The Man From her Wayward Past

He could have told Lucia that nothing in life was straightforward, but he had waited so long for her to let the poison out he wasn’t going to say a single word to distract her.

She felt the shame again—of arriving at the guest house feeling pretty much like the filthy slut the concierge had called her. She remembered how her heart had raced with fear and panic that Margaret might turn her away. She had realised how it must look to the elderly owner of the guest house, but Margaret had taken her in without a word.

‘It all began when I went to change my uniform,’ she explained to Luke. ‘I went into the staffroom. I didn’t bother locking the door. It was supposed to be for female members of staff. It was a very formal hotel in London, so I should have been safe. I heard a sound, and when I turned around a concierge I thought was my friend was standing by the door, watching me.’

She had to pause. She didn’t want to make this overly dramatic. She wanted to remember it exactly as it had been without any theatrical flourishes.

She shuddered, remembering. ‘He was touching himself through his trousers as he watched me getting changed. When I turned and he saw me looking at him he gave himself a special firm stroke. I couldn’t believe it. You’d think he’d be embarrassed—but, no … He came closer while I stood frozen to the spot. My feet wouldn’t work. He stood in front of me and asked in a really normal, conversational tone of voice if I would like to touch him. When I said no and shrank back, he said, “What? A hot-blooded South American like you doesn’t want to touch me?” And I could tell he had taken offence.’

She swallowed and turned away from Luke as she remembered the violence the concierge had unleashed.

‘He undid his zip and exposed himself. He asked if there was something wrong with him when I shrank away. His voice turned ugly.’ The calm beam of Luke’s stare remained on her face, willing her to go on. ‘He was angry when I wouldn’t take hold of him. Sorry—’

Spinning around, she gagged. Clamping her hand over her mouth as her stomach heaved, she moved away, her hand up to ward him off when Luke reached for her.

‘Dry gagging’s no fun,’ she said, trying to make light of what had happened when her stomach settled.

Luke wasn’t smiling.

She steadied her voice. ‘He rubbed against me. I slapped him away. I fought him with everything I had. He turned rough. He was touching me everywhere. He felt my breasts. He hurt me. He bit me. He grabbed me here. He ripped my briefs off. He poked his—’

She couldn’t go on. How could she, when she saw that look in Luke’s eyes?

‘Go on,’ he encouraged steadily.

Heaving a deep breath, she made herself go back. ‘I kicked him in the knee as hard as I could. While he was howling and lurching about I somehow managed to get away. I ran back to my room, grabbed my car keys and a few things. I didn’t stop to wash.’

Her eyes when they met his were wounded, tortured.

‘My skin was hot. I was sure he’d put something on it—acid or something. Of course it was nothing. Just the imprint of his hands. I got down to my car—they let us park under the hotel—and I drove out of London. I didn’t even know where I was going until I reached Exeter, and then I knew I was heading back to the guest house where I’d always been happy.’ She swallowed on a dry throat. ‘I couldn’t go to the family penthouse in London. My brothers could have turned up at any time and they were the last people I wanted to see.’

‘Thank goodness Margaret was home.’

‘Yes,’ she agreed, finally focusing on his face. ‘But I must have frightened Margaret half to death. She opened the door to a madwoman with her hair sticking out at all angles, make-up smeared with tears, ripped clothes hanging off a body covered in bite marks and scratches. I can’t even imagine how she must have felt when she saw me.’

He could.

There was a long pause as she remembered that first blissful, purging shower, and how she had examined her skin in minute detail under the spray, certain the concierge had put something horrible on it—something she would never be able to wash off. She had stood beneath that cleansing stream, scrubbing herself with the roughest cloth she could find until the water ran cold.

‘Lucia …’

‘I’m sorry.’ She lifted her hands and let them drop again, by which time some warmth was creeping back into her body. ‘That’s all there is,’ she said.

‘It’s enough,’ Luke said gently.

‘Sleeping with that concierge would have really opened my eyes, apparently.’ She tried to laugh, but even to her it didn’t sound right. ‘And my legs, presumably, which was the bit that really freaked me out.’

This time when Luke gathered her into his arms she made no attempt to fight him off. ‘Why didn’t you call me?’ he said, nuzzling his face against the top of her head. ‘I would have come for you right away.’

‘I felt so ashamed, so dirty. It wasn’t something I wanted anyone to know. And it was my problem.’

‘Not this time, Lucia,’ he said, pressing her against his chest, where she could feel Luke’s heart beating, regular and strong.

‘It was better you didn’t know,’ she argued. ‘You might have killed someone.’

‘Quite possibly,’ Luke confirmed, staring grimly away. Then, slowly and very deliberately, he dipped his head and kissed her. She couldn’t say whether that kiss was soothing or loving, long or short, firm or light. She only knew that she was in a place where people were kind to each other and only meant well.

‘Forgive me, Lucia,’ he said, pulling back. ‘That’s the last thing you need.’