Abruptly Angelo sat back, heart thrumming against his ribs. His breath was a snatch of air that made his lungs ache because he forgot to exhale.
He frowned. This was no time for flights of fantasy. He had an injured woman to deal with. He had to discover how badly injured.
Carefully he slipped his hand under the mass of wet hair and lifted it all off this side of her face.
He almost dropped it as he saw what lay beneath.
Shock jolted him. As if lightning had struck through him.
There was no blood. Yet what he saw horrified him.
His gaze traced the slant of her cheekbone, the line of her nose and delicately carved nostril, down to full lips that were too pale.
His hand shook.
Because he knew her.
It was impossible that she was here.
Yet there was no doubt. He’d know that profile anywhere.
He remembered leaning over her as the early morning sun flooded his bedroom. She’d stretched back into his aroused body, a feline smile of satisfaction curving those lips as she rubbed herself against him.
Angelo blinked, dispelling the memory.
Then he frowned. A smattering of freckles stood out against the unnatural pallor of her face. Those were new.
And her eyebrow looked different, still beautifully arched but more natural-looking than when he’d seen her last.
Slowly he released her hair so it fell behind her ear, leaving her face clear. He snatched his hand away. It tingled as if stung by unseen ants.
Of course she looks different. It’s been five years.
Yet she didn’t look older. If anything she looked younger than before.
Angelo snorted, feeling warmth begin to trickle back into his shock-numbed body. She’d spent a fortune, both in time and products, to maintain her looks. She’d claimed it was necessary because of her work, but he knew she’d been just as motivated by vanity. She’d see ageing as a personal affront.
Which didn’t explain what she was doing here, of all places.
His eyes narrowed as he caught a smudge of colour on his hand. Blood?
Reluctantly he bent forward and there, if he wasn’t mistaken, was a patch of darker colour in her wet hair.
He was just reaching out to investigate when her eyelashes fluttered. Or did he imagine it? Angelo stared, alert to any movement. There it was again, the tiniest stirring.
A wrinkle appeared on her smooth brow and tiny vertical lines appeared above her nose. To his horror Angelo found himself thinking the frown looked almost cute on that clear, guileless face.
Guileless? His mouth twisted in a grimace of bitter derision.
That was one thing he couldn’t accuse her of. This woman was an opportunist. Self-obsessed. Conniving.
She was an outright liar.
In fact, now he was here, on his knees beside her, he began to wonder about the convenientaccidentthat had washed her up on his private beach. It was a little too unbelievable, surely?
Angelo Ricci was many things but gullible wasn’t one of them. Once, definitely, and to his cost. But no longer. He’d learned distrust thoroughly and brutally.
If it were any other woman, he’d take her at face value. But not her. Was the blood in her hair actually some sort of dye?