Cinderella In The Sicilian's World

But something had held her back from walking away from him. Maybe it was because sometimes, in the darkness of the night, she felt closer to him than at any other time. Not necessarily during sex, but afterwards, when he would lie stroking her hair, his voice lazy and reflective. As if within the enclosed space of their bedroom none of the worries and cares of the outside world existed. As if, for a few brief moments, he allowed all the barriers with which he surrounded himself to crumble to the ground.

And that was why she had allowed him to take her in his arms and kiss her again, once they’d finished scrubbing at the kitchen tiles. Because in the face of all her growing insecurity about the future, his embrace had felt comforting and safe. And that was just an illusion, she reminded herself bitterly.

And then she looked up and saw Salvatore standing on the other side of the crowded room, his eyes trained unwaveringly on her, and everything else just faded away. Lina’s heart burned, as if someone had punched a red-hot fist to the middle of her chest. She’d told herself she was going to get over him and prove she didn’t need him—emotionally or physically. But what power on earth could ever make her immune to him?

Salvatore felt a stab of awareness as his eyes connected with Lina’s and a wave of something extraordinary flowed through his body like a powerful surge of electricity—an effect she had on him which no other woman had ever been able to match. Two whole weeks had passed yet it seemed he was still susceptible to her particular magic. But she could make him angry as well as filling him with desire, and he was angry now, because he didn’t want to feel this way.

Not about her.

Not about anyone.

His gaze scanned over her and he realised she was wearing exactly the same outfit as the night he’d taken her to the gala ball, when he hadn’t recognised her. But tonight he wasn’t having any difficulty recognising her, despite the rigid gown and intricately coiled hair. Because no amount of face paint or gilding could deflect from a sensual and earthy beauty which needed no artifice. His eyes narrowed as he noticed the man beside her—some creep of a journalist he thought he recognised. And as the man moved closer, Salvatore experienced a savage jolt of something which felt like possessiveness. His throat dried. Or was it protectiveness?

He began to walk towards them and flinched as a flash went off in his face, but he carried on walking, weaving his way through the crowd and ignoring the sound of people vying for his attention and the hopeful smiles of so many women, until eventually he reached Lina. The man with the ridiculous hairstyle brightened and held out a hand, which Salvatore ignored.

‘Hi! Brett Forrester of San Fran Daily. We’ve met before. At the races last year. Do you remember?’

‘No, I don’t,’ said Salvatore repressively, but the other man failed to take the hint and leave.

‘So, what do you think about your girlfriend’s designs, Sal?’

Salvatore felt his fists tighten as the nickname he never used took him right back to the schoolyard. Suddenly, he had the urge to lash out, in a way he hadn’t wanted to do since those circling fights when the other kids had taunted him and called his mother puttana. Did Lina guess at his discomfiture—was that why she put her hand on his bunched forearm, her fingers acting as the gentlest of restraints, just as the blue-white flash of a camera exploded around them?

‘We don’t have to stay, you know,’ she said, very quietly, blinking against the bright light. ‘We can leave any time you want.’

He resented her understanding tone. He wanted to tell her that he didn’t need her kindness or her soft compassion. That he could manage perfectly well on his own. ‘But this is your night, Lina,’ he answered dangerously. ‘Surely you want to enjoy every second of your success?’

Did the journalist sense the sudden scent of conflict in the air? Was that why he pulled out a notebook and a pencil? ‘Tell me how you two met.’

Salvatore’s gaze was stony. ‘That is not for public consumption.

Still the journalist didn’t give up. ‘But you’re both Sicilian, yes?’

‘Listen to me,’ said Salvatore in a voice of silken finality. ‘The evening has obviously been an absolute triumph for Miss Vitale, though in future it might be better if you gave your subject matter a little more personal space. And that’s the only quote you’re going to get from me, Forrester. Understand?’

‘But—’

‘The only quote,’ affirmed Salvatore grimly.

Maybe it was the ripple of danger in his voice which finally convinced the journalist to retreat, leaving Salvatore alone with Lina and the furious beat of his heart. She was looking at him nervously, as if she couldn’t quite gauge his mood. And the crazy thing was, neither could he. It was as if he didn’t dare open his mouth for fear of what was going to come out of it next.

‘I’m glad you managed to make it,’ she said, her voice edged with a kind of desperation as if she was trying to pretend nothing was happening.

What was happening? he wondered as a waiter came by with a tray of drinks and he took a crystal beaker of fizzy water to slake his thirst before looking around the room. ‘This is some party,’ he observed softly.

‘I’m glad you like it.’

‘I didn’t say that.’

‘You mean you don’t?’

‘I didn’t say that, either.’ He gave his empty glass to another waiter. ‘But doing seedy interviews with journalists like Brett Forrester has never really been my scene.’

Her teeth were chewing on the gleam of her lips. ‘Nor mine.’

‘Neither do I enjoy the way I was ambushed by the paparazzi from the moment I arrived.’

She looked at him acidly. ‘Then maybe you should have surrounded yourself with security!’