It Started With A Lie: A forbidden fake-boyfriend Cinderella romance (The Montebellos Book 5)

by Clare Connelly

  Her smile was twisty. “And polo.”

  “Ah. And polo, si, of course. And instead of appreciating the beautiful, intelligent woman he was somehow lucky enough to be in a relationship with, he walked away from you for someone who might fit his image better, despite the fact she’s clearly got nothing on you.”

  “You don’t know her either,” Bronte surprised herself by defending the other woman.

  “No, but I know you.” He slowed down, his features laced with sincerity. “And I know that a woman like you would always have been threatening to a douche like him. You’re too smart. Too perceptive, funny, kind. Too likable. You would always be the star, and he wouldn’t like that.”

  She could hardly catch her breath. “Luca –,”

  “You should be with a man who lets you shine, Bronte. Not one who’d be happier casting you in his shadow.”

  Emotions welled up inside of her. She dipped her head forward so he wouldn’t see the way her eyes were sheened with moisture.

  But Luca would never let her hide herself from him. His finger gently tilted her chin, lifting her face back to his. “And you should definitely never have let a guy like that break your heart into – what did you say?”

  “A million pieces,” she whispered.

  He shook his head. “Beyond repair.”

  “Ah. Yes.”

  “He’s not worth it.”

  She shook her head. “I know that.” And she did. With startling clarity, she realised that seeing Ashton this weekend hadn’t been at all as she’d expected. She wasn’t missing him, or pining for him. It was confusing, and sad, but even those feelings were watered down somewhat.

  “I think it’s partly a grieving process, but maybe I’m not even grieving him so much as the life we had. The life I thought I wanted.”

  “Which was?”

  She scrunched up her nose as she considered that. “It was…nice.”

  He was quiet, moving his hips in time to the music, so the longer she was silent, contemplating what she meant, the more aware she became of his body, of the feeling of his warmth, his strength, his powerful anatomy. Her heart began to beat a tattoo that far exceeded the gentle rhythm of the song.

  “I suppose it was ordinary. Happy.” She bit down on her lower lip. “I had my parents’ example to reach for and I thought I’d found it. On a subconscious level, I suppose I always thought I’d be like them.”

  “They seem very happy together.”

  “They are, but also very complementary. They’re perfectly in synch, full of love and affection, they support each other completely. My childhood was idyllic. They created the most incredible home for us, so naturally I sought to replicate that. Ashton and I moved in together quickly, after only a few months of dating. You’d probably say it was just because he wanted a job in London, and I had a flat in Hampstead,” she said with a grimace.

  He lifted one brow. “Would I?”

  She rolled her eyes. “Okay, that’s what I would say, now.”

  “I see.”

  “Our life was – calm. And happy. And ordinary. All the things I thought I wanted, on paper, but it was nothing like my parents’ marriage. We just didn’t love each other like that. We didn’t need each other. Despite that, if he hadn’t walked away from me, we’d still be together.”

  “And that’s what you wish had happened?”

  She would have said an emphatic ‘yes’ two days ago, before seeing Ashton again. Or was it something else that had shifted her perspective?

  “I think it’s better that he realised how he felt about me before things got any more serious.”

  “You’d been together for years. You lived together. How much more serious do you mean?”

  “Marriage, babies,” she said quietly. “Two things I wanted, with all my heart. Two things that I thought were in my immediate future.”

  “So you are mourning these things as well as Ashton.”

  “I think I’m mourning them more than Ashton, to be honest. And regretting my own stupidity.”

  He looked at her with silent inquiry.

  “It’s so obvious now, with the benefit of hindsight, that he was nowhere near as invested in our relationship as I was. It was easy and comfortable for him, but there was no –,” heat stole through her body, darkening her cheeks. “Passion.”

  “Yet you are so passionate.”

  The rhythm of her heart intensified. “I wouldn’t have agreed with that until…very recently.”

  Now the heat was a lightning bolt, a sharp blade of electrical current passing from him to her. She felt it igniting her soul, inch by inch, until she couldn’t believe people weren’t looking at them, because surely flames were visible?

  “What are you doing to me, cara?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You tempt me with every word, every look.”

  She swallowed, unable to form a coherent response to that.

  “How come I didn’t realise there was the potential for this?”

  She lifted her shoulders. “I don’t know.”

  “You were just…Bronte.”

  “And now I’m not?”

  His eyes flecked with something dark. “No.” He moved his hips more purposefully, taunting her, promising her.

  “What am I then?”

  “A woman who’s never been kissed as she deserves.”

  Her throat felt thick with the promise of that.

  He dropped his head so his words were a muffled whisper in the curve of her neck. “A woman whose body hasn’t been worshipped in all the ways it needs.”

  A moan escaped her lips, soft and urgent, because his words were weaving through her, a form of foreplay, so that she was quivering with desire, desperate for him.

  “You’re playing with me,” she accused unevenly.

  “Am I?”

  “Yes. You told me you don’t want me, so stop talking as though –,”

  He breathed against the curve of her neck. “I never said I don’t want you.”

  That was true. She stayed right where she was, pressed close to him, wondering if perhaps words were unnecessary between them. Maybe words just ruined it, or complicated it.

  “The girl I mentioned, before,” his voice was deep and throaty, as though dragged from him.

  She continued dancing, but slowly, swaying from side to side, breath held lest he stop speaking.

  “I ruined her life, in no uncertain terms. Unequivocally, destroyed her. I made her miserable, I hurt her. I was completely in the wrong. I will never forget what that looked like – her pain, and knowing myself to be responsible.”

  She pulled back a little, trying to see his face, then wished she hadn’t at the obvious torment there. It made her ache to comfort him, a desire that was at odds with their relationship. And yet – was it? So much had changed since they’d arrived here.

  “Who was she?”

  He shook his head. “It doesn’t matter. My point is only that I am very careful now, not to hurt anyone. It’s not that I don’t want you, Bronte. It’s that I don’t want to risk hurting you. Not after what you’ve already been through.”

  “You won’t.”

  “How do you know?”

  She thought about that. “Because you don’t have the power to hurt me, and I won’t give it to you. I don’t care about you in that way, Luca. I see this for what it is.”

  Hesitation was scored in the lines of his face. She waited, her body on alert, needing him to agree, needing him to say anything that showed he was going to soften his stance.

  “Mind if I cut in?”

  Bronte blinked, the unwelcome intrusion coming to her as if through a very long tunnel. She pulled back from Luca, frowning, taking a moment to realise her dad was standing nearby, a kindly smile on his face.

  “Of course,” Luca dropped his grip on Bronte, taking a grateful step backwards. “I have a call I need to make. Excuse me.”

  Bronte watched him weave through the room, towards the
glass doors that led to the terrace. As he walked, he pulled his phone from his pocket, flicking the screen to life.

  “He seems like a nice guy. I like him.”

  She frowned. “Do you?”

  “A definite improvement.” He wiggled his thick greying eyebrows as he put a hand on Bronte’s hip and took her other in his.

  “You liked Ashton.”

  “I liked him because you loved him,” Charles said conspiratorially. “And because your mother’s friends with his mum. But actually, he’s a bit of a bore, isn’t he?”

  Surprise had her lips parting. “Dad!”

  “What? I can be honest now, can’t I? You’ve moved on.”

  The lie sat in her throat like a sharp stone, but she nodded jerkily, aware she’d already gone too far to wind it back. Still, she hated being dishonest with her father.

  “I mean, it’s new, with Luca. Probably not serious.” A divot formed between her brows as she frowned. “And I’m not looking for anything serious right now. After Ashton, I really just want to have fun for a while.”

  “And you’re having fun?”

  She thought about that, surprised that it was easy to nod an affirmative.

  “Good, darling. That’s all I want.”

  She looked up at her dad’s face, surprised.

  “What?”

  “It’s just – I thought –,”

  “Yes?”

  “I suppose I thought you might be disappointed.”

  “Disappointed?” His forehead crinkled as he mulled over that. “Whatever for?”

  “I don’t know. I guess because I’m twenty five and most people my age are getting engaged or married or having babies and I’m so far away from that.”

  He guffawed, then apologised when nearby dancers turned to look at them.

  “Have you written us into some kind of Victorian novel, little one?”

  The childhood nickname warmed her heart.

  “Is there some pressing social imperative to get hitched I’m not aware of?”

  She rolled her eyes, feeling completely stupid. “I just meant – because I always thought I would get married, and have a family.”

  “You’re still a baby,” he chided. “And a marriage is only worth doing if it’s the right chap. Ashton wasn’t right for you, and you weren’t right for him. Now, Luca on the other hand…”

  “Dad,” panic flooded her veins. “Don’t get ahead of yourself.”

  “Okay, okay, I’m just saying, any man who will listen to your father discuss caramelisation techniques for forty minutes is probably a keeper.”

  She laughed. “Oh, dear.”

  “Yes, well, he seemed interested at the time.”

  She smiled affectionately. “I’m sure he was.”

  It wasn’t the first lie she’d told that evening.

  “Where are you?”

  Luca glanced at the frame his phone was picking up – fairy lights strung behind him, a big old oak tree glowing gold from the way it was lit with a floodlight. “At a wedding.”

  On the other side of the device, from the salon of Villa Fortune, Yaya leaned forward, peering into the iPad. “Whose wedding?”

  He bit back a smile. Yaya never liked to miss a trick – she had to know everything. “Just an acquaintance; nobody you will be excited to hear about.”

  She sighed. “I like weddings though.”

  “How’s everything going?” Nico came into shot, chewing a piece of pizza.

  “Nico, did I raise you as a barnyard animal? Get a plate and sit down!” Yaya called, but when she turned back to the camera, her eyes were twinkling with an affection that immediately warmed Luca.

  “Sorry, Yaya,” Nico dropped a kiss on her head as he passed.

  “You seem well?” Luca prompted with a droll smile.

  Yaya blinked. “I’m back to normal.”

  “It’s true,” Fiero came into view, sitting beside Yaya, glass of wine in hand. “What’s happening with Watney?”

  Elodie’s voice came from off camera. “No work talk!”

  Fiero laughed. “Sorry, mi amore.” He lowered his voice to a stage whisper. “Email me an update.”

  Luca grinned. His chaotic family were anchors in his life; he knew how lucky he was to have them. It wasn’t all roses though. “Where’s Gabe?”

  He knew the answer before it was even given.

  “He stayed home this weekend.” Despite the fact they were close knit and supportive, Yaya’s voice assumed a defensive tone, as if pre-empting an attack before one could be made. Luca, though, had no intention of disparaging his cousin. They were used to his peripatetic appearances at Villa Fortune. He came when it suited and stayed away when it didn’t. Their only frustration came from knowing he was hurting and there was nothing they could do to help him. Years had passed since the accident and yet he had been forever altered by that snowy night.

  “Oh, shit, sorry.”

  Luca glanced up at the interruption – Bronte’s soon-to-be brother-in-law, aka the groom-to-be, had wandered out onto the terrace holding a glass of beer. “I didn’t realise –,”

  Luca shook his head once, turning back to the FaceTime. “Guys, I should get back to things here.”

  “Va bene, va bene.” Yaya waved her hands. “Have fun.”

  “Email me about Watney,” Fiero reminded. Elodie’s hand appeared, playfully slapping Fiero’s shoulder, but Fiero caught it, lifting it to his lips as the call was disconnected.

  “Didn’t mean to interrupt,” Edward offered by way of an apology.

  Luca slid the phone into his pocket. “Not at all.” He propped his hip against the railing. “It was my family. We usually have dinner most weekends – I told them I’d video call while I was over here.”

  “You’re close to them?”

  “Yes.” He studied the other man and saw pure happiness in his face. Easy, uncomplicated, confident contentment. What must that be like? “You’re looking forward to tomorrow?”

  Edward sipped his beer. “Honestly?”

  Luca lifted a brow. “Certo.”

  “I can’t wait. I think I fell in love with Alice the second I met her. Though it took her a bit longer to fall for me.” He grinned. “Fortunately, patience is one of my virtues.”

  “You seem very well-matched.”

  “I think so.” Edward lifted his beer, eyeing Luca’s empty hands. “But what kind of host am I being? Come inside, let me get you a drink.”

  “You look so happy.”

  Alice paused, midway through slipping off one high heel shoe. Her eyes found Bronte’s and she smiled, holding a hand out. “That’s because I am, dearest. How come I haven’t seen you all evening?”

  Bronte looked around the almost empty restaurant, taking a seat beside her sister.

  “Don’t tell me. Your gorgeous Italian billionaire boyfriend has been monopolising you.”

  He’d definitely been monopolising Bronte’s thoughts. It was fair to say she’d had little run-time for anything else. “Sort of.”

  “Hmmm,” Alice placed her head on Bronte’s shoulder, stifling a yawn. “I’ll allow it. He’s pretty yummy.”

  Bronte laughed. “He’s also my boss.”

  The words spilled out before she could stop them, a stupid mistake because lying to her sister was such a foreign concept.

  “That, my love, is far too much information. I do not need to know what kinky games you play.”

  Bronte’s mouth went dry. “You know what I mean. Just – that he was my boss, before –,”

  “Before he swept you off your feet in a real-life Cinderella story? How romantic, Bronte.”

  “I guess so.”

  “I do. And it’s my wedding day in –,” she looked down at her watch. “God, it’s my wedding day in just over an hour. I need to go to bed.”

  “Yes, you do.” Bronte squeezed her sister’s hand. “Where’s Edward?”

  “I don’t know.” They looked around together, scanning the thinned crowds
for the groom to be.

  “Ah. Speaking of your Italian billionaire,” Alice murmured, gesturing across the room.

  Edward and Luca were locked in conversation, as though they were old friends, matching smiles, Edward nodding. Perhaps Luca sensed her eyes on him because he turned and the friendly smile dropped, replaced with a look that was sheer, smouldering intensity. Her heart speeded up.

  “Alice?” Bronte said, with urgency, as they stood up. Alice faced her, wide-eyed. “About Luca.”

  “Yes?”

  Her gut twisted at the lie they were telling. She hated this – but she was also grateful she’d made the decision to go along with it. “It’s really not serious. I don’t want anyone to get too attached to him.”

  Alice leaned her face closer and said in a conspiratorial whisper, “I’m attached to you. If you’re happy, I’m happy.”

  Relief and guilt clashed inside Bronte. “I am.” That, at least, was no lie.

  7

  WALK AWAY.

  Leave now.

  Don’t do this.

  Katie’s face filled his mind. Her fate darkened his soul. Knowledge of what he’d done to her, how he’d broken her, clouded everything Luca was in that moment.

  They didn’t look alike. Bronte was brunette with mystical green eyes and a directness in her bearing that Katie had lacked. Katie had been tall, willowish and blonde, with wide-set blue eyes and a laugh that had made him think everything would be okay.

  Until she’d stopped laughing one day and he’d known how wrong he’d been.

  His fingers tightened around his pen, tapping it three times on the edge of his papers, his eyes straying to the narrow bathroom door for the umpteenth time since they’d returned to the hotel room and Bronte had made a bee-line for the en suite with a mumbled excuse of ‘taking a shower’.

  She’d been wise to run away. The tension between them was thick enough to cut with a knife. He felt it and if she hadn’t disappeared into the bathroom he would have acted on it, to hell with the consequences; to hell with the past.