Reunited with Her Italian Ex
Autore
Lucy Gordon
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Prologue
VENICE, THE MOST romantic city in the world.
That was what people said, and Natasha was becoming convinced that it was true. Where else could she have met the man of her dreams within hours of arriving, and known so soon that she was his and he simply must become hers?
Sitting in a café by a small canal, she looked out at the sun glittering on the water. Nearby she could see a gondola containing a young man and woman, wrapped in each other’s arms.
Just like us, she thought, recalling her first gondola ride in the arms of the man who had changed the world in moments.
Mario Ferrone, young, handsome, with dancing eyes and a rich chuckle that seemed to encompass the world. She’d met Mario just after she’d arrived in Venice on a well-earned holiday. He’d insisted on showing her the city. As his brother owned the hotel where she was staying, she’d briefly thought this a professional service, but that idea soon changed. There was an instant attraction between them, and nothing had ever seemed more wonderful than the time they spent together.
Until then, there had been little in her life that could be called romance. She was slim, pretty, humorous, with no difficulty attracting admirers. But where men were concerned she had an instinctive defensiveness.
It went back to her childhood, when her father had abandoned his wife and ten-year-old daughter for another woman. Until that moment Natasha’s life had been happy. Her father had seemed to adore her as she adored him. But suddenly he was gone, never to get in touch again.
Never trust a man, her mother had told her. They’ll always let you down.
She’d been content to heed the warning until Mario came into her life and everything turned upside down.
Her own reactions confused her. Her heart was drawn to Mario as never before to any other man. Sometimes her mother’s voice echoed in her mind.
No man can be trusted, Natasha. Remember that.
But Natasha felt certain that Mario was different to all other men—more honest, more trustworthy, more faithfully loving.
Last night he’d kissed her with even greater fervour than before, murmuring, ‘Tomorrow I want to...’ Then he’d stopped, seeming confused.
‘Yes?’ she’d whispered. ‘What do you want?’
‘I can’t tell you now...but tomorrow everything will be different. Goodnight, mi amore.’
Now here she was in the café where they often met, waiting for him to appear and transform her world yet again.
She almost ached with the yearning to know what he’d meant by ‘everything will be different’. Was he going to propose marriage? Surely he must.
Oh, please hurry, she thought. How could Mario keep her on tenterhooks when it mattered so much?
Suddenly, she heard his voice call, ‘Natasha!’ Looking up, she saw him walking by the canal, waving to her from a distance.
‘Sorry I’m late,’ he said, joining her at the table. ‘I got held up.’
She had a strange feeling that he was on edge.
‘Is everything all right?’ she asked.
‘It will be, very soon,’ he said.
His eyes never left her and every moment her conviction grew that tonight they were going to take the next step—whatever it might be.
He took her hand. ‘There’s something I’ve been trying to tell you for days but—’
‘Trying? Is it so hard to tell me?’
‘It could be.’ His eyes met hers. ‘Some things just aren’t easy to say.’
Her heart was beating with anticipation and excitement. She knew what he was going to say, and she longed to hear it.
‘That depends how much you want to say them,’ she whispered, leaning close so that her breath brushed his face. ‘Perhaps you don’t really want to say this.’
‘Oh, yes, you don’t know how much it matters.’
But I do know, she thought happily. He was going to tell her how much she meant to him. In a moment her life would be transformed.
She took his hand in hers, sending him a silent message about her willingness to draw closer to him.
‘Go on,’ she whispered.
He hesitated and she regarded him, puzzled. Was it really so hard for him to reach out to her?
‘Natasha—I want to tell you—’
‘Yes—yes—tell me.’
‘I’m not good at this—’
‘You don’t need to be good at it,’ she urged, tightening her clasp on his hand. ‘Just say it—’
‘Well—’
‘Traitor!’
The screamed word stunned them both. Natasha looked up to see a woman standing by the table, glaring at them. She was in her thirties, voluptuous, and would have been beautiful but for the look of livid hatred she cast on Mario.
‘Traitor!’ she screamed. ‘Liar! Deceiver!’
Mario’s face was tense and pale as Natasha had never seen it before. He rose and confronted the woman, speaking angrily in Italian and pointing for her to leave. She screamed back at him in English. Then turned to Natasha.
‘It’s about time you knew what he is really like. One woman isn’t enough for him.’
She raved on until Mario drew her into a corner, arguing with her vigorously. Natasha could no longer hear the words but there was no mistaking the intensity between them. The dark-haired woman’s rage grew with every moment.
‘He’s a liar and a cheat,’ she screamed in perfect English.
‘Mario,’ Natasha said, ‘who is this woman? Do you really know her?’
‘Oh, yes, he knows me,’ the woman spat. ‘You wouldn’t believe how well he knows me.’
‘Tania, that’s enough,’ Mario said, white-faced. ‘I told you—’
‘Oh, yes, you told me. Traitor! Traitor! Traditore!’
For a moment Natasha was tempted to thrust herself between them and tell Mario what she thought of him in no uncertain terms. But then her impetuous temper flared even higher, driving her to a course of action even more fierce and desperate. While they were still absorbed in their furious encounter, she fled.
She ran every step of the way to the hotel, then up to her room, pausing at the desk to demand her bill. Nothing mattered but to get away from here before Mario returned. It had all been a deception. She’d believed in him because she’d wanted to believe, and she should have known better. Now she was paying the price.
‘You were right,’ she muttered to her mother’s ghost. ‘They’re all the same.’
The ghost was too tactful to say I told you so, but she was there in Natasha’s consciousness as she finished packing, paid her bill and fled.
She took a boat taxi across the water to the mainland, and from there she switched to a motor taxi.
‘Airport,’ she told the driver tensely.
Oh, Mario, she thought as the car roared away. Traitor.
Traditore.
