It was an interesting point to consider, from a purely academic stand point. He supposed there was merit to it, though in his experience, it wasn’t always the case.
“I was raised by my grandparents,” he said thoughtfully. “I would classify their marriage as happy, and yet I don’t know if they ever fought.”
“Oh,” she chuckled. “Believe me, they fought.”
“How do you know?”
“You say they were happy?”
He nodded, once. “Very.”
“So then they fought, but behind closed doors, which is how it should be, as much as possible.”
He considered that. “How do you know then that Bronte and Ashton never argued? Perhaps they just refrained from doing so around family.”
“Maybe,” she pursed her lips in a gesture that reminded him squarely of Bronte. “But no, I don’t think so. You get a feeling about a couple and they were as dull as three-day-old bread.”
A smile curled his lips. “I can imagine that.”
“Mmm.” The noise was heavy with disapproval. “There was no chemistry. No spark. No oomph. Now with you and Bronte, that makes more sense.”
He felt the ground grow uneven beneath him. The lie they were telling hadn’t bothered him until that moment. It was a fiction invented so Bronte could save face; it hadn’t occurred to him that he’d be telling a bald-faced lie to a lovely woman’s face. Yet here he was, nodding, complicit in the mistruth. But his eyes chased Bronte and he felt calm again – because it was worth it. All of this, for Bronte, was worth it.
“I’m glad you approve,” was all he could say. Then, because he knew Bronte would need to backpedal from this eventually, he turned to Clara. “Though as you say, Bronte has been hurt, her heart broken. My greatest concern is that she not be hurt again, and not by me.” Clara didn’t respond. “We aren’t rushing into anything.”
Another noise, a contemplative sound, and then, “Aren’t you?”
An hour later and Clara’s question still throbbed in his brain. He couldn’t say why. Only that her supposition that they were a good couple, well-matched, and that they were rushing into things, all sat heavily around his shoulders. It wasn’t the lie, so much as the truth in her observation, that gave him pause for thought. They knew this was temporary, but was that really any protection against hurt? Wasn’t it possible that Bronte could still develop feelings for him even in a short amount of time? The more he thought about it, the more a sense of panic enveloped him. Clara had said Bronte would always love with all her heart, and he could tell that was true. It was obvious. Everything about her made that capacity apparent. So if she loved him? He immediately resisted that idea – and the nausea it brought with him. Hurting Bronte would be just about the worst thing he’d ever done. He wouldn’t allow it to come to pass. He needed to make sure she understood his limitations, that was all. He could control this – he could make sure she never forgot that this was just a weekend fling and would never – could never – be anything else.
“You must be exhausted.” His voice was deep and melodious, and through the fog of champagne and happiness, it reached all the way inside Bronte, soothing her so she smiled without realising it.
“Must I be?” She lifted her face to his and her heart fluttered. “I guess, a little.”
“You’ve hardly stopped for two days.”
“Hardly slept either,” she pointed out with a wink, enjoying the way his eyes showed an instant flash of recognition.
“That’s true.” He lifted a finger to her cheek, stroking it slowly, so she held her breath because in that moment, it felt like the only thing she could do. He was quiet, as though thinking, or trying to work out how to say something, and the longer she waited the more her breath burned in her lungs, but she was powerless to exhale.
“Do you need to stick around tomorrow?”
The question wasn’t exactly what she’d been expecting.
“No.”
A muscle jerked low in his jaw. “So we can leave after breakfast?”
“Oh.” Her insides squished. Something like acid burned the back of her throat. “Yes, of course. You must be keen to get back.”
She looked away from him, desperate to hide the effect his words had on her. This was all just pretend. A game. And Luca must have been counting the minutes until he could resume his normal life.
She felt, rather than heard, his exhalation of breath.
“We came for the wedding.”
She nodded quickly. “And the wedding’s almost over.”
“I’ve had fun with you this weekend.”
Her heart lifted. “Me too.”
She felt his hesitation again, as though weighing up his words carefully. “I think you’re an incredible woman, Bronte.”
Despite the sweetness of those words, dread groaned inside her. She didn’t respond.
“I hope that, after this, you can find someone who deserves you.”
The music was slow, each note stretched out, the evening coming to a close and the frenetic pace of the earlier dancing winding down to something much more low-key. She pressed her head to his chest, listening to his heart, allowing his words to settle inside of her, allowing their full meaning to expand. It was a break up speech, without the need. They weren’t a couple. They never had been and she’d known all along they never would be. Why was he belabouring that point?
“Maybe.” She sucked in a levelling breath, forcing her voice to remain neutral. “But honestly, I think once this weekend is over, I’m just going to focus on my career and getting my life in order. Men are pretty low on my list for now.”
His eyes probed hers and then he nodded and grinned, a grin so like normal that she relaxed. It made her feel as though everything was going to be okay.
11
THE COUNTRYSIDE CHANGED VERY quickly. For the first few miles it was all green fields and little stone houses and then they were on the motorway, only rest stops, fields and speeding cars surrounding them.
Everything had happened so quickly. From the conclusion of the wedding, to their last night together, to the morning – breakfast with Bronte’s family – and then this, the drive back to London. Time had seemed to run at double time.
“You’re quiet,” he remarked, as the landscape became increasingly familiar, and she knew they were only minutes away from Hampstead.
“Hmm,” she agreed, forcing a smile to her face. Forcing, she assured herself, because she was tired, that was all. “I’m just relieved it’s over.”
He didn’t react at first. She spun to look out of the window, not reading anything into his silence.
“It went well.”
She fluttered her eyes closed. “Yes.”
Silence.
She concentrated on keeping her breathing level, on not letting it get too noisy, nor to fast.
“I liked your family.”
Her smile was wistful. “I’m glad.”
“When will you tell them we’ve broken up?” The question was infused with amusement; her smile slipped.
Her teeth pressed into her lower lip. “I guess I’ll wait a few weeks. Once Ally’s back from her honeymoon.”
He didn’t say anything in response.
“There’s no point worrying mum and dad. And they do worry about me, you know. I’d rather just let sleeping dogs lie for now, then tell them in a ‘by the by’ kind of way, if that makes sense.”
He pulled up to an intersection just a short drive from her place. They had moments left. Last night they’d made love and she’d known it would be the last time. She’d ignored that fact, not pretending they were anything other than what they were, but simply choosing not to focus on it.
But now, it was all coming to an end. They had minutes left. But minutes of what? It had all been pretend, all for show. Not the sex – that was something else – but nothing that meant anything or would change him – or her – now that it was over.
No, that wasn’t true.
&nbs
p; Bronte had been irreversibly altered by the weekend, by him. Luca had made her see things differently; he’d made her see herself differently, and the life she wanted. He’d made her see – without intending to, she suspected – that she’d been settling for Ashton, taking a short cut to what she presumed would lead to a lifetime of stability and a mild sort of happiness. He’d made her see that wasn’t enough.
And she doubted he’d ever even know he’d done that.
He was driving to her house without GPS, without directions, just remembering the way because he was Luca Montebello – some kind of God-like creature who did everything perfectly.
“Thank you.” The words were dredged from the depths of her soul. “You didn’t have to do this, and yet, the fact you did –,”
He brought the car to a stop on a double yellow line, turning to face her, his eyes running over her features. “It was my pleasure.”
Her heart shifted uncomfortably, bruising her ribs from the inside.
“Would you –,” she turned and looked towards her flat. “Like to come up?”
She knew, even as she asked the question, what his response would be.
“No.” He cut the engine, reaching over and cupping her cheek. “I won’t.”
Not ‘I can’t’. ‘I won’t’. It was a subtle but important difference. She nodded slowly, dislodging his hand. He let it fall, but it briefly grazed her thigh. She ached – oh, how she ached – for the intimacy they’d shared just last night!
But every mile they’d put between themselves and Athlestone Park had stripped away that intimacy, bit by bit, so now they were their old selves – he was her boss, and that was all.
Dredging a cheery smile to her face, she spun away, reaching for the door handle and pushing it open. She heard his own door mirror the action. He came around to the trunk, popping it as he approached and pulling her bag out, then her garment bag with the bridesmaid dress.
She took them carefully, avoiding touching him. “Thanks.” Another too-happy smile.
He nodded, shoving his hands in his pockets. No contact.
She had to say something. But what? “I’ll – see you in the office, I guess.” Oh, no. Those words didn’t sound happy, they didn’t sound fine. She blinked quickly, and cleared her throat, trying again. “Don’t work too hard today.” She added a wink for good measure.
He didn’t seem to believe her second attempt, but it didn’t matter. They were done; it was over. Her place was in sight. She tightened her grip on the garment bag and took a step backwards. “Thanks again.”
She half-expected, the whole way to her door, that he would call out to her, ask her to wait. That he might run behind her and turn her around, drawing her into his arms and kissing her until she could barely breathe, just as he had so often this weekend.
But when she reached her door and turned back to his car, it was gone. Only the yellow lines remained.
Her heart sank.
His concentration was shot. He could tell himself it was because of Yaya’s stroke, but that was a lie – and a bad one. Yaya was recovering beautifully, or he wouldn’t have come to the UK for a business trip. He could tell himself it was tiredness, but Luca didn’t get tired. For his entire life he’d been able to function on practically zero sleep – a few hours a night – and never felt the pace of his life wore him down.
He lifted his gaze to the door of his London office, grinding his teeth together.
There was only one reason he was failing to concentrate, and if he closed his eyes he could smell her, feel her, taste her.
Cristo.
Bronte.
He pushed his chair back, striding towards the door, reaching his hand out before halting, abruptly. This wasn’t the weekend, and these lines weren’t flexible. He couldn’t go out there just to speak with her. He couldn’t go out to sit on the edge of her desk and breathe her in, watch her smile, see the way her delicate fingers clicked over the keyboard. He swerved away from the door, moving to his window instead, looking out onto a bright, warm London sky. One more week.
Not even.
On Friday – or sooner, if he could get the details of this deal finalised – he’d get on the jet and leave the UK. And stay away for as long as it took to stop thinking about her.
Bronte’s eyes strayed to his door for the hundredth time in half as many minutes. She tapped her pen against the edge of her desk, stared down at the papers and then shook her head. They needed his attention, but not immediately.
Knowing it was the coward’s way out, she ripped a post-it note from the pad and wrote, neatly, across the top:
Luca –
For your attention.
Thanks,
Bronte.
She put the files in the tray on her desk, then returned her attention to her screen, working her way through emails.
It wasn’t a nine to five job – far from it. But for the first time since starting at Montebello, she folded her laptop up a few minutes after five, and slipped it into her handbag. There were still emails to be dealt with, but she could do that from home.
With the sense she was trying to outrun a freight train, she tidied her desk and exited the executive suite as quickly as possible.
“Night, Bronte.”
The receptionists were still at the semi-circular desk that marked the entrance to the executive offices. She lifted a hand in a silent wave and kept walking; she moved as though a wolf was on her trail. She moved as though her life depended on her escape, when it wasn’t her life so much, she suspected, as her heart.
He hadn’t intentionally waited until after seven. It wasn’t like he was waiting until the other admin staff would have left, and Bronte would likely still be at her desk. It wasn’t like he had some sinister plan to catch her on her own. Maybe when it was just the two of them, the rules wouldn’t apply with quite the same rigidity?
He pulled his door inwards, turning right to head to her desk without giving himself a chance to second guess his intentions, only to find her office in total darkness.
He paused at the doorframe, refusing to acknowledge the bitter wave of disappointment that engulfed him. He flicked the light on, stepping into her space, inhaling her sweet scent, desire kicking him in the gut at the memories her fragrance evoked.
He moved towards her desk, his fingers tracing the leather back of her chair before dropping to the melamine surface. He closed his eyes, aware that this was a sign of weakness – a sign he would manage better – and then stepped back.
On the brink of leaving, his attention was caught by some papers in a tray on her desk. He reached for them, a mocking smile on his lips when he saw the short note she’d left.
Coward.
Yes, she was a coward, but at least she’d had the good sense to stay away.
He was on his phone when she arrived the next morning. She couldn’t avoid the sound of his voice. It reached her before she’d had a chance to inure herself to his charm, before she’d had a chance to remind herself of all the reasons she needed to box their weekend tryst away, mentally, and never think of it again.
His voice rolled through her though, making her think of far too much good – memories that warmed her and made her ache to go back in time, a physical ache that took hold of her and had her stopping walking for a moment, her steps getting tangled, at the sheer strength of her desire.
She drew in a deep breath, counted to ten, then quietly closed his door to block the noise.
It was obvious that she was avoiding him. It wasn’t as though he’d ever sought her out on his previous trips to London, and yet he’d seen her often. She was busy and active, walking files to various directors, checking reports, coming into his office to make sure he had what he needed, querying appointments with him, anything he needed – before he could ask her for it.
Now, he didn’t see her. She stayed in her office, so on the few occasions he ventured out for meetings or to speak to his colleagues, her door was shut. Once, he caught a glimps
e of her through the glass panel. She was standing, staring at the whiteboard on the back wall of her office, a frown on her face. He could hardly stop walking long enough to see what she was looking at. Besides, he wasn’t interested in the white board. Her hair had been pulled up in a tight bun, her clothes plain and loose. None of that mattered. He saw her as she’d been on the weekend. Hell, he saw her as she’d been in that bridesmaid dress, all silk draping over her stunning curves, and he wanted to push the door in and take her against the damned whiteboard.
He didn’t. He kept walking, blotting her from his mind for the rest of the day.
She’d avoided him for two days, and that was sheer good luck, but now, her luck had run out.
“I can’t find it anywhere,” Emily Watkins insisted, her face pale, her eyes showing nervousness that a week ago Bronte might have found amusing. All the receptionists and less senior secretaries were terrified of the Montebellos, as though they held some unique, terrifying power just because they were richer than Croesus and hotter than hades.
But now?
Now that she’d experienced Luca’s unique brand of charm, she had a bundle of nerves all her own.
“All the personal files are kept on the K drive.”
“I looked there.”
Bronte bit back a sharp retort. This was the sort of thing she routinely had to trouble shoot. It shouldn’t make any kind of difference that she’d slept with Luca. They were both professionals and this was what they’d agreed.
“I’m sorry,” Emily said quietly and Bronte had the feeling the other woman might be about to cry. It was that alone which had her galvanising into action.
“Don’t be, it’s not a problem. I’ll sort it out.”
“Thank you.” Emily put her fingers on Bronte’s forearm as she passed. Bronte attempted to smile but was sure it came out as a grimace instead.
She hesitated at the door for a brief moment, before squaring her shoulders and knocking once. She didn’t wait for an invitation – that was her usual modus operandi and there was no reason to change it now. But when the door pushed inward, she couldn’t help but seek him out, her eyes quickly homing in on where he sat at the large boardroom table in front of the window.
It Started With A Lie: A forbidden fake-boyfriend Cinderella romance (The Montebellos Book 5) Page 13