At least the crisp breeze which blew in from the sea took her breath away and made her feel properly alive—even if her heart felt dead. She walked along to the harbour, where little boats bobbed in the water with their masts chattering and where seagulls cawed in their relentless search for food.
On such a cold evening there were few people hanging around, and it seemed so desolated and so very English that for a moment Alexa could scarcely believe that her estranged husband was sitting waiting for her—here, in this little town. Her territory, she thought. Not his.
The pub sign creaked, and Alexa hugged her coat tightly to her as she dipped her head to walk into the warm, beamed interior and look around for Giovanni.
He wasn’t hard to find. The pub was fairly quiet, with just a few office workers having a quiet pint before setting off home for the familiar evening routine, and Giovanni looked overwhelmingly exotic in comparison.
On a table in front of him stood two glasses of red wine, and his long, muscular legs were stretched out in front of him—pulling the material tight over his groin and unashamedly accentuating his masculinity.
Alexa thought how deeply olive his skin looked beneath the soft lighting—yet it gave off a soft golden radiance which contrasted with his thick hair, as black as the coal which lay waiting to be thrown onto the roaring fire.
And suddenly she felt a terrible yearning—like someone standing in an icy waste who had just sighted a thick cashmere blanket. For how long was it since she had looked on a man and felt anything approaching desire?
Not since Italy.
And she had never desired anyone the way she had Giovanni—how could she? Who could possibly follow a role model like him?
Well, she wasn’t going to think of that now. Keep focussed. Find out why he’s here and keep it simple. Pinning a smile to her lips, she began to walk towards him.
Giovanni’s eyes narrowed as he saw her, and again that alien and unexpected feeling wrenched at him. How pale her face looked, he thought with a frown. And how did she always manage to project that image of being all alone in the world—so that a man wanted to reach out and safeguard her? His frown deepened. Because that was the game she played—one that all clever and beautiful women engaged in. His own mother had excelled at it. Alexa was simply capitalising on her assets—emphasising her strange fragility and her pale, doe-like beauty.
Forcing himself to concentrate instead on the darkened bow of her mouth, the sway of her hips, and the thought of her breasts hidden beneath the bulky jacket, he was rewarded with a familiar leap in his groin. He rose to his feet as she approached, because his manners were always impeccable, even if the dark light flashing from his eyes was anything but conventionally polite.
‘Here I am,’ she said flatly.
‘So I see.’
They stared at one another like two new boxers in the ring, who were trying to psych the other one out.
He would never have allowed her to go out wearing such a bulky, waterproof jacket as the one which now sparkled beneath fine droplets of seawater, he thought. Yet the dilemma with someone who looked like Alexa was that on the one hand you wanted her to display that magnificent body of hers—while on the other you did not want other men seeing it. But they were separated now, and none of the normal rules counted. How she dressed was nothing to do with him, for he was interested only in seeing her without any clothes on at all.
His eyes flickered over her, to where her glorious hair tumbled down in windswept strands over her breasts. ‘At least you’ve let your hair down,’ he observed softly.
‘Giovanni, we aren’t here to…’
‘To what, cara?’ he questioned innocently.
‘To—to make personal remarks like that.’ To make her feel like a real woman for the first time in years and remind her of his consummate skill as a lover. And wasn’t she in danger of regarding even that through rose-tinted spectacles? She must force herself to remember the reality of their wedding night and its bitter conclusion. ‘It isn’t appropriate,’ she finished.
Giovanni heard the slightly despairing note of appeal in her voice and bit back his smile. This was good. What was it that the English said? He was getting under her skin. Just as she had once got under his, playing disingenuous games in order to hook him, as women had been attempting to do since he’d first started shaving.
‘Sit down,’ he said, his eyes narrowing at her look of genuine hesitation.
‘I don’t know if I should.’
His mouth curved into a mocking line. Did she really imagine that he would let her walk away from him a second time?
‘I said, sit down,’ he repeated silkily.
Come to think of it, she wasn’t sure she could walk straight out again—even if he’d told her she could. The feelings which had surged over her since he’d entered the shop suddenly took their toll, and with legs which were suddenly weak Alexa sank down onto one of the overstuffed leather sofas, glancing around her as nervously as if she was a woman on a blind date.
Sometimes when she was out she felt self-conscious, or paranoid as if people were staring at her. But today they really were. And it was nothing to do with a windswept woman on her way home from work—but everything to do with the exotic man who had just sat down opposite her. He was lounging back in his chair like a dangerous, undiscovered species who needed a warning notice attached to him.
He pushed a glass of wine towards her. ‘You look as if you could use it.’
Alexa took the drink but didn’t touch it. Just looked straight into his eyes and willed herself not to respond to all those potent signals he was sending out. But most potent of all was the heartbreaking similarity between him and Paolo. The same thick forest of black lashes, and the slash of high, slanting cheekbones. The same dark curls—though Paolo’s were more of an ebony tumble and Giovanni’s had been expertly clipped to lovingly define the proud shape of his head. She shook the thoughts away.
‘How did you find me?’ she questioned, curling her fingers around the glass, as if doing that would warm their frozen stiffness.
‘Oh, finding you was simple, cara—far easier than I expected.’ He shrugged. He had been surprised she was still here—but then, didn’t women always go back to somewhere they’d known? She had lived here before she had come out to Italy. Before her mother had moved off to live in the wilds of Canada, and before he had foolishly decided that Alexa needed looking after and had married her.
His mouth hardened. ‘I tried your old phone number and got your voice on the answer-machine.’
‘And if you hadn’t?’
He shrugged, but his eyes glittered. ‘Then I should have had to employ someone to find you. Anything is possible.’
‘A…detective?’
‘Something like that.’
‘But you didn’t? Get a detective, I mean?’ she questioned, until she saw his face and realised that she’d said too much. Underestimated his razor-sharp intelligence. He must surely have noticed her wide-eyed fear and be questioning its source. So better start back-tracking before it was too late.
‘Whatever is the matter, Alexa? Anyone would think you had something to hide from me.’
‘Oh, don’t be so melodramatic!’ she said brightly, though inside she hated herself for the unspoken lie which fell from her lips. ‘I’m just fascinated to find out what has brought you here.’
‘Are you?’ He traced his forefinger along his bottom lip thoughtfully. Of course she was going to be jumpy—what woman wouldn’t be, in her situation? Was she looking at him now and realising what a stupid mistake she had made? But she was the one who had to live with the consequences of her own stupidity—and that was not the reason he was here.
‘Yes, in truth it is a fascinating story,’ he agreed, but for once in his life the words did not come easily—there was no template for this kind of situation. He ran his finger around the rim of his wine glass and realised that although they were separated he was still treating her like a wife. For
simply by marrying they had forged a deep bond he had experienced with no other woman—no matter what had happened between them subsequently. Why else would he be about to confide in her an incredible story he had told no other? ‘You remember my mother?’ he asked suddenly.
It was not the opening Alexa had been expecting, and it took her off guard. ‘Yes, of course I remember her,’ she answered slowly. ‘She’s a pretty unforgettable character.’ Natala—his glamorous, gorgeous mother, with her penchant for diamonds and those slinky black satin dresses which were as tight as a second skin. Until Alexa had met Natala she hadn’t realised that mothers could look like film stars.
‘How is she?’ she questioned, not quite sure of the etiquette in asking after a woman who had once been overheard pronouncing her as—‘ordinary. And she has no money, Gio!’
His lashes came down, concealing all but a dark gleam of light in his eyes. ‘She died last year,’ he said bluntly.
Alexa gasped, everything else forgotten—because his mother had been relatively young. ‘Oh, Giovanni—I’m so sorry,’ she said instinctively, and only just stopped herself from leaning forward to touch him.
Giovanni’s eyes narrowed and she saw in them the brief chink of pain. But then it was gone—clicked out—like the shutter of a camera.
‘Did you come here just to tell me that?’ she questioned uncertainly.
His black eyes hardened. ‘No. Of course not.’
There was a pause as he seemed to search for the right words. It was so uncharacteristic of Giovanni to hesitate that Alexa felt herself stiffening with apprehension.
‘What, then?’ she said nervously, because precious minutes were ticking away—and it wasn’t just that she wanted to be back on time for Paolo and not to alienate the childminder by taking advantage. She also wanted to be away from the still-powerful sexual pull her husband exerted—away from the foolishness in her heart which made her want to put her arms around him and draw him close in a gesture of comfort.
He tapped his long olive fingers against the polished surface of the table. ‘After she died I was going through her papers and I made a discovery.’
‘What…kind of discovery?’
Sifting and sorting through the files of information in his mind, Giovanni began for the first time to place them in some kind of coherent order. ‘The unwelcome kind—that informs you that you have been labouring under an illusion for most of your life,’ he said, and his voice sounded suddenly harsh.
‘What illusion?’
His voice hardened. ‘As you are aware, I grew up believing that my father was a Spanish aristocrat—one who refused to publicly acknowledge me, even though he was prepared to pay generously for my upkeep and my mother’s jewels. My mother told me that her silence about his identity to the rest of the world would guarantee her a lifetime’s riches. And it did.’ The stony expression in his eyes matched the sentiment at the heart of his words. ‘She also led me to believe that he had died—and I had no reason to distrust her.’
‘You mean she was lying?’
Giovanni threw her a look of mockery. ‘Why? Would you feel an affinity with her if you knew that to be the case?’ he questioned acidly.
‘I’m not interested in raking up old scores, Giovanni,’ she answered quietly. ‘What are you trying to say?’
‘That my father is not Spanish at all—and he is not dead. Though he is very old, nearing the end of his life, and—’
‘And?’ she prompted, on a whisper.
‘I am the son of a sheikh,’ he said at last, aware even to his own ears—how bizarre his words must sound. He could see his own reaction mirrored in her widened eyes.
‘What?’
‘My father is a sheikh.’ But through the haze of unreality bubbled a feeling of intense…satisfaction. It was as if he had found the missing bit of himself—which, in a way, was exactly what had happened. ‘More specifically, he is Sheikh Zahir of Kharastan,’ he added. And then, as if to lessen the emotional impact of his words, he raised his jet brows in question, as if he were a university professor quizzing a student. ‘You have heard of it, perhaps?’
For a moment Alexa forgot their history, forgot her own dark secret and her fear of the man she had married—because his startling piece of information wiped all other thoughts completely from her mind. She didn’t even stop to question it—Giovanni wouldn’t lie about something like that. Why on earth would he? He had the riches and the power that most men hungered for—he wouldn’t invent royal blood unless it were true. And wouldn’t that just make him a million times more attractive to the opposite sex? she thought, with a sudden pang of wistfulness.
‘Of course I’ve heard of it,’ she breathed. ‘The papers have been talking of nothing else for weeks. There’s a big royal wedding taking place there soon, isn’t there?’
She tried to remember a bit more, but she had mainly looked at photos of the handsome groom and his beautiful fiancée while she’d been sitting in the hairdressers. What with working full-time, looking after her son and running a home some things had to give—and reading the foreign news section of the papers was unfortunately one of them. Alexa frowned. ‘But I thought it was the Sheikh’s son who is getting married. And isn’t he half-French?’
Giovanni gave a grim smile, for in a way she had made this easier for him. ‘Yes. He is. The Frenchman’s name is Xavier,’ he said. ‘And he is—as you say—the Sheikh’s son. He is also my half-brother.’
‘You mean there’s more than one son? I…don’t understand, Giovanni.’
Hadn’t he thought exactly the same thing himself, when the incredible facts had first been presented to him by the Sheikh’s aide—the man they called Malik? For in one swoop Giovanni had gone from being a man with no family to finding himself a father and a half-brother.
‘Although he had a long marriage, it seems that the Sheikh had two illegitimate offspring who were born in Europe during that time. Xavier was one and I am the other,’ he explained slowly. ‘Neither of us was acknowledged publicly, for fear of offending the Sheikh’s wife, but after her death it was his dearest wish to be reconciled with both sons, and for them to meet each other.’ Giovanni’s face was implacable. ‘And that is what has happened.’
‘You mean—you’ve met them?’
Giovanni nodded, his black eyes brilliant -seeking, restless, almost yearning. As if starting out on this bizarre quest had wakened some kind of dormant wanderlust in his blood. As a man who—apart from his one ill-fated experience with Alexa—was used to encasing his feelings in ice, it was strangely unsettling to feel this way.
‘Si,’ he said, his voice now rough with a passion he had not expected to feel for any country other than his Italian homeland. ‘I have met them. I flew to Kharastan. To a palace which is bluer than the brightest sky of high summer. To a land where falcons dominate the stark desert and hunger waits around every corner for the unwary. And there I was introduced to my…’ He toyed with the word family as a cat might play with a mouse before striking. But Giovanni did not strike. His lips curved, for the intimate title seemed inappropriate for a couple of men he barely knew—no matter what their blood-tie was. ‘I met the Sheikh and Xavier,’ he said carefully. ‘And the woman Xavier is to marry. They want me to go to their wedding.’
There was a pause while Alexa tried to digest the incredible facts he had told her. In any other circumstances she might have flung her arms around his neck and told him she was happy for him. Or she might have delved deep into his mind and asked him how he felt about suddenly discovering that he had a ready-made family?
But Alexa could not afford to do any of those things—even if their relationship had been the kind which would allow it. They had parted bitterly—with too much said which could never be unsaid. And there was too much at stake for her to risk asking him anything other than the time of his flight back to Italy.
‘It’s a very interesting story,’ she said carefully, and put her glass down on the table. ‘But I don
’t understand why you’ve come all the way from Italy to tell me about it when we’re…’
‘When we’re what, Lex?’ he prompted softly. ‘Neither married, nor divorced? What is it that you say in England—neither fish nor fowl?’
‘We’re separated. Estranged.’
‘But still legally bound—so in theory we are still family. Why is that, I wonder? Why did you not file for divorce, cara?’ he questioned softly. ‘Did some clever lawyer advise you to bide your time—telling you that il tempo viene per chi sa aspettare?’
‘All things come to those who wait?’ Alexa translated slowly, for her command of the language had grown rusty. She hadn’t used it for years. Hadn’t wanted to—just the sound of it took her back to a place too hurtful to reside in.
‘Bravo, bella,’ he applauded softly. ‘Yet—while you may go to the top of the class—you have avoided answering my question. Have you been advised by a divorce lawyer? Closely watching my business dealings and then slowly closing in to make the maximum financial kill?’
Alexa felt the rapid skitter of her pulse, sensed a sudden and unknown danger. ‘You’re a cynic, Giovanni.’
‘Maybe life made me that way—and still you avoid my question.’
Because if she answered him then the whole story of Paolo would come tumbling out. Yet she could not avoid divorce for ever, could she? She’d somehow imagined that Giovanni would file for divorce early on after their split, and that whole subject would come up within the sanctity of a legal framework. Protected by lawyers, she would have been safe. But now too much time had elapsed—and that created its own problems. She honestly couldn’t see a way out of the maze she had helped create.
How could she tell him the truth when it was so blurred in her mind and in her heart that she wasn’t really sure any more about what was real and what was not?
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