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 every 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.’