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

by Clare Connelly

  Her skin paled and she swayed a little before righting herself, nodding once. “I see.”

  She didn’t see. He hadn’t been clear enough.

  “You want things I cannot give you.”

  It was more than he’d intended to tell her.

  Her eyes flew wide. “What do I want from you?”

  “I can only guess at that,” he admitted, moving closer to her, but stopping when he saw her flinch and withdraw. He jabbed his hands into his pockets. “My guess is that you’ve tricked yourself into thinking I could be someone important to you. My guess is that you think there’s something going on between us besides sex.”

  Her trembling lower lip confirmed his suspicions. Hell, he didn’t need her to confirm his suspicions. Obviously this wasn’t just about sex. If it had been purely sex, he’d have simply replaced her, not pined after her and ached for her for days straight. But telling her it was a purely physical thing was safest. It would help her get over him quicker.

  “There’s not.” The words actually hurt him to say. They were pointy in his mouth, like sharp-edged stones.

  “I see.” She pressed her lips together, her fingers fidgeting some more.

  “Yesterday was – a perfect goodbye, cara.”

  “Goodbye,” she repeated, and he had the horrible feeling she might be about to cry.

  “I like you,” he continued, with the sense he was digging a huge grave, one from which he’d never escape. “I wouldn’t want you to feel uncomfortable, in the future, when we’re working together again.”

  She opened her mouth and he waited, a pain in his chest as he hoped she could say something that would make this seem better.

  She didn’t. She simply stared at him, accusation in her eyes, so he felt like the worst sonofabitch in the world.

  “I’m flying out of the UK later today –,”

  “Stop.” She lifted a hand then, silencing him instantly. He braced for whatever was coming. “Just – stop.”

  He swallowed, but it wasn’t enough. The words were out there now, the neat summation of whatever they’d been doing as ‘just sex’ a title he couldn’t retract.

  “You’re actually telling me that this,” she pointed between them, “is just sex for you?”

  His heart slammed against his ribs. Deny it. Tell her she’s special. Tell her you’ve never known anyone like her.

  And what? String her along until he broke her heart too? Until he cheated on her or proposed and then wanted to back out? In how many ways could a guy like him ruin a woman like her?

  He took a step backwards.

  “Wasn’t I clear about that all along?”

  Her head jerked back as though he’d punched her. He almost felt like he had.

  “Yes.” A numb agreement. She wrapped her arms around her torso. “You really were.” She moved to the door, her eyes huge in her face, her expression so laced with betrayal that he wanted to run to her and apologise, to tell her everything he felt, but that would be worse for her, and Bronte had been hurt enough.

  “So you’re leaving today?”

  Every fibre of his being throbbed in rejection of that. “Yes. At two.”

  Another short nod of her head. She turned the door handle, then pulled it inwards. “I’ll organise the car then.”

  It was exactly what Bronte would have said a week ago. Before they’d slept together, before he’d blurred all the lines between them. It was a sign that they were going back to normal, just like he wanted. So why the hell did it feel like a death knell?

  It felt to Bronte as though ice had taken over her bloodstream. She went through the motions of her weekend, doing everything she could not to think about Luca when he was all she could think about. She tried not to think about the fact he was now in Europe, far enough away from her that she was sure she was completely out of his mind. She tried not to think about the fact she’d fallen in love with a man who’d only been interested in her for sex. She tried not to think, at all, but that was harder than Bronte could ever have known.

  She went to work Monday with a dull ache low in her abdomen, and a strange feeling that she was walking back into the scene of a crime. She avoided his office assiduously.

  It was harder to avoid him. Emails came in all day – not directly from him, but forwarded from her Italian counterpart, so she could see his writing, read his words, and feel the pulling of a thread deep inside of her. Just after five, she snapped the laptop lid closed and left the office. It set the pattern for the next few days. It wasn’t a job she could easily do in those short hours but, for the moment, Bronte didn’t care. The world continued to turn. Life went on.

  On the Thursday afternoon, her office phone rang; it was the HR department.

  Bronte’s smile was lacking humour as she made her way to their office, as requested. A slap on the wrist for leaving early all week? Did she care? She didn’t, and that was a wake up call, because her job was important to her, and she’d never once received anything other than praise.

  “Come in,” Angela Garret pointed to a seat in her office. Bronte took it with a small nod of her head.

  “Thanks for making time to come down; I know how busy you are.”

  Bronte smiled uneasily, heat, for a moment, replacing the ice that coursed through her permanently. “Of course. What can I do for you?”

  “Sometimes, in a company such as this, things slip beneath the radar. People slip beneath the radar. My predecessor had marked your file with notes suggesting you’d like to move into the corporate finance team, should a role arise, but the notes were never computerised and flagged appropriately. I didn’t realise.”

  Bronte’s lips twisted, her brain – made slow by its constant re-playing of her time with Luca – struggled to catch what she was talking about. “Sorry?”

  “When you first came to work here it was on the basis that the assistant work was temporary, until a more appropriate position became available.”

  “Oh.” Bronte blinked, her heart sinking. Luca. He was trying to shift her from her role? He didn’t want to see her again? Or was it possible he thought he was doing her a favour by moving her to a different team?

  “I have a spot that might be available soon. You’d need to interview for it but, to be honest, you’d be far more experienced than any other applicant. There’d be a pay drop,” Angela continued, oblivious to the emotional landslide she was sparking inside Bronte.

  “Why – are you suggesting this now?” Her voice was husky.

  Angela grimaced. “Orders from the top.”

  The top.

  Luca.

  She shifted uncomfortably in her chair, unable to make any sense of this, not wanting to think of the ramifications of his putting her forward for a different position – after they’d slept together. Was it that he wanted her out of his space, when he came back to the London office? Or that he truly wanted her to have the opportunities he thought she wanted?

  “I’m fine where I am, Angela. If I was interested in transferring, I would have applied. I see the internal job vacancies, the same as everyone else.” She stood, forcing her lips to mimic a smile. “Thank you for thinking of me, though.”

  “Are you sure? Because I was told in no uncertain terms that you wanted –,”

  “You were misinformed. I’m happy where I am, for now.”

  She left the office with her head high, but her heart sinking all the way to the ground, thirty stories beneath them.

  Another week passed. Somehow, she got back into a more normal rhythm, working late – far later than usual. She found this helped. Being in the office under a groaning workload made it paradoxically harder to think about Luca, despite the fact the letterhead bore his name.

  At home, she existed. She ate when necessary, slept in fits and spurts, showered twice daily out of habit, occasionally remembered to wash her hair. One day, an old photograph caught her attention and she laughed as she passed it, but the laughs turned into sobs. It had been taken for her se
cond anniversary with Ashton. They’d gone to see a show at the Royal Albert Hall. She ran her finger over the frame, her heart speeding up. If there was one small silver lining to what had happened with Luca, it was that she never thought about Ashton anymore.

  But what she wouldn’t give for him to be the one she was missing. That pain had been manageable. She’d been surprised by their break up. Blindsided, in fact, but it hadn’t crippled her. His absence hadn’t made the very act of breathing feel onerous. She hadn’t missed him as though she was missing a huge part of herself.

  She’d known she would eventually get over Ashton.

  With Luca? She wasn’t so sure.

  “You’re cheating.”

  Nico grinned. “Why do you say that?”

  Luca stared at his cards. “Because that’s the only explanation for why my hand looks like this.” He reached for his beer, took a long sip. “Did you speak to Raf today?”

  Nico nodded. “We FaceTimed. He’s doing great. He’s going to look like a triangle when he gets out of hospital if he keeps doing his damned bicep workouts.”

  Luca laughed, despite the fact he’d felt, for the past two weeks, as though his head was going to explode, as though anger was a physical part of him, another arm or leg. “But his strength?”

  “They’re happy. Lauren was there.”

  Luca’s heart clenched. His cousin had surprised them all by recently declaring himself madly in love with Yaya’s companion. Another one of them to do what they’d all sworn they wouldn’t and choose a life of happy domesticity. Luca’s grip on the beer bottle tightened. “I’m glad.”

  “She says his physiotherapists are pleased with his work. There’s no permanent damage to the spinal cord. Now it’s a matter of strength and making sure the pathways to his brain can be reenergised.”

  “That’s a relief. He was a damned fool to be climbing without a harness.”

  “You know Raf,” Nico chided gently, then leaned forward. “Besides, I seem to have a very clear memory of you sprinting along the top of a passenger train in India.”

  Luca’s eyes widened. “That’s different. I was drunk.”

  “Oh, that’s much better,” Nico laughed.

  “Do you ever think about that?”

  “What it would have been like if you’d gone splat onto the tracks?”

  “No,” Luca smiled curtly, waving his hand impatiently. “I mean what it was like to hike around like we did.”

  Nico frowned. “Not really.” He played a card. “Do you?”

  “Lately I have been.” Luca settled back in his chair, looking up at the sky. “Lately I’ve been thinking how great it would be to just go off-grid for a while.”

  Nico leaned in. “Why?”

  “No reason in particular. Don’t you remember what that was like? Camping under the stars, walking wherever we wanted, doing what we wanted.”

  “I remember,” Nico said quietly. “And it was great, but that’s not who I am anymore. And it’s not who you are.”

  Luca stared at his cards, a strange gnawing feeling inside of him.

  Sometimes life takes you on a road you weren’t expecting.

  The truth was, he had no idea who he was now. He felt untethered to his life, himself, even his family who he adored. But he could see worry crossing Nico’s face, and so he laughed, shaking his head. “Forget I mentioned it. It was a stupid idea.”

  He played a card, reconciling himself to losing.

  The sunrise at Villa Fortune was always spectacular. Velvet black with glittering diamonds gave way to a hint of purple and silver before colour spread across the sky like bursts of flame: red, orange, gold, all heralding the arrival of a new day. Luca hadn’t gone to bed, yet somehow the night had passed without his notice, minutes dragging by, thoughts moving through his brain without landing.

  She was there.

  Not a clear image of Bronte, so much as an ethereal presence, hovering on the periphery of his awareness at all times, making him regret everything about their relationship, making him wish he could wind back time and undo – but no. He wouldn’t do that. He might handle things differently, but he wouldn’t take back what they’d shared. He was too selfish and he wanted those memories too much.

  As the sun rose higher in the sky, he reached for his phone and refreshed the emails, sitting up straighter as one in particular caught his attention.

  It had been forwarded from the London office the day before.

  The final documents are prepared. Legal has signed off. They’ll need an MD signature before we process them.

  Luca scanned the email again, before looking back towards the sprawling Tuscan villa the Montebello family called home.

  The final documents for the Watney Group acquisition needed a signature. He could ask someone else to go. But why would he? This was his deal; he wanted it. And suddenly he wanted, more than anything, to be back in London.

  He was standing and emailing his Italian assistant within seconds, organising the flight. This afternoon wouldn’t be soon enough. It had to be straight away. Sooner, if possible.

  13

  “WHO ARE YOU?”

  He stared at the man in Bronte’s office with a bubbling sense of outrage.

  “Sir, good afternoon. We weren’t expecting you.”

  Luca waved aside his statement. “I have to sign some papers. Where’s Bronte?”

  “Bronte?”

  “This is her office.”

  “Oh.” He nodded. “She’s taken a leave of absence.”

  Luca felt as though he’d been sucker punched. He knew she’d turned down the position HR had put her forward for. But a leave of absence?

  “Since when?”

  “Umm, a couple of days ago, I think. Do you want me to call personnel and find out when she’ll be back?”

  “No.” The answer was unnecessarily cross. “I’ll do it.”

  “Angela Garret.”

  “Angela, Luca Montebello.”

  “Oh! Good afternoon, sir.”

  “My assistant is missing.”

  “Missing? He should be there. I spoke to him this morning.”

  “No, my usual assistant. Where’s Bronte?”

  “Oh.” He could hear Angela’s fingers tapping away at the keyboard. “She requested a leave of absence.”

  Acid was rolling through him. Because of him? Because of what he’d done? He gripped the phone receiver tight in his hand.

  “Did she give a reason?”

  “No.” Then, a pause. “I’m sorry, yes, she did.”

  He waited, breath held. “Her father had – yes. Her father had a stroke on Friday. It was all very sudden.”

  It was the last thing he’d been expecting. Luca scraped his chair back, dropping the receiver even as he moved back to Bronte’s office.

  “What’s your name?” He demanded of Bronte’s replacement.

  “Alex.”

  “Alex,” Luca nodded. “I need you to find out where Bronte’s father is – I presume in hospital. Send me all the information you have. I’ll be in the car.”

  “I – okay, I – no problems.”

  “It wasn’t a stroke, Bron,” Ashton said gently, his hand on her knee comforting and familiar. She blinked up at him, her smile weak.

  “I know. It was a transient ischemic attack. But to all intents and purposes, it’s like he’s had a stroke.”

  “Look how much better he’s doing,” Ashton nudged her shoulder softly. “His voice isn’t slurred today. He’s sitting up. The doctors think he’ll be able to walk in the next day or so, albeit only short distances.”

  She bit down on her lip, fear still making the good news impossible to accept. “But after last time –,”

  Ashton shook his head. “Last time was a heart arrhythmia. The pacemaker has that under control. I know it seems scary, but these are two very separate, unconnected incidents. And your dad’s going to recover from this, just like he did from that.”

  “What if –,”
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  Ashton shook his head, pressed a finger to Bronte’s lips. “Don’t do that to yourself.” He scanned her face, and she was so grateful to him in that moment, because he’d been there for her – and her family – when they needed him most. “Don’t worry about the what ifs, because you can’t control them. What if he gets hit by a bus tomorrow? What if you do? There are no guarantees, but the good news is that health conditions that are discovered are manageable – because it means specialists can monitor him. He can live with this. And he will.”

  Her smile was watery. “Thanks, Ash. For being here.” She put her head on his shoulder, the intimacy not strange, given how long they’d been together. Their relationship wasn’t romantic, but they’d been friends for a long time. Perhaps they could find a way to be friends again now. Or maybe they already were.

  “Where else would I be, huh?”

  His hand lifted and stroked her hair. She closed her eyes and for a moment, let herself exist in that small, tiny moment, reassured and content. Worries – for that slice of time – were far away.

  He’d recognise Ashton anywhere, even without the stupid shoes and rolled up pants. But seeing his arm around Bronte, her head on his shoulder, was like a thousand volts of electricity pouring into Luca’s frame. He stayed where he was, just inside the doors of the ward, his eyes taking in every detail of the picture. She was pale, her hair a mess, wearing jeans and an over-sized shirt, her eyes closed, her lips tight. She looked beautiful and fragile.

  His heart was being wrung tight.

  Ashton stroked her dark hair slowly, his lips moving as though he was singing to her, or talking very quietly. He touched her as though he had every right, and she let him. She damn well let him.

  Luca swept his eyes shut, but it didn’t help. The careening sense that he’d lost something very, very important bowled right into him.

  “What the hell do you mean?”

  Fiero’s voice roared down the phone line. He might be the youngest brother but he had no problems asserting his authority whenever he saw fit.