Capelli's Captive Virgin

She needed space to think—

She needed to get out of this confined space—

Somehow she managed to make her lips move. ‘I need some air.’ Tugging open the door, she staggered as a powerful gust almost dragged it out of her hand, the wind howling like a choir of a thousand ghosts, daring her to venture outside.

But Lindsay didn’t care—

Whatever lay outside, it had to be better than being trapped with Alessio.

Wincing as the door was almost taken off its hinges, Alessio spent a few seconds cursing the whole female race and their tendency to the dramatic, before springing to his feet.

Hurricane-force winds were blowing outside and she’d decided that she needed some air?

Was she crazy?

But even as he asked himself that question, something slightly uncomfortable twisted inside him. No, she wasn’t crazy. She was just upset. Very, very upset.

And he was the cause of that upset.

Unaccustomed to experiencing feelings of guilt, Alessio strode towards the door, reminding himself that he’d merely told her the truth. And if it had been a painful truth, well, that was because she’d been deluding herself.

In the long term, he’d done her a favour.

She’d probably thank him.

So why was he wishing he could wind the clock back and been given an opportunity to keep his mouth shut?

Trying to dismiss the image of her white face and the distressed look in her eyes, Alessio strode to the door.

If she didn’t have the sense to know it was dangerous out there, then he was going to have to go and fetch her.

Immediately the strength of the wind stole the breath from his lungs and he wondered how someone as slight as Lindsay had managed to stay upright in the path of such a powerful force.

As he secured the door behind him he found himself wondering why she hadn’t turned back.

But he knew the answer to that. She hadn’t turned back because of him. She was either so angry with him she couldn’t bear to be within the same four walls, or else she was so upset by what he’d said that she needed to think.

Either way, she was putting herself in physical danger.

Black, deadly clouds had replaced perfect blue sky and Alessio glanced along the beach, searching for a solitary figure.

And then he saw her. Her arms were wrapped around her body and she was staring out to sea, apparently oblivious to the anger of the storm that was building. Her pale hair had broken loose from the clasp and for once she hadn’t bothered to pin it up again. As if to taunt her with that fact, the wind caught it and blew it wildly around her face and shoulders. She looked like a mermaid, contemplating a return to the sea. She also looked—fragile.

Alessio frowned. Fragile? He always thought of Lindsay Lockheart as composed and controlled. Even the night she’d been attacked on the streets of Rome, she’d been remarkably collected, more concerned about her sister than herself.

But she didn’t look composed or controlled. She looked—broken.

Swearing fluently in two different languages, he strode across to her, ready to blast her for taking such a stupid risk.

But as he drew closer he saw that her cheeks were wet and her eyes were glistening.

Maledizione—

Alessio executed an emergency stop, his natural inclination to retreat in the face of female emotion acting as a break. Given the choice, he would have preferred to do battle with ten storms than mop up tears.

He took a step backwards.

Obviously she wanted to be alone, he reasoned. If she’d wanted his company, she would have stayed in the cottage.