Kitabı oku: «The Italians: Cristiano, Vittorio and Dario», sayfa 3

CHAPTER THREE

EXHAUSTED from the emotional bombardment, Laurel wondered whether she’d survive an entire evening within touching distance of Cristiano. It had been so long since she’d spent time with him she felt like an addict starved of a fix.

From across the terrace she heard him laugh and she turned her head, drawn by the sound. She’d never laughed as much as she had when they were together. Life had felt light and full of hope. Now he was laughing with another woman.

And she was beautiful.

There was an intimacy in the way they communicated, an ease that suggested a relationship deeper than friendship.

Torturing herself, Laurel was unable to drag her eyes away. As she watched, one of the little cousins dressed in a froth of blue danced across to him and tugged at his leg. With an indulgent smile, Cristiano scooped her up and gave her his full attention. Laurel couldn’t hear what he was saying but, judging from the child’s expression, it was something amusing.

His interaction with the child was enough to unlock everything trapped inside her.

Laurel turned away, wondering if anyone would notice if she slipped away.

It didn’t matter where she stood, she was aware of him. Even with her back to him she could sense him. The feeling crept over her skin and took control of her mind, making it impossible to concentrate on a conversation. Her neck ached with the need to turn and look. For once she was grateful for the crowd of people and the constraints of social behaviour that prevented her from rushing across to his side and undoing everything she’d done.

‘You should eat something.’ He appeared by her side, cool and commanding as he gestured towards one of the waitresses circulating with a tray of canapés.

‘I’m not hungry.’

Cristiano took a small piece of chicken from the plate. ‘Unless you’re trying to draw attention to yourself, I suggest you eat. It’s marinated in local lemon juice and herbs. Your favourite.’

She wondered if he was doing it on purpose, conjuring up shared memories of the night they’d raided the kitchen like children and taken food down to the beach.

That decadent moonlit picnic was one of her happiest memories of their time together.

Feeling as if she might choke on the sadness, Laurel took the chicken because it seemed easier than arguing and it gave her something to do. Somehow she managed to chew and swallow, despite the lump in her throat and the fact he was watching her with those dark, velvety eyes that saw too much.

She looked away from the cynical curve of his mouth, shaken by the impulse that washed over her. Standing as close as they were, it would take no effort to press her lips to his. She would melt into him and then his hands would be in her hair, his mouth devouring hers with a skill that would leave her head spinning. No one kissed like Cristiano. He had an innate understanding of what a woman needed and his repertoire ranged from hot and out of control to slow and sensuous. He’d introduced her to a whole world she’d never known about.

The scent of the sea mingled with the sweetness of Mediterranean flowers and from all around them came the clink of glasses and the hum of conversation. The terrace was crowded with people and yet it might as well have been just the two of them.

His eyes darkened under the veil of those thick lashes and the atmosphere between them shifted. To the casual onlooker they were just two people in the middle of a polite conversation, but Laurel felt the sudden change as clearly as he did. The fact that it was subtle made it no less dangerous.

It was as if she were in a tiny boat being drawn by the current towards a lethal waterfall. Frantic, she tried to pull back mentally—to save herself before she plunged.

‘I heard that you and Santo have finally found a prime piece of land in Sardinia.’ Her carefully chosen reminder of his unwavering commitment to the business had the desired effect.

His beautiful eyes narrowed warily. ‘We’re negotiating a deal on the land now. Developing in Sardinia isn’t easy.’ But he’d find a way.

This was what he did. He relished the challenge, if only to prove that he could outsmart and outwit the opposition.

That was why he was so angry with her, she mused. It wasn’t just that she’d left. It was because she hadn’t given him the opportunity to fight and win a victory. She’d just retreated.

‘Congratulations. I know how much you wanted to expand there.’

‘The deal isn’t done yet.’ But it would be. She had no doubt about that.

The silence sizzled with undercurrents but the presence of so many guests meant that their interaction could be nothing but civilized. She was aware of the curiosity of the crowd but Cristiano wielded too much power and influence for anyone to dare to stare or openly speculate.

Suddenly she wondered if their separation had been hard for him, this man who had lived such a gilded existence. His life was an upward trajectory, soaring higher and higher. Until she’d walked out, his ambitions for the future had continued unimpeded.

‘This is where you’ve been hiding, Cristiano.’ The scent of flowers surrendered to the stronger smell of perfume as another beautiful girl approached, this one with sloe eyes and a wide, sensuous mouth. That mouth curved into a smile that was unmistakably flirtatious and she didn’t glance once in Laurel’s direction as she placed a proprietorial hand on his arm.

Laurel was shocked by the flash of jealousy that consumed her.

She stared at that hand, consumed by a sick feeling that came with witnessing such a blatant act of possession. The long red nails reminded her of splashes of blood. It couldn’t have hurt more if the girl had dug them straight into Laurel’s heart.

Jealousy became a fizz of anger.

They never left him alone. Wherever they went, women elbowed each other to get closer, to flirt, to attract his attention, to try and take a piece of him. And he didn’t consider it strange because this had been his experience for all of his adult life.

She still remembered the shock on his face when he’d asked her out and she’d turned him down.

Almost as great as his shock when she’d walked out on their marriage.

Driven to the edge of her tolerance by those long red nails and that look of promise, Laurel turned to walk away but Cristiano was faster. With a smooth, decisive movement, his hand shot out and he closed his fingers around her wrist, preventing her escape with a grip as secure as any handcuff. ‘Adele, I don’t believe you’ve met Laurel.’

‘Oh.’ The girl’s smile slipped slightly, her cool response revealing just where Laurel ranked in her list of influential social contacts. ‘Hi.’

‘My wife,’ Cristiano said in a firm voice and the smile vanished altogether.

Laurel stood still, aware only of the blood pounding in her ears and his iron hold on her wrist.

It was too little, too late and she didn’t understand it.

Why would he emphasize a relationship that was over?

The girl’s eyes narrowed slightly and her hand slipped from Cristiano’s arm. ‘Ah. I’m sure you two have lots to talk about.’ With a smile at Laurel that clearly said, I can wait until you’re off the scene, the girl sashayed away to talk to Santo, who was laughing at the far end of the terrace.

‘You see?’ His voice was harsh. ‘I can be sensitive.’ It was a blatant reference to the occasion when she’d lost her cool, upset by the continuous stream of women who seemed to consider a wife no impediment to flirtation. She’d accused him of insensitivity. He’d accused her of overreacting.

For him to finally acknowledge her feelings on the subject only when they were this close to divorce bordered on the insensitive, she thought numbly. All he’d done was prove that he could have made the effort if he’d wanted to.

‘I no longer care who flirts with you.’ She wanted that to be true, but her mind had other ideas and tortured her with questions about which of the girls Cristiano was seeing. Because of course he had to be seeing someone. It had been two years. A man like him wasn’t going to be on his own for long once word got around that his wife had left him.

‘Do you expect me to believe that?’ He took absolutely no notice of the women glancing at him across the sunlit terrace. Soon the sun would fade and the twinkling bulbs wound around the trees would send sparkles of light across the water. It was a breathtakingly romantic setting, the beauty of the surroundings a cruel backdrop for playing out the final scenes of a dying marriage.

‘I don’t really care if you believe it. I’m not saying it to challenge you.’ Did he realise that he was still holding her wrist? And why wasn’t she pulling her arm away? Across the terrace the dark-haired girl was holding court, every exaggerated toss of her head designed to draw the attention of the only man who interested her. ‘I really don’t care if you have yourself a harem.’

‘Would it make you feel better if I had? Ease your conscience?’ They were standing close to each other, his hand still locked on her arm in a proprietorial gesture that made no sense.

‘I have nothing on my conscience.’

She knew from the sudden defensive flash in his eyes that he’d picked up her implication that his own conscience was the one that should be hurting. No one could accuse Cristiano Ferrara of being slow. His mind was as sharp as a blade.

Which made his refusal to apologise all the more hurtful.

He breathed deeply and she wondered whether this was the moment he’d finally admit his contribution to their break up. ‘We stood together in the little chapel that has been part of my family’s estate for generations, and I made you a promise. For better, for worse. In sickness and in health.’ His anger was no less dangerous for the fact that it was so ruthlessly contained. ‘You made the same promises. You were wearing a pretty white dress at the time—lace at the neck and my grandmother’s antique veil. Remember? Is this ringing any bells in that messed up head of yours?’

The memory felled her at the knees and was the only reason she didn’t slap him for his inability to see his own part in their break up. ‘You are accusing me of breaking promises? In sickness and in health, Cristiano.’ In that small intimate space they’d created, she threw his words back at him. ‘Nowhere in our marriage vows did it say, Just as long as neither interferes with your husband’s business deals.’

Furious with herself for opening up a wound she’d wanted to keep closed and even more furious with him for being so blind to his own shortcomings, Laurel thrust her glass into his hand, twisted free and virtually sprinted across the terrace towards the steps that led down to the private beach. She felt like Cinderella on the dot of midnight, except that she didn’t want the Prince to catch her.

She could lose both shoes for all she cared. That wouldn’t be enough to stop her running.

Santo stepped in front of her, his expression deceptively benign as he blocked her path. ‘Where do you think you’re going?’

Laurel ground her teeth, silently cursing everyone with the surname Ferrara. ‘Back to the villa. Not that it’s your business.’

‘You’re hurting my brother. That makes it my business.’

‘He’s big enough to look after himself.’ But that wouldn’t stop Santo and her insides twisted with envy because she knew he was just looking out for his brother.

The fact that no one looked out for her didn’t bother her.

She didn’t expect it or want it. Never had.

‘Having you here messes with his head. I just want to say one thing, Laurel—’ Three parts drunk, ten parts angry, Santo blocked the steps. ‘Hurt my brother again and I will crush you like a bug. Capisci?’

‘Non capisce niente,’ Laurel shot back, her Italian almost as fluent as his. ‘You understand nothing. Stay out of my business, Santo.’

Hurt my brother—

What about the way his brother had hurt her? Apparently that counted for nothing.

Distress breaking through the barriers she’d erected, she pushed past him, aware that by doing so she’d made herself the object of curious stares. Doubtless everyone wanted to know what Santo had been saying to his brother’s disobedient ex-wife to make her run.

She virtually flew down the steps that led down to the beach. At some point while she’d been suffering on the terrace, darkness had fallen and the solar-powered lights that illuminated the path down to the beach glowed like a million bright eyes watching her flee. Feeling her chest tighten ominously, she slowed her pace. The last thing she needed right now was an asthma attack. She was ruthless about maintaining her fitness levels but her downfall had always been stress and she’d been stressed from the moment the wheels of the plane had touched the tarmac.

As her feet sank into the soft sand the chatter behind her faded and the music became a distant hum. Here, the dominant sound was the lap of the sea on the shore and Laurel tugged off her shoes. The solitude was a soothing balm to her raw feelings, the silky sand triggering memories of happier times. But memories couldn’t change the present.

They were all furious with her. She was about as welcome as a deadly virus at a children’s party.

And she was furious with them for assuming that all the blame lay with her.

She was here because of Dani, but it was clear to her now that once her friend accepted that Laurel and Cristiano really were finished, their friendship would be over too.

Depressed by that thought, Laurel sank down onto the sand and wrapped her arms around her knees, her bag and her shoes abandoned by her side. The sea stretched ahead of her, the inky black broken by the occasional shimmer of light from a passing yacht.

She’d been stupid, she realised, to think that her friendship with Dani could endure, given what she’d done.

Desperately she struggled to control herself, aware that her chest was growing tighter and doing everything she could to breathe slowly and keep herself calm.

She didn’t know how long she sat there staring through a mist of tears, but she knew when she was no longer alone.

Infuriated that he didn’t have the sensitivity to leave her alone, she tensed her shoulders. ‘Go back to the party, Cristiano. We have nothing more to talk about.’ The moon sent a shaft of light over the sea, illuminating the hard, masculine features.

‘I want to talk about the baby.’

So he’d been saving the worst for last. ‘I don’t.’

‘I know, and that’s why we’re in this mess. Because you refused to talk about it.’

The injustice of it knocked the last of the breath from her lungs.

Even now, broaching this most delicate of topics, his body language had all the subtlety of one of the many invaders who had plundered Sicily for two thousand years of its colourful history.

His legs were planted firmly apart, one hand in his pocket, indifferent to the effects of the sand on the sheen of his designer shoes. Laurel recognised the stance. This was Cristiano troubleshooting, those broad shoulders set for battle and those charcoal eyes narrowed to two dangerous slits as he assessed the opposition and realigned his strategy.

He was six foot two of furiously angry Sicilian male, ready to fight until victory was his.

And even as part of her loathed that side of him, another part admired that strength and focus.

Telling herself that raw masculinity was just not attractive, she gritted her teeth.

Kill it right now, Laurel. Those tiny, dangerous shoots of desire needed to be culled before they spread and threatened to choke common sense.

‘You want to talk about the baby? Fine—let’s talk. I was ten weeks pregnant. I had abdominal cramps. You were away on business. I called you, but you decided it would be fine to carry on with your business trip. You made your decision. Things became worse. I called you again but you’d switched your phone off. You couldn’t have been clearer about your priorities. There’s nothing more to be said on the subject.’ The idyllic setting did nothing to dilute the tension that throbbed between them.

‘You are twisting the facts. I called the doctor. I spoke to him and he assured me that with a few days’ rest you would be all right. No one expected you to lose the baby.’

She’d expected to lose the baby. From the first cramp she’d known with a woman’s instinct that something was badly wrong. ‘Then that’s you off the hook.’

‘Accidenti, why do you refuse to discuss it?’

‘Because this is not a discussion. Just another monologue where you tell me how I should be feeling. You want me to tell you that it was all my fault, that I behaved unreasonably, but I’m not going to do that because I didn’t. You are the one who behaved unreasonably.’ The rhythm of her breathing was unsteady. ‘No, not unreasonably—that isn’t the word. You were cruel, Cristiano. Cruel.’

‘Basta! Enough.’ His voice thickened around the word. ‘You make it sound as if this was a straightforward decision but my role in this company comes with huge responsibilities. The decisions that I make affect thousands. And sometimes those decisions are difficult.’

‘And sometimes they’re just plain wrong. Admit it.’

He exhaled and swore simultaneously, exasperation and frustration etched in the perfect symmetry of his face. ‘Of course, with hindsight, I admit I may have made the wrong decision that day.’

It was the closest he’d ever come to an apology but it made no difference to the raw pain inside her. Swept along in an avalanche of emotions, she forgot her promise to herself not to revisit the past. ‘It shouldn’t require hindsight for you to know you messed up badly. You knew how much it took for me to call you and ask you to come that day. When had I ever asked for your help or support before? Never. Just that one time when I was alone and terrified. All you needed was just a gram of sensitivity but no, you were too busy playing the big tycoon. And do you know the worst thing?’ Her voice shook. ‘Until I met you I had never needed anyone. I was strong. I relied only on myself. I sorted my own life out. But you prised me open like a shell on a beach, removing all my protection. You demanded that I open up. You made me need you and stupidly I gave you that power. And then you let me down.’

Cristiano yanked at his bow tie and dragged open his top button as if it was strangling him. ‘I am running a global corporation. I am a man with enormous responsibilities and on this occasion—’

‘What you are, Cristiano, is a man who puts his wife second to his business interests. Do you know what really depresses me? The fact that even now you’re not willing to admit you made a lousy decision. The words “I may have made the wrong decision” have to be virtually dragged from you because you don’t believe yourself capable of getting anything wrong. Well, I’ve got news for you—you definitely made the wrong decision.’ She flung back her head and her hair slid loose over her shoulders. Like a samurai falling on his sword, she uttered the words that she knew would kill their relationship for ever. ‘And I hate you for that almost as much as I hate you for making me need you. You’re an insensitive, arrogant bully and I don’t want you in my life.’

‘A bully?’ Those powerful shoulders were rigid. ‘So now I’m a bully?’

She noticed that he didn’t challenge her on the charge of being insensitive and arrogant. ‘You push and push until things go the way you want them to go. It doesn’t matter what you’re doing, you always have to win. When there’s something you want, you develop tunnel vision. You wanted that Caribbean deal so badly you told yourself I’d be fine. You justified your behaviour by reminding yourself how many people were depending on you, that it was your responsibility to stay and finish the meeting, but the truth is that you stayed because you never think anyone can do the job as well as you and also because you love the buzz of winning. I’d have more respect for you if you were just honest enough to admit it. But you have to tell yourself it’s my fault because the alternative is recognising your own error and you don’t make errors, do you?’ It was possibly the longest, most revealing speech she’d ever made to him and she saw the shock in his eyes as he registered the change in her.

In the shaft of moonlight two livid lines of colour streaked along his enviable cheekbones. ‘I have already admitted I made the wrong decision. But once again you’ve managed to divert the conversation from the baby you lost.’

We lost, she thought numbly. We lost it. And as usual his answer to her suggestion of any failing on his part was to brush over it as virtually inconsequential.