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She pulled back her own temper. ‘What reason could you possibly have for refusing to listen?’
‘How’s this? I want to be alone.’
She flinched, curiosity and, strangely, sympathy washing through her. But this was too important for Lucinda to be put off.
‘Okay.’ She lifted her hands appeasingly. ‘I promise, I’ll leave. But first, let me describe—quickly—the dream wedding I’ve planned for her.’
‘It’s a wedding,’ he growled. ‘She’ll wear a big white dress, he’ll wear a tuxedo, there’ll be a band and food and alcohol and, at the end of it all, they’ll be married.’
‘Why the heck did your sister put you in charge if that’s how you feel about these things?’
He opened his mouth as if to respond and then closed it again. ‘That’s not your concern.’ He turned and walked towards the doors of the library. ‘I presume you can see yourself out?’
Lucinda stared at him, open-mouthed. ‘Will you at least promise to review the plan?’ She held up the information, neatly collated into a booklet. Contrary to his implication, the data was succinct, the plans tightly worded to convey the effect of her intentions without getting bogged down in the minutiae of planning. That, after all, would be her job.
‘No.’ The single word reverberated through the castle and then he disappeared. His broad back fascinated her until he turned the corner and disappeared—taking with him all the hopes and fantasies Lucinda had created of Evie Skartos’s dream wedding. Especially the freedom it would finally grant to her.
He stripped out of his clothes gratefully, as though each item he removed was also relieving him of the day’s work, of the meetings he’d sat through, the deferential sympathy he’d endured, the curiosity, the watchfulness, the speculation. Did they think he didn’t hear the whispering? Did they think he didn’t know what it meant?
Naked in his bathroom, he let his eyes fall to the floor-to-ceiling mirror, inspecting his body slowly. At first, he’d hated the scars that started on his left flank and rose over his hip then bloomed beneath his arm to cover one pectoral muscle and the edge of his back, then higher, to his neck and the base of his throat. He’d hated them because they were a constant reminder, and now he relished them for that exact reason. His body bore the marks of his guilt, and he was glad.
The scars were a way of making sure he would never forget. Not that there was much danger of that—his mother’s screams were embedded in his brain and could never be dislodged—but the scarring ensured he thought of that night often. Several times a day. He relived the trauma, and he replayed his part in it, the guilt he bore because he’d been a stupid, drunken fool.
He ran his fingers over the torn flesh, and, out of nowhere, picturedherfingers. The woman who’d dared to invade his space, to walk into his home and act as though he owed her anything. When she’d lifted that bloody folder, he’d noticed that her hands were delicate and pale, her nails short and rounded, her skin like porcelain. As his finger travelled the length of his scarring, the matted sensation familiar to him, he imagined her hands travelling the length, touching him like this, feeling the scar, her wide, amber-coloured eyes following the trajectory of the damage, her lips— He groaned, because her lips had been impossible to ignore. Perfect pillows of pink, with a Cupid’s bow and a quickness to smile, even when he was glowering at her. He’d wanted to reach out and rub his thumb over them, to feel them part at his touch, and her warm breath escape, curling around his wrist. He’d wanted—
But he no longer deserved those pleasures. He had vowed never to indulge them again: celibacy was small penance, given his crime. He had stolen from his parents the chance to live their lives, he had no business taking joy in his.
For six years, he’d existed in self-imposed purgatory. He had not missed his old life, and the luxuries that came with it. He hadn’t missed partying, alcohol, women, laughter. He hadn’t missed anything except his parents, and the life he’d so foolishly taken for granted for so long.
When he thought ofthatlife, and how spoiled he’d been, Thirio wanted to become a boy again, a boy who could curl up into a ball and cry in the corner, a boy who could scramble onto his mother’s lap and be told that everything would be okay. But Thirio was not a boy and he knew nothing would ever be okay again. It was simply a matter of existing, for Evie’s sake, and never allowing himself to forget all the reasons he had for turning his back on pleasure and life.
But he was still human.
He was still a man.
And he was still capable of feeling. Of temptation. Unbidden, his eyes strayed to the window. His legs followed, carrying him towards it, until his eyes fell on her.
He wouldn’t have said he had a type of woman. Before the explosion and fire, Thirio had known only that he liked women—a lot. Tall, short, slim, curvaceous, blonde, brunette, he didn’t much care. But instinctively he knew this woman wasnothis type. Oh, she was very beautiful, with her dark blonde hair that tumbled down her shoulders in luxurious waves, and eyes that were the colour of sun-warmed honey, clear, almost pearlescent skin and a slim, toned figure that he’d been unable to avoid noticing, given that she wore a form-fitting turtleneck and black trousers. Yes, she was beautiful, but she was also young, sweet and somehow fragile, so that even when he’d been barking at her to get the hell out of his house, he’d felt a strange desire to protect her.
Ridiculous.
Thirio was nobody’s saviour, and she was, technically, a criminal. Breaking and entering was still considered illegal, wasn’t it?
As he watched, she paused, turning to regard the castle, and the late afternoon sun bounced off her face, so she almost appeared to shimmer, like a fairy-tale princess. But there was no such as thing as fairy tales. Her eyes travelled the turrets, the wonderment on her features unmistakable.
He didn’t move. In fact, he stood as still as an ancient statue, and yet, somehow, her eyes shifted quickly, as if drawn to his window, tohim.It was impossible to know how much she could see. After all, these windows were old and rippled and the sun would surely be creating a reflection of the forest. And yet her eyes lingered. Inexplicably, he remained right where he was, his torn, broken body defiantly visible, as if challenging her to look at him like the wide-eyed ingenue she’d been downstairs.
Christos, she was beautiful.
The thought resonated through his brain so fast it was like a whip cracking, and a moment later, there was lightning—not inside his mind, though he felt that too, but beyond the ridge of the forest, cutting through the darkening sky like a blade.
The storm was approaching much faster than forecast.
Muttering a curse, he turned away from the window and grabbed his jeans, his lips a grim line in his face. She couldn’t drive down the mountain in these conditions. For anyone, the road would be perilous, but for someone who wasn’t familiar with the terrain, it was an accident waiting to happen, and Thirio had known enough of accidents and death for a lifetime.
