“No.” Silence, a heavy silence filled with sad reflections, filled the air. “How did you know that?”
“Did you think I wouldn’t check up on you?”
She lifted her head so she could see him better, her chin pressing to his chest. “It never occurred to me that you might.”
His smile was more of a grimace. “We got divorced but I never considered my responsibilities to care for you were at an end.”
Something tilted inside of her. Disbelief. “That responsibility was never yours,” she murmured, going to move away again but he kept his arm – and her – in place. “I was – am – a human being with my own head and heart and believe it or not, the ability to care all for myself.”
His eyes locked to hers and her breath snagged in her throat. “You’re wrong.”
“Then I’m not a human? Or am I not capable of looking after myself?”
“You’re wrong that being my wife conferred no responsibilities on me.”
Her heart sped up. “Even if that were the case, our divorce put an end to them.”
His brows quirked a little as his other hand moved to her stomach, running over the curve so slowly and intimately, with such a physical sense of connection to her and their baby that the hardness she was determined to keep in place around her heart threatened to melt, just a little.
“Not for me, cara.”
She needed to fight this! Danger signs flashed all around. “In case you’ve forgotten, I was on the brink of marrying another man. Would that have signalled an end to whatever obligations you claim to have felt?”
Predictably and – Alessia told herself – thankfully, his eyes darkened, his expression glowering at the reminder of Sam. Fascinating. His response though, wasn’t what she’d expected.
“Did you love him?”
It was the second time he’d asked her that and she was no more able to answer it now than she had been then.
“I don’t want to discuss him with you.” When she pulled away this time, he let her go, and she told herself she was glad. At least she could think more clearly when there was some distance between them.
“You didn’t answer my question.”
Her pulse quickened. Had she loved Sam? No. Not at all. She’d been very fond of him and she’d loved the stability he’d appeared to offer, and deep down, she’d loved that he seemed to worship and adore her, because that had felt safe and reassuring. Her ego had loved that. None of those responses did her any justice.
“Where did you go?” He prompted, reaching out and running his hand over her thigh, so she shivered – but not a shiver of anything other than warmth and need. It flooded her whole body, making her a little woozy as she stood.
“Brazil.”
“Why?”
“I have a friend who lives there. She asked me. I went.” It sounded simple, and it had been. Mia had understood that Alessia’s heart was breaking, that Alessia herself was on the brink of breaking, and she’d given Alessia space to fall apart and a shoulder to cry on when the time was right. The sun, sand, food had helped her find her feet and accept that she was no longer Mrs Massimo Montebello.
The memories were too strong being back here, married to Max once more, only months away from welcoming their baby into the world. She needed to blot them out – for though they were years old, the pain felt fresh.
“I don’t think walking down memory lane serves either of us,” she said, frankly, moving out of his reach, towards the wardrobe on autopilot. At that point in time, it felt almost like a little sanctuary she could duck into and escape his penetrating gaze. “The past is over. Dealt with. How I felt, what I did, none of that matters anymore. This marriage is completely different.”
“But we’re the same people,” he pointed out with logic.
“No, Max. We’re really not.” She needed to make this clear to him, so that he understood what she was saying. “I will never be that girl again. I will never believe in love and happily ever after and knights in shining armour and all of the silly girly fantasies I consoled myself with night after night. I’m not here because I want to ‘heal’ those hurts – there is no healing those wounds now. They’re old and knotty, scar tissue of my soul. Let’s just concentrate on the future and the marriage we have now. And that marriage is better served by maintaining a polite distance between us.”
His eyes were mocking and dangerous in a way that speared pleasure through her. She ignored that involuntary response. She didn’t want it.
“You think that’s possible?”
“I think it’s necessary.” She sighed. “And if you truly feel any kind of protective instinct for me then you’ll respect what I’m saying. I don’t think you have the power to hurt me again. I would hope I’ve learned my lesson. But I’d really rather not risk finding out for sure. Don’t call me ‘cara’, don’t look at me as though you care about me. Just…treat me like you did before. I’m used to that.”
Chapter Seven
THERE WERE ANY NUMBER of things he could have said in response, but the look in her eyes had warned him not to. She had been putting him on notice, her nerves at breaking point no matter how she liked to say she didn’t feel anything for him anymore.
If they weren’t, he might have told her that this marriage was – obviously – different. This was for life – their child made that essential. But even that brought with it problems, because Alessia had undoubtedly married him the first time believing their marriage would last a lifetime.
As had he.
He hadn’t expected to be divorced in a year. So what had he thought? That she could grow up a little more, and eventually, when he didn’t feel like such a lecherous creep, their relationship would progress? As though he could flick a switch and transform what they were into something completely different? Or had he expected it to grow out of their marriage? If so, why hadn’t he made more effort? Because she was right – he’d treated her like a polite stranger in their first marriage, barely acknowledging her presence unless necessary and certainly not acknowledging her femininity.
He closed his eyes with a burst of self-directed pain, remembering the ways she’d tried to break down those barriers – climbing into his bed, joining him in the shower, and he’d always resisted her, politely but insistently defusing the situation to reinforce the existing parameters of their relationship.
He’d wanted to protect her, to treat her almost like a little sister, but instead he’d basically told her she was some kind of sexual repellent. That hadn’t been his intention. He’d presumed his own responses were so obvious, that even as he pushed her away she must have been able to tell how badly he wanted to give into their mutual desire. He had always believed she’d understood that he was treating her with respect – and honouring her innocence, given her connection to his family.
But if she hadn’t – and Alessia had made it abundantly clear that had never entered her mind – then their marriage had been a long year of rejection. Cold and consistent. And still she’d tried to break through, to forge a true intimacy with him.
Nothing made any sense. Least of all his feeling of passionate possession when he’d learned firstly of her affair – an affair that had never, as it turned out, happened – and then her would-be marriage to the free-loader Sam. Given they’d never been remotely physically intimate, why had the idea that she’d cheated on him torn through Max with such ferocity? The photographs had been like acid against his eyeballs. His brothers’ and cousins’ concern the final nail in the coffin. His pride had been hurt, yes, but it was so much more complicated than that.
Sam was easier to explain – just as he’d claimed to Alessia, he felt an imperative to care for her. Carlo would expect nothing less, and as for Massimo, he didn’t consider his duties there had ever been absolved. If Sam had been violently in love with Alessia? If he’d convinced Massimo that he would love and cherish Alessia for the rest of her life, would Max have stepped back to the sidelines and wished them well?
/> It disturbed him that he couldn’t answer that with any clarity, but he was glad it was simply a hypothetical. Sam had shown his true colours. Massimo had ended their engagement with one conversation and the cutting of a large cheque.
He’d told her he’d be honest with her from now on, but he wasn’t being, was he?
Not about Sam.
Would she want to know the truth? Or would it make her feel worse, as though the other man had seen her only as a means of accessing her father’s bank balance? She already held a delusional idea that she was not desirable; wouldn’t Sam’s true motives exacerbate that? Indecision fired inside of him.
At the time, he’d had no issues with his behaviour but now, he felt a sharp stab of regret at having taken over her life. It had been arrogant, yes, but Massimo had always been a man who took charge. He’d acted on instincts and it was only now that he was beginning to question every single instinct he possessed.
London had been the cherry on top – he’d thought she would be sexually experienced and that coming together would simply be a single night of passion – a night he’d denied himself and fantasised about for years. But Christo, her innocence, her insistence that she hadn’t cheated on him and his disbelief in that, it all swirled through him like streams of acid.
He ground his teeth together now, staring out at Rome, the view so familiar he barely saw it. He was done for the day, the brief he needed to familiarise himself with before the following morning committed to his memory, and yet still he sat there, staring out at Rome, his body still, his mind over-active, tormented by the past. Regardless of what she’d said that morning, he knew it wasn’t an easy thing to separate what they’d been then from what they were now. A real future together would mean fixing the base of their relationship – and that meant redressing the past, piece by piece.
“Alessia?” She stiffened her spine, squaring her shoulders, fully aware Max might argue with her choice and telling herself she didn’t care.
“I’m in my room.” She said the words with iron, infusing them with determination.
A moment later, he was at the door. She braced for his entry – but it wouldn’t be the most difficult thing she’d dealt with that day. No, that had been reserved for coming in here.
Everything was exactly as she’d left it. If she’d thought the memories were powerful in his room, they were almost unbearable here. How many tears had she soaked these pillows with during her tenure in Max’s house?
It was like being sucked back through time and to a place she’d never intended to visit again. Five years disappeared in the blink of an eye, all the life experience she’d gained evaporating into nothingness.
He pushed the door inwards and she forced herself to breathe normally, fixing a curious expression to her face. “Did you need me?”
“What are you doing in here?”
She assumed a look of confusion. “As opposed to?”
His eyes narrowed speculatively. “There’s no need to measure it up,” he said, his voice a little too calm. “I’ve already had this done by the decorator.”
She wasn’t sure what he meant but knew she was best to hold her line. “I don’t need anything changed. I’m happy with it as is.”
His smile was tight. “The bed might be a little impractical for a baby.”
She lifted a brow. “I’m not sure I plan to co-sleep.”
A muscle jerked at the base of his jaw. “Nonetheless, a nursery will need a crib. A nursing chair.”
Ah! It began to make sense. “Then we’ll make sure the nursery has both.”
She felt the air between them spark as the challenge flew between them. “Did you have something else in mind for this bedroom?” So smooth. It was easy for Alessia to see how she’d been taken in by Max in the beginning. His proposal had been so perfect – the words making it easy to accept him, his voice kind and full of warmth, when he’d felt neither of those things. He was a skilled negotiator, incredibly talented at putting people at ease.
Well, she wouldn’t be drawn in by him again.
“It’s my room.” She spoke quietly, moving towards the wardrobe – she’d already moved what she wanted from the wardrobe in his room, the act of separating their clothes somehow important and cathartic.
“Not this again?”
“Again?” A brow shot up. “I don’t recall us discussing this.”
“We said this would be a real marriage –,”
“You said that,” she reminded him with forced calmness. “And so far as our child’s concerned, it will be.”
“Damn it, Alessia,” he shook his head and she was glad – glad to see real emotion stirring in him. Glad he wasn’t so calm and casual. “Are you really going to fight me on this?”
“No. There’s nothing to fight about. I agreed to marry you to give our baby a family and I stand by that decision, but I’m not going to let you drive the narrative of my life anymore than you already have. I’m my own person, and I intend to stay that way. This is my room.”
His eyes glinted with something like fire and she braced herself for another argument, but he simply lifted his shoulders. “Have you eaten?”
Was that it? She’d expected him to insist. Why was there a crippling wave of disappointment rising inside of her? She ignored it. “No.”
“Then let’s go out. There’s that little French bistro on the corner.”
Her eyes must have shown her rejection of that – the bistro was beautiful but it was also the one place he’d taken her to during their marriage – with the exception of the occasional work dinner. It had been her twenty first birthday and perhaps he’d felt it would be very poor form not to mark the occasion. She’d dressed with such care and ridiculously high hopes, but it had felt like a job interview. They’d spoken calmly, politely, every word erecting more distance between them rather than fostering any true intimacy. By the time her crème caramel had arrived with a sparkler perched in its wobbly form, she’d wanted to smear the dessert all over his immaculate suit.
“I’ll just have toast.”
His nostrils flared as he expelled a sigh. “Not French then. Sushi?”
“I can’t eat sushi.”
“Why not?”
“I’m pregnant.”
“Of course.” He moved into the room, taking her hands in his, lifting them between them. “I’m trying here, Alessia. Come to dinner with me. We’ll share a meal. Bene?”
At that precise moment, her traitorous tummy made a grumbling noise. His laugh sent a kaleidoscope of butterflies through her belly. “You’re hungry.”
She pulled away from him, needing physical space. “Yes. Fine. Give me a minute to get ready.” She didn’t look at him, but waited until the door clicked shut to exhale. The room smelled like him, a lingering aroma of pine needles and citrus spice. It had been a cold day. She grabbed a thick woollen coat and scarf and changed into a pair of socks and boots, then added a hint of make up to a face that was pale – clearly showing how poorly she’d slept the night before.
When she emerged downstairs, Max was standing in the hallway by the door. He was wearing the same suit he’d been wearing before, but he’d added his own coat and scarf. He looked so damned suave and perfect. She wouldn’t have been human if she didn’t feel a jolt of desire for him. What red-blooded woman wouldn’t have been affected by his obvious good looks?
“Ready?” She asked, her tone business-like as she reached the bottom step. His smile threatened to disarm her.
“Yes.”
He opened the door and put a hand in the small of her back, lightly and instinctively, as though he might not have realised he was doing it. But Alessia realised. The simple touch sent fireworks buzzing through her.
It would have been childish to jerk free, but as soon as they were on the front step she moved away from him, looking down the street. The air was bracingly cold, the street stunningly beautiful. At this time of year, golden lights were strung from one side of the street to the other,
zigging and zagging the length of it, perfectly festive and lovely. She remembered this so well.
Of course, she’d been so young and in love then, such a fool. She’d decorated the house to match the street – making sure a huge fir tree was erected in the front window so passers by could enjoy the spectacle. She’d filled it with lights and ornaments that she’d bought with the romantic notion they’d be something she’d pull out every year and add to as well, each ornament bringing with it a story she could tell her kids and one day, her grandkids. What foolish dreams she’d cherished then! Their marriage had meant nothing to him. He’d used her. Everyone had used her.
She tilted her chin, blotting out the beauty of the street. “Which way?”
His hand found the small of her back again. He guided her towards the corner. “You loved the duck.”
It took her a moment to remember, but yes, he was right. She’d eaten duck a l’orange for her birthday that night, and it had been one of the best things she’d ever tasted.
At the restaurant, Massimo was greeted like family, the waiter pulling him into a hug.
“My wife, Alessia,” he introduced.
“Ah, yes,” the waiter nodded. “So nice to have you back, Signore.”
Alessia frowned. Had he served them last time? She couldn’t remember.
“Thank you.” Her voice sounded so prim. She attempted to soften it with a smile but her lips barely cooperated. She looked away as Max helped her out of her coat and scarf, handing both to the handsome French man before removing his own winter wear.
Thankfully, the waiter led them to a table on the other side of the restaurant to where they’d sat that night. Then, they’d been folded into an intimate space near the back. Now, there was a table by the window, and the waiter showed them to it with panache, pulling out a seat for Alessia before draping her lap in a napkin.
“Some wine?”
“Sparkling water,” she said with another attempt at a smile.
Loving the Enemy Page 7