“You think your family’s untouchable because you’re as rich as a prince?”
“I don’t think any such thing,” Benedetto denied, straightening to a standing position. At full height, he towered over the diminutive figure of Lord Beauchamp.
“Because he isn’t untouchable. And he isn’t innocent.”
Benedetto shook his head. Frustration was a flood in his system. “He stole a car thirty years ago. He robbed a store. He ran with the wrong crowd. These were stupid crimes of a mis-spent youth. He is not a murderer.”
“I am not interested in debating the case with you. I heard the facts. I heard the arguments. And I found him guilty.”
“You found him guilty before you even arrived at court.”
It was the sneering smile that answered the question. “It’s done.”
Her eyes blinked up at him, her expression confused. He’d been very quiet for several moments, his expression impossible to comprehend. “I really think I should …”
He shook his head; the memories gradually began to clear. Beauchamp had ruined his father’s life. And now? He was simply repaying the favour. “I have a villa in Tuscany. You will love it.”
* * *
She slept the whole way there, with her legs curled up beneath her and her head pressed against his balled up tuxedo jacket. In sleep, she was silent, but for the gentle sound of her rhythmic breathing.
As they crested over one of the many hills that served to guide his way to thevilla, he blinked his eyes down to her hands. They were resting on her lap, pale, with long fingers, and matching pink bands around her wrists.
It was symbolic.
He hadn’t thought of it, at the time. He’d wanted simply to enjoy her body. But now he looked at the visible marks of her imprisonment and felt an answering rush of emotion. Shame? Pleasure? He couldn’t have said. He knew only that he’d imprisoned Beauchamp’s daughter and taken what he’d wanted in the same way Beauchamp had imprisoned Carlo Arnaud. Only he’d taken Carlo’s life.
Not personally, but that wrongful judgement had been the beginning of the end for Carlo.
He turned his gaze back to the road and saw Beauchamp’s eyes staring back at him. Bloodshot, angry, dismissive, as they’d been the final time they’d met.
“Youkilled him.”
“Another of your accusations?” The older man had grunted, flicking his pen clear across the desk in a visible sign of anger.
“A statement of fact. You knew he was innocent of that crime. You know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that he did not murder that child. And yet you had him locked in a prison where other inmates made his every day a living hell. You did this to him. You drove him to it.” And his voice cracked with emotion. “He was a good man.”
“He was a murderer.”
“Bullshit.” Benedetto’s voice rang through the empty offices. At midnight, his tone took on a menace that perhaps it mightn’t have held in the daylight hours. “He was a good man.”
“He was …”
“A good man,” Benedetto slammed his hands down on the desk. When Beauchamp flinched, Benedetto felt a rush of power. He could punch this man. He could punch him again and again. But Benedetto had never had a violent streak. He had lived with his father’s teachings and he exercised a strong control on his impulses at all times. “He was a better man than you will ever be.”
“He was gutter-trash and he is dead.” The smile was an exultation.
Benedetto stared at those eyes, bloodshot from too much alcohol,face pale and pudgy, and he stood up. He paced away from the desk and wrenched the door open. “You will pay for this. I will make your life as unbearable as you did his.”
“Good luck!” Beauchamp cackled to Benedetto’s retreating back.
Benedetto turned the sleek car off the road into the driveway of the villa. He hadn’t been back in years. Not since his father had been put in prison. The memories then had become too painful.
There was a sort of neatness to bringing her with him now. The woman who was his instrument of paining that bastard Augustine.
His eyes flicked to her again and as if she sensed his interest, she shifted a little, a smile curving her lips. Her eyes blinked open and settled on his face. “Am I dreaming?” Her throat was husky from sleep.
He smothered the emotions that were coursing through him; unpleasant emotions filled with sadness and regret. “Hard to say from where I’m sitting.”
