He remembered the fear of those times, the pain of trying to hug her and make her laugh. Of having her bat him away from her legs, push at him and say, with fury, ‘You are just like him!’
How she’d hated Gabe when she’d been high. Gabe was like his father, Lorenzo, and that was something his mother couldn’t forgive.
Raf wouldn’t know that pain. He wouldn’t know the anger that was a by-product of paternal estrangement. He wouldn’t have a father who rejected his mother and made her miserable. Raf would be spared what Gabe had seen and lived—Raf would have everything, including a mother who was cared for by his father.
Gabe just had to find a way to forgive Abigail for who she was and what she’d done—he wouldn’t let their son feel the measure of Gabe’s antipathy. At least, he hoped he wouldn’t.
CHAPTER SIX
THE DREAM HAD disturbed him and some time around dawn he woke, sweat beading on his brow, his eyes heavy with angry emotions. Jogging was something Gabe had long indulged in, particularly when he needed to blow off steam. He ran for six miles and then came back to the castle, restless and as irritable as he’d been for days.
Without knowing what he was doing or where he was going, he found his feet moving towards the stairs and then taking him upwards. One hand curled around the balustrade, part securing him, part deterring him.
At the door to their son’s room, he hesitated only a moment before pushing in. The child was awake. Lying in his crib, his huge eyes open and staring at the mobile that hung above it.
A powerful instinct fired inside Gabe’s gut. Possession, fierce pride and love. Yes, love. He’d never felt it before but now it flooded through him, unmistakable and all-consuming. He hovered above the cot, unsure what to do at first.
Then Raf made a gurgling noise and lifted an arm, his eyes locked to Gabe’s, and Gabe followed his instincts, reaching down into the crib and lifting the little boy.
He made a guttural noise of surrender as he cradled Raf to his chest, pressing his face to the boy’s sweet, downy head, breathing in his intoxicating baby fragrance.
‘You’re my son,’ he whispered, the words not entirely even. ‘And I am going to take all the care in the world of you.’ He breathed in once more. ‘I love you.’
* * *
It was a freezing cold morning and Abigail had risen at dawn. In part owing to jetlag and in part owing to dreams that had been causing her nerve-endings to reverberate, making her ache to do something really, really stupid.
She’d tiptoed past Gabe’s room, even when she’d been tempted to push his door inwards and climb into his bed. To seek his body, not caring for how pathetic that made her. How needy and desperate.
There was only one activity that ever helped soothe Abby in times of stress. She’d had to abandon ballet for the last few months of her pregnancy and since Raf had been born she hadn’t had much energy for anything other than a bit of stretching. But an urge to go back to her roots now drove her with a wild desperation.
She didn’t need much. Just a room that was lightly furnished, a bit of floor space and privacy, and she would have put money on this castle having something to fit the bill somewhere.
The perfect room happened to be just opposite the kitchen. A space that might have been a sunroom at one point and which now offered an almost blank canvas. Just a few chairs against one wall, glass doors that opened onto a deck and views of the alps in every direction. She ignored the beauty outside. Looking out only reminded her of where she was—and why—and she needed to forget for a moment. She loaded up a piece from The Nutcracker Suite and stretched for the first few minutes, and then she closed her eyes and let the music wash over her, sweeping her into a trance-like state, filling her with a sense of who she was, who her mother had been, what she’d loved about ballet. She danced and felt her worries shift away; she felt safety and security, reassurance and bliss.
She danced the entire song, and then another, but, as the third began to play, something on the periphery of her vision caught her attention and she spun sharply, breaking a pirouette mid-way with surprise, to find Gabe watching her.
No. Staring at her, as though he could eat her with his eyes, his attention finely homed in on every single minuscule shift of her body. A frisson of awareness rushed through her. She ignored it, staring back at him unapologetically, trying desperately to match the coldness he could so easily convey.
‘Did you want something?’ she asked impishly, crossing her arms over her chest, glad she hadn’t gone with her first instinct and pulled on her old leotard and tights.
‘What are you doing?’
The question was a strange one. Did he really not recognise ballet?
He frowned thoughtfully, shaking his head, as though he realised the stupidity of what he’d said. ‘You’re a ballerina?’
‘No.’ Abby remembered the angry conversations with her father, his remonstrations at her ‘quitting’. ‘I just like to dance.’
‘Is it not the same thing?’
‘No.’ The word held a bone-deep finality. She wasn’t going to discuss the career she might have had. Nor the way her father had taken her decision not to pursue it as some kind of personal affront—a perceived rejection of Abby’s mother—instead of what it really was: Abby’s realisation that she wanted different things from life.
‘You…move as though you are part of the song.’
Abby’s eyes swept shut. She had been told often enough that she was gifted, and by a variety of people, to know that it was true. That had only added to the outrage at her decision to walk away from the stage.
‘Thank you.’ It was a curt dismissal.
He blinked, as though clearing his mind of the vision of her dancing. ‘I am going into Fiamatina. Do you need anything?’
‘The village?’ she asked, a natural curiosity twisting inside her.
‘Sì.’
Abigail eyed him warily. ‘I’d like to go with you.’ It would mean a car trip with Gabe, but the chance to explore was something she didn’t want to resist. The lure of a snow-topped Italian village did something strange to her tummy.
‘Fine. If you wish,’ he said, shrugging his shoulders in the same indolent manner he’d employed the night before. ‘But I’m leaving soon. Get ready.’
Abby shot daggers at his retreating back; his high-handed manner did funny things to her tummy and knees, making her ache to run up to him and turn him around and demand that he not be so cold to her when she knew a flame was going to combust between them.
* * *
‘Get ready,’ she mimicked under her breath, rolling her big green eyes as she moved through the castle, noting details she hadn’t seen earlier. Ancient bricks that formed a vaulted ceiling in the corridors, walls that had been rendered at some point, that were now a charming mix of stone and concrete, walls that told stories. Windows framed views of the alps, snow-covered and magical, each vista like a postcard. She drifted towards one, staring out for a moment, mesmerised by the view.
Was this little slice of heaven on earth really to be her home?
She closed her eyes and breathed in deeply, trying to remember the bedroom in her father’s house, the cafés she’d go to for brunch at the weekend, the sound of New York traffic and commuters, the smell of diesel and bitumen heavy in the air; it all seemed so far away.
There wasn’t time for reflection; she kept going, taking one wrong turn in the enormous castle before finding her way to the corridor that led to their bedrooms. She paused at Raf’s door, listening for noises, and smiled when she heard voices.
She pushed in without knocking and found one of Monique’s staff changing Raf’s nappy, smiling down at him with all the adoration a mother could wish from someone who was entrusted with their child’s care.
‘Good morning,’ she said, smiling. Raf turned his head. He was only young but already
strong and alert, and a big toothless smile appeared on his face, digging dimples into his cheeks.
‘Buongiorno,’ the young girl said. ‘I’m Rosa.’
She was obviously a native Italian, her accent heavy even on the single word ‘I’m’.
‘Abby.’ Abigail stroked Raf’s head, smiling back at him, before placing a kiss on his brow. ‘How did he sleep?’
‘He slept well,’ Rosa answered, lifting Raf off the changing table, cradling him to her hip. ‘And now he is going to eat. Would you like to give him his bottle?’
Guilt sliced through Abby and for a moment she wondered if she was doing the wrong thing to abandon her son, even if for only a couple of hours. Yet he seemed so happy, and she wouldn’t be long. Besides, if this was to be their home, the sooner she got to grips with their locale, the better she’d be able to make them truly comfortable here.
‘I’m on my way to Fiamatina,’ she said, shaking her head regretfully. Mother guilt, she’d felt it often, always agonising over whether she was making the right decisions for her child. ‘You’ll call me if there are any problems?’
‘Of course! Raf is a very contented baby, though. We’ll be fine.’
Abby nodded, but she was thinking of how difficult he had been in New York, how he had seemed far from content on many occasions. Before she escaped to her own room to ready herself for the trip, she reached for Raf and snuggled him close to her chest, wrapping her arms around him, pressing a kiss to his forehead and breathing him in.
This was all for him. Being here with Gabe, living in the lion’s den, that was because she knew Raf deserved what Gabe could provide.
She had to make this work.
‘I’ll be back in a few hours.’ She returned Raf to Rosa and prepared to face the morning.
There was a petulant child inside Abby who wanted to dally over getting ready but, alas, she’d never been someone who took time over her appearance. Besides, there was an excitement coiling inside her, as if she was about to set off on an adventure, to discover the village at the foot of the castle. She showered, marvelling at the heat, not only of the water but of the bathroom, as well. Underfloor warmth greeted her bare feet when she stepped out of the shower—it must have been triggered by the lights, she supposed. She dressed in a pair of jeans and a shirt, pulling on a big grey sweater and a bright pink scarf before reaching for the only jacket she’d brought, a black knee-length coat that buttoned up to her neck.
Gabe was waiting at the bottom of the enormous staircase, the elegant seating area to his left glowing with the milky sunshine from outside. As with before, in the morning light she was able to observe much more of the castle’s details than she’d been capable of doing after the strange discombobulation of the day before. The stairs were slightly uneven, worn through the middle by centuries of use. The railing was softened by touch as well, so that she slid her hands over hundreds of years of other peoples’ lives, and a shiver ran through her.
But when she reached the bottom and her eyes met Gabe’s, all thoughts of the castle and its provenance skittered from her brain. There was only him and her. Even the air seemed somewhat thin, making breathing difficult.
‘You will be cold,’ he said, eyeing her coat.
It wasn’t what she’d expected him to say. ‘I’m fine.’
‘It’s below zero…’
‘It’s not like I’m not used to the cold,’ she interrupted. ‘I grew up in New York.’
‘Fine,’ he said with a shrug, but his obvious disapproval irked her. He was so superior, so arrogant, she yearned to take him down a peg or two.
‘Our son is fine, by the way. Thanks for asking. Your concern is truly touching, particularly given the way you uprooted us from our lives so unceremoniously.’
His brows lifted and an electrical current surged from him to her. ‘I’m well aware he is fine. I gave him a bottle before coming in search of you this morning.’
Just like a tower being demolished, Abby’s moral high ground gave way beneath her, leaving her feeling churlish. Worse, she felt like someone who’d used their baby to score points, something she’d sworn she’d never do.
Refusing to apologise, she stared at a point over Gabe’s shoulder. ‘Rosa said he slept well.’
Gabe could have continued their spat but he didn’t, and she was glad. ‘Yes. Perhaps it is the Italian air that agrees with him.’
‘Perhaps.’
They walked side by side from the castle, through the enormous wooden door at the front. The icy temperature hit her like a wall. It was much colder than she’d expected. The castle had been so cosy she hadn’t been able to grasp that beyond its walls was a sub-arctic breeze. She didn’t respond visibly though; he didn’t need to know he’d been right. Next time she’d have to add another layer or three beneath her coat.
In the daylight, everything was clean and shiny, glowing white against a leaden grey sky. It wasn’t snowing, but it had done so overnight. The freshly fallen powder had been recently pushed aside and a sleek black sports car was parked at the foot of the steps. It was exactly the kind of car she would have expected Gabe to drive. Expensive-looking, undoubtedly powerful and very expensive.
She pulled open the passenger door, sliding into the warmth of the vehicle with relief, buckling up and pressing back against the leather of the seat.
A blast of ice-cold air hit Abby as Gabe slid into the seat beside her, his powerful frame taking all the spare space, his presence a force to be reckoned with and conquered. The engine throbbed when he started it, like a beast beneath them. He steered it away from the house, his driving expert. Once they cleared his long winding driveway and entered the streets there was thick snow, but Gabe and the vehicle had no problem manoeuvring across it.
‘You don’t need to grip the door as though you are about to die,’ he said, tilting his face sidelong to regard her with sardonic amusement before returning his attention to the road. ‘You are safe.’
Safe? She didn’t feel safe. In the road sense, she did, but the reason her nerve-endings were pulling taut had more to do with the man beside her and the anxiety his proximity kindled within her.
‘Have you lived here long?’ she asked to ease the tension within her.
He arched a brow, turning his handsome face towards her. ‘Small talk?’
‘Curiosity,’ she corrected. ‘If I’m going to marry you, I figure I should know a bit more about you besides the fact you’re a judgemental douche.’
‘A judgemental douche?’ he repeated and, despite the cynicism in his tone, there was the hint of a smile at the corner of his mouth.
‘Yes.’ Abby wasn’t laughing.
He sobered. ‘Va bene.’
‘So?’ she said after a long moment of silence had stretched between them. He slowed the car to a halt. ‘Why have you stopped?’
He jerked his head and Abby followed the direction of his gaze. Two deer were making their way across the road, picking their way slowly through the snow, their inky-black eyes alert as they eyed Gabe’s car warily. It looked like a scene from a Christmas movie. All that was missing were bells around their necks and elves at their sides.
‘I’ve lived in the castle about five years.’
‘Why? It seems so remote.’
‘I like remote.’
‘Yes,’ she drawled. ‘I can see that.’ Again, she was sure she saw his lips twitch. The deer moved off the road and Gabe started to accelerate gently, continuing their journey.
‘I have a helicopter for when I need to get to my office in Rome.’ He frowned and when their eyes met she wondered if he was imagining her in his lobby. Pregnant and desperate to talk to him. Was he remembering the way he’d had Security remove her from the premises? Did he feel guilty? He turned his attention back to the road. ‘But I have all the facilities I need to work from here.’
‘The ca
stle is amazing,’ she agreed. ‘I can see why you were drawn to it.’
‘I doubt that,’ he said under his breath.
‘What do you mean?’
He was quiet for a moment. ‘It doesn’t matter.’
Curiosity exploded inside her. Was there more behind his purchase of the castle? Suddenly, she wanted to know everything. She wanted to pick Gabe’s brain, to understand him completely and unequivocally, but she suspected he wouldn’t willingly accede to that.
He turned at a large pine tree and the snow-covered road gave way to one that was ever so slightly less so, as though it had been swept clear an hour or so earlier. Just the lightest dusting of white had fallen over it since.
‘The castle was the heart of this village. It was once a great agricultural stronghold and supported all of the people who lived here.’
But Abby heard Gabe’s words in the very back of her mind. She was leaning forward in her seat, her breath held, as she stared out of the windscreen at Fiamatina. It was, without doubt, the most charming and exquisitely beautiful place she had ever seen. The buildings all looked to be very, very old and, like the castle, they were built of stone. Mostly, they were joined together, forming rows and rows of cottages with ancient windows, creating streets so narrow that two cars couldn’t have been accommodated at the same time. In deference to this, or perhaps to allow Abby to see everything they passed, Gabe went slowly, winding the car through street after street. Swathes of greenery were hung between the walls, covered in snow now, giving the Christmas decorations even more of a hint of festivity. The shops they passed were decorated too, and Abby was itching to explore properly.
When Gabe turned the corner again, the village opened into a square with a large Renaissance statue in the centre—the Virgin Mary and Baby Jesus, also topped with snow. A garland had been laid at their feet recently enough that it was still fresh.
Gabe brought the car to a stop. ‘I will be a few hours. I presume you will be able to entertain yourself without getting into any trouble, for that short space of time?’
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