Surrendering to the Vengeful Italian

by Angela Bissell

  ‘No—I mean...’ She shook her head. ‘Yes. But I was confused. Frightened.’

  ‘So you were thinking about yourself? Not me? Or what was best for our child?’

  His words cut like the vicious lash of a whip. Smarting, she prised her hands from the back of the sofa then walked around it, her insides trembling.

  ‘Be angry with me, Leo,’ she said, stalking into his space. ‘But don’t judge me. Don’t pretend you have any idea what it’s like to be pregnant and scared and alone. I made some foolish decisions—some bad decisions—but don’t think for a moment I didn’t realise that. Don’t think I didn’t hold our son in my arms and regret, to the very bottom of my soul, that I had denied you that privilege.’

  Leo’s face suddenly paled and the flash of anguish in his eyes sliced through her heart.

  ‘A son?’ He dropped onto the sofa and bowed his head for a long moment. ‘How...?’

  He didn’t finish the question. He didn’t need to.

  She sat beside him, close but not touching, and pulled in a deep breath. She spoke quietly. ‘He was stillborn. He died in my womb two days before he was due.’

  She stared at her hands, pale against the dark denim of her jeans. She didn’t need to look at Leo to know his reaction. His shock was palpable.

  ‘I knew something was wrong because I could no longer feel him kicking. I went straight to the hospital and they confirmed that he didn’t have a heartbeat. The doctors couldn’t tell me why it had happened. Apparently it just does sometimes.’

  She curled her nails into her palms. Her memory of that day was still vivid: the horror, the pain. It was a dark stain on her soul she would never be able to erase.

  ‘They offered an autopsy but I... I turned it down. I didn’t want our little boy cut open,’ she said hurriedly, feeling she had to justify that decision. ‘The results weren’t guaranteed to be conclusive. And it wasn’t going to bring him back.’

  She looked up and Leo’s expression was so stark she wanted to reach out and touch him. But there was no comfort she could offer him. No words of solace. Pain, she knew, eased with time. Nothing else.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ she whispered.

  Abruptly he stood, grabbed his jacket off the chair where he’d tossed it earlier and shrugged it on.

  She swallowed, her heart plummeting. ‘Where are you going?’

  He looked at her, the emotion in those dark eyes impossible to fathom.

  ‘Out. I need a drink.’

  ‘You have a bar here.’

  Ignoring that, he strode to the door.

  Disbelief drove Helena to her feet. ‘So you’re just going to walk out? You don’t even want to talk about it?’ She blinked back tears.

  Damn him. He was hurting. In shock. She got that. But he wasn’t the only one who’d been through an emotional grinder today.

  He stopped and turned. Several beats of silence pulsed between them, each one long and unbearably tense. For a moment she thought he would say something. He didn’t. He spun on his heel and walked out through the door.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  DARKNESS SHROUDED THE suite when Leo returned.

  Had she gone? he wondered. Back to that grim flat of hers? Back to whatever bland, colourless life she’d consigned herself to since the death of their son?

  He flicked on a light and blinked. He wasn’t drunk. In fact he’d nursed a single Scotch in the hotel bar for over an hour before the need to move had overtaken him. And then he’d walked. From the streets of Mayfair to the teeming pavements of Soho and Piccadilly Circus and back to the tree-lined greens of Hyde Park. He’d walked until his feet burned and fatigue stripped away his anger, leaving in its wake the galling knowledge that he’d behaved appallingly.

  He dumped his jacket and looked at his watch. Nine-thirty p.m. Three hours since he’d left—plenty of time for her to pack up and flee. But had she? He moved through the suite, a hard knot forming in his chest at the prospect that she really had gone.

  But, no. Her clothes were still in the bedroom, her toiletries sitting in a neat row on the bathroom vanity.

  So where the hell was she?

  He went back to the lounge and found his phone. He’d switched it off earlier. Maybe she’d left a message? He powered it on and had his code half entered when he heard a noise at the door. A few seconds later it swung open and Helena walked in, carrying a bag and wearing a grey hooded jacket with damp patches on the shoulders.

  He frowned, disguising his relief. ‘You’re wet,’ he said. Inanely. Because it was better than shouting, Where the hell have you been?

  ‘It’s just started raining again.’ She glanced at him, put down the bag and took off her jacket. Her face was flushed, her breathing a little uneven. ‘I only caught a few drops.’

  ‘Where have you been?’ He surprised himself with how reasonable he sounded. How not angry.

  ‘I went home.’

  He raised his eyebrows. ‘How?’

  ‘On the tube. You know...that thing called public transport—for common folk who can’t afford limos.’ Her sarcasm lacked any genuine bite.

  He put his phone down. ‘Why?’

  ‘I needed to get something.’

  She knelt by the bag and lifted out a wooden box, roughly the size of a document-carrier. It looked handcrafted, its golden wood polished to a beautiful sheen, the lock and key and silver side-handles dainty and ornate. She placed it on the coffee table by the sofa and straightened, holding out her hand to him.

  ‘I named our little boy Lucas,’ she said, a smile trembling on her lips. ‘And he was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen.’

  * * *

  Helena watched Leo’s expression crumple in a way she’d never have imagined it could. He closed his eyes and turned away, his shoulders hunched, his head bowed.

  ‘No. I can’t.’

  She walked over and touched his shoulder. ‘You can,’ she said, as firmly as she’d spoken those very same words to her mother. ‘Our son was real, Leo. He didn’t cry or open his eyes or take a breath, but he had ten fingers and ten toes and everything else a perfect baby should have.’ She squeezed his shoulder, felt a tremor run through the hard muscle under her hand. ‘Please,’ she said, willing him to look at her. Willing him to trust her. ‘Let me show you our little boy. I promise it will help.’

  Endless seconds ticked by. Taut, silent seconds that stretched her nerves and amplified each painful beat of her heart. At the very moment her shoulders started to slump, weighted by defeat, he turned.

  ‘Si.’ He dragged a hand over his face. ‘Show me, then.’

  Relief—and a glimmer of hope—trickled through Helena’s veins. She took his hand and led him to the sofa. He sat and she kicked off her shoes, knelt on the floor and opened the box. The first item made her heart give a painful squeeze.

  Hands shaking, she passed it to him. ‘I knitted it myself.’

  Leo’s big, masculine hands dwarfed the tiny purple beanie. He turned it over several times, his eyebrows inching up as he fingered the multi-coloured pompom. ‘It is very...bright.’

  She waggled a pair of fire-engine-red booties. ‘I liked colour, remember? Pastels didn’t get a look-in, I’m afraid.’

  His soft grunt might or might not have been approval. Sitting forward, he peered into the box. ‘Is this...?’ He lifted out a small white plaster mould. ‘Mio Dio.’ He ran his thumb over the tiny indentations created by his son’s hand. His voice deepened. Thickened. ‘So small...and perfect...’

  ‘There are moulds of his feet, too,’ she said, blinking away the sudden prickle of tears. ‘And a lock of hair. Some outfits.’ She delved into the box, removed more items, including an envelope. ‘And I... I have photos.’

  Leo shifted suddenly, sinking to the floor beside her, so close his warm, muscled thigh pressed against hers. He reached for the miniature mould of Lucas’s foot, handling the tiny object with infinite care.

  Helena watched, her throat growing hot, tigh
t. Perhaps this hadn’t been a crazy idea after all? If everything fell apart from here—if they fell apart—at least they would have shared this.

  He put down the mould and turned his attention to the other items she’d laid out, taking his time to handle and examine each one in turn. When he eventually came to the photos he studied them for a long time in silence.

  ‘He looks like he’s sleeping,’ he said at last.

  ‘Yes.’ The ache in her throat became a powerful throb. ‘He does.’

  She sat back on her heels. She could weep right now. For the son she had lost. For the strong, proud man sitting beside her. For the future for which she had dared to hope.

  Instead she climbed to her feet and looked down on Leo’s bowed head. ‘I’m tired, and cold. I think I’ll grab a shower before bed.’ She hovered a moment, but his focus remained on the photo in his hand. ‘Will you...be coming to bed?’

  As she waited for his answer, her muscles tense, her body shivery from tiredness, she realised how much she wanted him to say yes. How badly she needed his arms around her tonight. How desperately she ached for his warmth, his touch, his love.

  ‘Soon,’ he said, and his eyes, when he glanced up, revealed nothing.

  But when Leo finally came to bed, over two hours later, he didn’t put his arms around her. He didn’t touch her. He didn’t even turn in her direction. And though it was only a matter of inches that separated their bodies, the gap might as well have been a chasm. A chasm Helena feared was too wide, too dark and too deep for either of them to bridge.

  * * *

  Leo stood at the French doors and watched lightning fork across the night sky, the jagged streaks of white light searing his retinas.

  Or was it the tears making his eyes burn?

  Dammit.

  He hadn’t cried since the night of Marietta’s accident, but that box had been his undoing. Unravelling him in ways he hadn’t thought possible. Flaying his emotions until his insides felt raw. And yet his pain must be nothing compared to what Helena had suffered. Helena had borne her loss alone, grieved for their son without him because she had been too afraid to tell him she was carrying their child. Too afraid because the last words he’d spoken to her—shouted through a closed hotel door, no less—had been hard, unforgiving words, fired without a care for how deeply they’d wound.

  Thunder boomed, closer now, and he stepped back from the glass. Idiota, standing here watching the storm. Inviting memories of the night his mother had died.

  As a child he’d thought thunder was a sign of God’s anger. Had thought losing his mother was his punishment for boyhood sins: avoiding homework, skipping chores, cornering the big bully who’d pulled Marietta’s hair and punching him in the nose—twice.

  Since then he’d hated thunderstorms. Hated the idea of something so powerful and beyond his control.

  Maybe God was punishing him now?

  For his pride. His anger. His failure to forgive.

  He had targeted one man with single-minded purpose and spared not a thought for collateral damage. Now a woman lay in hospital. Another in his bed.

  And what of her? his conscience demanded. Would Helena, too, become collateral damage when all this was over? Or would the only damage where she was concerned be to his heart?

  ‘Leo?’

  He started, the soft voice behind him catching him by surprise. When he had thrown off the sheets and padded, naked, through to the lounge he had thought Helena asleep—undisturbed, it seemed, by the storm.

  ‘What are you doing?’ she said, drowsy. ‘It’s three a.m.’

  He didn’t turn. Didn’t know what to say to her. What could he say? I’m sorry? No. Useless. Mere words couldn’t express his regret for his behaviour today. His behaviour seven years ago.

  He’d stormed back to Italy like an angry bear, licking his wounds when he should have been here looking after her, sharing the burden of responsibility.

  Of loss.

  He glanced over his shoulder. Her form was a willowy outline in the glow of the single lamp he’d switched on in the corner of the room.

  ‘I couldn’t sleep,’ he said.

  ‘The storm?’

  ‘I don’t like them.’ The words just spilled out. He didn’t know why. He didn’t make a habit of highlighting his weaknesses to people. But then, Helena wasn’t people. She was... Hell, she was so many things—none of which he was in any mood to contemplate.

  ‘Why?’ She was right behind him now.

  He shrugged. ‘Bad memories.’

  He could feel her breath on his shoulder, and the tantalising scent of warm, sleepy woman enveloped him. He scrunched his eyes closed, the rush of blood to his groin turning him hard against his will.

  He wanted her.

  Even with his gut in turmoil, tears drying on his cheeks, he wanted her.

  He heard a rustling behind him and then her arms were slipping around his middle, her slender fingers splaying over his abs. Her heavy breasts pushed into his back, her hips against his buttocks, and his desire surged with the realisation that she’d shed her pyjamas and was now, like him, completely naked.

  He groaned. ‘Helena...’

  ‘Shh.’ She ducked under his arm and took his face in her hands.

  When he drew breath to speak again she tugged his head down and silenced him with a long, drugging kiss.

  Her taste exploded in his mouth, hot and sweet and undeniably erotic. He shuddered, closed his arms around her and surrendered to the burning need only she could assuage. The solace only she could offer. He hoisted her up and her legs hooked around his waist, their mouths continuing to meld and devour—until he started for the bedroom.

  She wrenched her mouth away. ‘No,’ she whispered, lowering her legs, pulling him back to the French doors. She sank to her knees at his feet. ‘Here. Take me here.’

  He stared down at her, his blood pounding, his heart pumping so hard he feared it might punch from his chest.

  This woman stripped him bare. Of his pride. His anger. His guilt. Everything but this deep, compelling need for her.

  ‘Why?’ he said, his throat raw.

  She reached for his hands and dragged him down to the carpet, pushed him onto his back. ‘To replace your bad memories with new ones,’ she said, and mounted him so quickly he almost came the moment her slippery heat encased him.

  He dug his heels into the carpet, seized her hips in an urgent bid to slow her. He wasn’t wearing protection and she was hot and slick, her internal muscles a tight velvet sheath pulsing around him.

  The sensation was exquisite.

  ‘Condom...’ he rasped.

  ‘I’m on the pill.’ She grabbed his wrists, guided his hands to her breasts and arched her back, taking him deeper. Her dark curls tumbled around her shoulders and her features were illuminated as another bright bolt of lightning tore the sky.

  Leo stared up, captivated by the sight of her riding him, by the bold, sensual grind of her pelvis driving him to the brink faster than he’d have liked. Thunder rolled down from the heavens, loud and near, a boom so powerful it slammed into his body with an almighty thud.

  ‘Come with me,’ he ground out, grasping her waist, forcing her to still so he could satisfy his need to drive up into her.

  ‘I... I’m close.’ Her body flexed, her thighs squeezing his sides, a taut O of ecstasy shaping her mouth. ‘Oh, yes... Now, Leo... Now...’

  He plunged upward, penetrating deep, and she screamed at the same instant another flash lit up the sky. Her cry of release was all he needed and he let himself go, his orgasm thundering through him in a climax so intense it bordered the line between pleasure and pain and racked his entire body with a series of long, powerful shudders.

  With a whimper Helena slumped onto his chest. She buried her face in his shoulder, made a soft mewling sound against his skin, and he stroked his hands up and down the graceful lines of her back.

  He didn’t deserve her compassion—didn’t deserve her—but she fe
lt so good nestled in his arms he didn’t want to let her go.

  He cradled her close.

  He would let her go. It was the right thing to do. The only thing to do. And the sooner he did, the better.

  * * *

  Helena navigated the bedroom on autopilot as she packed up her things. The painkillers she’d forced down earlier hadn’t worked and her temples throbbed, her eyes gritty from the crying jag she’d indulged in. Silly to have allowed emotion to overwhelm her simply because she’d woken to find Leo’s side of the bed empty and cold. He’d left a note, at least. A bold, handwritten scrawl advising her that he’d gone to a meeting and would be back by noon.

  She looked around for her pyjamas, frowned when she couldn’t see them, then remembered and went through to the lounge.

  Yes—there. On the floor by the sofa, where she had discarded them so brazenly in the night.

  She reached for them and a sudden powerful sob of emotion rushed up her throat. On shaky legs she sank to the sofa, hating it that she felt so off-balance, so raw and exposed.

  But how could she not?

  She wasn’t the same woman who had left London a week ago. She felt different—more aware of herself. As if someone—no, not ‘someone’, Leo—had shone a great floodlight inside her and illuminated all the parts of herself she’d ignored for too long.

  He made her feel desired. Wanted.

  Worth something.

  Made her want to rip down the safe, boring black and white walls she’d erected like a concrete tower around herself.

  She rubbed her chest as if she could banish the ache within.

  She loved Leo, but what future could they hope for? One in which he spent his days trying to forgive her and she spent hers trying to earn back his trust?

  A shudder rippled through her. Her mother had endured a miserable marriage and she didn’t want that for herself. She wanted a partnership based on honesty and respect. On love. That last especially. Because if two people loved each other they could overcome anything, surely?

  She forced herself to her feet, returned to the bedroom to finish her packing.

  She didn’t know if Leo loved her—didn’t know if what he felt for her ran any deeper than lust—but she would not play the desperate, needy lover. She would not pout and demand that he declare his feelings for her. No. She would do this with dignity and strength. With self-respect. The kind she had often wished over the years her mother possessed.