by Maya Banks
“Miss I really think...” Something in his voice stilled her and, despite the police officer’s youthful looks, Matilda saw the wisdom in his eyes as he offered some worldly advice for free. “I think that for now at least you need to leave this family alone. Emotions are already pretty high. Give it a day or two and it will calm down, but I think the best thing you can do now is take Mr Costello’s advice and go home.”
Chapter 11
Everything was hard—even tidying her tiny apartment required a mammoth effort, yet she felt compelled to do it. Despite her fatigue, and utter exhaustion, she needed to somehow clear the decks, to get things in order before she took on the even bigger task of getting on with the rest of her life.
A life without Dante.
Pushing the vacuum around, Matilda wished the noise from the machine could drown out her thoughts, wished she could just switch off her mind, find some peace from the endless conundrums.
Two weeks ago she hadn’t even known he’d existed, he hadn’t factored into even one facet of her life, and now he consumed her all—every pore, every breath every cell of her. She was drenched with him, possessed by him, yearned for him, but was furious with him, too. A molten river of anger bubbled over the edge of her grief every now and then that Dante would have let her leave without even knowing whether his daughter was alive or dead, assuming that the world ran on the same emotionless clock as he did, where feelings could be turned off like a light switch and the truth distorted enough to conjure up reasonable doubt.
She’d been home four days now. Four days when he hadn’t even bothered to pick up the phone and let her know about Alex—surly she deserved that much at least?
For the first couple of nights Matilda had watched him on the nightly TV news, striding out of the courtroom without comment. She had scanned the newspapers by day for a glimpse of him, trying to read messages that weren’t there in the tiny stilted statements that were quoted. But it had become unbearable, seeing him, reading about him yet knowing she couldn’t have him, so instead she’d immersed herself in anything she could think of, anything that might turn her mind away from him and give her peace even for a moment. She knew it was useless, knew that she could work till she dropped, could fill her diary with engagements, could go out with friends every night, but she’d never fully escape, that all she could hope was that the agony might abate, might relent just enough to allow her to breathe a little more easily.
Kicking off the vacuum, Matilda gave in and padded towards the wardrobe, as she had done repeatedly for the last four days. She pulled out Dante’s dressing-gown, which in her haste she had inadvertently packed, feeling the heavy fabric between her fingers, knowing that the sensible thing to do would be to throw it into the washing machine, to parcel it up and mail it to him. But it was the one task she was putting off, pathetically aware that apart from her bittersweet memories it was the only reminder of Dante she had. Sitting on the edge of the bed, she buried her face in the robe, dragging in his evocative aroma. And it was like feeling it all over again, every breath reinforcing the agony of his rejection, the blistering pain of his denial. A scent that had once been so beautiful was tainted now for ever. In fact, it almost made her feel nauseous now as she revisited the pain, the devastation...
“Alex!”
For the first time in days, Dante left her mind, the name of his daughter shivering out of her lips, but it wasn’t a sob. Her tears turned off like a tap, thoughts, impossible, incredulous thoughts pinging in, realisation dawning. She shook her head to clear it, because surely it couldn’t be so...surely the thought that had just occurred would be flawed on examination, that Alex’s problems couldn’t really be that simple. But instead, the more she thought about it the more sense it made, the more she had to share it.
“Hugh.” Her hands were shaking so much after several fruitless attempts to reach Dante that she’d had to dial his number several times. “I need to speak to Dante. His phone’s turned off, but is there any way when the court takes a break—”
“He’s not here.” Hugh’s voice was so flat, so low, that Matilda had to strain to catch it.
“Can you give me his assistant’s number?” Matilda asked, shame and embarrassment pushed aside. Right now she didn’t care about Dante’s response to her—this was way, way more important.
“Matilda, have you seen the newspaper, the television?” Hugh asked, as her free hand flicked on the remote, wondering what on earth Hugh was going on about. “The charges were all dropped, the trial finished two days ago...”
“Two days ago?” Matilda’s mind raced for comfort but there was none to be had. She couldn’t even pretend it was because of the trial, because of work that he hadn’t called her. But she dragged herself to the present, forced herself to focus on the reason she needed to talk to him so badly. “Hugh, I need to speak to him urgently.” Her voice was the most assertive she’d ever heard it. “Now, can you, please, tell me how I can get hold of him?”
“He’s in Italy.” And even though she wanted to have misheard, even though at the eleventh hour she mentally begged for a reprieve, Matilda knew from the utter devastation in Hugh’s voice that there wouldn’t be one.
Dante really had gone.
“He’s asked me not to ring for a few weeks, Matilda. He wants some time to sort things out and I’ve tried to respect that—not that it matters. I know that his housekeeper won’t put me through and I’m pretty sure she wouldn’t put...”
He didn’t say it, didn’t twist the taut knife any further, but they both knew the words that filled the silence that crackled down the telephone line. If he wouldn’t even speak to Hugh, what hope was there of Dante speaking to her?
“Hugh.” Matilda’s mind was going at a thousand miles an hour. She knew she couldn’t tell Hugh what she thought she knew, couldn’t build him up just to tear him down, knew she had to tread carefully now. “Could I ask you to give me his address?”
“I don’t know.” She could feel his hesitation, knew that she was asking him to cross a line, but she also knew that Hugh wanted Dante back in Australia more than anything in the world, and if something Matilda said could make that happen then perhaps it was worth a try. “I guess it wouldn’t do any harm to write to him, then it’s up to Dante whether or not he reads it.”
Matilda held her breath as she scrabbled for a pen, then closed her eyes in blessed relief as finally, after the longest time, Hugh gave it to her.
“Thanks, Hugh.” Matilda said, clicking off the telephone, and even though it was the biggest, possibly the most reckless decision of her life, amazingly she didn’t hesitate. She flicked through the phone book before making her second call of the day, knowing that if she thought about it, tried to rationalise it, she’d never do it.
“I’d like to book a flight to Rome, please.”
“When did you want to go?” Running a shaking hand through her hair, Matilda listened to the efficient voice, could hear the taps on the keyboard as the woman typed in the information. Taking a deep breath, she uttered the most terrifying words of her life.
“I’d like the next available flight, please.”
Chapter 12
“I’m sorry the flight has been overbooked.”
Matilda could barely take it in, just blinked back as the well-groomed woman tapped over and over at her computer. She was scarcely able to believe what she was hearing, that the seat she’d booked and paid for just a few short hours ago had never been avail
able in the first place, that flights were often overbooked and that if she read the fine print on her ticket she’d realise that there was nothing she could do—that she’d just have to wait until the next flight.
“When is the next flight?” Matilda’s trembling voice asked, watching the long, immaculately polished nails stroking the keyboards.
“I can get you on tomorrow at eleven a.m.”
She might just as well have said the next millennium, Matilda realised, because her conviction left her then, the conviction that had forced her to pick up the telephone and book her flight, the conviction that had seen her pack at lightning speed, cancel work, persuade her family, hissed out of her like the air in a balloon when the party was over. And it was over, Matilda realised.
If ever she’d wanted a sign, this was it—and it wasn’t a subtle one. Neon lights flashing over the ground steward’s head couldn’t have spelt it out clearer.
She’d been stupid to think she could do it, could convince Dante what she felt in her heart was wrong with Alex. Her family, her friends had all poured scorn on the idea, even she herself had when she’d attempted to write down what was screaming so clearly in her mind. That was the reason she had to see Dante face to face, had to tell him now, couldn’t put it in a letter, couldn’t wait for tomorrow, because only now could she really believe it—only now, before her argument was swayed, before she attempted to rationalise what she was sure was true.
Was true because she’d felt it herself.
Had felt it.
“We can offer a refund.”
“I don’t want a refund.” Matilda shook her head. “I have to get this flight.” She heard the words, knew it was her own voice, but even she couldn’t believe the strength behind it. “I have to get this flight because if I don’t get on this plane tonight, I know that I’m never going to...”
And she’d watched the airport shows, had watched passengers pleading their cases, shouting their rage, and had winced from the comfort of her sofa, knowing that no matter how loud they shouted, if the flight was full, if the gate was closed, then they might as well just give up now.
“Gate 10.”
“Sorry?” Matilda started, watching as a tag was swiftly clipped around a rather shabby suitcase before it bumped out of view, watching as those manicured fingers caught the boarding pass from the printer and offered it to her.
“Gate 10,” came the clipped voice. “Business and first class are boarding now—you’d better step on it.”
And the most infrequent of frequent flyers Matilda might have been, but she wasn’t a complete novice either. Her overwrought mind worked overtime as she made it through passport control then dashed along the carpeted floors of Melbourne airport, walked along the long passageway, knowing that the comfort level of the next twenty-four hours was entirely dependent on a single gesture.
Right for Economy.
Left for Business.
“Good evening, Miss Hamilton.” Blond, gorgeous and delightfully gay, the flight attendant greeted her and Matilda held her breath, playing a perverse game of he loves me, he loves me not. He checked her ticket and gestured her to her seat.
“Straight through to your left, first row behind the curtain.”
And it didn’t matter if he loved her or he loved her not, Matilda decided, slipping into her huge seat and declining an orange juice but accepting champagne in a glass. It didn’t matter that she couldn’t really afford the air fare and that if she lived to be a thousand she’d never be able to justify flying to the other side of the world on a hunch. If she’d wanted a sign then she had one. She really was doing the right thing, not for herself, not even for Dante...but for Alex.
* * *
Rome, Matilda decided, had to be the most beautiful city in the world, because jet-lagged, at six a.m. on a cold grey morning and nursing a broken heart, nothing in the world should have been able to lift her spirits, but hurtling through the streets of the Eternal City in a taxi, Matilda was captivated. So captivated that when the hotel receptionist informed her in no uncertain terms that her room wouldn’t be ready for a couple more hours, Matilda was happy to leave her rather small suitcase at the hotel and wander the streets, plunged from the boskiness of a late Australian spring to a crisp Italian autumn.
A fascinated bystander, Matilda watched as the Eternal City awoke, the roads noisily filling up, cars, scooters, cycles, the pavements spilling over with beautiful, elegant people, chattering loudly in their lyrical language as they raced confidently past or halted a moment for an impossibly strong coffee. Everyone, except for her, seemed to know their place, know where they were going. Matilda, in contrast, meandered along cobbled streets which were rich with history, yet welcomed the modern—buildings that had stood for centuries housing a treasure trove of modern fashion, glimpsing a part of Dante’s world and knowing that he was near. Wondering how to face him, how to approach him, how to let him know that she was there.
* * *
Message Sent
Matilda stared at the screen of her much-hated phone and for the first time was actually grateful to have it. Grateful for the ease of rapid contact without speech. Well, not that rapid, Matilda thought ordering another latté to replace her long since cold one, watching as some fabulous, twenty-first-century Sophia Loren managed to drink, smoke, read and text at the same time. After a few failed attempts she’d managed to get her message across, had told Dante where she was now and where she would be staying later and asking if they could meet for a discussion—snappy, direct and impersonal.
Everything she’d tried and failed to be.
But when her message brought no response, when, looking at her watch, Matilda realised her room would be ready and she pulled out her purse and unpeeled the unfamiliar money, only then did the magnitude of what she had done actually catch up with her. Nerves truly hit as she realised that for all she knew, Dante might not even be in Italy—he could have stopped in Bangkok or Singapore for a break. It had seemed so important to see him at the time, it had never actually dawned on her that Dante might not want to see her, that she could have come all this way only to find out that he didn’t even care what she had to say. Maybe she should have made it clear that she’d come to talk about Alex. Perhaps if she texted him again...
“Matilda.”
Thankful that her fingers were still in her purse and not creeping towards her phone, Matilda took the longest time to look up—truly unsure how she felt when she finally stared into the face whose loss she had been mourning. He looked older somehow, his skin a touch paler, the shadows under his eyes like bruises now, as if all the trouble of the past eighteen months had finally caught up with him—nothing like the dashing young barrister who’d walked out of a Melbourne courtroom a few days ago. Clearly he hadn’t shaved since then, but instead of looking scruffy it gave him a slightly tortured, artistic look. Matilda decided, as he slid into the seat next to her and consumed her all over again, there was still more than a dash of the old Dante, still that irrefutable sex appeal.
Odd that when there was so much to say, when it was so outlandish that she was actually here, that the silence they sat in for a few moments wasn’t particularly uncomfortable. Matilda gathered the images that fluttered in her mind, knowing she would take them out and explore them later. Dante accepted the coffee and plate of biscotti from the waiter and pushed them towards her.
“No, thanks.” Matilda shook her head and Dante obviously wasn’t hungry either b
ecause he pushed the plate away untouched.
“Seems I was wrong about you,” he said finally. “You’re not afraid of confrontation after all.”
“Actually, you were right.” Matilda gave a pale smile. “I’m not here to confront you, Dante.” She watched as his eyes narrowed. “Whatever your opinion of me, please, know that I’ve got a better one of myself, and chasing after a man who clearly doesn’t want me has never been my style.”
She watched his face harden, watched his jaw crease as if swallowing some vile taste down before speaking, his voice almost derisive because clearly he thought he knew better than her, clearly he assumed that she was lying. “So why are you here, then, Matilda? If not about us, why are you here in Rome?”
“I’m here about Alex.” It was obviously the last thing he’d expected her to say because his face flickered in confusion, his eyes frowning as she continued. “I think I know what’s wrong with her. I think I’ve worked out what causes her to get upset, why she continues...”
“Matilda.” In a supremely Latin gesture he flicked her words away with his hands. “I have consulted with the top specialists, I have had my daughter examined from head to toe and you, after one week of knowing her, after barely spending—”
“It’s jasmine.” The two words stopped him in mid-sentence. His mouth opened to continue, to no doubt tell her she had no idea what she was talking about, but her urgent voice overrode him, her frantic eyes pinning him. Matilda knew if he would only listen to her for a single minute then it had to be a valuable one, that even if he didn’t believe her now then maybe tonight, next week, next month, when they were both out of each other’s lives for ever, when the pain of this moment had passed, he would recall her words objectively and maybe, maybe they’d make sense.