A Dangerous Solace

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A Dangerous Solace Page 18

by Lucy Ellis


  But why the hell had she said she wanted to end it?

  Where the hell was she?

  ‘Benedetti?’

  Right accent. Wrong Lord sibling.

  ‘Have you seen Ava?’ he demanded.

  Josh reached back and made a right-hand swing that Gianluca instinctively blocked. He shoved the younger man away.

  ‘Dio, what’s your problem, Lord?’

  ‘You’re my problem, Benedetti. You and the way you’ve treated my sister.’

  Gianluca tensed.

  ‘Yeah, that’s right. I’m calling you on it. Some loser dumps her and you move right in. She might be smart as a whip, but she’s like a deer in headlights when it comes to men.’

  ‘Si, we are agreed on that.’

  The younger man frowned.

  ‘I want to marry your sister,’ Gianluca said impatiently, aware that he was only wasting time. ‘I’m in love with her. Does that clear things up?’

  There was a sharp female intake of breath. Both Valentina and Alessia were standing behind them.

  ‘Where is she?’ asked Valentina.

  ‘That’s what I’ve come to tell you,’ announced Alessia, clearly enjoying the drama. ‘She ran out of here in a state. Possibly to our hotel.’

  Gianluca was already pushing his way across the reception area, his head roaring with blood.

  He was going to kill her—but only after he made sure she was all right first.

  ‘Benedetti!’ Josh Lord was breathing hard as he reached him on the steps. ‘You need to hear this, man. She came to Rome expecting a proposal.’

  ‘Si, she’s told me,’ he growled impatiently.

  ‘No, you don’t understand. She paid for the tickets, she booked the hotel, she arranged some damn fool tour of Tuscany—and she bought the ring.’

  Gianluca stared at the other man as if he were speaking some language hitherto unknown.

  And then he knew what he’d done.

  I used to watch that film as a girl and I wanted that life. Some other life, so different from my own it was unrecognisable...

  And he’d given her a shoddy proposal at a charity ball. He’d forced a ring onto her finger. He’d made a mockery of her romantic dreams after she’d confessed them to him.

  If he didn’t find her in the next five minutes he was going to go tear this city apart.

  ‘She won’t be at our hotel,’ said Josh in a low voice. ‘Not if she’s hurting. When we were small, and Mum was off her meds and at her worst, Ava would take me for a walk. We’d walk to the end of the road and then she’d say, “We’ll just go to the end of the next road, and the next...” as if she were looking for something. She did the same thing the night of my wedding. According to one of Alessia’s friends, she didn’t come back till the crack of dawn.’

  With those words everything fell into place.

  ‘Grazie. I know where to find her.’

  I stayed there all day, hoping you’d call.

  He started to run. She was on foot. He was foot. But one of them was running for his life.

  * * *

  The bar of The Excelsior was dark, lit here and there by lamps, but he saw her the moment he stepped inside.

  Gianluca was supremely fit, so he couldn’t blame the run for the heaving of his chest as his heart hammered home just how important this moment was.

  The heavens had opened on the last block and his hair was plastered to his head, the shirt of his tux was damp, his jacket lost along the route. It had taken longer than it should have, for he’d had an unexpected stop, thumping on the door of Luigi Favonne. Everyone in this section of Rome knew Luigi. He could turn a diamond into living fire and for Principo Benedetti he had found, in his bed robe and bath slippers, a green emerald so true its heat licked his fingers as he held it tight in his hand.

  She was sitting at the bar, her ballgown surging around her, her bare arms and shoulders above the midnight blue satin alabaster in the soft white light of the neon-lit room. The bartender was watching her as he polished glasses, and people were giving her curious looks, but no one had approached her.

  She seemed to be in a world of her own.

  He was within a metre of her when he said, ‘Ava mio.’

  Her head turned slowly. Her face was pale and ravaged with tears.

  ‘I am not your Ava,’ she said in a low, terrible voice. ‘And I never was.’

  She threw something at him. It hit him in the chest and he caught it.

  The ring. The heavy, ugly, baroque ring. With all the history attached to it.

  He strode up to her and stood there, resolute but unsure where to begin.

  She looked up at him, her eyes furious. ‘Go away. I don’t want you.’

  ‘Then why are you here, my love?’

  Her chin came out. Her entire face quivered. ‘I’m waiting for someone. If he’s the man he should be he’ll come, and if he doesn’t I’m better off without him.’

  He knew then how it had been for her. That long day when he’d been at the hospital with his mother and sisters, with the lawyers at the palazzo and with the authorities answering questions, she had been here, waiting for him to show.

  Frustration shot through him. They had both made mistakes. There was nothing he could do about the past. Nothing. But he wasn’t going to let it rule their lives.

  In the end it came down to three words. ‘I’m here now.’

  She looked at him uneasily.

  ‘I want you to forgive me, Ava. I should have moved heaven and earth to find you.’

  He braced himself for whatever would come, and then, like a miracle, her chin quivered, her mouth softened and she said, ‘I shouldn’t have run.’ Her hands spread lightly over her lap. ‘You found me tonight.’

  Relief shuddered through him.

  She loves me, he thought. I know she loves me.

  ‘And it was only one night,’ she added in a low voice.

  ‘It was our night,’ he asserted. ‘Our amazing perfect night.’

  She looked up, something soft entering her eyes. ‘It was perfect.’

  He pocketed the old ring and extended his hand to her.

  ‘Come with me.’

  Slowly, swishing her skirts as she slid off the stool, Ava took his hand. Her soft fingers felt incredibly delicate to him and he couldn’t believe he’d shoved that ring onto her finger so crudely.

  He never did anything crudely. He’d been raised better. He treated women properly, with kindness and consideration. But Ava had brought other emotions to the surface—strange, rough, wild, authentic feelings. She had seen him at his worst.

  She had never shied away from that.

  If she would have him he would be the most fortunate man in Rome.

  * * *

  The Excelsior possessed a tower, built in the sixteenth century, its winding stairs well-worn from the many thousands of tourists who had climbed it since it had been restored seventy years ago.

  It was roped off at this hour, but a heavy bribe enabled him access and Gianluca whisked her up the steps.

  ‘This is crazy,’ she said amidst the rustle of her gown, the heavy tread of his shoes, the click of her heels.

  The view was breathtaking.

  Even on this overcast night.

  ‘Ava mio.’ He drew her close. ‘To the east of here is the Benedetti summer residence. It’s old, and the drains aren’t good, but every summer I would be dragged there. I hated it. I hated what it represented—hundreds of years of oppression. I vowed when I was young that I wouldn’t marry, I wouldn’t have children, I wouldn’t continue the legacy.’

  He stroked her cheek.

  ‘Then I met you.’

  Ava’s black lashes were stuck starfish-fashion to her skin as she gazed up at him.

  ‘Do you see that hill to the west? The first tribes ever to inhabit Rome lived there. I want to build a home for us there. Something that belongs only to us and our children.’

  ‘But you don’t want children.’
/>
  ‘I want them with you.’

  Ava made a little sound.

  He fell to his knees before her.

  ‘My love, will you spend the rest of your life with me?’

  She swayed slightly and before he could leap up to catch her dropped to her knees in front of him. She clutched at his shoulders. ‘Oh, yes.’

  He framed her precious face, kissed her temples, her eyelids, her sweet nose, her magnificent cheekbones, the full lush contours of her lips. The face he so loved.

  ‘I love you,’ he whispered. ‘I loved you from the moment I first saw you in the cathedral, wearing that blue dress with the flowers in your hair. And when I saw you in the old ballroom of the palazzo, watching me, I thought, It’s her.’

  ‘Did you?’ Her mouth was smiling, her lashes low.

  ‘So I followed you.’

  She shook her head. ‘You made me dance with you and I couldn’t dance.’

  ‘I don’t remember that. I remember I kept pulling you close and you kept trying to put space between us.’

  ‘I didn’t know you.’

  ‘You knew enough.’

  He chuckled and kissed her—really kissed her—deep and slow.

  ‘I knew it was you that day in the street,’ he muttered against her soft mouth. ‘I just didn’t know I knew.’

  ‘I came to Rome to find you,’ she confessed. ‘Although I didn’t know it at the time.’

  It was some minutes before he remembered what was burning a hole in his shirt pocket.

  He reached in and extracted the stone, gently laid it in her palm.

  Green fire.

  ‘I will have this made into a ring for you, Ava mio. It will be yours. Ours.’

  She looked into his eyes, her heart shining in them.

  When they emerged into the street below the rain had stopped, but the roads were wet and there was a pungent smell in the air. He didn’t have a jacket to give her, and it wasn’t warm, but he was taking her somewhere that didn’t matter.

  ‘Where are we going, Benedetti?’

  ‘I thought we’d walk for a while, Ava mio, find a little church and get married.’

  ‘Can we do that?’ Her voice floated up among the pigeons roosting in the window grooves above them.

  ‘Well, there are banns to be read, and the matter of your citizenship, and I suspect the priest will be in his bed at this hour...’ Gianluca drew her in close against him. ‘Then again, innamorata, this is Rome.’

  ‘Yes,’ sighed Ava, resting her head over his heart. ‘Anything’s possible.’

  * * * * *

  Keep reading for an excerpt from SECRETS OF A POWERFUL MAN by Chantelle Shaw.

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  CHAPTER ONE

  ‘THERE’S SOMEONE HERE to see you. A man...’

  Darcey looked up from her desk, surprised that her usually unflappable secretary sounded flustered.

  ‘He says his name is Salvatore Castellano,’ Sue continued. ‘He has been referred to you by James Forbes and wishes to arrange speech therapy for his daughter.’

  ‘But James knows that the unit is closing.’ Darcey was puzzled. James Forbes was head of the paediatric cochlear implant programme at the hospital and he had been vociferous in his condemnation of the financial cuts affecting the speech therapy unit.

  Sue shrugged. ‘I explained that, but Mr Castellano is insistent that he wants to see you.’ She added in a conspiratorial voice, ‘I think he’s used to getting his own way, and he is demanding to speak to you. He’s very Mediterranean—you know the type... Dark and intense. I know I shouldn’t say this when I’ve been married to Brian for twenty-four years, but he’s hot.’

  He was demanding to see her? Darcey’s brows rose, but she had to admit she was intrigued by this man who was responsible for turning Sue into a wilting heap of hormones. Fortunately she had no concerns that he might have the same effect on her. She was off hot men. From now on she would be perfectly happy with lukewarm and safe, perhaps even slightly boring, but definitely not a showman...like her ex-husband.

  She glanced out of the window and noticed a sleek black saloon car parked next to her Mini. Her contract with the health authority had been terminated and she did not have to meet this Salvatore Castellano. But what the hell? There was only an empty house waiting for her, and a solitary dinner—if she could be bothered to cook.

  ‘You’d better show him in.’

  Sue stepped back into the corridor and Darcey returned to the task of clearing the drawers in her desk. The filing cabinets had been emptied and all that remained to do was take down the certificates on the wall which gave details of her qualifications: BSc (Hons), MSc in Speech and Language Therapy and an Advanced Clinical Skills Diploma for speech and language therapists to work with the deaf.

  It was a pity that being an expert in her field had not been enough to save her job, she thought ruefully. The Inner London health authority’s budget had been drastically cut and she had been made redundant. Losing her job had forced her to think about her future—and acknowledge the necessity of coming to terms with her past. Her decision to take a career break for a couple of months over the summer was primarily so that she could make plans for the private practice she intended to set up. But, more importantly, she was hoping to put her divorce behind her and get over her cheating rat of an ex-husband once and for all.

  Her gaze fell on the nameplate on her desk. She had become Darcey Rivers when she had married Marcus and had kept his name after the divorce because she was reluctant to revert back to her maiden name and the notoriety that went with it. It had been painfully humiliating when she had realised that Marcus had married her because he had hoped that joining the famous theatrical Hart family would boost his acting career. Unfortunately she had been so in love with him, so bowled over by his wit and charm and undeniable good looks, that with uncharacteristic impulsiveness she had accepted his proposal four months after they’d met.

  Darcey walked over to the window and picked up the potted plant on the sill. She had inherited the Maidenhair Fern two years ago, when she had taken up the post of senior specialist speech and language therapist. It had been half-dead and Sue had offered to throw it out— apparently this type of fern was notoriously difficult to grow successfully. But Darcey liked a challenge, and under her care the plant had thrived and was now a mass of bright green lacy leaves.

  ‘Don’t worry, I’ll take you home with me,’ she murmured. She had read that plants responded if you talked to them, and her words of encouragement seemed to have worked—although that was strictly between her and the fern. After all, she was a highly educated professional and sensible was her middle name; her family and friends would be astonished if they knew that she talked to plants.

  The office door opened again, and she turned her head to see Sue usher a man into the room. Sunlight streamed through the window and danced across his rugged features. Darcey’s first thought was that he was nothing like Marcus. But neither was he lukewarm, and he was definitely not safe. Now she understood what Sue had meant when she had said he was hot!

  He looked as though he belonged to another century, when knights on horseback had fought bloody battles and rescued damsels in distress. Startled by the wild excesses of her imagination, Dar
cey forced herself to study him objectively, but the image of an ancient king still remained in her mind. Perhaps it was the dangerously sexy combination of black jeans and shirt and the well-worn leather jacket that emphasised the width of his shoulders. His height was equally impressive; the top of his head brushed the door frame and she estimated that he must be several inches over six feet tall.

  Her heart gave a jolt as she raised her eyes to his face. He was not conventionally handsome like Marcus. Not a pretty boy. He was a man in the most masculine sense: hard-faced, square-jawed, with a strong nose and dark, penetrating eyes beneath heavy brows. His eyes gave away nothing of his thoughts and his mouth was set in an uncompromising line, as if he rarely smiled. His hair was thick and so dark it was almost black, falling to his shoulders. Darcey had a feeling that he cared little about his appearance and had no inclination to visit a barber.

  As she stared at him she was aware of a coiling sensation in the pit of her stomach. The feeling was entirely sexual and utterly unexpected. She had felt dead inside since she had discovered that Marcus was sleeping with a glamour model with pneumatic breasts. The lightning bolt of desire that shot through her now was so intense it made her catch her breath. She sensed the power of the stranger’s formidable physique and for the first time in her life acknowledged the fundamental difference between a man and a woman—male strength and feminine weakness.

  She suddenly realised that she was holding her breath and released it on a shaky sigh. Somehow she managed to regain her composure and gave Salvatore Castellano a polite smile.

  ‘Mr Castellano? How can I help you?’

  He glanced at the nameplate on her desk and frowned. ‘Are you Darcey Rivers?’

  He spoke with a strong accent. Italian, Darcey guessed. There was an arrogance about him that set her on the defensive.

  ‘Yes, I am,’ she said coolly.

  He looked unimpressed. ‘I expected someone older.’

  James Forbes had said that Darcey Rivers was an experienced and dedicated senior speech therapist. The description had put into Salvatore’s mind an image of a grey-haired, professional-looking woman, possibly wearing a tweed suit and spectacles. Instead he was faced with a slip of a girl with a heart-shaped face and a sleek bob of conker-brown hair that gleamed like silk in the bright sunlight pouring through the window.

 

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