by Caro LaFever
If she did, she’d give up on herself, the new Lise. Give up on who she really was, who she’d found in this home, in his family, in his arms.
She’d lose the essence of her true self if she lost him.
With a sudden resolve, she swept away the last of her tears. She wasn’t going to cry anymore. She wasn’t going to stumble around looking forlorn. She wasn’t going to let go.
Okay, she’d been stupid. However, he’d been stupid too.
Wrenching the water off, she stepped out of the shower and wrapped a plush, lime-green towel around her. She walked to the mirror and looked directly into her eyes. The rims were red, yet the blue was determined. Her jaw firmed.
“I’m not going to let him do this,” she stated to her image. “I am not going to let him win. Not this time.”
Vico had believed the worst instantly. Without giving her a chance. Without waiting for an explanation. She had a part to play in this mess, but he did, too. He should have been more patient. He should have listened.
He should have trusted her.
Lise marched into the bedroom, the one they shared, and over to her dressing room. Jerking clothes off the hook, she started to plan.
He was in London. Hannah had emailed her surprise at his arrival. Her shock at his surly behavior. The mention of some tabloid pictures of his activities last night had been hinted at, which had set Lise’s heart pumping. The gentle question as to whether everything was all right had been too much to answer today.
Everything was not all right.
Still, she was not going to let him keep it that way.
He was surly? Just wait until he met her. Slapping her suitcase on the bed, she began to pack.
There would be no divorce. She’d fight him on it.
There would be no other women. She’d tie him to the bed if she had to.
Somehow she’d find a way to make those tiger eyes come alive once more. With passion and heat. With tenderness and concern. With love, damn it.
With love.
And then…
She twisted her hands around the edge of the towel and took in a deep breath. The flash of her ring caused her to glance down. The flash was not of a cool, clear diamond. The flash was of fiery life. A life she was going to grab and hold on to.
Then…she’d confess those three words. Finally.
* * *
The deadness inside him kept expanding.
Minute by slow minute.
First it had clutched and clawed at his broken heart as he’d read the email. Figured out what he’d hoped for was a total illusion. Remembered Lise’s initial reaction to him, reminded himself of the hate he’d thought was gone. Recalled what the true reality was of this marriage of his. Thought of those accusations her mother had spoken. The accusations and labels and damning names Lise had agreed with.
Obviously.
His heart had frozen dead as he’d read the final words of the email.
Vico stared out his office window at the dull, damp clouds hanging above late-afternoon London. When he’d arrived here yesterday, thunderstorms had swept the streets of pedestrians, but now the clouds were merely sullen, a surly reminder of the storm still in store.
Tapping his fingers on the pane, he tried to force the melancholy back, force the thoughts from him. The deadness. Yet they kept marching through his memory and through his emotions like stark soldiers off to war.
His heart hadn’t been enough.
The deadness inside him had wanted more.
In the hours he’d waited for her in his office at the villa, it had crept across his chest and arms. His muscles tightened into rigid bands of pain. When she’d arrived, he found it hard to speak, hard to breathe. His pride was still alive, though, and it had prodded the words out. Protected him from falling to his knees in front of her.
But his pride was now also gone. Gone to the deadness. Somewhere over France, as the plane hummed beneath his feet, his pride succumbed to its own death. Cut to pieces by his memories and regrets.
He’d immediately come into the office when he’d landed at Heathrow, hoping business would distract him. Fifteen years ago, education and then business had saved him from himself. Maybe it would work one more time. The office had been busy, productive—
And surprised to see him.
They’d grown accustomed to his long-distance contact.
Exactly as he’d grown accustomed to life with Lise, accustomed to her laughter and love.
There’d been no love, the deadness whispered.
Nothing, not the phone calls, the emails, the texts, nothing could pry this last thought out of his head. For the rest of the day, he’d sat in his office staring into space and throwing an occasional brusque comment to anyone who dared to come in and question him or greet him.
Then he’d gone home to silence.
With a sound of disgust, he slapped his hand on the window. Rather than slapping himself.
Last night had been a complete fiasco, but the deadness creeping through him had terrified him. He’d gone out, drunk too much, laughed instead of cried. He ached, groaned inside as he’d flirted, had his picture taken, smiled some more. Still, not all the alcohol in London could force him to go home with the giggling woman he found sitting by him at three a.m. Somehow, he’d found himself on his own sofa, his head swimming.
Alone.
There’d been no escape from his terror then, even in his stupor. The deadness had kept coming, circling around him until it swamped his entire being. In his dazed drunkenness, he’d even seen his soul shrink inside him, while his spirit swirled above his head before disappearing into the air.
Had he cried out? Probably. But there’d been no one there to console or comfort.
Precisely as he deserved.
How could he be angry with her when she was only protecting herself and her child? How could he rage at her when she was only recognizing the reality of his coarseness, his vulgarity, his unsuitability? And how could he hold his fury inside him, when what she was doing was the right thing?
Had he slept? If he had, it was the sleep of the damned.
This morning, he’d stuck himself in the shower, shivering in the water, yet his brain kept working. It appeared to be the only part of him still alive. Thus, he’d found himself at his office, once more, determined to keep some part of him going. He had forced himself to go through every one of his emails today, had pushed himself to make the calls he’d needed to make. He’d met with several new clients, held a board meeting, dictated numerous letters.
Business, even now, had to be conducted.
After all, he’d shortly be paying out quite a bit of money to his ex-wife.
Distant amusement made him chuckle. The sound rasped in his throat.
There wasn’t much left of him, was there? He was now purely a vessel, a hollow man alive for one reason only.
To pay her back. Not as a vendetta or as an act of revenge. Exactly the opposite. Pay her with his penance, as a sacrifice. Pay her for the stupid trick he’d done in a moment of pure selfishness. Pay her back for impregnating her with a child of a savage. Pay her for making her marry him.
He’s not worthy of my little girl.
When had he forgotten this all-important point? Somewhere in the sunny days by her side, the happy moments sharing her with his family, somewhere he’d forgotten. Forgotten his past, his crimes, his unworthiness.
He deserved this. This death. Deserved this and more.
With a jerk, he straightened.
This was the first day of the rest of his life. A life he would now dedicate to her. She’d get the divorce she wanted; it was only what she was owed. She’d get his money too, more than she’d asked for in those documents. And she’d get his bambino. Because he could never be the father she wanted for her baby. Somewhere, somehow he’d have found a way to go off the rails and screw over his child, just as he had his own life and his own marriage.
Perhaps this deadness inside him was all
to the good.
Because the thought of giving away contact with his son, of never really being a father, merely pinged at his emotions instead of slaughtering them.
Striding to his desk, he reached for his phone.
He would need to notify his family of his wishes. He could not be with Lise ever again, nor his son. However, she needed people who loved and adored her so she’d be taken care of. His family would be shocked, yet not surprised at the news, at his confession of barbaric behavior. His personal activities had always, inevitably caused some kind of disaster. The only thing he’d ever been able to do well was business and this would be the only thing he touched from now on.
This he promised himself. And the Princesse. And his unborn son.
“Mr. Mattare?” His PA’s voice echoed over the intercom, just as he skimmed through his personal contacts looking for his momma.
“Si?” Vico gritted his teeth and kept clicking on the phone. He didn’t care what the interruption was. Lise was more important than anything at this moment.
“Your wife would like to see you.”
His finger stilled. “What?”
“Your wife is here.” His PA’s voice lilted with friendly regard. “She’d like a moment of your time.”
Lise? She had traveled to London by herself?
He almost howled. His plane had been here, not in Italy. She’d taken a commercial flight, alone and pregnant. His security had not informed him of this visit. They had not told him of her leaving the villa. So they didn’t know. The woman had left the safety of the villa and ventured out with no protection. The woman had hauled her luggage into some damn taxi, dragged it into the airport, and stuck herself in one of those cramped commercial seats without any help.
Was she crazy?
Another thought crashed into him. He didn’t want this. Couldn’t take this. He barely held himself together as it was. With Lise in his vicinity, the fragile hold he had on his emotions would disappear.
But he could hardly tell Sally to send his wife away.
“Send her in.”
“Yes, sir.”
The door flew open. His wife marched into his office and slammed the door behind her. Her face was flushed, her hair wild around her head as if she’d hadn’t run a comb through it in days. She was dressed in an odd jumble of clothing—an old knitted sweater over a grey T-shirt, matched with a tan pair of pants she’d used only when she’d dug around in the villa’s garden.
A string of sharp memories suddenly stung him. The Princesse holding court in his boardroom, all sophisticated refinement. Lise on his bed that first night, all sex and elegance and lace and beauty. His mia dolce, all class and charm even when she wore only her bathing suit.
“This!” she shrieked, waving a tabloid at him. “I won’t put up with this!”
His soon-to-be-ex-wife never shrieked.
She’d yelled at him a time or two. She’d occasionally snarled.
Still, never would Lise Helton Mattare shriek.
“Do it again and I won’t be responsible for my actions.” The woman shrieked once more. In a much louder tone.
Could this possibly be his Lise?
Not yours anymore.
The thought brought him up short and pulled him out of his stunned disbelief. His anger at her stupidity at traveling alone returned with a vengeance. “Are you mad?”
“Yes.” She strode to his desk and slapped the offending paper down with a crack. “As a matter of fact I am.”
Gritting his teeth, he leaned over to stick his face in hers. “I meant, are you crazy to travel all this way with no protection? What the hell were you thinking?”
Her gaze blazed a fierce blue. A blue he’d never seen before. This blue did not resemble ice in any way. Her eyes were a hot, fiery cerulean. A glittering, radiant sear of color that tore into his blood with astounding speed.
His erection was immediate. And so inappropriate.
“Never again, do you hear me?” She matched his lean, their noses almost touching. “I will forgive you this one time. But not one time more.”
Forgive him? She didn’t know the extent of his sins. How could she forgive him? The pain flared, burning at the edges of the death crouched around his heart and soul.
This was too much for him.
Vico sucked in a breath and paced away to stand by the window. Glaring out at the laden clouds, he absently noticed the rain starting to drip down the glass.
None of this made sense. Why was she here? Why had she followed him?
Maledizione. The woman was eight months pregnant. She probably shouldn’t have been on a plane at all, much less alone without any security.
“You should not be here,” he intoned to the London landscape, trying to keep his voice even. “You should not have traveled in your condition.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” He sensed her coming up behind him. “That isn’t even an issue compared to what we have to deal with.”
Frustration blistered in him. He’d thought he’d left this behind. He’d thought any remaining contact would be through their solicitors. He’d thought he’d never have to see her again, talk to her again, want her again.
“I’ll give you what you want.” His jaw hurt from the tight clench. “I won’t contest the divorce.”
Her huff was filled with disgust. “So you think that absolves you of your behavior?”
She wanted the last ounce of his blood. The last slip of his pride. Yet this was fair. Her demand was even worthy. The Italian in him understood—an eye for an eye. “No, nothing will absolve me of my behavior.”
A short, sharp silence fell.
He felt her breath, the beat of her heart like it was his own. Crippling pain at the loss of her torched at the deadness, the emptiness. Now, now he was no longer terrified of the numb blanket covering his emotions. Now he wanted it to stay until she left. Protect him until she’d finally left his life for good.
She sighed behind him. “Okay. I accept you were very upset when you arrived in London last night and that was my fault. So, you did something stupid. We’ll put it behind us.”
Last night? Her fault?
“What?” He jerked around and stared at her in complete bewilderment. “What are you talking about?”
Her mouth was firm and resolved, but her eyes were no longer crystal clear. They were muddy with disappointment. At him. Obviously. He accepted that. However, he wasn’t following her conversation, didn’t understand how last night’s drunken dissolution had anything to do with her.
“Let’s not play games.” Her mouth tightened even more before she turned and walked across the room to the paper she’d slapped on his desk. Taking the tabloid in her hand, she started to drop it into his wastebasket. “It’s not important anymore.”
A tabloid.
“Wait.” He stomped over and grabbed it from her. There he was on the cover, a silly grin of anguish on his face, a woman he had no recollection of on his arm.
Trouble in paradise for Vico and his bride?
“Dio.” He stared at the headline and then swung his head around to meet her saddened gaze. “This? This is what you’re talking about?”
“I saw it the minute I landed.” Her hands twisted in front of her. “It hurt, Vico. It hurt.”
His heart pumped. Jerked. Broke free of the dead clutching at it. “I don’t—”
“I know I hurt you, too, though.” Tears welled in her crystalline eyes. “So I’m willing to forgive and forget.”
“Lise.” He slapped the tabloid down. “I was a fool and got drunk. But I slept on my couch. Alone.”
“You did?” Hope swept across her face.
“Si.”
Why did it matter to her what he’d done last night? And if she’d seen the damn tabloid only after she landed, why had she left the villa for London? Why was she here?
Why was she here?
He stared at her. Confusion mixed with lust inside him. The simmering brew kept bubbling on the ed
ge of his numb soul, kept curling around the spirit that somehow had found a way back into his being.
“So there wasn’t anything to it, then?” Her voice was soft, trusting.
He swept frustrated hands through his hair. “I have plenty of sins to claim, but being a playboy is not one of them. Never has been.”
“Really?”
“Si, really.” What did this matter? His foolish heart was trying to change this tiny part of his reputation in her eyes, when there were huge boulders of sins waiting for her inspection.
“I believe you,” she said. Then, she smiled. A brilliant smile that lit her face.
His soul broke free of the deadness, jumping to life and whirling around his fast-beating heart. But his brain clutched at it and pushed it down. Reminded it of the divorce papers she’d ordered, her mother’s words she’d agreed with.
Reminded his soul of his intrinsic unworthiness.
“None of this matters.” He turned away from that smile.
“It doesn’t matter that your wife believes you?” Her voice iced.
“No.” He paced across the room. Stuck his hands in his pockets. Kept his lust entrapped. “Because soon you won’t be my wife.”
The silence chilled his spine; a shudder of loss ran through him as he heard his own words. But he needed to force them into his soul so it would shrink back. He tried to find the edge of the dead numbness inside him so he could pull it over his aching emotions.
“Look at me.”
Her words were not sharp and dismissive as he’d expected. They were warm and giving. Still, a thread of steel, the part of his Lise he knew well, laced through each word.
Vico stared at the wall in front of him. Dio. He could not turn around to find whatever was there. He could not face whatever she had in store for him. The welter of pain, lust, confusion, love was too much to control in her presence.
“Look at me.”
His breath rasped in his chest. “Go away.”
“Never.”
The words hit him between the shoulders like a punch. Without thinking, he jerked around. “What?”
His wife stood in the middle of his office, looking like a round, fragile waif. Except her eyes were that radiant blue once more and her smile was wide. “I love you.”