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“But you believed this…whatever it was you read about me?”
“Why would people lie?”
He studied her with his dark, fathomless eyes, the sensual curve of his mouth making her feel hurt and longing and desire and pain.
She’d loved his mouth, loved the shape of that mouth and everything it made her feel—physically, emotionally. He’d always made her feel so much and until she’d discovered the truth about him, it’d been so good. She’d felt so good. After so many years she’d felt whole. And then the truth emerged and she shattered all over again.
“Why indeed?” he mocked.
She waited for him to say something else. Waited for him to explain or defend or help her make sense of this life of his. He didn’t.
She balled her hands into fists. “So now’s your chance. Tell me. Tell me the truth. Are you…?”
“Am I what?”
“You know.”
His head tipped to the side. “Do you realize you’re in danger of sounding obsessive?”
His mockery infuriated her. “This is serious,” she snapped.
“You’ve watched too many Hollywood movies.”
“I know what I know.”
“And just what do you know, Jill? You seem to be an expert on masquerades and games and charades.”
She shivered at his tone. What if he knew more than she thought he did? What if he knew what she hadn’t wanted him to know?
What then?
And what would he do with the information?
But she wouldn’t let herself go there, not now, not yet. Instead she locked her knees for courage. “I know Sicily has a long, complicated history with the mafia. I know that the Italian government has tried for years to rid Sicily of the mafia but without great success.”
“And why do you think?” he asked, watching her from beneath his thickly fringed lashes.
“Because by all reports, the mafia leaders are very clever.”
He held her gaze, his dark eyes searching hers. “Or perhaps the mafia does not exist.”
So that’s how he wanted to do this. They were to pretend she was misinformed, confused, off base.
He wanted her to believe the mafia didn’t exist. He was asking her to accept that organized crime was a Hollywood fabrication. He was asking the impossible.
She wasn’t that girl. She knew better. She knew the truth.
Jillian had lived through things, experienced things most people only read about in books or watched on TV. Her father, while presenting a charming face to the world, had the callous heart of a killer. Her father.
“Is that what you want me to believe?” she choked.
“You must have had one miserable childhood, because you’re completely incapable of trusting another.” “I’m completely incapable of trusting you.”
“Just me?”
“Just you,” she retorted, even though it was a lie. She didn’t trust many people. She certainly didn’t trust powerful men and still didn’t know why she’d decided to trust Vitt nearly two years ago.
“Why?”
