When he’d told her, a little sliver of anxiety had crept over her. Just when things were going well... Whoever bought the place might turn it on its head. Turn her out on her ear. All she could hope was that it would be far enough in the future that she was really back on her feet and had maybe another couple of properties to her name. It was a godsend that the locals liked to sell to one another. Being friendly cost little, and had already reaped so much.
She stacked some bills and folded them over. The decaf coffee wasn’t hitting the mark, but she wasn’t much in the mood for anything else. It was only a short drive round the pond to her new place, and then a shower and bed were the only two things that held any appeal whatsoever.
Bed and lying awake staring at the freshly painted ceiling. Thinking about Marco Borsatto. Wondering where he was and what he was doing—and who he was doing it with. Wondering what would have happened had she rolled over that night and played along in his little game. If she’d held out for a nice new tennis bracelet instead of taking a potshot at him.
He’d wanted them to get it together—that was for sure. And every day since, in her low moments, she’d cursed herself for not going along with it. They’d had it good. He was the best.
But he didn’t have her back. He didn’t trust her and he certainly didn’t respect her. And she couldn’t spend time with anyone who thought so badly of her—even if she’d shared more with him than any other person on this earth. Even if their chemistry was cosmic. Even if she ‘got’ him the way she knew she did. She understood him wholeheartedly—completely. She understood the boy he’d been and the man he’d become. And why.
But true love was a two-way street. And his version headed to a dead end.
At least he’d taken her at her word and found someplace else to hang out. Since the day and the hour she’d started in Betty’s he’d been a total stranger. Of course she’d heard about him—he was the local hero, and the fact that they’d had a quick affair was nothing special. He’d had quick affairs with a heap of women far more beautiful, talented and rich than she.
So the stories had kept coming. Dinner with the American Ambassador in Rome, a royal wedding in some tiny principality in Europe. A win at some polo match in Argentina. You name it, the people of Montauk had heard about it. Heard about it and pored over every detail, dissecting it and congratulating themselves on the time they had done this with Marco or that with Marco.
What a guy he was. Everyone’s hero.
Except hers.
So she’d be single? She was fine with that. Having a career was her passion now. That and trying to make friends—which she had. Some of the girls who worked here were nice, and she was getting really tight with Coral, a fashion photographer. She hung around with the catwalk girls but she was human. For starters she ate actual food. And drank beer with real calories. Smiled with warmth instead of teeth.
Yeah, there were some pretty amazing people in this town. But a day on her own tomorrow was exactly what she needed.
She stacked up all the bills and tucked them into the money box, opened the safe and locked it all away. She was quite alone now. The kitchen staff had gone and the place was quiet and dark. She slid her feet back into her shoes, lifted her cup and padded back through to the restaurant, turning off the remaining lamps one by one before she lifted the keys.
Betty’s was situated in an old house, set back from the road and secluded amongst high hedges that muffled the sounds of traffic and the rolling, crashing waves. At this time of night the staff left by the side door—solid and heavy and fitted with brass latches and handles. It had no window and weighed so much that even opening and closing it took huge effort.
Stacey slid back the bolts and pulled it open, feeling the heat of high summer warm on her face. She stepped onto the slab steps and stood, breathing in the damp salty air. The night was clear, but it was hard to see, and she fumbled then dropped her keys. She could make out the gleam of brass at her feet, but just as she reached out to lift them a bright beam of light flooded the scene.
She jumped up and turned round. Twin beams from a car’s headlamps were trained right at her. The engine wasn’t on. No one got in or out. She held her hand up to shield her eyes and called out, but she couldn’t even make out what type of car it was. Suddenly she felt panic surge into her mouth. Was this a robbery? Would she have to go in to get the money? Did they have a gun?
Praying that her little pumps wouldn’t fall off, she bounded down the three steps and began to run.
‘Stacey! It’s all right—it’s me—stop!’
She heard the words and knew the voice and her steps faltered. Her ankle twisted as she landed and she yelped in pain. Seconds later Marco was there—right beside her.
‘Stacey—stop—are you okay?’
She grabbed her ankle and hopped. He reached for her but she batted out at him with her hand to get him to back off. And she cursed him. ‘Dammit, Marco, you scared me half to death. What are you doing, sitting there like a stalker?’
‘I’m waiting for you. I wanted to talk to you. Stop hitting at me, Stacey,’ he said, grabbing her wrist and shaking his head.
Her eyes were now seeing past the glare of the headlamps and properly taking in the figure of Marco. Tall, strong and impossibly handsome.
She tugged her arm free, but when she tried to walk she lost her footing as her ankle twisted in pain.
‘Here,’ he said, his deep voice cutting through the night.
And before she could squeal he had scooped her up into his arms and was holding her pressed against his chest.
‘And don’t bother struggling. Just accept my help without a fight, for once in your life.’
She drew her mouth into a grimace and breathed in deep, ready to give him a piece of her mind, but as she did so she smelled him. She smelled the uniqueness of him—his skin, his cologne, his maleness. Her hand slid out and laid itself flat against his chest, against the muscle, hot and hard. She looked up and saw his face, outlined in the yellowy beam of light. The lines of his jaw were firm and strong, and the angle of his cheekbones was moulded from the perfect mask of some bygone Roman emperor.
The pity was he acted like an emperor too.
She felt her anger rise up. Who on earth did he think he was? She tried to wriggle out of his grip to stand on her own two feet, but he held her tighter and leaned over to open the door.
‘Do as you are told, Stacey. Now—sit,’ he said, placing her gently into the passenger seat. ‘And don’t move.’
He closed the door and came around, slid inside himself and started up the engine.
‘Well, here we are again,’ he said. ‘Driving away from the scene of an accident.’
‘Caused by you,’ she said.
She stared straight ahead, not trusting herself to look. Not trusting herself not to get all wrapped up in him all over again.
‘What do you want, Marco? I’ve had a hard shift and I just want to get back to my place.’
He answered that by putting his foot down. He knew the road better than anyone, and she had no fear, but still the surge of speed from his powerful car made her adrenaline pump all the harder around her body.
‘This isn’t the way,’ she said as he took the cut-off and started to drive away from her neighbourhood. ‘I’ve moved. I’m on the other side of town.’
‘I know where you are. But we’re not going there.’
‘You’re heading to the Meadows, aren’t you?’
He nodded, then put his chin down.
‘Look, can’t this wait? I’m off tomorrow. I’m too tired for anything now.’
‘No, it can’t wait,’ he said.
He speeded up again on the two-mile-long stretch of road that led only to the Meadows, and then slowed as they neared the gates. Huge and heavy, they swung open and he nosed the car inside. Low lamps studded along the edges of the driveway suddenly began to glow in sequence in a crescent before them.
Stacey sat up at the fairytal
e display. ‘You brought me here to see your place at night? Okay. I get it. It’s beautiful,’ she said. ‘But you overestimate my interest, Marco. We’re nothing to do with one another any more. You should show it to someone who really cares. I’m only interested if you pay me, remember?’
‘I wouldn’t rule that out,’ he said, keeping his eyes dead straight on the road.
Ahead the lamps became lit at the farthest corner of the drive, and there at the end stood the magnificence of Sant’Angelo’s. All around it soft light sank from the eaves like sheer golden drapes to the ground, illuminating the stonework and the exquisite planters. High, wide windows—at least twenty on each side—pronounced the grandeur of the building. The entrance itself was wide, but welcoming, with a broad arch leading to a series of inner arches and finally to two heavy wooden doors.
‘Wow,’ said Stacey, despite herself. ‘You really have pulled it off.’
‘I’m happy you think so,’ said Marco.
He slowed the car and crawled the last hundred yards to park at a broad sweep of steps.
‘I knew it was beautiful but I don’t remember it being like this. This is something else.’
‘It was never like this before. I’ve had quite a lot done.’
They both stared up at it through the car’s windscreen. The upper floor looked every bit as imposing as the ground.
‘It’s been all over Betty’s about the work being done, but nobody seemed to know what, exactly.’
‘That’s a surprise. Must be the first time ever that word didn’t get out in Montauk. Wait,’ he said, opening his door and skirting the car to join her.
Stacey reached down to her ankle, absentmindedly rubbing her hand around it. It was swollen—there was no doubt. Unlikely she’d be climbing up any ladders with a paintbrush tomorrow.
Marco was at her side and the door was opened. He reached inside to scoop her up under her legs.
‘Hey, Marco, this is stupid—’ she began.
‘Stacey once—just once—would you give it a rest?’
She was up and in his arms, smoothly and swiftly held against him.
She put her arms around his neck and scowled. ‘It’s late, it’s dark, you scared the living daylights out of me and you expect me to be happy? After the last time we met?’
‘Be happy for me, honey. Hmm...?’
Stacey looked up at him sharply. He never used terms of endearment or sweet little monikers—ever.
‘Are you feeling all right?’
He shrugged her closer to his body, beamed a big smile down at her. ‘Never better...never better.’
Something inside Stacey began to flutter to life. Some dark, gloomy corner of her heart suddenly brightened. She held on a little tighter.
As he walked them up the steps she noticed stone sconces, their quivering flames dancing in the light breeze. Night jasmine wafted from the planters, and the air was warm and thick with summer. As they neared the doors they opened automatically, allowing them a glimpse of what lay behind.
Marco stepped forward, and then paused on the threshold.
‘I’ll take it from here myself,’ said Stacey.
The significance of being carried into a house by a man who wasn’t her husband wasn’t lost on her. She was done with any and all of those sorts of notions. She was on her own and she was better off that way.
He hesitated as she pushed back, and then relented and released her. She slid down his body, stifled a yelp when she put weight on her foot. But it wasn’t broken, and she’d endured worse, so she hobbled forward and then straightened up and stepped through the doors.
Inside, the house was even more impressive. Although it was hundreds of years old he had installed clean, modern touches, with light flooding from cupolas on the ceiling and glass panels along one wall. The sweeping central staircase had been renovated, but its grandeur remained. Stacey’s eyes scanned the vast hallway and the corridors leading off on either side. Polished floors, beautiful rugs and subtle lighting lent an atmosphere of modernity to its ancient dimensions.
‘What do you think?’
Marco looked down at her and smiled. His eyes twinkled and his whole face glowed with pleasure. Her heart lit up with joy for him.
‘Oh, Marco,’ she said. ‘I truly am happy for you. You got your house back and it was worth every second of your time and effort.’
She looked from one velvety brown eye to the other and almost burst with happiness. He was beaming with pride and she was beaming with pride for him.
‘Come on—I’ll show you round,’ he said.
He took her hand and she walked as carefully as she could inside.
‘When do you move in?’ she asked. ‘Or have you already? The gossips were quite sure you weren’t going to live here—that it would be too full of memories.’
He laughed at that.
‘At one point I might have agreed with them. Right up until last week, in fact.’
He paused at the doorway to a large sitting room, mostly open-plan. Although the night’s darkness reflected the room back on itself, through sheets of glass she could see out across the lit terrace to a pool beyond.
‘It struck me—even before I got the news that Preston had sold it to me—that I was trying to close a deal that deep down didn’t really matter to me. It was all about the past—about getting back something I thought was important—instead of being about the future. At the end of the day we’re all living on borrowed land. Before the Borsattos were the Dutch and the English. And the natives before them. And that doesn’t even begin to take account of the wildlife.’
‘I know. You were protecting your family name—we all got that,’ she said simply. She’d learned to tune out of some of the conversations that had infested Betty’s.
‘What do you think? Do you remember these?’
Stacey drew her gaze back from the spectacular outdoors and followed his nod. There above a long sleek stainless steel stove, set into the wall, sat the three huge prints from his Atlantic City apartment.
She stepped forward. Smiled.
‘Hey, yes! The lovely sky prints. Your saving grace in that antiseptic apartment.’
Then she looked around and smiled.
‘You have some lovely things, Marco. Beautiful.’ She moved around awkwardly on her foot, but it was fine, and she drew her fingers along a mauve velvet antique roll-top sofa, silk and satin cushions in the colours of saris from an Indian stall. The pale walls and light wood floors carried the little splashes of colour and old meeting new so well.
‘Wow. It’s beautiful. I love your colours. The whole vanilla look has—gone!’
She looked round to see how he would take that, but he was smiling.
‘Yeah. That was the old Marco. You really like it?’
She nodded, looking round, taking in more details. ‘I do—I really do. I’m impressed. Your designer has totally nailed it.’
‘It was you who inspired it.’
Stacey let those words land just as lightly as it seemed they were said. She danced her eyes across all of the other things she could see. Little pieces of glass, a statue of a Hindu god, cashmere throws...
‘You pointed out that the apartment wasn’t a home—it didn’t have any soul.’
‘Well, I didn’t mean to offend you. I was only trying to say that you seemed to be playing it safe.’
‘I’ve been playing it safe for too long. In my personal life too.’
At that she paused. ‘What are you saying, Marco?’
‘I miss you, Stacey. You light me up. You bring colour into my world. It’s so dull and lonely without you.’
Instantly she felt her eyes burn. The shock of hearing those words had torn open the old wound. The layers of time and grief, of work and struggle, all her attempts at self-love—lifted up like so much wet tissue. She was as sore underneath as she’d ever been. All those weeks and the scar could be lifted with four little words.
But they weren’t the four little wor
ds she needed to hear. She wasn’t going to let all that care and effort go to waste. He wasn’t going to walk back into her life and say a bunch of stuff that meant nothing. She was not going to get carried away on another infatuation. Particularly one with Marco Borsatto.
She turned her head, pursed her lips, steeled herself.
‘I didn’t think I could, but I want to try to have a relationship with you,’ he said.
She wished she had something to cauterise the pain—something that would numb her against him for ever. An operation to seal over her bleeding heart. But all she had were words.
‘And that’s what you mean by “playing it safe” for too long? Having a relationship with me would be taking a walk on the wild side? Flying by the seat of your pants?’
He walked towards her. She could see him in the window.
‘Can we have a conversation without an attack, Stacey? I want to explain how I feel.’
‘Marco, it’s three in the morning. You bring me here—and I still don’t really know why after the last time we met—and you think we can have a conversation about how you feel? Have you thought for one minute how I feel? How I felt when you thought I was going to lose you your deal? When you thought I was holding out for more than a one-night stand? Or, worst of all, when you practically accused me of becoming the new Mrs Preston Chisholm? Did you stop for one single moment to see things from my point of view?’
‘I know I messed up. I know I’m suspicious of people. But you can’t blame me for that. The world I live in is stuffed full of piranhas trying to take a bite. I can’t trust anyone any more.’
‘But all of a sudden you feel you can trust me? You think I might not actually want to jump into bed with a man I clearly despise just to get you back for rejecting me?’
‘I’m sorry—truly sorry. I was out of my mind with jealousy. I wanted you, but I didn’t want to want you—do you understand? I find it hard to have faith in people. And you—You did it to me once before, Stacey. I know it shouldn’t matter, and I tried not to let it get in the way, but it hurt me, dammit. It really hurt me.’
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