by Daphne Clair
‘Why don’t you tell me about you?’
‘Me?’
‘If we’re swapping stories…’
‘And putting off the moment of truth?’ he murmured. Not waiting for any answer, he went on, ‘Business as usual. There was Serena’s wedding, of course. A couple of trips to Europe to see our suppliers and check out what’s happening in the industry—’
‘Alone?’ The word slipped out.
A glint appeared in his eyes. ‘With my father, the first time,’ he said smoothly. ‘He wants to give up travelling, and I’ve been taking over that aspect as well as running the financial side.’
‘You must be working very hard.’
‘I wanted to.’ He stopped there as though he might have said more, a grimness about his mouth. ‘My parents deserve an easier life at their age.’ Another pause. ‘You seem to work long hours too.’
‘My hours are flexible. I like it that way.’
‘And you enjoy living on your own?’
It sounded like an idle remark but she knew it wasn’t. ‘I have only myself to please and if I don’t feel like company there’s no obligation to have it.’ And sometimes she was lonely.
‘Our house was large enough. If you’d told me you wanted your own space—’
‘That’s not the point.’
‘Was my family too much for you?’
‘No! I loved—love your family. You know that.’
‘How could I know? I thought you loved me.’
It has nothing to do with not loving you. She opened her lips, then paused. Admitting it would give him an advantage that she would be wise not to concede. Zito might no longer love her, but he’d said he would never consider their marriage over.
She had the feeling that despite refraining from sending a detective after her, now he had found her he wasn’t going to simply walk away.
Zito could be ruthless—she’d seen it in his business dealings and occasionally in his private life.
There was the time when Marina’s husband had strayed briefly. Briefly because Zito had discovered the affair and nipped it in the bud before Marina found out. Roxane had seen the man’s white, set face and hunched shoulders when he left their house after being with Zito for half an hour. ‘What’s wrong with him?’ she had asked.
‘Nothing,’ Zito said tersely, ‘if he has any sense.’
‘He looks as if he’s had a shock.’
‘He needed one.’ Until that day she had never seen Zito’s eyes so stony hard, his mouth so grimly set. Shocked herself, she recoiled before him, very nearly frightened.
Reaching out, he touched her arm, the touch becoming a caress as his eyes softened. ‘Don’t worry, carissima. It has nothing to do with you and me. Just a family matter.’
‘I am family,’ she reminded him. ‘And I will worry if you don’t tell me what this is about.’
He hesitated, but after extracting a promise of secrecy he had told her, and then said, the grim look returning, ‘I’ve spelled out to him just what will happen to him if he hurts my sister in any way.’
Roxane’s eyes widened. ‘Zito,’ she gave a nervous little laugh, ‘you didn’t threaten to have him beaten up, did you?’
She was relieved when he laughed. ‘Nothing like that.’ Then, his eyes darkening, he added, ‘I reminded him of what we could do to his business. I’m sure he got the point.’
Roxane hadn’t known much about Marina’s husband’s boutique winery business. She had a vague idea that his wife’s family had helped him financially, and their restaurants featured his wines on their menu, sometimes giving them special promotion. But the Deloras chain wasn’t his only client. ‘What could you do?’ she asked.
Zito’s answer was succinct and chilling, all the more so because he sounded almost casual about it. ‘Break him.’
She’d had no doubt that it was no empty threat. And that he was capable of it.
I thought you loved me, Zito had just said. And he was waiting for her to say something.
Roxane moistened her lips carefully. ‘I discovered that love isn’t enough.’
His expression didn’t change, but for once he seemed lost for words. At last he stirred, his gaze fixed on her face, and stood up. ‘Then it was never love at all, was it?’ he said aggressively.
He wheeled and left the room, heading toward the back of the house. Minutes later she heard cupboards opening and closing, the clashing of pans, a rattling of kitchen utensils.
He returned briefly, his face a closed mask, to icepack her ankle and give her a cool fruit drink, and a bit later again to ask if she didn’t have any coriander seeds, but for the rest of the afternoon she was alone. She spent some more time on phone calls and finished her book.
Enticing smells began to waft from the kitchen, and Roxane made a trip to the back bathroom, more from restlessness and curiosity than an urgent need.
Zito was leaning against the counter, his head bent over a book. He hardly glanced at her, but when on her return she clumsily fetched a glass from a cupboard and turned toward the sink, he took the tumbler and poured water into it for her.
‘Thank you,’ she said, after drinking half. ‘I could have done it, though.’
‘I’ll fix you a jug of water to keep by you. Do you want to finish that?’
Shaking her head in refusal, Roxane put the glass down, fumbling for her crutch. ‘You’re being very kind.’ It was only fair to admit it.
‘For better, for worse.’ His light tone didn’t hide the deliberation behind the words. ‘I’m not some stranger offering you mere kindness,’ he said, his voice deepening. ‘Even if I hadn’t been partly responsible for your injury, a husband is supposed to look after his wife.’
That was his philosophy of marriage in a nutshell. ‘Duty?’ she asked. ‘I don’t think you owe me anything any more, Zito.’
‘Not duty,’ he said swiftly. Then, ‘Honour, I suppose. I find I can’t cast off my vows so easily.’
As she had. The unspoken words hung in the air between them.
‘It wasn’t easy for me either,’ she informed him defensively. ‘Not easy at all.’
‘Then why the hell did you leave me?’ Again a flash of anger broke through his control.
‘I had to,’ she said huskily. ‘I tried to explain in my letter—I was losing myself.’
‘Losing yourself.’ Disgust coloured the words.
‘I’m sure it sounds silly to you.’
‘It sounds—’
A hiss from the cooker interrupted him, and he made a graceful dive for the overflowing saucepan, lifting it from the heat.
‘I’m distracting you,’ Roxane said. ‘I’ll leave you to it—unless I can help.’
The pungent smell of burning was strong, and he was trying to clean the mess. He threw her a look. ‘You shouldn’t be standing around. Get off that foot.’
She switched on the TV in the living room and watched the news. Soon afterwards Zito came in with her dinner—loin of lamb and cooked vegetables with a tangy orange and mint sauce. He left her to eat alone.
Afterwards there was cheese and fruit. Delicious, she told him truthfully, but he brushed that aside and asked if she wanted coffee.
Roxane declined with a shake of her head. ‘I need to sleep tonight. You must be tired too.’ He’d stayed awake last night to check on her, and spent the day looking after her.
Zito shrugged. ‘I’m fine.’
After some more pills and tending her ankle again, he sat, facing her. ‘I shouldn’t have insisted on talking earlier. I realise now you’re not fit for it.’
Roxane looked down, rubbing an imaginary stain on the couch with her thumb. ‘There’s nothing wrong with my mind. We were never very good at communicating.’
‘I don’t recall that we had too much trouble communicating—although there were often more interesting ways than mere talk.’
‘That’s the problem.’ Roxane looked up. ‘You never would listen to me—you thought sex would solve everything.’
‘Is there a difference, in your mind?’
‘Of course there’s a difference!’ He scowled. ‘Do you think I don’t know that?’
‘You used it,’ she said. ‘Whatever you call it, you used it to keep me in…’
Subjection was the word that came to mind, but it sounded melodramatic and she knew that it was unjust.
‘In what?’ Zito demanded. ‘Luxury? Oh, I see—you saw yourself as the bird in the gilded cage?’
‘You don’t see!’ Roxane flared. ‘You don’t see, and you never did, because you don’t want to!’
He stood up, tight-lipped and formidable. ‘I didn’t mean to start another argument.’ His expression relaxing a little, he said in a tone of great tolerance, ‘I should have known better. You can’t respond rationally right now. Apparently it’s quite common to have abnormal mood swings after knocking yourself out.’
CHAPTER SEVEN
ROXANE tried to keep her jaw from dropping. ‘M-mood swings!’ Abnormal? ‘Wherever did you get that from?’
‘I bought a home medical guide when I was shopping,’ Zito said. ‘I’ve been reading all about sprains and head injuries.’
‘So now you’re an authority?’
He shook his head. ‘Not an authority, but I’ve learned that even a mild concussion can have a lingering effect. Do you have a headache?’
‘No! Well…a bit, now and then. It’s nothing.’
‘You’re not over it yet. It’s the wrong time to have a serious discussion.’
And while she was still fumbling for some kind of answer to that, he walked out of the room.
Ten minutes later he reappeared, and asked blandly if Roxane would like the TV switched on.
‘No,’ she said. ‘You could play some music if you like.’ She was still simmering, but if she blew up at him now he’d put it down to concussion. She swallowed her fury and tried to look calm…and rational.
While he crouched over the player she glared at his broad back. She was having mood swings? It was true she seemed to be on an emotional seesaw, teetering on the edge of tears one minute and wanting to throw things the next. But she didn’t think it was because of the blow on her head. And Zito was equally unpredictable—most of the time soothing and patient, yet prone to moments of scorn and bitterness.
Maybe he was as unsettled by their accidental meeting as she was.
Roxane watched his careful handling of the discs as he sorted through them.
He had wonderful hands—strong and clever and amazingly capable of a delicate touch. She’d seen them meticulously arrange an artistic garnish. She’d felt them, feather-light and beautifully sensitive, exploring the most innately responsive parts of her body.
Biting her lip to counteract the images, she held her breath as Zito stood up, sliding a disc into the player before resuming his seat.
He’d chosen highlights from Broadway shows, followed by light classics, nothing too demanding or stormy. But gradually a strange depression crept over Roxane. Once they would have listened side by side, his arm about her shoulders, her head resting against him. Now they sat apart, each in their own cocoon of silence.
She moved restlessly, glanced at Zito and found him looking back at her, his eyes dark and hooded. His pose was relaxed, his legs thrust out before him, his hands loosely resting on the arms of his chair.
The track came to an end. In the short pause before another piece began something passed between her and the quiet, still man opposite. A tacit acknowledgment of the intimacy they had once shared, of the sexual chemistry that had first brought them together—a message, stark and simple. This hasn’t changed. And for a moment she caught in his gaze a reflection of the wrenching pain within her own heart.
Roxane jerked her gaze away.
It was cruelly ironic that the next track was the love theme from a show they had seen the very first time Zito took her out. Roxane wondered if he’d noticed it named on the CD cover, or if it was just coincidence.
When the music finished Zito got up to take the disc out of the player. As he bent his head to replace it in its case Roxane said, ‘I’d like to go to bed.’
He straightened quickly and turned to look at her, his eyes suddenly lit with questions.
Against her will, her breathing quickened and a warm tide raced through her. ‘I’m tired,’ she said. ‘But I’ll need your help to get up the stairs.’
‘Of course,’ he replied dully, and returned to his task. ‘I’ll take the strapping off your ankle.’
Maybe she imagined that he was extra tender as he unwrapped the bandage, kneeling beside the couch. ‘It’s looking better,’ he told her. ‘Not so swollen.’
‘Due to your nursing.’ Roxane was annoyed to hear that her voice was husky. She cleared her throat. ‘I do appreciate—’
‘Shh.’ His fingers firmly closed her lips. ‘I don’t want your gratitude, Roxane.’
When he took his hand away she swallowed hard, quite unable to speak again. Her heart was hammering, and she had a crazy urge to snatch his hand back and shower kisses on it, to hold it to her cheek.
Maybe he was right about mood swings. Maybe this too was part of the aftermath of a head injury.
Or it was simply a replay of her first, vivid, incredible reaction to him. She’d persuaded herself over the past months that she’d fallen so heavily for him because she’d been young and had never before been really in love. And because Zito, ten years older and with the sophistication and assurance given by being born to money and achieving his own level of success, had dazzled her.
He still dazzled her. She had a powerful urge to drink him in with her eyes whenever he wasn’t watching, and a strong desire to touch him, to have him touch her. And when he did, the way she felt was no different from the very first time he’d taken her hand in his. Dizzy and breathless and yearning.
Zito put away the icepack and came back for her. She was stiff in his arms, and he muttered, ‘Relax. I know you hate this.’
Perhaps not in the way he imagined. So many times in the past he’d carried her to bed, but not to sleep.
This time he saw that she had everything she needed, made sure her crutches were within easy reach, and then left, leaving the door ajar so that he’d hear if she wanted anything during the night.
Afterwards she lay in the dark alone as always, fiercely biting into her lower lip to stop herself from calling him back.
In the morning her ankle looked less puffy, but when she cautiously tried standing up, it was obvious it wouldn’t bear her weight. Sighing, she reached for the crutches.
She was halfway to the bathroom when Zito appeared, dressed in trousers and nothing else, his hair damp and tousled, and no beard shadow on his cheeks. He must have showered and shaved already.
His gaze sharpened as it passed over her red silk pyjamas to her bare feet.
‘I’m all right,’ she told him before he could ask. ‘I’ll manage on my own.’
He looked at her narrowly, then nodded and disappeared into the spare room.
When she returned his door was wide open, the bed roughly made up, but there was no sign of him.
Roxane had almost finished dressing when he tapped on her door and waited for her to call him in. An icepack in his hands, he said, ‘I thought we’d start this while I make breakfast.’
‘I’ll come down for breakfast,’ she said, sinking onto the bed to let him carry out his task.
She expected him to argue, but he said, ‘All right,’ in a deceptively neutral tone. ‘As long as you rest the ankle.’ He glanced up from adjusting the compress. ‘Forty-eight hours, the doctor said.’
He’d made omelettes and bacon that he insisted on serving while she lay on the couch, and Roxanne ate without quibbling. Being waited on literally hand and foot had its advantages. Pragmatically, she advised herself to make the most of it while this lasted. Which wouldn’t be much longer.
Pushing
away an unwarranted shiver of apprehension, she asked, ‘Did you sleep well?’
Zito gave a short, explosive laugh. ‘I think the answer to that is “As well as could be expected.” What about you?’
‘A log,’ she said, glad it was almost true. The pills the doctor had prescribed to dull pain had probably helped.
‘You seemed dead to the world all night.’
‘There was no need to check on me last night!’ She had a disturbing picture of him watching over her while she slept.
Zito gave her an odd, crooked smile. ‘For my own peace of mind.’
Roxane had no answer to that.
He seemed mellower today. Roxane supposed she was too. Resigned to having him tend her, she was less edgy, her reactions less sharp. And perhaps he gave her less to react against. They talked, about his family and her mother’s recent visit to the cottage.
‘She didn’t tell me she’d visited you,’ he said. ‘Very discreet, your parents.’
She’d made them promise not to tell him where to find her. Stunned at her decision to leave Zito, they had nevertheless loyally complied with her wishes. ‘I wouldn’t have told them where I was if I hadn’t known I could trust them.’
Over coffee the momentary tension passed. They shared the Sunday newspaper, swapping sections. Zito read her bits from a humour column and made her laugh.
After lunch there was a classic Hitchcock movie on TV. Sitting on the end of the couch, Zito rested Roxane’s foot on his thigh while he re-bandaged her ankle, glancing up now and then to watch.
He stayed there while the movie played. She was conscious of his hand resting lightly just above the bandage, and his fingers occasionally closing briefly over her toes, the pad of his thumb rubbing absently at the undersides. He’d been keeping an eye on her toes, making sure they remained pink and warm, indicating that the bandage wasn’t constricting her blood flow. Roxane told herself that was what he was doing now.
When the credits rolled he stood up, carefully placing her foot on a cushion. ‘Can I get you anything?’
‘I have everything I need.’ She had water by her now, freshened with lemon slices and cooled with melted ice cubes.