Alec’s jaw tightened at the very thought of that bastard conversing with Lottie once again. “I don’t want you involved with him,” he said through gritted teeth.

Lottie folded her arms across her chest. “You’re being absurd. This collector would pay for your expertise. And Signore Cardinelli likes me. If we go, you’ll stay in his good graces.”

Alec leaned forward. “That you would even make such a suggestion demonstrates how very little you know,” he snapped. “He is a dangerous man.”

She snorted. “He can’t harm me by flirting. Or is this about my reputation again? Are you still determined to save me from ruin?”

His breath quickened at her mocking tone. If the signore had any clue who Lottie really was, and how desperate Sir Alfred was to see her safe, he would manipulate the situation to get what he wanted. And Alec simply wouldn’t let that happen.

“I’m not some helpless little girl anymore,” Lottie continued with a stamp of her foot. “I’m capable of taking care of myself. And I don’t need your protection.”

She said the words so dismissively. As if his concern meant nothing to her.

“Oh, I see,” Alec said with deadly calm as he slipped his hands in his pockets and took a step toward her. “I didn’t realize you knew how to defend yourself.”

She hesitated and backed away. “Well, not exactly—”

“Ah. Then you must be able to wield a dagger.”

“No—”

“Shoot a gun?”

Lottie shook her head. A faint blush stained her cheeks, but Alec would not stop. He stepped forward until Lottie’s back was against the wall and there was nowhere for them to go. Until he was close enough to count the freckles on her nose.

“So, you’ll just talk your way out of any trouble. Is that it?” he demanded. “Make a few quips and hope that tongue of yours is sharp enough to save you?”

Her eyes fell. “I…I hadn’t thought—”

“No, you most certainly have not. But I have.” Alec slammed his palm against the doorjamb and Lottie straightened. His eyes burned into hers with all the intensity of his anger. His fear. “I know you’re proud for eluding your ancient chaperone, but this isn’t flouncing around Tuscany. This isn’t bloody ballroom gossip. That man has half of Italy’s blood on his hands. It’s already bad enough he thinks you’re my cousin, but if he had any idea who you really were. If he knew about your uncle, he would—”

Fuck.