Once a Ferrara Wife...
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Sarah Morgan
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11
CHAPTER ONE
‘LADIES and gentlemen welcome to Sicily. Please keep your seat belts fastened until the aircraft has come to a standstill.’
Laurel kept her eyes fixed on the book in her lap. She wasn’t ready to look out of the window. Not yet. Too many memories waited there—memories she’d spent two years trying to erase.
The toddler in the row behind her yelled a protest and squirmed, smacking both his legs into the back of her seat with a force that jolted her forwards, but Laurel was aware of nothing except the hot ball of stress that burned at the base of her ribs. Normally reading soothed her but her eyes were recognising letters that her brain wouldn’t compute. Even as part of her was wishing she’d packed a different book, another part of her knew it wouldn’t have made a difference.
‘You can let go of the seat now. We’ve landed.’ The woman seated next to her touched her hand gently. ‘My sister is a nervous flyer too.’
Laurel heard the quiet voice from somewhere in the distance and slowly turned her head. ‘Nervous flyer?’
‘It’s nothing to be ashamed of. My sister once had a panic attack en route to Chicago. They had to sedate her. You’ve been gripping that seat since we took off from Heathrow. I said to my Bill, “That girl doesn’t even know we’re sitting next to her. And she hasn’t once turned the page of that book.” But we’ve landed now. It’s over.’
Absorbing the startling truth that she hadn’t turned the page once during the flight, Laurel stared at the woman blankly. Kind brown eyes looked back at her. The woman’s expression was concerned and motherly.
Motherly?
Laurel was surprised she was even capable of recognising that expression, given that she’d never seen it before, especially not directed at her. She had no memory of being left wrapped in supermarket bags in a cold city park by a mother who didn’t want her, but the memories of the years that followed were embedded in her brain like shrapnel.
She had no idea why she would suddenly feel tempted to confess to a stranger that her fear had nothing to do with flying and everything to do with landing—in Sicily.
The other woman filled the silence. ‘We’re safely down now. You can stop worrying.’ She leaned over Laurel and craned her neck to see out of the window. ‘Just look at that blue sky and that view. It’s my first time in Sicily. And you?’
Small talk. Conversation that skimmed the surface but never dipped into the murky ocean of feelings beneath.
This, Laurel could do. ‘It’s not my first time.’ Because the woman’s kindness deserved some reward, she added a smile to the words. ‘I came here on business a few years ago.’ Mistake number one, she thought.
The woman eyed Laurel’s skinny jeans. ‘And this time?’
Laurel’s lips moved, the answers flowing automatically even though her brain was engaged elsewhere. ‘I’m here for my best friend’s wedding.’
‘A real Sicilian wedding? Oh, that’s so romantic. I saw that scene in The Godfather, all that dancing and family and friends—fabulous. And the Italians are so good with children, of course.’ The woman threw a disapproving look at the passenger behind them who had read her book throughout the flight and ignored her fractious toddler. ‘Family is everything to them.’
Laurel stuffed the book in her bag and undid her seat belt, suddenly desperate to escape from the conversation. ‘You’ve been so kind. Sorry I’ve been such boring company on this flight. If you’ll excuse me, I have to go.’
‘Oh, no, dear, you can’t leave your seat yet. Didn’t you hear the announcement? There’s someone important on the plane. Some VIP or other. Apparently they have to leave before the rest of us.’ Peering past Laurel out of the window, the woman gave an excited gasp. ‘Oh, just look at that. Three cars with blacked out windows have just pulled up. And those men look like bodyguards. And—oh, my, you have to look, dear, it’s like something out of a movie. I swear they have guns. And the most gorgeous man you’ve ever seen has just stepped onto the tarmac. He’s got to be at least six foot three and spectacular to look at!’
Man?
No, she wasn’t expecting a man. She wasn’t expecting anyone. To avoid an unwanted reception committee, she’d told no one which flight she would be on.
Her chest felt ominously tight and suddenly she wished she’d kept her asthma inhaler with her instead of putting it in her bag in the overhead locker.
An invisible force drew her head round and she found herself looking out of the window.
He stood on the tarmac, his eyes obscured by a pair of aviator sunglasses, his attention apparently fixed on the commercial aircraft that had just taxied to a halt. The fact that he was allowed such unprecedented access to the runway said a great deal for the influence he wielded. No other civilian would have been extended such a privilege, but this man wasn’t just anyone. He was a Ferrara. A member of one of the oldest and most powerful families in Sicily.
Typical, Laurel thought. When you want him, he’s nowhere to be seen. And when you don’t…
Her kindly neighbour craned her neck to get a better look. ‘Who do you think he is? They don’t have a royal family, do they? Must be someone important if he can skip Customs and just drive onto the runway. And what sort of man needs all that security? I wonder who he’s meeting?’
‘Me.’ Laurel rose to her feet with all the enthusiasm of a condemned man preparing to walk to the gallows. ‘His name is Cristiano Domenico Ferrara and he’s my husband.’ Mistake number two, she thought numbly. But not for much longer. She was about to become an ex-wife. A wedding and a divorce in the same trip. Killing two birds with one stone.
She wondered about that saying. What was good about killing two birds?
‘I hope you have a really nice holiday in Sicily. Make sure you try the granita. It’s the best.’ Ignoring the worried look of her kindly neighbour, Laurel removed her bag from the overhead locker and walked down the aisle to the front of the plane, grateful that she’d worn heels. There was something about high heels that gave you confidence in a tight situation and she was definitely in a tight situation. Passengers whispered and stared but Laurel was barely aware of them. She was too busy wondering how she could get through the next few days. It would be the biggest test of her life and she had a feeling it was going to take more than a pair of killer heels to see her safely through it.
Stubborn, arrogant, controlling—why had he come to meet her? Was he punishing her or himself?
The pilot hovered at the top of the metal steps. ‘Signora Ferrara, we had no idea we had the pleasure of your company on board—’ His forehead was shiny with sweat and he cast a nervous glance towards the formidable welcoming committee assembled on the tarmac. ‘You should have made yourself known.’
‘I didn’t want to be known.’
His fawning attention was uncomfortable to witness. ‘I hope you enjoyed your flight with us today.’
The journey couldn’t have been more painful if she’d been tied to a cart and dragged back to Sicily.
How stupid of her to have thought she could just arrive in her own time and that no one would notice. Cristiano had probably had the airports monitored. Or maybe he had access to the passenger lists.
When they’d been together, the extent of his influence had left her open-mouthed with disbelief. In her job she was used to dealing with celebrities and the super-rich but the Ferrara world was nothing short of extraordinary.
For a short time she’d lived that life with him. That glittering, gilded life of immense wealth and privilege. It had been like tumbling onto a bed of goose down after a life spent sleeping on concrete.
Seeing him standing at the bottom of the aircraft steps, Laurel almost lost her footing. She hadn’t seen him since that day. That awful day, the memory of which could still make her run to the bathroom and heave up her guts.
When Daniela had insisted that she stick to her promise and be her maid of honour Laurel should have pointed out the impact of that request on everyone involved. She’d thought there was no limit to what she’d do for friendship, but now she realised she’d been wrong about that. Unfortunately that clarity of thinking came too late.
Reaching into her bag, Laurel pulled out her sunglasses and put them on. If he was playing that game, then so was she.
With the pilot standing nervously behind her and all the passengers absorbed in the unfolding drama, she lifted her chin and stepped through the open door.
The sudden punch of heat was a shock after the chilly fog of London. The sun blazed down on her, spotlighting every reluctant step. Her heels clunked on the metal and the only thing preventing her from falling was her death grip on the rail. It was like descending into hell and he waited on the tarmac like the devil himself—tall, intimidating and unnaturally still, flanked by dark-suited security men who waited at a deferential distance for his command.
It was so different from the first time she’d arrived here, full of excitement and anticipation. She’d fallen in love with the island and the people.
And one man in particular.
This man.
She couldn’t see his eyes, but she didn’t need to see them to know what he was thinking. She could feel the tension—knew that he was being sucked back into the past just as she was.
‘Cristiano.’ At the last moment she remembered to inject casual indifference into her tone. ‘You didn’t have to break off from closing another mega-deal to come and meet me. I wasn’t exactly expecting you to hang out the welcome flags.’
That hard, sensuous mouth flickered at the corners. ‘How could I not meet my dear, sweet wife from the airport?’
After two barren years it was a shock to be face to face with him. But the bigger shock was the fierce hunger that burned in the empty pit of her stomach, the deep craven wanting she’d believed had died alongside their marriage.
Despair hit her because feeling like this felt like a betrayal of her beliefs.
She didn’t want to feel like this.
Cristiano Ferrara was a cold, hard, unfeeling bastard who no longer deserved a place in her life.
No, not cold. Automatically she corrected herself. Not that. In fact it might have been easier had he been cold. To someone as emotionally cautious as Laurel, Cristiano with his volatile, expressive Sicilian temperament had been dangerously fascinating. She’d been seduced by his charisma, his blatant masculinity and by his refusal to let her hide from him. He’d dragged an honesty from her she’d never given to anyone else.
Now, she was grateful for the extra layer of protection provided by the sunglasses. She’d never been good at revealing her thoughts to anyone. She’d always protected herself. To trust him had taken all her courage, which had made his careless betrayal all the more shocking.
She didn’t see him move but he must have gestured because one of the cars drew up next to her and a door opened.
‘Get in the car, Laurel.’ His icy tone wrapped itself around her body and acted like brakes. She couldn’t move.
Laurel stared into the interior at the luxurious evidence of the Ferrara success story.
She was supposed to climb inside without question. To follow his wishes without question because that was what everyone else did. In the world he inhabited—a world outside the limits of most people’s imagination—he was all powerful. He decided what happened and when.
Mistake number three had been coming back, she thought. Her anger, held tightly inside for two years, gnawed at her insides like acid.
She didn’t want to slide into the car with him.
She didn’t want to share that small, enclosed space with this man.
‘I feel sick after the plane journey. I’m going to walk around Palermo for a while before I go to the hotel.’ She’d booked somewhere small that would never appear on the Ferrara radar. Somewhere she could recover from the emotional demands of this wedding.
The breath hissed through his teeth. ‘Get in the car or so help me I will put you there myself. Embarrass me in public again and you will regret it.’
Again. Because of course she had done exactly that. She’d taken his masculine pride and smashed it into pieces and he’d never forgiven her.
Which suited her fine because she’d never forgiven him, either.
Never forgiven him for abandoning her when she’d needed him most.
She couldn’t forgive or forget, but that didn’t matter because she had no desire to rekindle their relationship. She didn’t want to fix what they’d broken. This weekend wasn’t about them, it was about his sister.
Her best friend.
Keeping that fact at the front of her mind, Laurel bent her head and slid into the car, grateful for the blacked out windows that shielded her from the goggling passengers who sat with their noses pressed to the windows of the aeroplane watching the drama unfold.
Cristiano joined her in the car and the door was closed on them. The doors locked with a solid clunk, a reminder that a member of the super-rich Ferrara family was always a target.
He leaned forward and spoke in Italian to the driver, the lilting expressive language sliding over Laurel with the softness of silk. He was an international businessman and he favoured Italian over the more guttural Sicilian dialect spoken by the locals although he could switch easily enough when it suited him. The fact that she loved hearing him speak to her in Italian had been one of their many private jokes.
The car moved forward, their departure allowing the rest of the passengers to finally disembark.
Laurel envied them their freedom. ‘How did you know I would be on that flight?’
‘Is that a serious question?’
No. If there was anything that the Ferrara family didn’t know then it was because it didn’t interest them. The scope and reach of their power was breathtaking, especially for someone like her who had come from nowhere. No one had cared who she was or where she was going.
‘I didn’t expect you to meet me. I was going to text Dani, or get a taxi or something.’
‘Why?’ His strong, muscular leg was dangerously close to hers, thrusting into her personal space. ‘You wanted to find out if I’d pay the ransom if you were kidnapped?’ Power throbbed from him and suddenly she realised why she’d been swept along by everything. She could barely think in his presence. Even now, his sexuality made her catch her breath.
She slid across the seat slightly, trying to widen the distance. ‘The divorce will be final soon. You probably would have paid them to take me off your hands. Your stroppy, disobedient ex-wife.’
The tension in the car tightened to snapping point. ‘Until the ink is dry on those papers, you’re still a Ferrara. Act like one.’
Laurel leaned her head back against the seat.
Laurel Ferrara. A legal reminder that she’d made a bad decision. The name sounded better than the reality.
The large powerful Ferrara family was bound together by blood and centuries of history. Their name was synonymous with success, duty and tradition. Even his sister Daniela, for all her English university education and rebel ways, was settling down and marrying a Sicilian from a good family. Her future was mapped out. Secure. Within a year she’d have a baby. Then another. That was what the Ferraras did. They bred more Ferraras to continue the dynasty.
Laurel’s throat burned and she stared straight ahead of her, grateful for the sunglasses that hid her eyes.
There were so many things she didn’t allow herself to think about. So many places she didn’t allow her mind to visit.
It had been more than two years since she’d seen him and she’d disciplined herself not to look at his photograph or surf the Internet for images, knowing that the only way to survive was to try and wipe him from her brain. But that wasn’t easily done with this man.
Once seen, never forgotten. Cristiano was so insanely good-looking that wherever he went, women stared. And it had driven her mad even though he’d done nothing to attract that attention except be himself.
Her need proved stronger than her willpower and she glanced sideways.
Even dressed casually in black jeans and an open-necked polo shirt he looked spectacular and her body responded instantly to the raw male power that was so much a part of who he was. He would no more have apologised for his masculinity than would his caveman ancestors. His masculinity was his pride. And she’d dealt that pride a lethal blow.
‘Why didn’t Dani come with you to meet me?’
‘My sister believes in happy endings.’
What was that supposed to mean? That Daniela thought by allowing them to be alone together they’d fall into each other’s arms and heal a rift wider than the Grand Canyon?
Laurel thought about all Dani’s clumsy matchmaking attempts at college. ‘She always did believe in fairy tales.’ A long forgotten memory appeared through the haze of misery. A child’s room, complete with a canopy bed and pretty fairy lights. Shelves of books, all portraying life as a joyful adventure. A fantasy room. Annoyed with herself for thinking of that now, she shook her head slightly, dislodging the image from her mind. ‘Dani is an incurable romantic. I guess that’s why she’s getting married despite—’ She broke off but he finished her sentence.
‘—despite witnessing the wreckage of our marital car crash? Given your relaxed attitude to marriage vows, I’m staggered that you agreed to act as maid of honour. A decision bordering on the hypocritical, don’t you think?’
He shifted the blame onto her, absolving himself of all responsibility, and Laurel didn’t bother arguing because she didn’t want to change the outcome. If he hated her, fine. If anything, his animosity helped because it poisoned those dangerous feelings that still lurked deep inside.
As for being Dani’s maid of honour—
Laurel had thought of a million reasons to say no but none of them had come out of her mouth when talking to her friend. Mistake number four, she thought. How had she made so many? ‘I’m a loyal friend.’
‘Loyal?’ Slowly and deliberately, he removed his sunglasses and looked at her, those thickly lashed dark eyes revealing the depth of his own struggle. ‘You dare speak of loyalty? Perhaps this is a language thing because we definitely don’t have the same definition of that word.’ Unlike her, he didn’t hide his emotions. Instead he spilled them over her and the more honest he was, the more she withdrew. She was struggling to handle her own feelings. She certainly couldn’t handle his.
Drowning under the full force of his contempt, she pressed herself back against the seat, trying to calm her breathing. She could have hurled her own accusations but that would have taken them back to the past and all she wanted to do was move forwards. Her limbs were trembling and the tips of her fingers were suddenly ice-cold.
Knowing how important it was to control her stress levels, she forced herself to breathe slowly. ‘If you’re going to go for one of your volatile Sicilian Mount Etna-like explosions, at least wait until we’re behind closed doors. It’s just a wedding. We can get through this without killing each other.’
‘Just a wedding? So weddings are no big deal, is that right, Laurel?’
‘Let’s not do this, Cristiano.’ He was incapable of seeing that he might have been wrong. Incapable of apologising. She knew that the absence of the word sorry from his vocabulary had nothing to do with his linguistic ability and everything to do with his ego.
‘Why? Because emotion frightens you? Admit it. You’re terrified of what you feel when you’re with me. You’ve always been terrified.’
‘Oh, please—’
‘It burns you up, doesn’t it?’ His voice was silky-smooth and dangerous. ‘It frightens you so badly you have to push it away. That’s why you left.’
‘You think I left because I was afraid of how much I loved you?’ Outrage lit the fires of her own response. ‘You are so unbelievably arrogant you need a whole island just to house your ego. Are you sure Sicily is big enough? Maybe you should buy Sardinia, too!’
‘I’m working on it.’ His laconic reply was delivered without a hint of irony. ‘If you’re so indifferent, then why haven’t you been back?’
‘There was nothing to come back for.’ And every reason to stay away. Laurel stared straight forward, trying to control her thoughts, feeling his gaze on her.
‘You look good. Relieving all that stress with exercise?’
‘Fitness is my job. It’s how I earn my living. And I’m back because of your sister, not because of u—’ the word jammed itself on all the barriers she’d erected between them ‘—you or me.’
‘You can’t even say it, can you? Us, tesoro. The word you struggle with is us. But the concept of being part of an us has always been your biggest challenge.’ Cristiano lounged back in his seat, relaxed and maddeningly sure of himself. ‘Probably best not to use the word loyal again in reference to yourself, either. That one really presses my buttons. I’m sure you understand.’
Laurel felt like a matador trapped with a very angry bull with nothing for protection but her own anger. And that anger burned slow and dangerous because he was behaving as if he’d played no part in the demise of their relationship.
He just couldn’t see it, she thought numbly. He just didn’t see what he’d done wrong.
And that made it a thousand times worse.
One sorry might have healed it, but to say sorry Cristiano would first have had to admit fault.
Reminding herself of her determination not to discuss the past, she changed the subject. ‘How is Dani?’
‘Looking forward to officially becoming an us. Unlike you, she has no fear of intimacy.’
She remembered thinking once that their relationship was too perfect and time had proved her right. Perfection had proved as fragile as spun sugar.
‘If you are going to carry on taking bites out of me perhaps I’d better just get on the next flight home.’
‘And make things easy for you? I don’t think so. You are our guest of honour, after all.’
His tone made her flinch more than the words themselves, because it was tinged with a bitterness and regret that stung her wounds like the juice of the Sicilian lemon.
Occasionally, when the pain grew almost too much to bear, she asked herself if her life would have been better if she’d never met him. She’d always known that life was hard, which was why meeting Cristiano Ferrara had been like falling straight into a starring role in her own fairy tale. What she hadn’t known was how much harder life would be once she’d given him up.
‘It’s obvious that coming here wasn’t one of my better ideas.’
‘If this was anything other than Dani’s wedding you wouldn’t be allowed to set foot on the island.’
She didn’t state the obvious. That if this was anything other than his sister’s wedding, she wouldn’t have been here.
The divorce could have been handled at a distance. And Laurel preferred distance in everything.
They’d been driving for fifteen minutes, through chaotic Palermo with its jumble of streets littered with Gothic and baroque churches and ancient palaces. Somewhere in the centre was the Palazzo Ferrara, Cristiano’s city residence, now occasionally used as an exclusive venue for weddings and concerts, its wonderful mosaics and baroque ceiling frescos drawing academics and tourists from around the world. It was one of many homes that Cristiano owned around the island but he rarely used it as a base.
Laurel had fallen in love with it and tried not to think about the tiny private chapel that had been the setting for their wedding.
She knew that, despite his aristocratic lineage and his encyclopaedic knowledge of Sicilian art and architecture, he preferred living in modern surroundings with state-of-the-art technology at his fingertips. Cristiano without Internet access would be like Michelangelo without a paintbrush.
Glancing out of the window, she saw that they’d emerged from the choked Palermo traffic and were speeding along the coast road that led to the Ferrara Spa Resort, the ultimate destination for the discerning traveller and one of the top hotels in the world.
It was a hideaway for the glitterati, for that stratosphere of international society that craved privacy and seclusion. Here it was guaranteed, both by the legendary Ferrara security but also by the geography of the coastline. The Ferrara brothers had built the exclusive hotel on a spit of land surrounded on three sides by private beach and spread across lush gardens, dotted with luxury villas. It was a Mediterranean paradise, each individual villa offering the ultimate in pampered seclusion.
The pain of being back here was intensified by the memories that were carved in every glimpse of the place because it had been here, in the exclusive villa on a rocky promontory at the far end of the private beach, that they’d spent the first nights of their honeymoon. It was the villa that Cristiano had built for his own use. The ultimate bachelor pad.
Laurel stiffened. Surely they hadn’t booked her a room in the hotel? ‘I booked a hotel outside the resort.’
‘I know exactly where you were staying. My staff cancelled the booking. You’ll stay where I put you and be grateful for Sicilian hospitality that makes it impossible for us to turn away a guest.’
Her stomach churned. ‘My plan was to stay elsewhere and arrive just for the wedding.’
‘Daniela wants you to be part of all of it. Tonight is a gathering of local people. Black tie. Drinks and dancing. As her maid of honour, you are expected to join in.’
Drinks and dancing?
Laurel felt cold and wished his driver would turn off the air conditioning. ‘Obviously I don’t expect to be part of the pre-wedding celebrations. I have my laptop so I can just get on with some work. I’m buried under a mountain of it at the moment.’
‘I don’t care. You’ll be there and you’ll smile. Our separation is amicable and civilized, remember?’
Civilized?
There was nothing civilized about the emotions spinning inside her and nothing civilized about the dangerous glint in his eyes. Their relationship had never been civilized, she thought numbly. The passion they’d shared had been scorching, crazy and out of control. Unfortunately all that heat had burned through her ability to think clearly.
Laurel tried to breathe normally, but the prospect of facing his family was impossibly daunting. They all hated her, of course. And part of her understood that. From their point of view she was the English girl who’d given up on the marriage and that was unforgivable in the circles in which he moved. In Sicily marriages endured. Affairs, if they happened, were overlooked.
She had no idea what the rule book said for handling what had happened to them. No idea what the rules were for coping with the shocking loss of a pregnancy and a monumentally selfish husband.
The only thing that comforted her in the whole disastrous episode had been that Dani, generous extrovert Dani, had refused to judge her. And the downside of that acceptance was that she was here now, putting herself through hell for the only true friend she’d ever had.
‘I’ll do whatever people want me to do.’ It was a performance, she thought. If she had to smile, she’d smile. If she were expected to dance, she’d dance. The outside didn’t have to reflect the inside. She’d learned that as a child. She’d learned to bury her feelings deep, so deep that few ever saw them.
Her confidence that she could cope with the situation lasted until they drove through the entrance gates and she realised the driver was taking the private road towards the Aphrodite Villa. The jewel in the crown. Cristiano’s beachside bolt-hole, his personal retreat from the demands placed on him by his thriving business empire.
When they’d built the Resort they’d used part of the land to relocate their corporate headquarters and Laurel had never ceased to drool over his office, which exploited the stunning coastal position. Cristiano had qualified as a structural engineer and his talents in that area were visible in the innovative design features incorporated into his headquarters.
As would be expected, the walls of his office were glass. What was unexpected was the floor, also glass and stretching out over the water so that a visitor to his office could find himself distracted by shoals of colourful Mediterranean fish darting beneath their feet.
It was typical of Cristiano to merge the aesthetic with the functional and there were similar touches throughout his hotels.
‘I don’t see why an office has to be a boring box in the centre of a smog-choked city,’ he’d said when she’d gasped at her first sight of his office. ‘I like the sea. This way, if I’m stuck behind my desk, I can still enjoy it.’
It was that same breadth of vision that had made the company so successful. That, and his sophistication and appreciation for luxury. Her first glimpse of the Aphrodite Villa had made her jaw drop, but going there now drew a very different response from her.
The shock of it tore a hole in her composure. ‘Why are we going this way? I’m not staying here.’ It was too reminiscent of their wedding night, when she’d been so happy and full of optimism for the future.
‘Why would you care where you sleep?’ His tone was hard and unsympathetic. ‘If what we shared was “just a wedding,” then presumably this was “just a honeymoon”, in which case the place holds no sentimental value. It’s just a bed.’
Laurel struggled to bring her breathing back to normal. She carried an asthma inhaler in her bag but there was no way she was going to use it in front of him unless she was half dead.
And now she was trapped. To admit how the place made her feel would be to reveal something she had no intention of ever revealing.
Not to admit it meant staying here.
‘It’s your premium property.’ Occasionally, she knew, he had been persuaded to loan it to honeymooning rock stars and actors. ‘Why waste it on me?’
‘It’s the only vacant bed in the place. Sleep in it and be grateful.’ His tone was so chilly and matter-of-fact that for a moment she truly believed that the villa held no significance for him whatsoever. For a man who owned five homes and spent his working life travelling the world, this was just another few hundred square metres of luxurious accommodation.
Or was it?
Was he doing this to punish her?
‘Well, at least it has a good internet connection.’ She kept her eyes ahead, refusing to let him access her secrets. She tried not to remember that gazing into his eyes had once been her favourite pastime. On more than one occasion she’d woken him just so that she could experience that incredible connection that happened whenever they looked at each other. With him, she’d discovered intimacy. But intimacy meant openness and openness meant vulnerability, as she’d learned to her cost.
He’d demanded that she trust him and gradually she’d yielded to that because he would accept nothing less. And then he had let her down so badly she doubted the bruises would ever heal.
‘You’re being treated as an honoured guest. We both know it’s more than you deserve. Let’s go.’ Without giving her the chance to argue further, he opened the door and sprang from the car with that same driven sense of purpose that characterised everything he did.
All he could focus on was the fact that she’d left him, Laurel thought numbly. It was all about his pride. Not about their relationship. He saw himself as the injured party.
She had no choice but to follow him up the pathway that led to the villa. Inside, she knew, there would be air conditioning so there would be some relief from the blistering Sicilian sun. Unless it was the chemistry between them that burned hotter than the fires of hell.
Cristiano flung open the door and she heard the sound of the car reversing as his driver retreated back to the main hotel complex.
Laurel stepped across the threshold, trying not to remember their wedding night when he’d carried her through the door, both of them frantic in their indecent desperation for each other. ‘Why isn’t he waiting for you?’
He dropped her case onto the tiled floor. ‘Why do you think? Because I’m staying here too.’
The words floated right past her because they made no sense.
‘Please tell me that’s a joke—’ Her voice sounded strange, robotic. ‘There’s only one bedroom.’ One enormous bedroom overlooking the pool and the beach. The bedroom where they’d spent long sultry nights together.
Cristiano gave a bitter smile. ‘Blame Dani again. Her wedding. Her room allocation.’
‘I’m not sharing a bed with you!’ The words flew out before she could stop them and he turned with an angry snarl that was animal-like in its ferocity.
‘You think you need to say that to me? Do you think I would have you back in my bed after what you did? Do you?’
Her heart was hammering and she took an instinctive step backwards even though she knew he’d never hurt her. Not physically. ‘I can’t stay here with you.’ The emotions she’d kept locked down during the horrendous car journey were bubbling up like milk on the boil, refusing to be contained. ‘It’s too—’
‘It’s too what?’ Something about the way he was looking at her made her heart beat faster. He’d always been frighteningly good at reading her mind and this time it was imperative that he didn’t.
She didn’t want to open up. It was way too late for that.
Grateful for years of practice at hiding what she felt, Laurel hauled her emotions back inside her. ‘It’s awkward,’ she said coldly. ‘For both of us.’
He stared at her for another few seconds and then his mouth hardened. ‘I think “awkward” is the least of our problems, don’t you? Don’t worry. I’ll sleep on the couch. And if you’re worried that I won’t be able to keep my hands off you, then don’t be. You had your chance.’ Insultingly indifferent, he strolled away from her but even that didn’t give her breathing space because there were traces of him everywhere.
A tailored jacket slung carelessly over the back of a chair. The glass of fresh Sicilian lemonade, half drunk because he’d been disturbed and too busy to finish. His laptop, the battery light glowing because he worked such long hours he never bothered to shut down. All those things were so familiar, so much a part of him, and for a moment she stood still, unable to breathe, swamped by a longing to turn the clock back.
But turn it back to when?
How could there have ever been a different outcome?
Their love had been doomed from the beginning.
Together they’d managed to make Romeo and Juliet look like a match made in heaven.
