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She gave a little gasp as she felt his fingers skim her knees, testing, teasing. Touching.

And his touch, as it had all those years ago, caused sensation to explode in her stomach, to spiral upwards from her heart. Her heart.

‘Stefano …’ she whispered, and stopped, because she didn’t know what she was saying. She didn’t even know what she was wanting.

She knew that if they continued down this path it would be dangerous. Deadly. How could they recover, continue the polite parody of their relationship, when this had happened?

This. Desire. Regret. Wonder.

Slowly, Stefano slid his hand along the tender, untouched skin of her thigh. Allegra shuddered lightly, but kept her eyes closed. She didn’t want to open them, didn’t want to see the expression on Stefano’s face. She was afraid of what it would be, what he was feeling.

What she was feeling.

‘Did he touch you here?’ he whispered. His hand slipped along her thigh, his fingers drifting higher, closer. Allegra felt her legs part, leaving her passive to his calculated caress.

She shook her head, not even sure what she was denying, admitting. Wanting him to stop, yet also wanting him to continue. Treacherously, terribly, wanting him to continue, even now.

‘What about here?’ Stefano whispered. His fingers played with the elastic of her underwear, his thumb skimming over her most sensitive flesh. ‘Did you enjoy it? Did you …?’ His finger slipped beneath her underwear. ‘Did you think of me?’

She gasped aloud, whether in pleasure or shame even she didn’t know. Her eyes were still closed, clenched shut. She gave a little shake of her head.

She opened her eyes, saw his blaze into hers with feeling. Anger. Hatred.

Shock reverberated through her at the savage expression on his face, his soul reflected so openly, so terribly, if only for a moment.

‘What is this?’ she choked out. ‘Some kind of revenge?’

Stefano’s eyes burned into hers for one fiery second before he cursed under his breath and jerked back. Allegra watched him stalk across the room, his back to her, heard the clink of glass as he poured himself another whisky.

She sagged against the chair, limp, lifeless. He was treating her like a possession, she thought. Just as she’d feared he would all those years ago, just as she’d always known. A possession. His. His to punish.

He was punishing her, she knew with a cold fury quite apart from the desire he’d sent spiralling through her.

Punishing her, for having had a lover when he’d been married. The realization of such a disgusting double standard cleared her head, gave her strength.

‘It was a doctor at the hospital where I was training,’ she said, and her voice was clipped and cold. Stefano stilled but did not turn around. ‘David Stirling. We were lovers for two months, until I realized he was just about as controlling and possessive as you are. And,’ she added, her voice shaking, ‘we didn’t sleep together until last year. So I waited six years to give myself to someone else, Stefano. You waited three months.’

He still didn’t turn around, and she wanted to hurt him, wound him, as he’d wounded her. Yet she knew she couldn’t, because he didn’t care.

And she did. Damn it, she did.

‘And you’re right, it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter because you don’t care about me, Stefano. You never did. You never loved me. The only thing that was hurt when I left was your wretched pride. You showed it tonight—someone else got to play with your toy! That’s all I am, have ever been, to you. And,’ she continued, trembling with emotion, with the river of suppressed feeling coursing through her in a terrible, unrelenting stream, ‘even if you had loved me, I didn’t want the kind of love you were prepared to give—a kind that didn’t involve honesty or joy or anything that really matters.’

Protection. Provision. What more is there?

He still didn’t turn around, didn’t acknowledge her in any way but the stiffness of his shoulders.

Allegra felt a blinding anger driving through to a needlepoint of pain, anger and pain that fuelled her words. ‘The kind of love you offer, Stefano, isn’t love. It’s nothing! It’s worthless.’

Stefano jerked, though he didn’t turn around. For a triumphant second Allegra actually thought she’d got to him. Hurt him. Yet even as she felt a blaze of victory, she realized it didn’t feel the way she wanted it to—deep and satisfying, a direct hit.

She felt low, cheapened somehow by her own actions as well as Stefano’s.

She took a breath, trying to calm herself. ‘Coming here was obviously a mistake but it’s also a business arrangement.’ She laughed, a sharp, brittle sound. ‘Just like our marriage was meant to be! Funny, how it all comes round. I’ll stay, Stefano, for Lucio’s sake. I want to help him. But when I have, and the next few months, or however long it takes, are over, I’ll thank God that I never have to see you again. A welcome thought for you as well, I’m sure.’

Trembling, still aching to hit him, hurt him, make him at least turn around and acknowledge her, Allegra left the room. She slammed the door on the way out.

Stefano knew he shouldn’t have a third whisky but he felt like it. He wasn’t a man who normally drank, but now he needed the fiery relief burning all the way to his gut.

Rage and remorse coursed through him in an unrelenting river of emotion. Emotion he didn’t want to acknowledge, much less feel.

Damn it. Why had he talked to her, treated her like that?

Allegra. The woman who was going to help Lucio. The woman meant to be his wife. He hadn’t forgotten. He could never forget the moment when he’d realized, when he’d known that she’d left. And she hadn’t bothered to say goodbye, to explain.

Nothing but a note.

That moment was burned into his memory, into his very soul. It felt as much a part of him as his family, his job, his every ambition or fear. He’d carried it around with him for seven years; he wasn’t about to let it go.

Yet, for Lucio’s sake, he had to. He had to try.

When he’d decided to seek Allegra out, to hire her, he’d convinced himself that the past didn’t matter. She didn’t matter.

There was no reason to care what she’d done, who she’d been with, who she’d loved. He’d been married, of all things; he could hardly accuse her for taking a lover. She was twenty-six years old and she had every right to find romance, love, sex, with someone else.

Someone other than him.

Yet the reality of it had been much harder to bear than the mere possibility.

It wasn’t the idea of another man touching her that wounded, Stefano realized with profound bitterness, although that certainly stung. It was the fact that Allegra had chosen—had preferred— someone else. She’d walked away from him to seek solace in another’s arms, and nothing—nothing—could change that.

Even worse, perhaps, was the cold, hard knowledge that he’d done the same thing. And failed.

The only solace he’d found was in knowing he’d made a mistake, and doing his best to rectify it. Giving Gabriella her life, her freedom back had been a relief for both of them.

Stefano dragged in a long, laborious breath and set his tumbler down. He walked slowly from the room, up the stairs to Allegra’s bedroom.

He didn’t try the knob; he had a feeling it would be locked and he didn’t want to find out. He placed his palm flat on the door, leaned his forehead against the smooth wood. All was silent, but he spoke anyway.

‘Allegra.’

He thought he heard a tiny sniff, a little gasp. He continued. ‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said or done what I did downstairs. It was wrong of me. I …’ He paused, his throat closing against the clamour of things he felt but didn’t know how to say. ‘Goodnight,’ he finally managed, and walked slowly down the corridor to his own empty bedroom.

CHAPTER SEVEN

THE NEXT MORNING the town house was silent as Allegra made her way downstairs, but after a few seconds she heard the quiet clink of china from the dining room and saw Stefano in the mahogany-panelled room, drinking a cappuccino, his head bent over the newspaper.

She watched him silently for a moment, the hard plane of his cheek and jaw, the soft sweep of his hair, the way he absently ran his long-fingered hand through it before turning a page.