A Scandal in the Headlines(16)

Elena took the wine he poured for her, a rich and hearty red, and sipped at it, letting the mellow taste wash over her, wash her clean. She tried to match his seeming insouciance, leaning back in her chair and holding her glass airily, as if she spent most of her evenings with her various lovers in their magnificent island estates. As if this—as if he—was nothing but run of the mill.

“It’s quite good,” she said, because she thought she should say something.

Not for the first time, she was painfully aware of how deeply unsophisticated she really was—how categorically unsuited to playing in these deep, dark waters with men like him. Niccolo had dressed her up and taught her how to play the part, but here, now, she was forcefully reminded that she was only Elena Calderon, a nobody from a remote village no one had ever heard of, descended from a long line of mostly fishermen. She was out of her league, and then some.

Alessandro only watched her. Something about that cold regard, that dark, silent fury, made her feel raw. Restless.

“Alessandro Corretti with nothing to say?” She attempted a smile. “Shocking.”

“Tell me,” he said in that calm, easy way that only emphasized the deadly edge beneath. “When you run back to your fiancé and tell him what you did here, how detailed a picture will you paint for him? When you tell him you slept with a man he loathes, will you also tell him how many times you screamed my name?”

Elena paled, even though she knew she shouldn’t—that she should have expected this. That she had expected this. Her fingers clenched hard on the stem of her glass.

“Or perhaps that’s how he likes it. Perhaps he enjoys picturing his woman naked and weeping with ecstasy in another man’s arms.” His eyes were like coals, hot and black. “Perhaps this is a game the two of you play, and I am only the latest in a long line of targets. Perhaps you are the bullet he aims at his enemies, then laughs about it later.”

Elena congratulated herself on achieving precisely what she’d set out to achieve, and in spades. She told herself his opinion of her didn’t matter. That the worse it was, the better. The less he thought of her, the less he’d feel compelled to betray her to Niccolo. She took another nonchalant sip of her wine, and ordered herself to enjoy her curiously bitter-tasting triumph.

“Niccolo is a man of many passions,” she said, and was perversely satisfied by the flash of temper in his gaze.

“Never mind what that makes you.”

She glared at him, determined not to let him see he’d landed a blow. She reminded herself that she could only be used as a bargaining chip if he believed she had some worth.

“Are you calling me a whore?” she asked softly. This is good, she assured herself. This is what you want.

But even the air seemed painful, shattering all around her. As if it was as broken as she felt.

“Is this some kind of twisted retribution for Rome?” he asked after long moments passed, no hint of green in those dark eyes of his.

“I’m not the one who started this,” Elena threw at him before she had time to consider it. Not that he was the first man to think she was a whore, not that Niccolo hadn’t covered the same ground extensively—but somehow, this didn’t feel anything like the triumph it should have been. It hurt. “I was perfectly happy on that boat. But you had to sweep in and ruin everything, the same way you did—”

She cut herself off, appalled at what she’d nearly said. Her heart was rioting in her chest, and she was afraid to look at him—afraid of what she’d see. Or what he would.

“By all means,” he invited her, his voice silk and stone. “Finish what you were saying. What else did I ruin?”

She would never know how she pulled herself together then, enough to look at him with clear eyes and something like a smile on her mouth.

“That was the first ball I’d ever attended, my first night in Rome,” she said, light and something like airy, daring him to refute her. “I felt like a princess. And you ruined it.”

“You have no comprehension whatsoever of the damage you do, do you?” He shook his head. “You’re like an earthquake, leaving nothing but rubble in your wake.”

It’s like he knows, a little voice whispered, directly into that dark place inside of her where she hated herself the most. Like he knows what you nearly let happen.

She set her glass back down on the table with a sharp click. “I don’t know what you want from me.”