by Kate Hewitt
‘Was it different than he said?’
‘I don’t know what he said, but I can imagine.’ Lorenzo sighed, his face looking pale and drawn and old. Again Laurel felt that pang of worry assail her. Lorenzo did not seem a well man. ‘My marriage to Gabriella was tempestuous, to say the least,’ he continued. ‘She thrived on it, all the passion and anger and energy. It made her feel alive, but it drained me.’
‘That doesn’t sound entirely healthy,’ Laurel ventured cautiously.
‘No, it wasn’t. It was exhausting at the best of times, and incredibly dispiriting at the worst. When she died...’ Pain flashed across his face and then was gone. ‘I blamed myself. I shouldn’t have let her run out the way she did. I knew she was in a temper, and the maddening thing now is I can’t even remember what we argued about. That feels wrong, don’t you think—to die for something that you’ve forgotten about? And yet she was in such a rage at the time.’
‘That doesn’t seem like it was your fault.’
‘Perhaps.’ Lorenzo was silent for a moment. ‘Still I regret it. I regret many things.’ He squinted at the horizon, sunlight sparkling off the sea. ‘I fear Cristiano is the way he is because of me.’
Laurel knew it to be true, by Cristiano’s own admission, but she was interested in Lorenzo’s perspective. ‘What do you mean, the way he is?’
Lorenzo shrugged. ‘What I said before. His deep suspicion of emotion, of love. His determination to be an island, which no man is.’ He gave her a small, wistful smile. ‘While I am quite the opposite, always searching for something more. The one person who will make me feel connected and whole. I thought I’d found it with your mother.’
Emotion clogged in Laurel’s throat. ‘She thought she’d found it with you.’
‘Did she?’
Laurel forced the words past the lump in her throat. ‘I know she stole from you, Lorenzo, but it wasn’t... She didn’t...’
‘In the years since,’ Lorenzo said slowly, ‘I’ve thought often about the money your mother took. Money I would have given her freely, but I wonder if she knew that.’
‘She lived in fear of being poor,’ Laurel said quietly. ‘Poor and abandoned. She always has.’
‘In any case, I regret sending you both away so precipitously, without so much as a discussion.’ Lorenzo shook his head sorrowfully. ‘I have regretted it for a long time, especially how you, one so young, must have felt.’
Laurel blinked hard. ‘It was...difficult,’ she admitted, and Lorenzo’s face crumpled a bit.
‘I’m so sorry, my dear. I felt so betrayed, you see, because of the experience with my second wife. Did Cristiano tell you about that?’
‘Yes, a little.’
‘He convinced me that Elizabeth would leave, and in my weakness and self-doubt I believed him. She was so lovely and vibrant and young. I often wondered how she could possibly love me—me, and not just my money.’ He shook his head, sadness creasing the already deep lines of his face.
‘I suppose it’s a problem any rich man faces,’ Laurel said carefully. ‘And I am not blind to my mother’s faults, Lorenzo. She had a hard childhood and money is important to her. She’s become used to a certain standard, and she’d lived her life to make sure she has it.’
Lorenzo smiled. ‘I am well aware of Elizabeth’s faults as well, my dear. But we all have them, don’t we? No one is perfect.’
‘No.’ And her mother was far from it. Even now Laurel wondered why she defended her. Her mother had used her to win favour with Rico Bavasso, whether she’d meant things to go as far as they had or not. That was kind of hard to forgive, yet Laurel still wanted to forgive her. But that, she realised, was the stark difference between her and Cristiano—despite the mistakes and sorrows of the past, she strove to find forgiveness, redemption, hope. She wanted to believe in love, craved to know it was possible. Cristiano didn’t.
Sighing, she settled back against the lounger, her heart twisting inside her. She was falling in love with Cristiano, with his kindness, honesty and sudden, surprising tenderness. The sensitive soul that hid beneath his hardened exterior. She was falling in love with him, but she knew it wasn’t a good idea. It would only end in tears. Hers.
Lorenzo reached over and touched her hand. ‘Give it time,’ he said quietly. ‘Give him time. He does love you, you know. He just has to stop fighting it.’
Laurel gazed down at Lorenzo’s veined, arthritic hand and blinked back tears. ‘Thank you,’ she whispered. ‘I hope you’re right.’ It was the closest she’d come to admitting she loved Cristiano.
Lorenzo smiled and removed his hand. ‘Living without love is such a waste. Cristiano will realise that in time. And time is something both of you have.’
Laurel couldn’t ignore the wistful note of sorrow in Lorenzo’s voice. ‘Lorenzo,’ she said carefully. ‘Do you know I work as a nurse? In palliative care?’
He didn’t pretend to misunderstand what she was getting at. ‘Ah.’ He leaned his head back against the lounger and closed his eyes. ‘I see.’
‘How long have you been ill?’ Laurel asked softly.
Lorenzo didn’t speak for a long moment. Laurel waited, hoping even now that he might dismiss her concern, tell her he was just an old man who became tired. But, no. He opened his eyes and gazed out at the horizon, lemon-yellow sun and bright blue sky. ‘I was diagnosed with cancer of the kidney three months ago. It had spread to my stomach and lungs. There’s no stopping it.’
‘Oh, Lorenzo.’ Laurel gazed at him in deep sadness and sympathy. To have found each other again only for him to be taken away... ‘How long?’ she asked.
Lorenzo gave a little shrug. ‘The doctors do not like to discuss dates. I refused treatment...there was no point, and I do not wish to spend my last days in a hospital, on machines and in great pain.’ He sighed. ‘A few months, they said, maybe more, maybe less. A year at the most. I have medication for the pain.’
‘It doesn’t seem like enough. I’ve noticed you wincing.’
He shrugged again, and Laurel pressed her lips together. ‘Pain management is a very important part of end-of-life care, Lorenzo,’ she said gently. ‘You want your last days to be as pleasant and pain-free as possible, and research shows that you do better physically as well as emotionally if your body doesn’t tire itself fighting the pain all the time.’
‘Thank you for the advice.’ He smiled and touched her hand. ‘The medication makes me feel loopy. I don’t want to take too much of it.’
‘I understand.’ And she did, all too well. She dealt with her patients’ concerns about the effect of pain relief on their quality of life all the time, and the most important part of palliative care, in her opinion, was letting patients make their own choices for as long as they could. ‘Does Cristiano know?’ she asked after a moment. Her throat still felt thick and tears crowded at the backs of her eyes. For Lorenzo’s sake she didn’t want to give in to her own emotion, but she felt unbearably sad at the thought of losing him all over again. And what about Cristiano?
‘No,’ Lorenzo said after a pause, which was no surprise to Laurel.
‘Why haven’t you told him?’
Lorenzo shrugged. ‘I suppose I wanted to spare him the pain when there is nothing he can do. Cristiano has never been one to accept inaction.’
‘True.’ Laurel managed a small smile. ‘But I think he would want to know.’
‘Yes and, now that you are both here, I will tell him. At least he will have you to comfort him, cara.’ Lorenzo gently touched her cheek, and Laurel smiled through her tears.
* * *
Cristiano gazed out at the bright-blue sky and golden sunshine and clenched his jaw so hard it felt as if he might break a tooth. Anger was a far better emotion to feel than grief.
‘How long have you known?’ he asked.
From behind him Lorenzo stirred and sighed. ‘A few months.’
‘And you didn’t feel the need to tell me?’
‘There’s nothing you c
an do, Cristiano.’
‘Even so.’
‘I suppose I wanted to wait until we were face to face.’
‘I would have come sooner if I knew it was important.’
Lorenzo sighed again, the sound soft and sad. ‘Would you have?’ he asked quietly.
Cristiano turned around, his fists clenched, his heart racing, as if he was preparing for a fight. Spoiling for one, maybe, but he didn’t want to antagonise his father now, not when he was so ill. But he didn’t know how to be, how to feel. The natural emotion—grief in all of its dark, unrelenting mess—was anathema to him.
‘Of course I would have,’ he said, but even as the words left his mouth he wondered. Doubted. He’d avoided his father for years, ignored the ways Lorenzo had reached out. Why? Because of his contempt for his father’s choices, or for a deeper, more revealing reason?
Because loving someone always hurt.
‘Well, I am not quite at my end yet,’ Lorenzo said lightly. ‘There is time, Cristiano. Time, perhaps, for us to heal old wounds.’
‘What old wounds?’ Cristiano tried to sound dismissive but the words stuck in his throat like shards of broken glass, and his voice came out sounding strangled.
‘I know you harbour anger towards me for my choices.’ Lorenzo took a deep, steadying breath. ‘In my search for love I let a lot of women into your life. A lot of uncertainty and confusion.’
‘I’m a grown man,’ Cristiano dismissed. ‘And in any case, I survived.’
‘But we all want more out of life than survival, don’t we? And I fear you have sworn off love because of my experiences.’
Cristiano just shrugged. He didn’t trust himself to speak. He didn’t know what he’d say, in any case. Yes, he’d sworn off love, and for good reason. And, although the last week and a half had been the best of his life, he still wasn’t ready to make that kind of commitment to Laurel. Couldn’t open himself up to all the risk and pain. Did that make him an emotional coward? Maybe. But at least he stayed strong. Solitary.
He left his father a short while later, because Lorenzo was clearly tiring, and went in search of Laurel. Twilight was settling over the terrace, the air holding a hint of coolness, as Cristiano stepped outside. Laurel was standing by the balcony, her hands resting on the ornate stone railing, her face tilted to the last dying rays of the sun.
‘You spoke to your father?’ she asked softly.
‘You knew.’
‘I guessed.’ She turned to him, a world of sorrow in her eyes. ‘I spend all my time with people who are dealing with terminal illness. You get to know the signs.’
‘I wish he’d told me.’
‘I know.’ She moved towards him, all fluid grace, and put her arms around him. For a second Cristiano resisted. Part of him wanted to stay strong, separate. But the pain he felt was too much for him to bear on his own, and the sweet, pliant warmth of her body was the balm he so desperately needed.
He pulled her close, burying his face in her fragrant hair. ‘I’ve always tried to live my life so I have no regrets,’ he muttered against her hair, his eyes clenched shut. ‘I thought that was the best way to be, and yet now I feel awash with regret. Too many things to feel sorry for. To atone for.’
‘Regret isn’t a bad thing, Cristiano,’ Laurel said gently. ‘It doesn’t have to be about guilt or shame. It’s a strong and brave thing to feel, because it allows you to take responsibility for your actions and make a positive choice for the future.’
‘That sounds very wise.’
‘I’ve talked a lot to people who are dealing with regrets. It’s something you think about as your life comes to an end. And,’ she added, a tremor in her voice, ‘I’ve had regrets of my own.’
He eased back, searching her face. ‘What do you regret?’
‘Letting my mother talk me into coming to meet Rico Bavasso, for one.’
‘But, if you hadn’t, you would never have met me again.’
She smiled, but it wavered on her face, as uncertain as a shadow slipping away. ‘You don’t regret meeting me, do you, Laurel?’ Cristiano asked with more urgency than he meant to reveal or even feel. ‘Do you?’
‘No.’ Still she sounded uncertain, and that hurt him more than he expected.
‘Why? Why would you?’ Of course he knew the reasons, yet still he asked. Torturing himself because he couldn’t help it.
‘It’s not as if this is going to last,’ Laurel said after a moment, her voice so quiet Cristiano strained to hear it, even though he was standing right next to her. ‘You don’t have a monopoly on pain, Cristiano.’ She spoke without rancour, merely stating truth. ‘I don’t want to get hurt, either.’
‘I don’t want to hurt you.’ He meant it more than he’d ever thought possible.
She gave him a sad, wistful smile. ‘Sometimes we don’t have a choice in these things.’
‘But if you’re pregnant...’ It was a possibility he’d considered unfortunate mere days ago, but now it opened up a whole new realm of choice to him. To them. ‘If you’re pregnant, I will marry you.’ He didn’t know whether it was a threat or promise. Both, perhaps.
‘And if I’m not?’ She gazed up at him, her face cast in silvery light from the rising moon, her eyes large and clear, hiding nothing. The choice was his, to stay or to go, to risk or to hide. To love or to leave.
Cristiano’s mind spun. He thought of his father wasting away in bed, alone after so many years and still heartbroken. His mother, storming out in a fearsome rage, only to go to her death, and for what? For what? ‘We don’t have to make any decisions right away,’ he said, and disappointment flickered across Laurel’s face before she nodded.
‘No,’ she agreed. ‘I suppose not.’
It wasn’t the answer she’d hoped to hear, that much was obvious, and Cristiano could hardly blame her. Who wanted prevarications at a moment like this? She wanted him to sweep her up into his arms, kiss her and tell her he loved her. He couldn’t do that, but two out of three wasn’t bad, was it? It was all he had to offer. All he had to give.
He pulled her closer and pressed a kiss to her forehead, then to her lips. Gentle kisses that were meant as promises, although of what he could not say.
And Laurel accepted them, her arms coming around him, her soft, warm body fitting to his. Desire flared inside him, along with something stronger—a soul-deep craving to connect in this moment, not to feel alone. Not to be solitary, even if that meant admitting weakness. In this moment he needed it. He deepened the kiss, driving his hands through her hair, searching for her and branding her. Seeking solace as much as satisfaction, and finding both in this. In them.
Laurel answered him kiss for kiss, their breathing turning harsh and ragged, their bodies coming together in a connection so piercing and deep it felt exquisitely painful. She didn’t protest when he held her by the hips and hoisted her up onto the balcony railing. She wrapped her legs around his waist as he stroked her, finding her ready for him.
It was a matter of mere moments as he slid the condom from his pocket, fumbling with it in his haste, then thrust into her, the sense of completeness, of rightness, overwhelming him so that tears came to his eyes.
Laurel arched closer, drawing him in further, matching every thrust as they both found their release.
Cristiano cried out, the sound splintering the still night air, his heart thudding against Laurel’s as he rested his forehead against her and drew shuddering breaths.
His body felt sated, drugged with the aftermath of pleasure, yet something deep inside him still ached and yearned. This, which had always been enough, wasn’t any longer.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
HOLDING ON TO happiness felt like trying to cup water in your hands. No matter how you tried, it still trickled out. Two days passed, lovely, golden days, yet they possessed an urgency, a fear, that they hadn’t before. Laurel felt it in herself, and she also felt it in Cristiano. Time was running out.
And, even though it didn’t have to be t
his way, even though Laurel knew if Cristiano asked her she would stay, she would try, she would risk it all, she knew in her bones, in her very soul, that he wasn’t going to ask.
He thought about it. She saw it in his eyes—the faraway look that came over him, followed by a hardening of his features into an unwelcome resolve she wanted to scream and fight against. She wanted to rail and weep—to demand why he thought staying safe was so important, why he didn’t think risking life and love with her was worth it—but she didn’t because, when it came down to it, she was afraid too.
The possibility of a face-to-face, outright rejection from Cristiano, of pushing for answers and then getting ones she didn’t want, kept her silent. She didn’t care about her dignity or her pride, but she didn’t think her heart could take one of his crushing set-downs. Not after all they’d shared.
As for the possibility of pregnancy... With every passing day Laurel wondered and hoped, even though logic told her it was unlikely. And yet...as a nurse she knew it wasn’t out of the question that she might have fallen pregnant on that first night, no matter how she’d once scoffed at such a notion.
It still seemed crazy to hope for such a thing, yet she feared it was the only way Cristiano would commit to her. She could hardly believe she’d fallen into that age-old trap of wanting a baby to snare a man. Was she that weak? That desperate?
Twelve days after Laurel had first stumbled into Cristiano’s penthouse, she lay in his bed, her head resting on his shoulder, her fingers trailing a light path down his muscled chest. She didn’t think she’d ever get tired of touching him. She’d spent a good part of the last two weeks touching him, smoothing the satiny, muscled perfection of him, learning the planes and angles of his well-defined body.
And yet so much more than that too... With a pang she thought of the laughter they’d shared, the surprising conversations, the simple pleasure of being in his company. Yet the next two days pressed down on her, an unbearable weight. Was it really going to end so soon?
‘The day after tomorrow it will have been two weeks,’ she said softly, because she couldn’t not say it. Underneath her hand she felt Cristiano tense.