Larenzo's Christmas Baby

‘I should be thanking you,’ she said, and Larenzo smiled faintly before glancing out at the night sky; the moon was on the wane, dawn only an hour or two away. ‘You should sleep.’

Did he want her to leave? Uncertainly Emma started to roll off him, but Larenzo clasped her to him once more.

‘Stay,’ he said, his voice rough with emotion. ‘Stay until morning.’

And so she did.

CHAPTER THREE

THEY CAME AT DAWN. Larenzo heard the first car drive up, the crunch of gravel, the sound of a car door shutting quietly, as if they were trying to hide their presence. As if they could.

He stilled, every muscle tensing, Emma still in his arms. Emma. He would spare her an ugly scene. She deserved so much more than that, but that was all he could give her now.

Slowly he slipped from the bed, doing his best not to disturb her. She sighed in her sleep and turned, her tousled hair falling across one cheek, a tendril lying across her breast.

He gazed at her for a moment, drinking her in: the golden, freckled skin, the wavy golden-brown hair, her lashes fanned out on her cheeks, although he knew if she opened her eyes, they would be golden-green. His golden girl for a night, gone in the morning.

At least he would be gone.

Quickly Larenzo turned, reaching for his jeans. He pulled on a rugby shirt and ran his hands through his hair, took a deep breath. And looked one last time at Emma, at freedom and happiness, pleasure and peace. He’d known them all with her last night, and now they were nothing but memories. Resolutely he turned from her and left the room.

* * *

Emma awoke to the thud of boots on the stairs, the sound of stomping down the hall. She was still blinking the sleep from her eyes, one hand reaching for the sheet to cover herself, her mind barely processing what she’d heard, when the door was thrown open and three men crowded there, all of them glaring at her. Her heart seemed to still in her chest, everything in her going numb with horror as she stared at these strange men.

‘What—?’

They spoke in rapid Italian, too fast for her to understand, although during her two years in Sicily she’d become fairly conversant in the language. Still, she understood their tone. Their derision and contempt.

She clutched the sheet to her breasts, her whole body trembling with indignation and fear. ‘Chi sei? Cosa stai facendo?’ Who are you, and what are you doing? They didn’t answer.

One man, clearly the leader of the pack, ripped the sheet away from her naked body. Emma gasped in shock. ‘Puttana.’ He spat the single word. Whore.

Emma shook her head, her mouth dry, her body still trembling. She felt as if she’d awakened to an alternate reality, a horrible nightmare, and she had no idea how to make it stop. Where was Larenzo?

One of the men grabbed her by the arm and yanked her upwards. She came, stumbling, trying futilely to cover herself. He reached for her T-shirt and shorts discarded on the floor and threw them at her.

‘You are English?’ he asked, his voice clipped, and she nodded.

‘American. And my consulate will hear—’

He cut her off with a hard laugh. ‘Get dressed. You’re coming with us.’

Quickly, clumsily, Emma yanked on her clothes. Dressed, even if only in flimsy pyjamas, she felt a little braver. ‘Where is Signor Cavelli?’ she asked in Italian.

The man eyed her scornfully. ‘Downstairs, at the moment. But he’ll spend the rest of his life in prison.’

Emma’s mouth dropped open. Prison? What on earth was he talking about? Were these awful men police?

‘Come on,’ the man commanded her tersely, and with her mind spinning she followed the men downstairs.

Larenzo stood in the centre of the sitting room, his eyes blazing silver fire as he caught sight of her.

‘You are all right? They didn’t hurt you?’

‘Shut up!’ The words were like the crack of a gunshot as one of the men slapped Larenzo across the face. He didn’t even blink, although Emma could see the red imprint of the man’s hand on Larenzo’s cheek.

‘They didn’t hurt me,’ she said quietly and the man turned on her.

‘Enough. Neither of you are to speak to one another. Who knows what you might try to communicate?’

‘She has nothing to do with any of it,’ Larenzo said, and he sounded scornful, as if he were actually in control of the situation. With an icy ripple of shock Emma saw that he was handcuffed. ‘Do you actually think I’d tell a woman, my housekeeper no less, anything of value?’