by Julia James
But seeing her with her academic colleagues, speaking English with an American accent, so at home in the rarefied atmosphere of her subject, had made him think to ask her again if she were sure of her decision to marry him.
Had she hesitated? If she had, then her words had only negated that hesitation.
‘Yes. You’ve assured me I can be both a dottore di fisica and Contessa di Mantegna. That was what I needed to hear. But...’ Her clear blue eyes had rested on him. ‘What of you, Ces?’ She’d paused minutely, then spoken again. ‘My spies tell me my arrival was something of an...an interruption for you.’
For the space of a heartbeat he had been silent. Then he had answered. ‘What was interrupted is over, Francesca. Be very sure of that.’
Her eyes rested on him again. ‘And are you?’ she’d asked quietly. ‘Are you very sure?’
He had felt the beat of his heart, the pulse of his blood. How many beats? Two? Three? More? Enough for him to exert the necessary control to say what he must.
‘Yes,’ he had answered. ‘She is marrying someone else. I wish her well.’
In his head he had felt the serration of that same knife that had stabbed him when he’d learnt of Carla’s engagement to Vito Viscari. He’d remembered the jab he’d felt that last night at the restaurant with Carla, when he’d heard that note of affection for her step-cousin in her voice.
Is that why she’s marrying Viscari—just as I am marrying Francesca? An old affection, born of long years of familiarity? A marriage of mutual convenience for them both?
So how could he object? What justification was there for that knife blade slicing into his head as he told Francesca he wished her well? He would not permit it to be there. It served no function and had no cause. No justification. No place in his life. Just as Carla now had no place in his life.
Slowly, Francesca had inclined her head. Then, with a little breath, she had changed the subject. Asked him something anodyne about his flight the next day.
Now, back in Rome, he was attending an evening party, accepting felicitations from friends and social acquaintances. His hostess, he realised with a slight frown, was Estella Farese, who had been present at the restaurant he’d first taken Carla to at the end of the previous summer.
The guillotine sliced down in his mind. He would not remember his time with Carla. Would banish it from his memory. Banish everything about it. Looking back was...irrelevant. Choices had been made, decisions taken. Irrevocable decisions—and not just for himself. Carla, too, had made decisions.
Is she married already? Viscari would not have wanted any delay—would have wanted to get those shares safe in his hands as soon as he could.
And that was good, wasn’t it? Good that Carla had moved on. And if she’d decided to marry her step-cousin, with his film star looks let alone the fact that he came with a luxury hotel chain—to which she was contributing half shareholding—well, that only made Vito Viscari an entirely suitable man for her to marry. Entirely suitable.
So there was no reason—no good reason—why he should object to her marriage. Why his jaw should tighten, his eyes harden. Why that same spike of jagged emotion—that serrated blade—should flash across his mind, knifing into him now, as it had when Francesca had put her loaded question to him. The question she had had every right to ask and that he’d had every obligation to answer in the way he had. No valid reason at all. Except...
Except that when I think of her and Viscari—of her and any other man—I want to find her...find her and—
His hostess’s voice cut across his thoughts as that serrated blade knifed into him again.
‘Cesare! How lovely of you to be here!’ Estella’s greeting was warm. ‘Now, do come and tell me—how is dear, dear Francesca! How delighted I am that you two are finally engaged! We’ve all had to wait so long! Such a brilliant young woman.’
She took Cesare’s arm, guiding him towards the far side of the salon.
They passed a knot of women, avidly conversing with each other, and they suddenly paused, as if taken aback by his proximity, only continuing as he passed by. Their eager tones, though, penetrated his awareness.
‘Jilted! Yes, my dear, I was there! I saw it all! He refused to marry her!’
A titter of unkind laughter followed.
‘He wanted the shares, but not the stepdaughter!’
Another voice intervened. ‘No, no, it was she who balked! She nearly fainted at the altar. He almost had to carry her away. It’s my belief...’
The voice dropped, but not so low that it did not reach Cesare’s ears.
‘...that she couldn’t accept Viscari when she might have had—’ She broke off.
The first voice came again—spiteful and contemptuous. ‘She never had a chance of that! How could she? Mantegna has been promised to the delle Ristori girl all his life! Just as their engagement now proves!’
Estella sailed on by, speaking a little louder than she needed to, as if to drown out the gossips’ voices. She proceeded to quiz him about his trip to America, about the forthcoming wedding, about whether Francesca would continue with her research career afterwards.
Cesare felt himself go into automatic mode, giving responses almost at random. But inside his head a bomb was exploding in devastating slow motion.
She didn’t marry him.
The words repeated in his head. Like a gunshot.
She didn’t marry him.
They stayed in his head for the duration of the evening. Were still there as he left, exhausted by polite enquiries after Francesca, and how the wedding preparations were proceeding, and showers of felicitations and congratulations and well-wishing.
There had been no further tactless or untoward remarks about what was clearly sending the gossips into overdrive.
A jilting at the altar! A fainting bride! A mother in hysterics. Two mothers in hysterics! And all of Rome to witness it!
Back in his apartment, the words were still there, ricocheting around inside his skull. He strode across the room, pulled open the drinks cabinet. Fetching a bottle of whisky, he poured a hefty slug. He knocked it back in one.
She didn’t marry him.
Then, with a rasp, he pushed the whisky bottle away, relocked the cabinet. He went into the room he reserved for his office. He needed distraction. He would check on his affairs.
Grimly, he turned on his PC, letting it fire up. So what if she didn’t marry Viscari? What was it to him? Nothing—nothing at all! She was nothing to him! He’d made his decision—put her aside. Finished the affair. Finished it!
He’d had no choice to do otherwise. No choice at all.
I could not have them both—those times are gone.
His mouth contorted and he rubbed his hand across his face—a rough gesture, as if he could wipe out what was inside his head.
Two images formed in his vision.
Francesca delle Ristori—the woman he was going to marry.
Carla Charteris—the woman he had put aside to do so.
Carla...
And, like a sluice gate opening, a dam breaking, all the images that he had kept out of his head since the moment he’d walked out of her apartment stormed in upon him.
More than images...worse than images.
Memories—vivid, tangible, indelible.
Carla swimming with him at midnight in the pool at the villa in Lazio, their naked bodies glistening in starlight.
Carla, her limbs wound with his, spine arched as she cried out in his arms.
Carla smiling at him across the dinner table, telling him something about Luciezo, or Tintoretto, or Michelangelo—some detail of art history he did not know—while he set it in historical context and they discussed the implications of it.
Carla shaking her hair free as he drove along the autost
rada towards the villa in Lazio, taking their time off together, looking forward to nothing more than easy, restful, peaceable days together—to sensual, passion-fuelled nights...
Memory after memory.
Nothing more than memory now. Now and for ever—for the rest of his life.
As it must be.
Desperately, urgently, he made his thoughts fly across the ocean, back to where he’d left the woman who was going to be his contessa, his destined bride, the woman who was right for him in every way. But Francesca’s image would not come—would not be conjured. Instead dark hair, blue-violet eyes, that rich, sensuous mouth that could smile, or kiss, or gasp in passion at its peak...all occluded his vision.
She didn’t marry him.
The words came again—sinuous now, soft and dulcet, weaving in and out of his synapses. He felt his blood quicken, let memory ripen in his thoughts.
More than memory.
He shifted restlessly in his chair. It had been so long...so long since he had set her aside. Yet she was here—so close. Across the city—a kilometre or two...no more than that. How often had he gone to her apartment in those six months that had been their time together? How often had his hands closed over her shoulders, drawing her lush body to his as his mouth lowered to her parting lips, tasting the delectable sensual nectar of her kiss, deepening to heated arousal...?
Carla—with her blue-violet eyes, her rich mouth, her full breasts and rounded hips—with the dark, lustrous hair he’d loved to spear and tangle his hands in as he spread her body out on the bed for himself to caress, possess...to take and be taken while flames of passion had seared them both—Carla... Ah, Carla, who was only a dozen rooftops away...
Carla, whom he had set aside to fulfil his responsibilities to his name, his house... Carla, who could never be more to him than what she had been—and to have been that was...
Carla, who had thought to marry a man who was nothing to her! Merely for the reallocation of a handful of shares.
His mouth twisted. He had told himself she was entirely entitled to marry Viscari, had made himself applaud it—be glad of it. Glad that he could set her aside knowing she would be making a future for herself as her step-cousin’s wife. Telling himself that her marriage made sense, was entirely suitable—just as his own was.
He could tell himself all he liked.
It was a lie. A barefaced lie to hide the truth of why she had taken such a step.
That was not why she’d walked up the aisle towards Vito Viscari! She’d done it for one reason and one reason only and he knew it—knew it with every burning fibre of his being.
She did it to punish me—because of what I did to her. Because I put her aside...put her out of my life.
That was the reason—the only reason.
Emotion reared up in him—savage, powerful. Fuelling the memories surging through his head. Impelling him from the room, from the apartment.
To one destination only.
* * *
Carla swayed, her body racked with pain. Her mind more so. Twenty-four hours—had it really been only twenty-four hours? Twenty-four hours since she had collapsed into the blessed oblivion that had blotted out the horrors of the afternoon before?
She clenched her hands, feeling her painted nails digging into her palms. She welcomed the pain. She deserved it. Deserved it for being the cretinous, contemptible fool that she had been.
To think I could get him to marry me! To salve my shattered pride! To let me outstare the world—outstare the man who threw me aside as if I was less than nothing to him!
Mortification filled her—and self-contempt. And bitter, bitter remorse.
She deserved what Vito had done to her. Deserved his refusal to be blackmailed into saving her stupid, stupid face. Deserved everything.
She trailed into the kitchen, filled the kettle. She would drink tea and force herself to eat, despite the sickness in her stomach.
The future stretched ahead of her—empty and bleak.
She would leave Rome. She must. And her mother would be leaving too. No doors would be open to her now—Lucia Viscari would ensure that. For who would receive a woman who had sold her own husband’s legacy—half the entire company—to his business rival, just to punish the man who had jilted her daughter at the altar? No, Marlene would leave for Spain and she would go with her. What else could she do?
The doorbell jangled, making her start. Dear God, not her mother again, surely? She had left only a few hours earlier, her fury at Vito’s behaviour venomous, her vengeance upon him ruthless.
Carla had tried to stop her.
‘Do you blame him, Mum? Do you? I behaved despicably to him! None of this was his fault, and yet I made him take the fall for it! And if you sell those shares to Nic Falcone you will have behaved as badly! Sell them to Vito—like he’s implored you to do ever since Guido died!’
But Marlene had been deaf to Carla’s pleas. Driven by maternal rage at her daughter’s humiliation. There had been nothing Carla could do.
The doorbell came again—insistent now.
She put the kettle down, trailed to the door. Opened it.
Cesare walked in.
Shock, like a seismic wave in slow motion, detonated within Carla, hollowing her out, draining the breath from her body. Faintness drummed at her and she clung to the door frame for support.
He took it from her, closed it. Turned to her.
There was a blaze in his eyes. A black fire.
‘Get out.’ Her voice was faint, and very far away.
He ignored her, walked past her into her sitting room. His eyes came back to her as she stepped inside. She clutched her dressing gown to her, as if it might support her.
‘I said get out,’ she said again.
He looked at her. That black fire was still in his eyes. ‘Were you really going to marry him? Did you truly intend to go through with it?’
‘Yes!’ she answered, her voice a searing hiss.
Emotion was knifing inside her. To see Cesare here, in her apartment, a handful of metres away from her...
His mouth tightened like the line of a whip. ‘They can’t decide, the gossips, quite what happened yesterday. Whether he threw you over or you him.’ He paused. ‘So which was it?’
She gave a laugh. A savage, vicious laugh.
‘Which do you think, Cesare?’ Her face convulsed. ‘I should be used to it, shouldn’t I? Being thrown aside!’
She took a shuddering breath. Lifting her chin, her eyes flashing like daggers, she clutched the material of her robe across her breasts, as if keeping him at bay. But she didn’t need to keep him at bay, did she? He didn’t want her...he would never want her again.
She slashed a hand through the air. ‘So get out, Cesare! Get out of my apartment and out of my life—just get out!’
He stood motionless while she hurled her diatribe at him. Then, when all the fury of her words was spent, he stepped towards her.
‘Get out...’ she said again. Her voice was hoarse.
She should move...she should retreat. Flee. Barricade herself in her bedroom.
She could not move.
‘You should not have tried to marry him,’ said Cesare. His voice was strange.
There was a choking sound from her throat, but she had no words to answer him. He did not need any.
‘When I saw that photo of you, that announcement in the financial press, I—’ He stopped. Could not continue.
Emotion welled in him. Dark and blackening. Somewhere, far across the Atlantic Ocean, was the woman he was supposed to marry. While here...
‘You should not have tried to marry him,’ he said again.
From the depths of his mind he tried to conjure Francesca’s face. But she was not there. He tried to say her name in h
is head, but he could not. That guillotine had descended across his mind, cutting him in half. There was a woman’s name he needed to say—
The name of the woman who stood before him.
Her eyes were huge in her face, her hands convulsing on the silk of her robe. A robe he knew well. Raw silk, peacock-blue, shot with violet like her eyes. He’d said as much to her once as he’d slid it from her naked body, letting it pool on the floor.
He stepped towards her, reaching out his hand for the shoulder of her robe, letting his fingers slide over its silken surface. He felt her body shudder beneath his touch. Saw her close her eyes as if to shut him out, her long lashes wet.
‘Carla...’
He said her name—the name he needed to say. Felt his hand fasten on her shoulder, his other hand graze down the edge of the material across her collarbone. Her delicate, intricate collarbone... The pale satin skin below yielded to his touch. And only to his.
No one else’s! No other man should touch her.
His blood pulsed like a hammer in his veins. He could not do without her. Not tonight.
Memory drummed across his mind. This was why he was here. To make those memories real again.
He lifted her chin, cupping it with his fingers. Her eyes flared open. There was terror in them—and more than terror.
‘Don’t do this...’ Her voice was faint.
He shook his head. ‘Then tell me to go,’ he said. ‘You’ve said it to me over and over again. Say it to me now. Say it, Carla—tell me to go. To get out of your life.’
She could not speak. Could only stare.
‘Tell me to get out, Carla.’
His voice was a harsh, raw husk, his mouth twisting as he spoke, his eyes spearing hers. A pulse throbbed at his throat and his long fingers plunged into her hair, indenting into her skull. Holding her for himself...only for himself...
‘Tell me to get out,’ he said again, one final time.
But she could not. She could do nothing. Nothing at all. Could only feel her lips part, helpless, hopeless as, with a rasp deep in his throat, he lowered his mouth to hers, grazing it, taking his fill.