A Scandal in the Headlines(19)

“This glare is the only thing between you and my temper,” he’d replied, making no attempt to cushion her from the thrust of that temper in his voice. “I’d be more grateful for it, were I you.”

“And what will you do if you lose it?” Elena had asked, sounding bored. She’d angled a look at him then over the rims of her dark glasses. “Hate me even more? By all means. Try.”

It had taken everything he had not to cross over to her then and there and teach her exactly where his temper would lead. Exactly where it would take them both. The hot glory of the way they could burn each other alive. Only the fact that he wanted it too badly, and was furious at himself for that shocking deficiency in his character, kept him from it.

Alessandro stood up on one of the terraces now, looking out over the sweep of land that made up the rest of the island behind his house. On the far side of the tennis court was the small meadow that ran down to the rocky shore, late-spring grasses and early-summer flowers preening beneath the June sun. Scrappy pines and elegant palm trees scraped the sky. Stout fruit trees displayed their wares—lemons and oranges and leafy almonds. Seagulls floated in the wind, calling out their lonely little songs. And in the center of all that natural beauty was Elena.

Elena. Always Elena.

He’d been so furious that first night he was glad she’d removed herself shortly after dropping her little bombshell about her possible pregnancy—and her intention to stay here, with him. He’d drunk his way into what passed for sleep and had woken the next morning determined to regain the upper hand he never should have yielded in the first place.

She wanted to stay on his island to further some twisted agenda of her own? She wanted to play this game of consequences with him? Va bene. Then she would have to deal with what she’d put into action. And she’d have to face him while she did it.

“I’ll expect you at dinner,” he’d told her that first morning. “Every night.”

She’d been walking into the cheerful breakfast room then, its floor-to-ceiling glass windows pulled back to let the morning in. She’d hardly looked at him as she’d helped herself to the carafe of the strong Indonesian coffee he preferred to the more traditional, milky cappuccinos.

“Your expectations are your own, Alessandro,” she’d said almost sweetly when she’d turned back from the simple, wood-carved sideboard to face him, balancing her coffee cup in her hands.

She’d worn a huge, shapeless sundress, swaddling herself in cheery turquoise from her neck to her toes, and topped off with one of those flimsy, gauzy wrap things that served no discernible purpose at all but to conceal her figure.

He’d liked the idea that she’d felt she had to hide herself from him. That he’d got at least that far beneath her treacherous skin, that he hadn’t been the only one feeling battered that morning.

“If you want to hold me captive on my own island for forty days, that’s the price.”

“The price is too high.”

He’d smiled. “You really won’t like my alternate plan. Trust me.”

“I told you I’d be happy to go my merry way and let you know what happens,” she’d replied, her expression cool but her blue eyes a shade darker than usual. “You were the one who started ranting on about dead bodies. I don’t see why I should have to subject myself to more of the same over dinner.”

“Afraid you won’t be able to control yourself?” he’d taunted her. “Will I be forced to fend off your advances over pasta alla Norma, Elena? Defend what remains of my virtue over the soup?”

Her blue eyes had blazed. “Unlikely.”

“Then I fail to see the problem,” he’d said, still smiling, though his gaze had been a challenge and demand on hers.

Her mouth had curved slightly then, that cool slap of a smile he’d already come to loathe.

“Also unlikely,” she’d replied.

He’d lounged there in his chair and looked at her for a moment, enjoying himself despite the pounding in his head, the stark disillusionment in his heart. Despite what he knew about her now. Despite his own weakness for her that even her distasteful manipulations couldn’t erase.

“I warned you,” he’d said softly. Deliberately. “You wanted this.”

“I wanted—” But she’d thought better of whatever she’d been about to say, and had pressed her lips together.

“Be careful what you wish for next, cara,” he’d advised her silkily. “You might get that, too.”