Harlequin Presents--April 2021--Box Set 2 of 2

by Dani Collins

  Her eyes widened suddenly, as she dredged up subconscious memory.

  Not Italian—French.

  French?

  But he’d said his aunt lived in Sorrento.

  On sudden impulse she wheeled about, reversing her direction. It was as though a tide had turned within her, pushing back against the current sweeping her out into a drowning sea of loss and heartbreak. A new tide that brought new thoughts.

  Protest rose in her like a litany.

  The Evandro who sent me packing like that, so callously and uncaringly, is not the Evandro that I know. Not the Evandro with sardonic deadpan humour...the Evandro who openly enjoyed my company, my conversation. Not the Evandro who took me into his arms, his bed...his life! Who kissed me, and embraced me, and laughed with me, and held me close...so close...

  The Evandro she knew was nothing like the blank-faced man who had looked across the schoolroom at her, terse and brusque, callous and uncaring, the lines around his mouth scored deeply, his eyes dark and shuttered. Sending her away as if there had been nothing between them—nothing at all. Sending her away as if compelled to do so...

  By what?

  And into her head came the words that had fallen from her lips that very first evening she had dined with him and Amelie.

  ‘Under a malign spell.’

  Her mind worked through it all. His marriage had been a disaster. She knew that—all the household knew that! But he was free of it and Amelie, his precious daughter, was with him now, safe and protected from her damaging, self-obsessed mother. There was nothing more that Berenice could do to harm him.

  Or was there?

  Jenna kept walking and picked up her pace, a sense of urgency filling her.

  * * *

  Evandro sat in the library, in the leather armchair set beside the unlit fireplace. The late October night was still mild, but it was unlit for another reason as well.

  He had no wish to see flames of any kind, nor to catch the choking smell of smoke.

  His grip on his brandy glass tightened and he took another mouthful. On the marble mantelpiece the steady ticking of the clock marked the seconds, the time that was passing so slowly. It was long past the midnight hour and silence had engulfed the house.

  He finished his brandy, reached for the decanter, refilled his glass. He should stop drinking, but he was of no mind to do so.

  He shut his eyes, resting his head back on the chair, face set. His jaw ached and he moved to touch his left cheek with his hand, then let it drop, not willing to feel the pain that still throbbed beneath the analgesic of alcohol. He took another mouthful of brandy instead, stretching out his legs stiffly, trying not to wince at the effort it took.

  If he drank enough he might fall asleep here, in the chair. It would be better than going to bed. Better than lying there in its wide expanse. Alone except for memories. A savage self-mockery slashed across his mind. Those never left him alone.

  Too many memories. Too bitter to bear. Too unbearable.

  Memories of a woman he would never see again. Who was beyond him for ever.

  For ever.

  The damning words scythed across him, cutting deep into his core. His very being. All that was left of it...

  Emotion seared him like flame across flesh already burnt and scorched. It was agonising.

  In sudden, furious, unbearable desolation, he hurled his brandy glass into the fireplace. It shattered, but he did not hear the noise. Heard only a tearing, abject cry go up that was like the roar of a wounded beast, piercing the floor of heaven.

  He only dimly realised that the noise had come from him.

  * * *

  Jenna jackknifed upright, eyes flaring open wide, heart pounding, instantly awake.

  A dream—that was all it had been. A dream. But that cry, torn from a human soul...

  A dream—only a dream!

  But a dream so real, so vivid, that it was still there—and she was still in it. She tried to shake her head, to make herself wake out of it, but she could not. Her eyes were open, but it was not the bedroom she was seeing.

  She heard her ragged breathing, felt her hands digging into the mattress, the headboard pressing into her spine. Her hectic heart rate did not ease, and it was still pounding as she got out of bed and went to the window, dragging back the curtains of her bedsit to stare out over the street, deserted now, with midnight long past, as though she might see out there what was in her head.

  Then, numbly, she turned away.

  A dream, she told herself again. That terrible broken cry was only a dream.

  But what if it wasn’t?

  It was absurd to think so—irrational. And yet the dream she’d woken from had been so all-consuming that she needed to do something...anything...that might calm her.

  Shakily, she reached for her laptop, hunkering down in her bed again and logging in, ignoring the late hour. She had to be at school tomorrow to teach, but sleep was beyond her now.

  What she was searching for she did not know, but as if of their own accord she found her fingers typing the words ‘Evandro Rocceforte’ into the search engine. Halfway down the first page of results an article title leapt out at her.

  Dread filled her as she clicked on the link and started to read. It was a press release from Rocceforte Industriale.

  It is with regret that we announce the resignation of chairman and chief executive Evandro Rocceforte, owing to ill health. In his place he has appointed...

  She read no more as icy, terrifying fear filled her.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  JENNA STOOD BY the side of the road where the local bus had deposited her. She had not been able to find a taxi in the town, and now the steep driveway up to the palazzo awaited her.

  At least she had no luggage. That would have been an imposition—a presumption too far. A major part of her still told her that she was being insane to do what she had done—phoning the school to tell them that she would not be in today, then heading for Southend airport, taking the first flight out to Bergamo and then catching the train onwards.

  But fear had driven her—and the searing memory of that terrible dream. And then the announcement she had read.

  What ‘ill health’?

  She felt fear clutch at her again, overriding everything else. Overriding the impulsive insanity of what she was doing and driving her onwards with a terrifying question.

  What ill health would make him resign from the business that he was head of? He would never have done so lightly...

  She headed up the narrow drive, quickening her pace, her thoughts still as jumbled as they had been since last night.

  That letter he received...his swift and brutal dismissal of me...my feeling that something was wrong...and now this announcement of ‘ill health’. Was it bad news about his health that was in that letter? Was that why he got rid of me?

  The questions tumbled through her brain, clashing with her fear and heightening it.

  As she neared the sharp bend where the rocky outcrop forced the roadway around it, memory washed over her of that very first night—of running into the path of Evandro’s speeding car to save him from danger.

  It had been an impulse—instant and overriding. Just as this insanely executed journey was now.

  She rounded the outcrop, striding onwards, ignoring the place where the drive continued on to the front of the palazzo and instead taking the shorter path cutting through the woods to the gardens behind. Just before she left the woods—before she allowed herself to look at the palazzo—she felt her eyes go to where the lightning-struck chestnut stood, cloven in two.

  The branches that had trailed on the ground had been cleared, the burnt limbs severed, but the trunk of the tree remained, blackened and scorched. Dead and stricken and lifeless. And yet around the base... Her eyes rested there now, and emotion flooded he
r at the sight. New shoots were growing...

  She let her gaze slip past it, down over the beautiful gardens to the palazzo’s façade.

  It was as elegant, as perfectly proportioned as it always had been, with its symmetrical pediments and rows of sash windows catching the sunlight, the French doors opening up to the spacious terrace all along its length.

  Exactly as she remembered it.

  Exactly as she had dreamt it last night.

  Exactly as it had always been.

  Except—

  Shock and horror jarred through her. The rear elevation of the palazzo was exactly as it always had been. And so was one room deep behind the enfilade of French doors. But beyond that—

  Beyond that the entire frontage of the palazzo was a blackened shell, the marble-floored entrance hall half open to the sky. And in the air, acrid and dry, was the faint smell of smoke and ash and ruin.

  Numb, disbelieving, she walked down through the gardens, feeling her heart pounding harder and faster with every step. As she gained the terrace a figure stepped out from the palazzo’s interior.

  She gave a cry, her hand flying to her mouth.

  * * *

  Evandro stilled, turning his head.

  That cry...

  She was coming towards him, walking with a rapidity that was bringing her closer with every burning second. She blurred, going in and out of focus.

  The last woman in the world he wanted to see him.

  The only woman in the world he wanted to see.

  And then she was there—in front of him. A woman who should not be there, who had no reason to be there...no cause. A woman who was looking at him with horror on her face.

  ‘Dear God...’ she said, breathing shallowly.

  Her eyes, those clear pools as cool and as green as the shade under the canopy of trees where they’d held each other, were wide and fearful.

  He felt his face twist. ‘God,’ he said, and his voice was harsh, ‘had very little to do with it.’

  He looked at her. His focus was poor, but forcibly he made it work—such as it could now. A snap of pain flashed across his face—it felt like agony.

  ‘Why have you come?’

  That harshness was still in his voice, and he saw her flinch. But perhaps not on account of his voice alone.

  She simply looked at him. ‘I had to,’ she said.

  He saw her expression change as she tried to make sense of the sight in front of her.

  ‘I heard you call out,’ she said. ‘In a dream.’ Her words were disjointed. She stopped...went on again. ‘Then I looked you up online. I found an article that said you had resigned from your company. Ill health, it said. But it didn’t...it didn’t say...’

  She halted, and in her eyes were the things he would see in all eyes now. Must always see.

  Pity—and horror.

  ‘How...?’ She swallowed, stopped.

  He took a breath. ‘Come inside, if you will,’ he said. His voice was less harsh, now merely grating. ‘I need to sit down,’ he went on. ‘Walking is still...difficult. As you can see.’

  He indicated the cane in his right hand which could not stop him limping heavily, as he did now, heading indoors with a halting, painful gait. He went back into the library, sinking down with relief, loosening his hunched shoulders as he sank into the deep leather chair by the unlit hearth, indicating that she should take the chair opposite.

  She did so, sitting down abruptly. He could still see the shock on her face—the pity and the horror.

  ‘Tell me,’ she said.

  There was a plea in her voice. He did not need her to spell out what she wanted him to tell her.

  He set his cane aside, leaning it carefully against the mantel and stretching out his legs. The bones that had been crushed by falling masonry, which were knitting together again slowly and painfully, made the movement difficult.

  His voice was bleak as he answered her, hard and terse. ‘My wife came calling,’ he said.

  He saw Jenna stare.

  His mouth twisted. ‘My ex-wife,’ he corrected. ‘Though she never accepted that. She insisted on staying the night.’ His voice was expressionless now. ‘Ideally with me.’

  He heard Jenna gasp, but carried on, letting his eyes rest on her, forcing them to focus by effort of will.

  ‘When I...declined...her invitation, she retired, furious, to her room—one of the guest bedrooms at the front had been made up for her—and proceeded to demand dinner and bottles of vintage champagne, wine and liqueurs, all of which she demolished.’ His voice became devoid of emotion. ‘So that when she neglected to properly extinguish one of her cigarettes and it dropped to the floor, it smouldered on the rug before working its way along her discarded clothes to reach the curtains.’

  He paused before going on.

  ‘The smoke alarms went off, waking the household, summoning the fire service. But the town is some way off, as you know. And fire,’ he said, ‘spreads very swiftly in old houses.’

  He fell silent, his blurring gaze dropping to the fireplace, filling it, in his mind’s eye, with the inferno that burned in his head all the time now. The memory of the roar of flames and the crack of burning timbers, the choking, suffocating smoke...

  He lifted his gaze again, resting it on Jenna. She looked bleak, unreadable.

  ‘I tried to save her. Allow me that, if you will. I had wished her to hell—but not...’ his voice twisted again ‘...not like that.’

  He worked to find the right words.

  ‘They say she died of smoke inhalation, and that because she had already passed out with so much alcohol in her system she would have known little of what was happening to her.’ He paused again. ‘She’s been interred. The family plot in the churchyard. For decency’s sake. For Amelie’s sake—’ he broke off.

  ‘Amelie. Please tell me she didn’t witness...’ Fearful concern filled her voice.

  ‘She was away,’ he told her. ‘The moment Berenice showed up I phoned the school to ask them to keep her with the boarders that night. Then, afterwards, it was impossible for her to come back until the place was made safe and I was out of hospital. But she’s back here now, going to school every day—they thought it best for her to keep as much as possible to her normal routine. To minimise trauma.’

  Jenna’s clear-water eyes lifted to his. ‘And you?’ she asked quietly. ‘Your trauma?’

  ‘I’m alive,’ he said. ‘That is all that matters.’ He stilled. ‘For Amelie.’

  Something flickered in her face. Something his damaged eyesight could not make out.

  ‘Not just for Amelie,’ she said.

  And then, before his vision blurred again, he saw tears start to seep from the forest pools that were her eyes and flow silently down her cheeks.

  * * *

  She could not stop. The silent flow was impossible to halt. And why should she try and halt it? Why shouldn’t she weep?

  He tried to save her—tried to save the woman who had tormented him for so many years, who so recklessly endangered not just herself but everyone here. In spite of it all, he still tried to save her—risking his life for hers. At such a cost.

  Through the tears she could not stop she beheld his scarred and ravaged face. The left-hand side showed emergency skin grafts, and the jagged slash across his left eye was like a livid lightning bolt. The cane propped beside him acted both as guide for his damaged vision and support for his shattered leg.

  Pity constricted in her—and so much more than pity. Her heart overflowed with it.

  He was holding out a handkerchief to her. It was large and made of a fine cotton, with his initials in the corner. There was a sardonic look in his eyes, a look so familiar she thought time had slipped and the past had enveloped her in its kindly embrace.

  ‘Enough tears, Jenna,’ he said. ‘
I’ll survive. And you, of all people, should not weep for me.’ His voice was harsh, but it was directed at himself, not her. ‘Not after what I did to you.’

  She saw the lines surrounding his mouth that she had once thought deep now scored like knife wounds, tightening to a whipped line.

  ‘Not after that,’ he said.

  * * *

  With a sudden movement Evandro got to his feet, unable to bear sitting there any longer. He crossed to his desk, not bothering to take his cane, his halting gait slowing him, frustrating him. He yanked open the drawer of his desk and took out the envelope that had sat there since the day he’d sent Jenna packing.

  He felt a pain stab him that had nothing to do with the still-healing bones in his injured thigh, but he made himself ignore it—as he ignored all the physical punishment his once-strong body had taken that hellish night.

  He stared for a moment at the envelope he was holding, propping himself against the front edge of the desk so that it supported him, taking the weight off his half-crippled leg. He looked across at her, saw her expression change.

  ‘That letter...’ he heard her say faintly. ‘The one that came... I thought, when I read the announcement of your resignation, that the letter had been bad news...about the ill health the article mentioned...’

  She spoke disjointedly, sitting very still, knees drawn together, hands clenched in her lap.

  ‘Not ill health,’ he corrected, his voice empty. ‘Ill will—’

  He broke off, but knew he must say more.

  He drew a harsh and heavy breath. Forced himself on. ‘There was a reason, Jenna, why I did what I did to you—why I sent you packing the way I did.’ He paused, still reluctant to speak.

  I never thought I would have to tell her. Never thought I would need to. Because I never thought I’d see her again—I thought that she was gone for ever from my life.

  After all, hadn’t that been his intention? The very purpose that had driven him, that dark day, up to Amelie’s schoolroom to do what he had? Sending her away, never to return?

  Yet for reasons he could not fathom, dared not think about, she had returned to the palazzo. So he could not keep his silence while she sat there like that, with those useless, futile, wasted tears drying on her cheeks.