looking after myself for several years,’ Lindsay told him quietly. ‘I just included Ruby in everything I did. I did our washing. I cooked our meals. I hugged her when she cried. Fortunately my school was round the corner so I used to nip home in between lessons and at lunchtime.’

  ‘That explains why you worry about her so much. I often thought you behaved more like a mother than a sister.’

  Lindsay rubbed the tips of her fingers over her forehead. ‘She actually started to call me Mum when she was about two, but I didn’t let her. I wanted her to know that I was her sister, not her Mum. I was too young to understand it all myself, but I think I knew instinctively that she had enough emotional problems without growing up thinking I was her mother.’ She looked at him and shrugged. ‘It was a mess. I probably didn’t handle it right—’

  ‘I think you are incredible,’ he said softly and Lindsay faltered, touched by his praise.

  ‘I don’t know. Ruby was left very traumatised by the whole thing and I was too young to know how to deal with that. My solution was to smother her in love, but that didn’t compensate for the damage done to her confidence and feeling of security. The divorce almost finished her off because Mum blamed her for the whole thing. If she hadn’t had Ruby—oh, you can imagine the sort of things she said.’

  ‘I don’t think I want to. And what about you, Lindsay? You’ve talked a lot about your sister and the effect it had on her.’ His voice was low. ‘What about the effect it had on you?’

  For a moment she didn’t answer. Then she stirred. ‘Well, it made me interested in psychology. And it has taught me that passion isn’t a good basis for a marriage. But you already know that. You see that every day in your work.’

  ‘So you want a marriage without passion?’ His incredulous tone made her laugh.

  ‘No. No, I don’t want that. I’m far too greedy to settle for that.’ She met his gaze. ‘Which is why I’m turning down your invitation. But thank you.’ She smiled. ‘Thank you for asking.’

  ‘Greedy? What is it that you want?’

  ‘Oh—’ she leaned her head back against her seat, her expression wistful ‘—the whole dream. I want the passion, yes. But I also want a man who excites me in other ways—a man who is going to love me for who I am, who’ll stick with me when things get difficult and who will genuinely care about me.’ She glanced at him and shrugged, trying to laugh at herself. ‘And that, I suppose, is why I’m still single and likely to stay that way.’

  ‘Lindsay—’

  She held up a hand because the whole thing was hard enough without him trying to persuade her. ‘Don’t say anything else. I don’t regret what happened between us, if that’s what you want to know. In the end you won, Alessio. I couldn’t resist you. But I’d do the whole thing again in a moment. You’ve changed the way I look at the past—made me understand things about myself that I didn’t really understand before.’ She frowned. ‘I can’t forgive Mum for the way she treated Ruby, but at least now I understand a little bit more about how passion can take over.’ She blinked several times. ‘I can see the runway lights. We’re about to land.’

  It was over.

  CHAPTER TEN

  TWO weeks later, driven to the point of combustion by yet another wealthy, demanding client, Alessio strode out of the glass meeting room towards the lift.

  What the hell was the matter with him?

  He used to relish the mental stimulation of his job, but since his return from the Caribbean it had been nothing but a source of irritation.

  His mobile phone buzzed and he lunged into his pocket and retrieved it, swiftly scanning the caller’s number. Realising that the call was from a Russian supermodel he’d been dating a few months earlier, he gritted his teeth, rejected the call and dropped the phone back in his pocket, appalled by the depth of his own disappointment.

  What had he expected?

  Lindsay Lockheart telling him she’d changed her mind about having an affair with him?

  She didn’t want that, did she?

  Clearly she wasn’t feeling anywhere near the depth of frustration that he was.

  Loosening his tie with an impatient yank of his fingers, Alessio scowled as one of his team called his name and hurried up behind him.

  Now what?

  Hadn’t he made it clear that he wanted to be on his own?

  Visibly nervous, the man stepped into the lift with him. ‘I assume from the questions you asked, that you’re not prepared to take the case?’

  ‘What case?’ His mind still on Lindsay Lockheart, Alessio snapped out the words and his junior colleague blinked in confusion, glancing back towards the meeting room as if checking there hadn’t been some mistake.

  ‘Well—that case,’ he muttered awkwardly. ‘He was hoping you’d take it on—at the moment his wife is so angry about his affair that she’s threatening to take him to the cleaners.’

  ‘Good for her.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ Unable to hide his astonishment, his colleague fumbled with the file in his hands. ‘You—I don’t—he wants your advice.’

  ‘Enrico,’ Alessio’s voice was cool. ‘How old are those children?’

  Clearly startled by the question, the man checked the file. ‘The older girl is eight, the other one is a baby. Two little girls.’

  Two little girls. Two little girls, whose lives were being smashed to pieces.

  His mind on Lindsay Lockheart, Alessio took a deep breath.

  ‘She deserves every penny she can get. And my advice is that he should start thinking about his children and his responsibilities, instead of his own investments.’

  Gaping at him, his junior colleague ran a finger around his collar as if it were strangling him. ‘So you want me to tell him—what exactly?’

  Alessio couldn’t dispel the image of wide blue eyes and soft blonde hair.

  ‘Tell him to try couples counselling.’ His tone biting and sharp, he strode out of the lift and into his office, his body aching so badly it was almost a physical pain.

  His personal assistant was hovering, looking harassed. ‘Your three o’clock meeting has been rescheduled.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because there are too many journalists outside the building. You don’t want to go out there right now—it’s being dealt with.’

  With an impatient frown, Alessio strode across to the window and stared down at the street below. Even from this height he could see the pack of photographers surrounding the front door of the Capelli offices.

  ‘For the past two weeks I’ve lived the life of a monk,’ he breathed. ‘What exactly are they after this time?’

  ‘Nothing new. Still the Lindsay Lockheart thing.’ His assistant put a neat pile of papers on his desk. ‘You asked for these—’

  ‘What Lindsay Lockheart thing?’

  ‘She’s been in the papers every day for the past two weeks.’

  There was a brief, deadly silence while Alessio digested that information. ‘And you didn’t think it worth mentioning?’ His tone silky soft, he watched as the woman paled.

  ‘You’re not normally interested in what the tabloids have to say about your love life—’

  ‘You have precisely two minutes in which to produce a copy of e
very paper that has mentioned Lindsay Lockheart’s name in the last two weeks. You then have a further minute to get the head of PR into my office.’ Struggling to contain the volcanic eruption of his temper, Alessio strode to his desk and punched the number of Lindsay’s flat into his phone. Her ansaphone clicked on and he cut the connection angrily just as his secretary returned with the papers.

  Was she screening calls?

  He scanned each paper in grim silence, his temper rising with each line of newsprint he read. Then dropped them onto his desk and strode towards the door.

  Why couldn’t they leave her alone?

  Lindsay slammed the pillow over her head to shut out the insistent noise of the buzzer. Ever since she’d returned from the Caribbean, she’d had photographers camped on her doorstep. Trapped in her flat, she’d been unable to leave even to buy milk, but it didn’t matter because she couldn’t face food. She couldn’t summon the energy to move.

  Every now and then her ansaphone clicked and her heart raced because she couldn’t stop hoping that it was him. But it never was. Every time the phone rang it was just another client cancelling an appointment.

  Her business was ruined. Everything she was—everything she believed—had collapsed around her. It should have been a terrible blow but the awful thing was she didn’t even care.

  It seemed that nothing hurt as much as the fact that Alessio hadn’t called.

  Sooner or later she was going to have to pull herself together and work out what she was going to do with the rest of her life, but for now she didn’t have the energy to move.

  And there was no point in moving because her every action was caught on camera for the public to see and comment on.

  But could it be any worse?

  Did she really care if they took pictures of her without make-up, in rumpled clothes? Could they hurt her any more than they already had?

  The thing that had upset her most had been the photographs taken on Kingfisher Cay. Someone had snapped them having dinner and the accompanying stories were all about the fact that she’d spent a whole night in his villa. And the stories were sensationalist and tasteless, embellished to sell more copies to a public always hungry for mindless gossip and the humiliation of others.

  They’d made her relationship with Alessio sound like some seedy little fling.

  And it hadn’t been like that.

  And it hurt really, really badly. But nowhere near as much as the fact that Alessio hadn’t called.

  On the plus side, she’d spoken to Ruby, who was very happy and living in Rome with Dino Capelli. And somehow her happiness made Lindsay feel even worse. She’d been so sure about her choices, but now—

  Now she wasn’t sure about anything.

  With a sniff, she pulled the duvet over her head to block out the sound of the buzzer.

  Why didn’t they go away and leave her alone?

  Guilt permeating every fibre of his being, Alessio elbowed his way through the banks of paparazzi crowding outside Lindsay’s flat.

  ‘Hey, Alessio—have you come back for seconds?’

  With a low growl, Alessio picked the photographer up by his collar and backed him against the wall. ‘Clear off,’ he muttered thickly, ‘and do something about your own life instead of prying into other people’s.’

  Flashes erupted around him and he knew that he’d just given the press still more fodder for the next day’s salacious headlines.

  ‘You’d better watch that temper of yours, Alessio,’ the man spluttered and Alessio gave a slow, dangerous smile.

  ‘I’m completely in control.’ He didn’t slacken his grip. ‘Trust me, when I lose my temper, you’ll be the first to know.’

  ‘This is assault—’

  ‘No—’ Alessio’s voice was icy cold as he released the man ‘—what you do is assault. Remember that, because you’re starting to annoy me.’ His handsome face a mask of disdain, he flicked some dirt from the sleeve of his perfectly cut designer suit. ‘And I’m not at my best when I’m annoyed.’

  ‘You can’t threaten me.’ Blustering and glancing towards his colleagues for support, the photographer cast a wary glance at the hard set of Alessio’s features. ‘You can’t touch me.’

  Alessio’s mouth curved into a smile. ‘No?’

  ‘I suppose you think I should be scared because you’re some hotshot lawyer.’ The man was sweating now and Alessio studied him with cool contempt.

  ‘No,’ he said softly, ‘not because of that.’ He reached forward and straightened the man’s collar carefully. ‘Because I’m Sicilian.’

  The man swallowed. ‘Are you threatening me?’

  Alessio smiled. ‘Certainly not.’ His eyes lingered on the man’s face until the photographer paled and started to shift uncomfortably.

  ‘That’s coercion,’ he muttered and Alessio lifted an eyebrow.

  ‘What is?’

  The man backed off. ‘If you ask me that girl’s crazy to have anything to do with you. You’re bloody lethal.’ But the pack of paparazzi all withdrew slightly as Alessio slowly reached into the inside pocket of his suit.

  ‘You want a story?’ Laughing at their complete lack of spine, Alessio withdrew a piece of paper and toyed with it for a moment. ‘This story should give you a comfortable retirement.’ And with that he flicked the paper carelessly towards the banks of photographers, smiling at the resulting mayhem.

  Let them take pieces out of each other. He had better things to do.

  Turning his back on them, he took the steps to the front door two at a time and buzzed Lindsay’s flat.

  The crash of her front door opening roused her from her inertia and Lindsay sat upright in bed, clutching the duvet to her chest, frozen in horror.

  They’d broken her door down—

  Fumbling for her phone, she was about to call the police when Alessio strode into her bedroom, his eyes glinting dark as anthracite, his mouth a grim line.

  Her first emotion was one of unutterable joy.

  And then she realised that he wasn’t here because of her. He was here because of him. Because of the newspapers.

  It only took a glance for her to realise that he was positively vibrating with anger.

  ‘Y-you broke my door down.’ He looked so impossibly handsome that it was all she could do not to fling her arms round him.

  ‘What was I supposed to do? You didn’t answer the doorbell.’ He made it sound like a perfectly logical action given the circumstances, and for the first time in days she almost laughed.

  ‘I didn’t answer the door because I didn’t want to see anyone. And you’ve let the press in—’

  ‘There are eight security guards planted outside your door,’ he growled. ‘The press won’t be bothering you again.’

  Lindsay gave a strangled laugh. ‘Eight? You don’t think that’s overkill?’

  ‘No, I do not. And you should have more concern for your own privacy.’

  ‘What was I supposed to do? I’m not a billionaire, Alessio. I’m just—me.’

  The phone rang again and she tensed, bracing herself for the usual. The ansaphone clicked on and yet another client left a message cancelling their next appointment. Wishing he hadn’t witnessed that, Lindsay gave a fatalistic smile. ‘You see? I can’t afford security guards even if I wanted them. I no longer have a job.’

  He was glaring at the ansaphone as if it had slighted him personally. ‘Your clients are cancelling?’

  ‘Yes.’ What was the point of lying? Lindsay shrugged. ‘It seems you’re not the only one who thinks I’m not qualified to advise anyone on how to maintain a relationship. I suppose you’ve come so that you can say “I told you so” in person.’

  ‘Why are they cancelling?’

  ‘I suppose they no longer trust my judgment,’ Lindsay mumbled, suddenly weary. What was he doing here? ‘And I can hardly blame them for that. It’s fine, Alessio. I’m fine. Just go. Savour your victory.’

  ‘I’m not leaving.’ He strode across to her w
indow and closed the blinds.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Reducing the opportunities for the pack of wolves outside to take photographs. You really need to learn to protect yourself—you’re shockingly naïve.’

  She blinked. ‘This is a fourth-floor flat, Alessio. You think they’re going to climb up the drainpipe?’

  ‘Have you noticed the scaffolding being erected opposite?’

  ‘I haven’t looked out of the window for two days—’ Realising what she’d just admitted, Lindsay looked away. ‘It’s been a bit—difficult.’

  ‘You’ve let the press trap you in your flat?’

  ‘Well, yes, I suppose I have.’

  ‘Maledizione, why didn’t you call me?’

  ‘Because that number you gave me is reserved for your lovers, and I’m not your lover anymore.’ Her voice was croaky and black, stormy eyes connected with hers.

  ‘You should have called—I had no idea—’

  ‘You have an entire press department—’

  ‘A press department who know I don’t usually waste my time reading the sort of trash written by those sharks outside your door!’

  Lindsay swallowed. He hadn’t known? ‘Right. So you’re telling me—’

  ‘I’m telling you that I found out what was happening less than four hours ago.’

  ‘And if you’d known?’

  ‘Well, for a start you wouldn’t have been trapped in your flat for two weeks. But we can rectify that.’ Removing his phone, he made one brief call, speaking in low, rapid Italian. Then he pulled open the door of her wardrobe, pulled out a pair of trousers and a shirt and flung it on the bed. ‘Get dressed.’

  ‘Why?’

  Prowling round her bedroom, he found her shoes. ‘Call me fussy, but I don’t want naked pictures of my future wife plastered all over the newspapers.’

  ‘Your—’ Lindsay gaped at him. ‘What did you just say?’