Capelli's Captive Virgin

‘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.’