Captivated by Her Innocence

And yes, he acknowledged he had wanted to, but why? It was hard to discount the possibility that there had been an element of self-protection—some might call it cowardice and they’d be right—in his eagerness to believe she lacked any morals. He had needed her to be the sort of woman any sensible man would avoid involvement with.

That much, at least, had not changed. Cesare needed to control his feelings with women, needed to keep his emotions separate from sex. The ability to walk away without regret was important to him. That was why he only allowed himself to be involved with women he could not hurt, women who knew the score, women who could not hurt him. Dio, I’m the king of shallow, he thought with a grunt of self-disgust.

But it was who he was.

Even after these revelations essentially nothing had changed. Anna Henderson had stepped out of the box he had put her in but she still remained off limits. Possibly more so than previously. She was everything he avoided in a woman; she was not the sort of lover for whom a diamond bracelet would ease the pain of separation. Anna Henderson had been acting the part of a woman who invested emotionally in a sexual relationship because she hadn’t been acting; she was the sort of woman he didn’t go within a mile of.

One barrier lowered and another lifted. A man just had to go with the flow. It might be easier if he could stop thinking of her underneath him, her lovely legs wrapped around him. He cleared his throat.

‘So the story has had a happy ending.’ At least for the victim that he had been so eager to condemn. He suspected that the trauma of watching her cousin driven to the brink of utter despair by a man had left a few scars for her impressionable young cousin.

Some man would need to work hard to earn her trust—some man, but not him.

Then it hit him like the proverbial bolt from the blue: the ‘scared virgin afraid of her own sexual impulses’ act was not an act either—it was what she was!

The truth had been staring him in the face. There had been dozens of clues. How had he managed not to see it until now?

Opening his clenched fists, he took her chin between his long fingers and brought her face up to him. ‘You have never had a lover.’ Despite his efforts he could not keep the accusation from his voice.

Did she have it tattooed across her forehead or something? With an angry, embarrassed growl she snatched her chin from his fingers. He was looking at her as though she had two heads.

Anna cleared her throat and observed bitterly, ‘Don’t worry, it’s not contagious.’ Was she meant to apologise or something?

His jaw clenched. ‘Why the hell didn’t you say something?’

‘I really don’t see how my frigidity affects my ability to do my job!’

‘I’m not your employer, as you never cease to remind me, and...’ He took a deep breath, his eyes darkening as they fastened on her face. ‘And you are nothing that even faintly resembles frigid!’ he blasted.

The raw comment caused everything inside Anna to dissolve, the denial of her feelings washed away along with the rush of jumbled emotions. The deluge drew a fractured sigh from her parted lips.

Her lashes lying in a dark protective filigree against the flush of her smooth cheeks, she listened to the series of colourful bilingual curses.

Then silence.

CHAPTER TEN

TOSSING AND TURNING, replaying the conversation in her head, Anna lasted until one a.m., at which point she switched on the bedside lamp and, pushing her feet into a pair of slippers, padded through to Angel’s sitting room.

Switching on the television for background noise, she went into the adjoining kitchen to warm some milk. Catching her reflection in the mirrored surface of a cabinet, she winced. Several disturbed nights had left their mark. The circles under her eyes were dark purple.

Carrying her drink back, she curled up on the sofa. She was halfway through the mug of cocoa before she tuned into the programme that was playing in time to see terror on the faces of people on the ground as they watched a person strapped to a parachute hurtle towards the ground. Their cheer when it inflated at the very last minute was echoed by the trio of presenters sitting in the studio.

‘A worthy number four, I’m sure you’ll agree. And now the crash survivor voted number three by the viewers was—’

Anna didn’t want to know. With a sound of disgust she picked up the remote, grimacing at the exploitative nature of the programme. How long before they were compiling lists about fatal crashes?