Olivia Gates - One Night In…

‘Yes, I did. But you’re the one judging me now.’ There was a moment of taut silence, then Alessandro’s hand slashed through the air. ‘I won’t have it, Meghan. I won’t be judged—condemned on old evidence. I’ve had enough of that!’ His voice was savage, yet as he turned away his head was bowed, as though under a burden too great to bear. ‘I won’t have you throwing one thing I said into my face time and time again,’ he continued in a low voice. ‘I can’t have it. Nothing I ever say or do will prove what I am. You damn me on one piece of flimsy evidence. I will not be damned. Not by you.’ His voice shook slightly. ‘Not by you.’

Meghan stared, stunned by the force of his emotion. Her mind spun.

He turned back to her, his voice now cool. Cold. ‘You must take responsibility for your own actions. Stop blaming me, or that other man, for your own desires. You may have been a victim before, but you are not one now. And I won’t let you act like one.’ He shook his head, his expression suddenly weary. ‘There are too many shadows, Meghan. Perhaps for both of us. I’ll drive you back to Spoleto, or wherever you want to go, tonight. It is better that way. It has to be.’ With that, he gazed at her one last time, smiling sadly, then turned on his heel and left.

MEGHAN sat back on the bed, her mind still numb, yet whirling. Spinning horribly with implications she had pushed away, refused to consider.

You may have been a victim before, but you are not one now.

She lay back against the rumpled sheets and mussed pillows, an ache of regret throbbing through her, threatening to rise up into an overwhelming howl of misery.

She’d wanted control. She’d entered Alessandro’s villa—his life—so she could prove something to herself. To him.

She’d wanted to prove that she was in control, that she wasn’t a victim. She’d been determined to show how she could be in control of her own life, her own body.

She’d failed spectacularly.

She was such a fool.

She took a deep, shuddering breath. If she wanted control this was the time to take it with both hands, and show Alessandro she understood.

Meghan pushed the tangled mass of hair back from her flushed face. A glance in the mirror confirmed her suspicions; she was a mess. She splashed cold water on her face, yanked a brush through her hair until it lay in waves against her shoulders, and changed into a fresh pair of jeans from her haversack. She picked one of her favourite blouses, a silky, cream wraparound that emphasised the clean lines of her throat and collar-bone and left all the rest to the imagination, barely hinting at the soft curves it hid.

It was wrinkled and cheap, but it was clean, and it was hers. She didn’t want to wear borrowed clothes for this.

Taking another breath, in a vain attempt to calm her wildly beating heart, she walked downstairs.

The villa was quiet, cloaked in darkness, but Meghan saw a lamp burning in the lounge. The double doors were closed, although one had escaped its latch.

It was enough of an invitation. It would have to be.

Meghan pushed the door open with her fingertips. Alessandro stood in the centre of the room, his back half turned, staring at one of the vivid oil paintings on the wall with a preoccupied scowl. When she saw the ferocity of his expression Meghan almost turned back.

Then he saw her. He stilled, then turned slightly towards her, one eyebrow raised, his face now frighteningly impassive, as if a mask had dropped into place. He didn’t speak.

‘I wanted to tell you I’m sorry,’ Meghan began, her voice thready. ‘You were right.’

‘Oh?’ He gave her nothing—no quarter, no mercy.

‘I was acting like a victim,’ Meghan continued painfully, her face flushing with humiliated acknowledgement, ‘and it wasn’t fair to you. Despite our … beginnings, you’ve given me nothing but honesty and understanding since then. I realise that now.’ She swallowed, bowed her head in submission, and waited for his judgement.

Alessandro was silent. Meghan could hear her heart pounding.

‘How convenient for you,’ he said after a long moment, his voice dry, and yet with a chill.

‘Alessandro, please.’ Meghan looked up, took a step forward, reached a hand out in helpless appeal before dropping it. The man she’d thought she was beginning to know was warm, vibrant, alive.

The man in front of her now was a shadow of that man, no more than a reflection in ice.

He did not have compassion in his eyes. Tenderness did not soften his face. His eyes were black and cold, the beauty of his face made up only of harsh planes and angles.

‘You really do want me to leave,’ she said unsteadily.

He shrugged, an elegant twisting of his broad shoulders. ‘Maybe you were right. Maybe I’m bored with you, as you suggested.’

Meghan felt sick. Alessandro was a man who didn’t bluff. She should have known she’d wasted all her chances. She took a step backwards. ‘I’ll go and get my things.’

‘Are you quite certain you want to return to Spoleto?’ His expression was sardonic. ‘You did say you were finished there.’ He raised his eyebrows, coldly amused. ‘So where are you going now, Meghan? Where are you running to? Have you decided that yet?’

‘I’m not running,’ Meghan retorted automatically, and Alessandro gave a sharp bark of laughter.

‘Oh, no? But you give such a good impression of it.’ He shook his head in disbelief. ‘You’re not a woman. You’re a child. So young and naïve. You look to others to condemn or absolve you. You blame them for your mistakes—your choices—and you run away when it gets too hard. You have to take responsibility for your actions, Meghan. Lord knows I did—much as it hurt.’

Meghan jerked back from the verbal assault. He’d assessed and discarded her whole character in a matter of seconds. He’d given her reasons, motivations, faults, without understanding the truth.

Without knowing it.

‘Don’t,’ she whispered. ‘You don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘No? Then tell me.’ Alessandro’s face darkened even as he shoved his hands in his pockets, his body chillingly relaxed. ‘Tell me about Stephen. He was married, you said? And you didn’t know?’

Meghan’s eyes widened in shock. ‘No, I didn’t! I told you that! He never told me … I never …’

‘Yes, you’ve told me many things.’ He made it sound as if she’d offered him a tissue of lies. ‘This place you lived— Stanton Springs, was it? A small town? You told me you were—what was the phrase?—a smalltown girl.’

‘Yes,’ Meghan whispered wretchedly. ‘It was a small place.’ She knew where this was going, knew where he was leading her without mercy, without understanding. Without forgiveness. And she could do nothing but follow—follow down this damnable path to its terrible destination.

‘I’ve heard about these towns in America. Friendly places, yes? Everyone knows everyone else. You all say hello in the street. Like one of those American television shows.’ His eyes glinted with both knowledge and power.

‘Yes,’ Meghan agreed softly. ‘It’s just like that.’

He lifted his chin, prepared for the final thrust. ‘So tell me now, how is it that you didn’t know he was married? Because you did know, didn’t you, Meghan?’ His eyes were like blue flames, burning into hers, into her consciousness, her soul. Searing her. ‘You must have known who he was. You must have said hello to his wife. You must have lived a lie. Isn’t that right? That’s what is eating you alive—why you have these shadows. Why you can’t move on. You knew, and you pretended you didn’t. Even to yourself. You knew, Meghan.’