by Abby Green
There was a bone-deep sense of satisfaction in his body from night after night of mind-blowing sex. He’d stopped sending Lara back to her own bed. She effectively shared his room now—something he’d never done with another woman, far too wary of inviting an intimacy that would be misread, or taken advantage of.
And they’d spent hours wandering around the Guggenheim the day before. It had been one of the most pleasant afternoons Ciro could remember in a long time.
As he looked at Lara now he had to acknowledge that his desire for her wasn’t waning. Far from it. It seemed to be intensifying. But if he stuck to his agreement with her they’d be divorcing—at the earliest in only a few months. That thought sent something not unlike panic into his gut.
So far she’d fulfilled her side of the marriage, and introduced him to people who would never have welcomed him into their sphere before. He had a list of new deals to consider. Invitations to events and places he’d never been allowed access to before. All because of her.
But in truth, he found it hard to focus on that when she filled his vision and he spent most days reliving the night before and anticipating the night ahead.
She was not what he’d expected. More like the Lara he’d known first. And if this was an elaborate act, then what was the point? He couldn’t figure it out, but something wasn’t matching up...
At that moment his phone rang and he answered it impatiently, only half listening as he watched Lara throwing a ball for the puppy.
He turned away from the view, though, after his solicitor had finished speaking. ‘Repeat what you just said.’
‘I said that we know who was behind the kidnapping, Ciro, and I don’t think you’re going to like what you hear.’
* * *
The sun was throwing long shadows on the grass by the time Lara picked up Hero and went back inside the house. All was quiet except for the dull hum of Manhattan traffic outside.
But then she heard a sound coming from the main reception room, and put Hero down in her bed before investigating. She walked in to find Ciro throwing back a shot of alcohol. Predictably, her heart rate increased.
‘I didn’t know you were home.’
Her heart fluttered at the thought that maybe he’d come back early to take her on another excursion. But when he turned around she had to stifle a gasp. He was pale, and she realised he was pale with fury, because his eyes were burning.
‘What is it? What’s wrong?’
Ciro put the empty glass back on the tray with exaggerated care and then he looked back at Lara. She had only the faintest prickling sense of foreboding before he said, ‘So, when were you going to tell me that you and your uncle were behind the kidnap plot?’
Lara’s insides turned to ice. ‘How do you know about that?’
‘I’ve been investigating the kidnap since it happened. I kept hitting dead ends until now. Is it true?’
Lara felt sick. She nodded her head slowly.
Not exactly, but... ‘Yes. My uncle planned it. He didn’t want us to marry.’
Ciro’s lip curled. ‘And so he came up with a lurid plan to have us kidnapped? Or was that your contribution?’
Lara shook her head. She felt as if she was drowning, and moved sluggishly over to a chair where she sat down. ‘I didn’t know anything about it...not until after.’
Ciro looked at Lara. He couldn’t believe it. Couldn’t believe that after everything he’d been through with this woman she had done it again. The emotion he felt transcended anger. He was icy cold with it. Far worse than heat and rage.
He could feel the livid line of his scar. The phantom throbbing of his little finger. He wanted to go over and haul Lara up to stand. She looked pathetically, unbelievably shocked.
‘I want to know everything. Now.’
He saw her swallow. She was so pale he almost felt the sting of his conscience but he ruthlessly pushed it down. This woman was the worst kind of chameleon. And potentially a criminal.
‘I was forced to marry Henry Winterborne. By my uncle.’
Ciro shook his head. ‘That’s ridiculous.’
‘I wish it was. My uncle was obsessed with status and lineage. There was no way he was going to allow me to marry you. But it went much further than that.’
Ciro said nothing. He saw Lara clasp her hands together and in that moment had a flashback to how her hands had felt on his buttocks only hours before, squeezing him, huskily begging him for more.
He gritted out, ‘Keep going.’
‘My uncle was in debt. Serious debt. Millions and millions of pounds. He’d run through his fortune—and my trust fund. I was his only hope of saving his reputation and clearing the debt. He’d had us followed from the moment I mentioned you to him. He knew we were serious.’
Ciro said nothing so Lara continued.
‘He knew that I was sheltered...not experienced. He was fairly certain we hadn’t...’
Remarkably, colour stained her cheeks, and it made Ciro feel so many conflicting things that he decided to focus on the anger.
‘Save your blushes, cara. This really is the most intriguing story.’
Lara’s mouth tightened for a moment, but then she said, ‘He sold me—like a slave girl at an auction. To Henry Winterborne, the highest bidder.’
Ciro struggled to take this in. It was such a far-fetched story. He decided to see how far Lara would go towards hanging herself and pretending she was an innocent player. ‘When are you claiming that you knew about this?’
‘I didn’t know until after the kidnapping. That’s when he told me. And that’s when he told me he would kill you if I pursued the relationship.’
‘So you came to the hospital to convince me you’d never wanted to marry me in order to save me? Cara, that is the most romantic thing I’ve heard in my whole life.’
Something occurred to Ciro then, and he went very still.
Then he said, ‘I told you that story in Sicily...about my great-grandmother. About how she couldn’t marry the man she wanted, how he was threatened. You appropriated it as your own... You didn’t even have the creativity to come up with something original. You make me—’
Lara shot up from the chair. ‘It’s true—I swear. That’s just a coincidence. It all happened exactly like I said.’
Ciro forced down his anger. Forced himself to stay civil just for a little longer. ‘So why didn’t you tell me this when you had the chance at the hospital? We were alone—no one to hear you tell me the gory details.’
He held up his hand when she opened her mouth.
‘I’ll tell you why, shall I? Because even though you might not have liked the idea of marrying an old man, it was still preferable to marrying a man of no lineage except a dubious one, hmm?’
She shook her head. ‘No. I would never have wanted to marry that man—not in a million years. He disgusted me.’
‘So why didn’t you leave him? He was in a wheelchair—he could hardly run after you.’
He saw Lara flinch minutely at that and he crushed the spark of emotion when he thought of her being threatened. For all he knew that was an elaborate fabrication.
‘My uncle was alive until three months before Henry Winterborne died. The whole time he held the threat of doing you harm over my head. I had nothing—no money and nowhere to go. I felt guilty because I had put Henry in a wheelchair. And then, after he had the stroke, it was clear he was dying, so I felt even less able to try and leave.’
Ciro snorted. ‘No money? The man was a millionaire.’
Lara avoided his eye. ‘After the accident...he was angry. He gave me nothing.’
Ciro’s fury increased—she was manipulating him again with this wildly elaborate tale. He wasn’t even sure to what end, but he felt sure it couldn’t be as simple as she was making out. And he’d had enough.
Ciro’s voice was low
and lethal. ‘I don’t know why you’re doing this, Lara, but it serves no purpose.’
Lara could see the total rejection of what she’d said on Ciro’s face...hear it in his voice. It was exactly as she’d feared. Worse. She could also see the torment of those dark memories in the lines etched into his face.
She’d witnessed his horrific nightmares. Instinctively she reached out towards him. ‘Ciro, I’m so sorry. I never meant for any of this to happen—’
He lifted his hand to stop her words. ‘Basta. Enough. My investigative team haven’t ruled out your involvement with your uncle. You do know you could be prosecuted for this?’
She went pale again—white as parchment. ‘Ciro, please, you have to listen to me... I knew nothing. I was as much a victim as you were. I loved you so much... I was terrified of what my uncle might do. I had no choice.’
Ciro’s expression turned to one of disgust. ‘You loved me? You go too far, Lara.’ He continued, ‘If what you say is true—and I’ll verify that myself—how do you explain not telling me all this when we met again?’
She swallowed. ‘I was afraid you wouldn’t believe me—and apparently I was right.’
Ciro’s expression got even darker. ‘Not good enough. The truth is that you colluded with your uncle in sending me a message to stay away from you. You could have just told me you didn’t want to marry me—you didn’t have to go to such dramatic lengths.’
Lara realised that further defence would be futile. She said, ‘Do you remember I asked you if you loved me, that day in the hospital?’
A flash of irritation crossed Ciro’s face. ‘What does that have to do with anything?’
‘I did want to tell you everything. In spite of my uncle’s threats...in spite of the kidnapping... I believed that somehow you’d be able to fight him. But when I knew you didn’t feel the same for me as I felt for you, I believed there was no point in risking your life.’
He looked at her for such a long moment that Lara almost believed for a second that she might have got through—but then he said in a toneless voice, ‘I’ve heard enough, Lara. Enough to last a lifetime. This marriage is over—we’re done. I want you to leave today. Right now. I’ll organise getting you on a flight back to the UK. If you leave with no fuss I’ll consider not pressing charges. To be perfectly frank you’re not worth the legal hassle or the headlines. Now, get out of my sight.’
A numbness was spreading from Lara’s heart outwards to every extremity. She moved jerkily away from Ciro, towards the door. When she got there she stopped and turned around. Ciro was staring at her with such disgust on his face that she almost balked.
She grabbed the door knob to try and stay standing. ‘I love you, Ciro. I always have. I did what I thought was best for you and it almost killed me. The last two years have been purgatory. I won’t apologise for loving you, whether you choose to believe me or not. And I’m sorry I had to lie to you.’
She left then, before he could say anything caustic. He didn’t love her. He’d never loved her, and this was the final lethal blow.
* * *
It all happened with military precision. Staff came and helped her to pack, but she insisted on taking just a small case with the belongings she’d arrived with. A car was waiting to take her to JFK, and she was on-board a flight within a few hours.
She’d had to leave Hero behind, as the dog didn’t have documentation, and Lara hadn’t seen Ciro before she left, so she wasn’t even sure he’d still been there. But one thing was certain. She’d never see him again.
* * *
The following evening Ciro sat in the back of his car as it inched its way down Fifth Avenue towards Central Park and his house. His heart was beating a little too fast and he had to modulate his breathing. It was at times like this that he felt most claustrophobic—when he cursed the kidnappers for doing what they had to him, so that no matter how strong he was mentally he still felt a residue of fear that clung to him like a toxic tentacle whenever he was in a small confined space.
He hated it that he couldn’t just ease his sense of claustrophobia by jumping out of the car to walk, because he’d spark a massive security alert.
The thought occurred to him that when Lara had been in the back of the car with him he hadn’t noticed the claustrophobia as much. He’d been too distracted by her. He scowled at that.
Since the revelations of yesterday, and Lara’s departure, he’d been existing in a kind of fog. He couldn’t recollect what he’d done today, exactly. The puppy had barked pitifully that morning and Ciro had let her out into the garden, where she’d sniffed around disconsolately in between directing accusatory looks his way.
For a man who was used to thinking clearly he was beyond irritated that he was still thinking of her.
Whether or not it was true that she hadn’t colluded with her uncle, she’d known about the kidnapping the day she’d come to him at the hospital. He would never forget the blasé way she’d dropped her bombshell that day. When he’d been lying there, beaten and battered. Because of her! She’d had her chance and she’d said nothing.
Last night had been the first night he’d spent alone in his bed in weeks. He’d had the nightmare again—except this time he hadn’t woken to the cooling touch of Lara’s hand or her tempting body. He’d woken sweating, tangled in the sheets, his voice hoarse from shouting. And this time the dream had been slightly different—it had been one moment, repeated over and over. The moment they’d ripped Lara out of his arms and opened the van door to dump her outside.
Her voice drifted into his head then: ‘Do you remember I asked you if you loved me?’ He did, actually. He shifted in his seat now, feeling uncomfortable. He did recall it, and he also recalled the feeling of panic that had gripped him.
Love.
He remembered thinking of his father and his slavish devotion to his unfaithful wife, how it had disgusted him. If that was love then, no, he didn’t feel that. But there had been something almost desperate on Lara’s face and so he’d made some platitude.
What about the terror you felt when she was taken from you by the kidnappers? In that moment you thought you loved her.
Ciro shifted uncomfortably again. He’d always put that surge of emotion down to the extreme circumstances.
His staff had informed him that her flight had left on time yesterday. She’d be back in the UK now. She could be anywhere. For the first time in two years he didn’t have tabs on her.
Before the car had even come to a standstill outside his house Ciro got out, not liking the panicky feeling in his gut. He went inside, dropping his things, and the puppy sped across the tiled floor towards him, yapping. It was quickly followed by the housekeeper, apologising profusely. Ciro picked Hero up and waved away the apology.
Feeling restless, he climbed the stairs to the bedrooms. He stood outside Lara’s door for a long moment, and then an image of his father came into his head and he scowled and pushed the door open.
It had been tidied, and the bed remade. It was as if she’d never been there. But he could still smell her scent in the air. Lemon and roses.
He put the puppy down on the bed, where she promptly curled up and went to sleep.
Ciro went to the dressing room and opened the doors, expecting to find it empty. But it was full of clothes. He frowned. Everything he’d bought her was there. As was her jewellery. Neatly lined up on velvet pouches under glass display cases.
He went and picked up the phone in the room and rang down to the housekeeper. ‘What did Lar—Mrs Sant’Angelo take with her when she left?’
He listened for a moment and then hung up, sitting down on the bed. She’d taken one suitcase. And he knew which one. The one she’d come with. The battered one.
The puppy crept towards him and got into his lap. Ciro stroked her absently. After a while he stood up, taking her with him. He left her with the housekeeper i
n the kitchen.
Still feeling restless, Ciro went into the reception room. It was filled with priceless paintings and objets d’art... Persian rugs. It could be a museum it was so still and stuffy.
When he’d bought this property he’d felt as if he’d reached a pinnacle. One of the many he’d set himself. Then, when he’d proposed to Lara, he’d imagined her here as his wife and hostess. Charming people with her natural warmth and compassion.
Giving you access to a higher level of society, reminded a voice.
A crystal decanter glinted at him from the drinks tray nearby. It seemed to mock him for thinking he’d had it all worked out. For believing that he’d had his fill of Lara. That he was done with her. For believing that all this excess around him actually meant anything.
The tightness in Ciro’s chest intensified, and with an inarticulate surge of rage he grabbed the decanter and threw it at the massive stone fireplace, where it smashed into a million pieces.
He heard footsteps running, and for some inexplicable reason he thought it might be—
But when he turned around it was just a shocked-looking staff member.
‘Is everything okay, Mr Sant’Angelo?’
He felt ragged. Undone. Empty.
‘Everything is fine.’
But he knew it wasn’t.
* * *
‘Two pints of bitter, love!’
Lara forced a smile. ‘Coming up.’
After-work drinks on a warm Indian summer evening in London meant packed pubs with people spilling out onto the pavements. Laughing, joking. Delighted that the end of the week had come and they had two days off stretching ahead.
Lara didn’t have two days off. At weekends she worked in a small Italian restaurant, near where she was living at a hostel in Kentish Town. But she refused to feel sorry for herself as she went outside with the two pints and collected money and dirty glasses.