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A sharp, indistinct sound came from Leo’s throat. He released her and she glanced up, saw the colour drain from his face.
‘Mio Dio. Did you think I would strike you?’
Her chest squeezed. ‘No, I... Of course I... I mean, you would never...’ She bit her tongue and mentally cursed. Her babbled response had only worsened his pallor. She pulled in a deep breath. ‘No,’ she repeated, firmly this time. ‘Of course I didn’t.’
She reached out to touch him, to show she wasn’t afraid, but this time he was the one who spun away.
‘Leo, wait...’
But he didn’t. And before she could find the right words to stop him, to erase that bleak look from his face, he was gone.
* * *
Leo stood on the terrace in the sultry afternoon heat and raked his fingers through his hair. His insides churned. The idea of Helena believing he would physically hurt her—despite her claim to the contrary—turned his stomach.
‘Leo?’
He gripped the railing, loath to turn. Loath to look at her lest he see that flicker of fear on her face again.
‘Leo, I... I’m sorry.’ She appeared at the railing beside him. ‘It was just a stupid reflex, that’s all.’
He stared across the rows of tiled rooftops baking under the brilliant Roman sun. ‘I would never harm you. I would never harm any woman.’
Her hand covered his, squeezed lightly, then slid away. ‘Of course. I know that.’
Did she? Or was she offering words she thought would mollify him? The need to test that theory overtook him and he turned, lifted his hand and brushed the backs of his fingers down her cheek. She didn’t flinch, and his relief was a balm more powerful than he could have imagined.
He dropped his hand. ‘I am sorry. I scared you and that was not my intent.’
‘I wasn’t scared. Like I said, it was just a reflex.’
Leo studied her for a long moment. ‘You assumed I would hit you, Helena.’ Just saying the words made his stomach roil again. ‘For most people that is not a natural reflex.’
‘So I’m not “most people”.’ She shrugged, a smile flickering briefly on her lips. ‘Really, it’s no big deal. Let’s forget about it.’
He wasn’t fooled. Not by her dismissive tone nor by that brave attempt at a smile. Her determination to downplay the matter only sharpened his interest. He moved, putting Helena between him and the view and gripping the railing either side of her, hemming her in. He wouldn’t touch her or frighten her again—not intentionally—but he would have the truth.
‘Was it a boyfriend?’ His gut burned, outrage simmering like a vat of hot oil beneath his calm.
Her lashes lowered. ‘No.’
His hands flexed on the railing. ‘Your father?’
She hesitated and the burn in his gut grew hotter. Thicker.
‘You said he was difficult to live with,’ he prompted, when the silence stretched.
Finally she looked up, her face pale even as a hint of defiance shimmered in her blue eyes. ‘Must we have this conversation now?’
‘Si,’ he said. ‘We must.’
Her gaze tangled with his for a long, taut moment, then she pulled in a deep breath and puffed it out. ‘In that case I think I need to sit.’
* * *
Leo set two glass tumblers on the coffee table in the living room and poured a finger of whisky into each. He recapped the decanter, sat on the brown leather sofa and faced Helena. Inside him acid churned, along with a hefty dose of impatience, but pushing her would have the reverse effect. So he waited.
‘My father’s a consummate Jekyll and Hyde,’ she said finally. She picked up her glass and stared into the pale bronze liquid. ‘Charming when he chooses to be, lethal when he doesn’t.’
