LITMIR.BIZ

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      ‘I’ve realised that.’ The wry humour edging his voice took the wind straight out of her sails. Meghan sagged back against the seat.

      ‘I’m sorry.’

      ‘I’m not. I’m glad I was there in time.’

      Meghan touched a finger to the bruise on her wrist. ‘So am I,’ she admitted quietly.

      Alessandro watched her, his expression forbiddingly grim. ‘At least no other women will suffer Paulo in this city,’ he murmured, almost to himself, and Meghan lurched upright.

      ‘Do you mean you were serious when you said you were shutting down the hostel?’

      Alessandro looked affronted. ‘Of course I was. Did you think I was bluffing?’

      Definitely not, she conceded silently. ‘But you can’t just do that, can you? He said he owned the building.’

      ‘He was lying. It’s owned by a local businessman. I checked on it before I arrived.’

      Of course, Meghan thought. In control. Again. ‘If you don’t own it, how can you make him close it down?’ she pressed and Alessandro shrugged impatiently.

      ‘Since you’re American, you don’t realise what the di Agnio name means in Italy—especially in Umbria.’

      ‘You’re powerful,’ Meghan surmised, and he chuckled dryly.

      ‘Most women find that attractive.’

      ‘I don’t.’ She looked away. ‘At least not when I’m on the wrong side of it.’

      He glanced at her, curious. ‘Do you think you are now?’

      Was she? It was a question Meghan didn’t want to ask herself. Certainly didn’t want to answer. ‘The thing about power,’ she said after a moment, her voice brittle, ‘is that it can easily be abused.’

      ‘Agreed.’ Alessandro’s voice was terse. ‘As in the case with Paulo, don’t you think?’ he continued after a moment. ‘At least you don’t have to endure his attentions any more.’

      ‘Then where am I supposed to sleep?’

      ‘I can find you another hotel. Or you could sleep at my villa.’

      Meghan reared back at his blatant offer. ‘Thanks for the offer, but no thanks,’ she replied sharply. ‘I’d rather stay with Paulo.’

      ‘Don’t be absurd!’

      ‘Don’t think you can control me,’ she fired back, fury starting to boil. Anger felt good. Clean.

      ‘Control? Is that what you think this is about? I was protecting you back there!’

      ‘I don’t need protecting.’

      He raised one eyebrow in scathing contempt. ‘Really? It didn’t look like it from where I was standing.’

      Meghan gritted her teeth. ‘I can handle Paulo.’

      ‘You were obviously handling him when I came in,’ Alessandro slung back at her. He shook his head in incredulous derision. ‘Do you honestly think you could have controlled him?’

      ‘I …’ Meghan trailed off. More than I can control you.

      The frightening thing was, she realised, she couldn’t have controlled Paulo. She could have been—perhaps would have been—raped.

      She bent over, suddenly feeling nauseous, the events of the evening catching up to her consciousness with sickening speed. ‘I think I’m going to throw up.’

      In one fluid movement Alessandro pulled the car over onto a stretch of grass and flung open his door. He went around to Meghan’s door and yanked it open, ushering her out with one arm around her shoulders.

      Meghan pushed away from him and stumbled into the grass where she retched helplessly. She’d never felt so low, so utterly humiliated, and that was saying something.

      That was saying quite a lot.

      She stood up, wiping her mouth, her hair falling about her face, while Alessandro watched impassively. He handed her a starched white linen handkerchief, and Meghan dabbed at her lips uselessly. She didn’t want to sully it.

      ‘It’s to be used,’ he said, his voice tart, and Meghan managed a weak smile.

      ‘Sorry.’

      ‘I’m the one who should be sorry. I should have remembered how shock can be delayed. Here.’ He handed her a bottle of water and Meghan opened it, drinking gratefully.

      ‘Thank you.’

      ‘Are you ready?’ he asked after a moment, and Meghan was suddenly aware of how dark it was. A car hadn’t passed them since he’d pulled over, and nothing but meadows and clusters of elm trees surrounded them, the hills no more than shadowed mounds in the distance.

      She could hear the whisper of the wind through the grass and the bare branches of the trees. She could hear her own breathing. They were very much alone.

      ‘Yes, I’m ready.’

      Alessandro opened the door for her, and Meghan slipped inside.

      ‘I’m sorry about that,’ she said again, once they were on the road, and Alessandro shrugged.

      ‘Don’t apologise.’

      The car climbed higher into the Umbrian hills, and they spent the rest of the short drive in silence. Soon a high stone wall appeared, running parallel to the road.

      Alessandro swung the car through an opened pair of ornate iron gates, and then up a long, twisting drive, the hills steep on either side.

      Automated outdoor lights flashed on as the car approached the portico, and Meghan glimpsed a long, rambling villa of mellow stone and terracotta roof tiles. Several large pots lined the entrance, spilling a riot of begonias onto the tiled steps.

      Alessandro stopped the engine and went around to open Meghan’s door. She stepped out with murmured thanks. She smelled the fresh tang of pine, and the air was sharper, colder. She wrapped her arms around herself.

      The front door opened, and a stout woman with a shiny black bun of hair, a spotless apron and a forbidding expression stood there. Meghan quailed under her heavy-browed, frowning gaze.

      ‘Meghan, this is Ana,’ Alessandro said, ‘the housekeeper and guardian of Tre Querce.’

      He spoke rapid Italian to Ana, too fast for Meghan’s basic grasp of the language, and the woman gave an obviously disgruntled response.

      ‘Ana will show you to a room,’ he continued in English. ‘You can freshen up and meet me in the lounge for dinner.’

      Meghan turned to look at him in surprise. It almost sounded as if she were a guest rather than a waitress. ‘Shouldn’t I be in the kitchen?’ she suggested hesitantly, and Alessandro gave her a knowing look.

      ‘You are not the cook.’

      ‘I’m a waitress,’ she threw back at him, and his smile was far too understanding.

      ‘Yes. I know. So you’ve told me.’

      With jerky, unnatural steps Meghan followed Ana through a cool tiled hallway and up a wide staircase, her hand clutching the smooth wrought-iron banister.

      Silently Ana led her down the upstairs hall, passing a row of closed doors, before ushering her into a bedroom spare and clean in its elemental luxury.

      A large double bed dominated the room, the duvet and pillows encased in pure white linen. An oak dresser with iron fixtures stood against the wall, a strip of mirror above.

      Disapproval radiated from every stiff line of the older woman, from her thinly pressed lips to the tightly clasped hands at her ample waist. Meghan couldn’t

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