‘Have I said anything that’s not true?’
‘You don’t know me,’ she said, frustrated. ‘You don’t even try to know me!’
‘You conned me into bed. Took photos of highly guarded, top-secret blueprints. You planned to pass them off to my competition…’
‘I know all that,’ she said on a small sob. ‘But if you took a second to understand my relationship with my dad…’
‘We all have a history.’ Determination fired his veins. ‘We all have baggage. You allowed yours to control you.’
He was right and she knew it. That angered her even further. She ripped the jumper through the air, shaking it pre-emptively and pulling it on, so she didn’t see the way his face shifted, the way guilt momentarily glanced across his features. Regret too. The way he looked as if he hated that they were arguing and wasn’t sure how to defuse it—to wind back his careless remark so that they were still entwined. Two bodies post-passion.
The sleeve of the jumper flew wide and as Abby jerked it over her head she heard a delicate, unmistakable breaking noise that mirrored the breaking of her heart.
‘Oh, no!’ For she knew immediately what had happened.
She spun around and, sure enough, one of the decorations had crashed to the ground, the other balancing precariously. She pushed it back to safety and then fell to her knees, her fingertips reaching for the tiny, fragile shards.
‘Stop it.’ Gabe swore, jumping from the bed and crouching beside her. But Abby didn’t hear him. She blinked back tears that threatened to fall.
‘Now look what you made me do,’ she snapped, but the words lacked conviction.
‘What is it?’ He batted her hands away as she tried to pick up the pieces but she refused to comply, her fingertips seeking each shard as though she could somehow put them back together again.
‘Stop,’ he said softly, urgently. ‘You’re going to hurt yourself.’
Just as he said it, a piece of glass punctured her skin and a perfect droplet of crimson blood fell to the floor.
‘Damn it.’ He gripped her wrists and pulled her to standing. ‘Sit here.’
He arranged her on the edge of the bed and disappeared into her bathroom. He returned with a wad of tissues, handing them to her. ‘Press them to your skin.’
She pulled a face at his retreating back, refusing to watch while he cleaned up the vandalism of the perfect little decoration.
Only once the floor was clear of glass, the tiny bell resting on the edge of the dressing table, did he come back to Abby. He crouched down in front of her, his eyes holding hers.
‘What was that?’
She sniffed, refusing to meet his eyes.
‘Abby?’
His use of the diminutive form of her name did something to her and she flicked her gaze to his, her own vulnerabilities unconsciously displayed in the lines of her beautiful young face. ‘Christmas decorations,’ she said softly. ‘They were perfect.’
He looked towards the dressing table. ‘Where did you get them?’
‘A shop in Fiamatina,’ she hiccoughed.
‘So?’ It was obvious he didn’t comprehend. ‘You can buy another one, tempesta.’
‘No, I can’t,’ she sobbed, shaking her head then dropping it into her palms.
‘Why not? Were there only two in the whole shop?’
‘No, there were quite a few but…’ She clamped her lips together, sucking in a deep breath.
‘But?’ he prompted.
‘They were expensive, okay? I could only afford two. And I loved them. They were special and rare and I was going to put them on the Christmas tree for Raf’s first Christmas and every Christmas after and now it’s all ruined. Everything is ruined.’
CHAPTER NINE
GABE WATCHED THEM from his office, every cell held taut. They hadn’t spoken again since he’d left her room the day before. Her anger had been disproportionate to the perceived crime. No, not crime. It hadn’t been his fault. She’d knocked the decoration herself, and yet she’d blamed him. She’d been so cross with him—he hadn’t known her capable of that anger.
When they’d argued in New York, she’d been passive. She’d taken his remonstration, she’d accepted what he’d laid at her feet and she’d been sad, apologetic. She had known how wrong she’d been. Yes, he had seen shame in her eyes—remorse too—and she’d been reasonable enough not to argue in the face of his anger.
Yesterday, she’d been enraged.
And not about the decoration. Not really. It was more than that. The way he’d treated her, the things he’d said.
Regret perforated the lining of his gut.
He’d been shocked by his weakness—shocked by his very emotional response to seeing her with Hughie. It had been an innocent conversation and he’d acted as though he’d caught them in flagrante. He’d taken her into her bedroom, knowing that if they didn’t have sex he’d be driven almost insane by possessive need.
And then he’d done what he could to turn back time, to remind them both of why they were enemies more than lovers.
An unfamiliar sense of shame flooded him. He hadn’t enjoyed hurting her. He hadn’t liked seeing her shock, feeling her withdraw from him, physically needing to distance herself from him.
He closed his eyes, flashes of their time together running before him. Her passion—a passion that had been unmatched in his experience—the way she’d given herself to him completely. What cruel twist of fate was it that a woman he despised had turned out to be his perfect partner in bed? More than that, she was the mother of his child and he was committed to spending his life with her, to making their child happy.
He couldn’t do that if he spent the whole time berating her for the sins in her past, yet he couldn’t move beyond those sins until he understood her better. He had every reason to be careful with his trust—his childhood had been a baptism of fire and he’d developed the necessary defences. That included being careful who he admitted to his inner sanctum—which so far just included Noah.
Now, there was also Raf.
He opened his eyes and his gaze instantly pinpointed Abby, a bright shape against the white backdrop of snow. He studied her. She was smiling and despite the fact their child, so bundled up he was three times his usual size, couldn’t possibly comprehend her, she was talking as she built an enormous snowman. His cheeks were ruddy from where he sat propped in a stroller.
Gabe watched as Abby pinched a small amount of snow in her fingertips and pressed a tiny bit to Raf’s cheek. Their baby’s eyes flew wide and then the little boy smiled. She smiled back. Something within Gabe squeezed. What must it be like to have that kind of affection?
Maternal love was a foreign concept to him.
Any love, really.
Abby had it to give in spades, apparently.
She turned back to the snowman and kept building, fattening his belly until her arms couldn’t wrap around him. Some time later, when she was happy with the construction, she reached into the bottom of the stroller and pulled out something red and white. A scarf! She wrapped it around the snowman’s neck and tied it in a knot, then she reached for something else. A Santa hat.
She was making a damned Santa snowman on his lawn, with their son. Was this what it would always be like for him? On the periphery of something—a family—and not being able to reach for it? Was this the lasting legacy of his own childhood?
He didn’t believe in love—even as a boy, witnessing the way love had slowly deadened his mother’s soul, he swore he’d never get married, never have children. He hadn’t wanted either. The necessity of loving wasn’t something he’d ever craved.
Did that excuse his behaviour?
Did anything?
Making sure Abby married him was one thing; using her innocence and desire against her to keep her in his bed was another. He had kissed he
r and she’d quivered. She’d said she hadn’t been with anyone else and he believed her. It wasn’t as if she’d had a multitude of opportunities since she’d been so sick while carrying his baby. But if he hadn’t brought her to Italy? No doubt she would have found someone to share her life with.
The very idea filled Gabe’s mouth with acidity.
In bed she was putty in his hands and there was so much he could teach her, so much he could do to help her forget how imperfect their situation was. Keeping her in a sensual fog so that she never stopped to question the madness of what they were doing. Was he really capable of that? Could he stoop so low?
His expression was grim because, deep down, he knew that as long as she was under his roof, with his ring on her finger, he would do whatever it took to have her.
He would never love her—never trust her—and nor would he ever forgive her; but he would make love to her often because they both wanted that. That was the only part of this whole plan that made sense—the rest was a minefield…
She laughed again with Raf, and certainty formed as a rock in his gut. She was his.
* * *
‘I have to go to Rome.’ His voice came from the door to her room and Abby paused her reading, pressing a finger against the page of her book and looking up in the hope it wasn’t obvious what effect his appearance was having on her.
Had it only been a day ago that they’d made love? For confirmation, her eyes flew to the dressing table where a solitary ornament remained.
‘Rome?’ She sat up straighter in bed, her heart hammering against her ribcage. He was wearing a suit, just like the first night they’d met, and he looked so damned handsome it was impossible to remember that she was still frustrated with him. With great difficulty, she did, though.
Her voice was cool. ‘Well, have fun.’
Gabe stepped into her room, closing the door behind him and striding across to the bed. Abby’s pulse accelerated.
‘I would have more fun here,’ he admitted gruffly. His strong, confident hands caught her thighs and pulled her to the edge of the bed; Abby’s breath caught in her throat and she stared up at him with such obvious passion that she knew he must see it, must comprehend.
‘Do you remember what we discussed?’ he asked, moving his head closer to hers so only an inch separated them.
She shook her head, merely because she couldn’t think straight and needed to buy time.
He lifted a finger and pressed it to her cheek, then ran it down her jaw to her neck, and to the pulse point hovering at the base of her throat. ‘You are mine,’ he said simply.
She opened her mouth to argue, to say something to assert herself, but he took the opportunity to kiss her, his lips taking hers, pressing her back to the bed so that his body was on top of hers and she moaned into him, such a sweet sound of innocence that his gut twisted.
‘I want you to share my room,’ he murmured, the words seductive, as was the way he moved his kiss to her throat, nipping her with his teeth while his hands ran over her body, finding the flesh beneath her shirt. She wasn’t wearing a bra; he was easily able to cup her breasts, to feel their warm sweetness, her tight nipples.
She made a noise of acquiescence, a garbled sound of pleasure.
‘You’ll move in with me,’ he said, a little more confident now but still miles from his usual arrogance.
‘I have moved in with you.’ She said the words into his mouth, kissing him, her ache to be possessed by him profound.
‘You know what I mean.’
He seemed to be asking, to want something from her without simply demanding it. She tilted her head to the side. ‘I’ll think about it.’
He lifted his head and his eyes glowed, but he wisely chose not to push the point.
Distance knifed between them and she wanted to bridge it, but he was already straightening, pulling further away from her.
‘How long will you be gone?’ She tried to make the question sound casual when in fact she was irrationally bothered by the idea of him so far away.
‘A day or so.’ He took a step back, his eyes holding hers, the rapid shift of his chest the only sign that he had been at all affected by the kiss they’d just shared.
‘Be good while I’m gone. And, just to save you some time, there are no Calypso files in the castle, so you don’t need to go looking behind my back.’
She glared at him but he shook his head.
‘It was a joke. A bad one.’ His smile was tight. ‘I’ll see you soon.’
It had been a joke but the words stung, in the way that only the truth could. When she looked back to that night in New York, she could scarcely believe what she’d done. It was as if someone else had temporarily taken over her body.
And now she’d have to face that misstep for the rest of her life. Or for as long as this charade of a marriage continued.
When he was out of sight she picked up her book and continued to read, but without seeing a single word. Less than an hour later, she heard the helicopter take off and moved—as if on autopilot—to the window. It was shiny black; it looked like a huge eagle, all sleek and elegant, as it moved away from her and the castle.
She told herself she was relieved he was gone, that it would give her time to make sense of what was happening between them. But, in truth, relief was nowhere near the top of what she felt.
She dropped her head to her pillow and breathed in deeply. It still smelled of him.
She groaned—she didn’t have to analyse her feelings to know that she had them, and to know that it was inherently dangerous to feel anything for a man like Gabe Arantini. Particularly given that he had made it obvious he didn’t like her and would never trust her.
And yet…
Yes—and yet. Apparently, her heart hadn’t got her brain’s memo, for it was already softening and turning, allowing Gabe more space inside her mind than she knew was wise.
Telling herself she was going to make the most of this opportunity to explore, she didn’t want to acknowledge that she was actually marking time however she could.
She woke early the next morning and, wrapped up in her warmest clothes, went to explore the forest to the side of the house. She found pine cones which she could spray-paint silver and use to decorate the tree, and she counted seven squirrels as she went.
She imagined Raf when he was older. She imagined the way his face would light up at the sight of the bushy-tailed creatures, the way he’d laugh and try to chase them. Her chest heaved.
It was right that she was here in Italy, here with Gabe. She’d hated Gabe for sweeping into her life and expecting her to fall in with all these changes, but when she thought of the tiny apartment in Manhattan with no heating she knew their son would be happier here.
And her? She pushed that question aside.
Reliving the time they’d spent together in Manhattan, she played with Raf, noticing every little detail about him anew. She lay with him on his tummy, she read to him, she watched him sleep and she got to know the nannies who also looked after him.
Gabe had told Abby she wouldn’t need to cook but to distract herself she dug out a recipe book from the castle’s library and made gingerbread dough until the whole kitchen was fragrant with the spiced aroma. And though she’d never attempted anything so grand as a gingerbread house, she figured she was already way outside her comfort zone so what was one more brave attempt?
It was almost dark by the time she was finished, the house hardly a work of art but at least structurally sound. She went back upstairs but instead of returning to her bedroom, she went to his.
He’d asked her to move in. Was that what she wanted?
She padded into his suite, hovering on the threshold as though she were crossing some invisible barrier before pushing deeper inside. His room was larger than hers, with a king-size bed at its heart, two sofas to the side and a
bay window that overlooked the gardens. She wondered what these gardens would be like in summer. It was hard to imagine while they were completely blanketed in snow.
There were no marks of personal possession in this room, besides his clothes in the wardrobe and toiletries in the en suite bathroom. No photos hung on the walls, no artwork to show his aesthetic preference. There was a flat-screen television mounted on the wall. She flicked it to life distractedly—the Italian news was on. She sat on the edge of the bed, watching for a while, wondering if she’d ever comprehend the fast-moving language.
Hours later, she accepted that Gabe wasn’t coming back to the castle.
The wave of disappointment was unwelcome, but she recognised that feeling well.
She showered and dressed in a pair of wintry pyjamas before curling up in her own bed.
She fell asleep dreaming of Gabe and woke with a start some time in the middle of the night, sitting up straight. She was disorientated, as though she might have been in his room after all, as though he might be with her.
A cursory inspection with the light of her lamp showed that not to be the case. She was alone in her own bed.
She dropped back against the pillows and stared at the ceiling until the oblivion of dawn or sleep came first.
In the end, it was dawn. Morning light broke across her room and she was grateful, if somewhat exhausted, to step out of bed, shower and dress.
Her previous day’s distractions had only worked so much.
She spent an hour with Raf and then pulled on some leggings and a form-fitting shirt and went to the room near the kitchen.
Ballet would help.
She chose a piece from Les Petit Riens to punish herself. The choreography included seven back-to-back fouettes then a double pirouette and she loved it for its intricacy. The hardest dances always looked the most beautiful, the most deceptively effortless, when they were performed well.
She breathed in deeply, her eyes closed as she felt the music, and then she began to move, her eyes remaining closed as she lost herself to the emotion of the Mozart piece, performing the fouettes—one of the most difficult steps in ballet—as though she were simply walking.
Bound by Their Christmas Baby Page 11