Good. She probably wouldn’t be going anywhere without that.
“Look, whatever your name is, there’s something you need to know.”
She walked through the living area, eyes scanning the whole time, her frown deepening. “I need my bag.”
“I’ll help you find it, but I need a goddamn coffee. And some aspirin.”
“You don’t understand, it’s—my bag,” she finished lamely, her huge eyes looking suspiciously moist.
Women’s handbags were not his speciality. He couldn’t think why she was so bothered about it, but he made a noise of impatience as he stalked out of the kitchen, coffee machine pushing through a single shot. He could smell the aroma and his gut rolled in anticipation.
He found her beat up leather handbag in one of the bedrooms. The bed she’d slept in had been neatly re-made. He stared at it and had a visceral memory of carrying her in here and placing her down. She’d been wearing his shirt, even then. How? Why?
“Here,” he said, as he emerged into the lounge room. She was moving sofa cushions around frantically, but at the sight of him, relief crossed her features.
“Oh, thank God,” she exclaimed, forgetting to keep a wary distance from him as she moved quickly across the room and snatched for the bag, unzipping it while she stood only a few inches from him, fingers closing around something as she closed her eyes and let go of a breath she’d been holding.
“What is your name?” His tone was firm, making his expectations clear.
She swallowed quickly. “Ally.”
“Is that short for Alison?”
She shook her head. “Allegra.”
Surprise shifted through him. It was a beautiful name; it suited her.
“Italian?”
Her lips pulled to the side. “My mother loved music,” she said. “Classical, mostly.”
Loved. Past tense. He recognised her grief instantly; it was how he felt when he thought of Marco, though he had taught himself not to show that in his voice, or in any way whatsoever. The last thing he wanted was pity. He didn’t deserve it. Not when his actions had led to his best friend’s death.
“I don’t suppose you saw my clothes wherever you found this?”
He shook his head once. “They must be here, somewhere.”
“Yes, presumably I didn’t end up naked on the street.”
He knew that if she’d been naked here, with him, he would have remembered. There were some things that even the strongest alcohol couldn’t blot, and this woman would have been one of them. His fingers tingled with an ache to reach out and touch her, to feel the softness of her skin.
He pushed down on the temptation.
“I can get clothes sent up,” he said, wanting to remove any other conversational distractions. He moved to the phone and pressed a button for the concierge. The enormous penthouse boasted many luxuries and privileges, as well as a twenty-four-seven concierge at his fingertips.
Luca spoke as soon as someone answered.
“I need some ladies’ clothes sent up.” He covered the receiver. “Any preference?” Her cheeks were back to glowing like beacons. She shook her head quickly. “American size 6, petite, weather appropriate.”
“Very good, sir. They’ll be there within thirty minutes.”
Luca disconnected the call and turned to face her. “A replacement outfit is on the way up.”
“I’m sure that’s not necessary. My clothes must be here somewhere. You shouldn’t have bothered with that.”
“It’s no bother.”
She compressed her lips. “Well, not for you. Presumably it’s a little bit of a bother for whomever is scurrying around getting me something to wear.”
