An Inheritance of Shame(51)

‘No, I’m sorry. I’ve been a bit…stressed about work. That’s all.’ He drew her to him, kissed the top of her head. She slid her arms around him, pressed her cheek against his chest so she could feel the thud of his heart. She felt something in him loosen, relax. He sighed softly. ‘You look amazing, you know, and utterly beautiful.’

She felt herself relax too, then. She didn’t need to be so suspicious and uneasy. She had to stop waiting, expecting Angelo to let her down. She leaned back to smile at him. ‘You look pretty amazing too.’

‘And beautiful?’ Angelo said with a quirk of his eyebrow, a faint smile on his lips.

‘Actually, yes.’ Because he was a beautiful man. Long lashes, full lips, high cheekbones. A woman would kill for all of those, and yet Angelo possessed them in an utterly masculine way.

‘Let’s go,’ he said, and linking his hand in hers, he led her downstairs to the Porsche.

They didn’t talk too much as they drove along the coast to the racetrack that held the Corretti Cup. Angelo made a few attempts at small talk, but Lucia could tell he was preoccupied—the tension stealing through him again, his fingers tapping the steering wheel—and she wondered how he felt about attending such a prestigious event, hosted by his cousin. Did he still hate his Corretti relations, even as he defiantly bore their name? It was yet another one of his integral contradictions: the ragged boy, the regal businessman. The Corretti who both hated and claimed his name.

As Angelo drove up to the front of the racetrack, a valet came around for the car, and another opened her door. Lucia stepped out, saw an array of women dressed head-to-toe in designer outfits, sleek and privileged and looking world-weary, while she had her pretty dress, her dragonfly hair clip and her cheap, old shoes.

She swallowed dryly, grateful for Angelo’s steadying presence as he came beside her, slid his arm through hers.

‘What’s the schedule of events?’ she asked as they joined the decked-out throng streaming towards the main entrance of the track. Angelo sidestepped the crowd and headed towards a separate door marked VIP Only. A dark-suited man allowed them to pass without so much as a blink.

You should be thrilled, Lucia told herself. VIP! But she only felt outclassed and uneasy.

‘The main race is first,’ Angelo said, his arm around her shoulders as he guided her down a private corridor to an even more private box of seats. Lucia sat down on a plush chair, watched as a waiter poured them both champagne. ‘And then a champagne reception afterwards.’

‘More champagne,’ Lucia said as she accepted the crystal flute. ‘I’ve never even had champagne before, you know.’

Angelo smiled faintly. ‘See if you like it.’

She didn’t. The taste was crisp and tart on her tongue, not sweet at all, and the bubbles went up her nose. She put her glass down on the marble-topped table between them and resisted the urge to wipe her damp palms down the sides of her dress.

She didn’t like being here. She didn’t like being here with Angelo, who was scanning the different boxes with narrowed eyes, his lips thinned, looking both powerful and predatory.

‘Are you going to place a bet?’ she asked, and he gave her a quick glance and nod.

‘Oh, yes.’

There was something about his grimly certain tone that made her feel even more uneasy. ‘Which horse?’

Angelo paused, then answered crisply, ‘Cry of Thunder to win.’

Lucia didn’t know a thing about horse racing, but from hearing the chatter and gossip in the staff room, she did know that Cry of Thunder was an upstart contender from Spain, a horse that no one was backing because of course everyone wanted Gio Corretti’s Sicilian-bred horse to win.

Everyone except Angelo.

‘Cry of Thunder?’ she repeated after a moment. ‘He’s not likely to win, is he?’

Angelo hesitated for only a second. ‘No.’

‘So why are you betting on him, then?’

He shifted in his seat. ‘There are more important things than money.’

‘Of course there are.’ Angelo’s tone had been repressive, but Lucia couldn’t ignore the deepening unease she felt, prickling along her spine and souring her stomach. ‘But a horserace…betting, gambling…that’s about money, surely? About winning?’

Angelo glanced at her, and his expression was completely unreadable. All the emotion and need, the hope and happiness, she’d once seen in his eyes was veiled, masked. His eyes were flat and dark, the colour of moss on stone. ‘It’s definitely about winning,’ he finally said, which was no answer at all.