And before today, he’d never discussed his childhood with another person. He’d never revealed intimate secrets to another person.
And yet, for some reason, he’d told Lindsay Lockheart. Lindsay, with her deeply ingrained sense of responsibility and her unshakeable belief in the existence of love.
And what had that confession achieved?
It had left him feeling naked and bare, and it had left her feeling as though their relationship had turned a corner.
And it had, he thought grimly. Just not in the direction she was expecting.
As far as he was concerned, it was time to make an exit.
His mounting tension must have transmitted itself to her because she stirred, her thigh sliding against his as she shifted slightly in the bed.
Lifting her head, she looked at him, her eyes sleepy. Then she lifted a hand and touched his face. ‘I love you,’ she murmured and he felt every muscle in his body tense.
‘I know you do.’
And he felt a stab of guilt because he knew he should never have let it get this far. A woman like Lindsay, who believed in relationships, who believed in marriage—he should have avoided her like the plague.
‘It’s late,’ he said in a cool tone, extracting himself from the affectionate circle of her arms and springing from the bed like a tiger who had spotted a trap. ‘I need to have another meeting with my client. Why don’t you have a bath or something? Relax.’
Her blue eyes went from sleepy, to wary, to hurt and she slowly pulled the sheet up over her body, covering herself. ‘Fine. I’ll do that.’
Her quiet dignity dug into his conscience like a thousand knives and he turned and strolled into his dressing room, anxious to escape. But the guilt followed him and he gritted his teeth and cursed himself for breaking his one unbreakable rule. Never confide in a woman. Never make it personal.
And what had he done?
He’d made it personal.
And now he was paying the price.
Lindsay slipped into the navy skirt, pulling a face as she zipped it up and realised just how hot and uncomfortable she was going to be in such an unsuitable piece of clothing.
A few days ago this outfit had seemed perfectly comfortable. It had suited the way she felt. The way she approached life.
Now it just felt—well, wrong.
But what choice did she have?
Once again, her tiny overnight bag was in the centre of the floor and when Natalya appeared in the doorway, she looked surprised to find Lindsay packed and ready.
‘Oh—I came to tell you that you have an hour to pack because Signor Capelli is flying back to Rome this afternoon. But clearly someone has already given you the message.’
Oh yes, someone had given her the message.
He’d given her the message loud and clear.
And she’d been blaming herself ever since because it was all her fault. What had possessed her to think he might like to talk to her about his past? What arrogance had made her think that she could be different?
And what had possessed her to tell him that she loved him?
The moment she’d said those words, Alessio had removed himself from danger faster than a fighter pilot hitting the eject button on a doomed plane.
‘Thanks, Natalya.’ She managed a smile. ‘I’ll be at the jetty in an hour.’
An hour.
Alessio Capelli didn’t hang around, did he?