Clara hooked her hand through Bronte’s arm and began to draw her deeper into the crowd, but Bronte pulled back, nerves fluttering through her tummy.
“Mum?” Now or never. Get it over with. She swallowed and turned, putting her spare hand out and brushing her fingertips over Luca’s upper arm. Biceps greeted her back. Her nerves went into overdrive. “This is –,” Oh, God. Was she really going to do this? To perpetuate this lie to her mum? How pathetic was she?
But a familiar movement caught her eye at that precise moment – a shift of the head that was so innately known to Bronte it might as well have been her own motion.
Ashton.
Her eyes shimmied over her mother’s shoulder, landing on his back, a lump forming in her throat even as her heart began to beat three times faster than normal. He was wearing a suit and a shirt she’d bought him, with the new and unapproved of accessory of some kind of supermodel glamazon on his arm.
“Mum, this is Luca,” she said with renewed resolve, her skin pale as she lifted her face to her boss.
Clara frowned. “Luca?”
“Remember I said I was bringing someone?”
“Yes, of course, I just didn’t – expect –,” Clara faltered. “You’re Luca Montebello.”
“Yes,” he agreed amiably, releasing Bronte so he could embrace Clara, kissing her on both cheeks, in the European style. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.” He returned quickly, drawing Bronte to his side and holding her there, as though it was where she belonged. She tried not to speculate on the fitness of his frame.
“Oh, I – when you said you’d met someone I presumed you met someone new. Not your boss.”
Bronte grimaced inwardly. This had been the worst idea she’d ever had.
“Not exactly her boss,” Luca said, his fingertips stroking her hip, relaxing her even as the intimacy of the touch fanned a flame in her chest that was making breathing difficult.
“No?” Clara queried.
“I’m based in Rome,” Luca continued. “I barely see Bronte in a professional sense.”
“I see.” Clara’s smile was belated but genuine. She reached forward and put a hand on Luca’s forearm. “I’m sorry if I seemed – I didn’t realise.”
“Of course,” he responded with a smile of his own. “Naturally we’ve been keeping it quiet, given Bronte’s job.”
“Naturally,” Clara nodded, then turned her focus back to Bronte. “You should have told me, darling.”
“It’s quite new,” she opted for that version of their story, because it would make it easier to explain a sudden ‘break up’ in a few weeks if people believed the relationship had just been a quick fling – a rebound romance with a hot, forbidden, Italian billionaire. Heat flushed her body.
“Yes, well,” Clara was quickly regaining her composure. “Welcome, Luca. It’s so lovely to have you here.”
“Grazie.” He squeezed Bronte’s side, so her eyes shifted to his. “I wouldn’t have missed it for the world.”
Her stomach twisted. Her smile was lopsided, her cheeks bright pink.
“Come, mingle,” Clara encouraged. “The Waltons are here; Debbie was just asking about you.”
It was all the confirmation Bronte needed – reinforcement of the fact that having Luca here was an essential shield, even if it did mean lying to the family she adored.
A tiny, white lie, she reminded herself urgently. No harm could come of this – no one needed to know that their relationship was, and always would be, purely professional. No one needed to know that some chivalrous instinct within Luca had been fanned to life at the sight of Bronte in tears and with her desperate confession that she’d told everyone she had a new boyfriend. When this was over, she could easily extricate herself from that lie, and in time, probably confess the entire truth to her family. They’d laugh about it. No harm done.
But Debbie Walton was a huge gossip and she’d always been competitive with Bronte. She could just imagine how the other woman would have been enjoying the prospect of Bronte’s heartbreak. Having Luca beside her was a small – and petty – victory.
He was charming, of course, in that easy way of his, chatting to Debbie, her cousin Margaret and Mrs Walton about the coastline of Italy and the region of Tuscany he had grown up in, explaining about the grapes they grew on the property and harvested each year to turn into their own private wine. The women were hanging off his every word.
“It’s fascinating to see you in action,” Bronte murmured as they walked away, just the two of them in a sea of well-dressed revellers. She grabbed another glass of champagne as a tray was paraded by.
“In action?” He responded with a lift of his brow.
“You’re soooo charming. You can wind women around your finger with no effort whatsoever.”
His expression showed amusement. “I was making conversation.”
“You were being charming.”
“I didn’t realise. Do you want me to stop?”
A smile twisted her lips. “No, on the contrary, I like it.”
“Oh?”
“I’m the envy of the room.” She batted her lashes and he laughed, so her smile slipped a little as the full force of his handsome good looks hit her like a battering ram.
“That woman – Debbie – looked at you as though she wanted to smother you.”
Bronte took a sip of her champagne. “Quite possibly.”
“You don’t get along?”
Bronte considered that. “I guess we’re frenemies.”
“Frenemies?” He repeated, the phrase one he clearly wasn’t familiar with.
“You know – enemies and friends?”
He shook his head. “Can you be both at the same time?”
“Apparently. You’ve never had someone like that in your life?”
“If someone is my enemy then no, cara, they are definitely not in my life.”
She stared at him, bemused. What must it be like to live with such clear-cut certainty?
“What if they’re a family friend?”
He was quiet a moment. “That wouldn’t happen.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“My family is loyal to a fault. My enemy would be their enemy.” His words were infused with something sharp, something that made her blood turn cool. For a moment, she understood what it would be like to be pushed out by that family of brothers and cousins and a shiver ran down her spine.
“You can say that with certainty?”
He leaned a little closer, so his words were for her ear alone. “I can say that my family would never think of including an ex of mine in an event such as this.”
She swallowed, the words sparking something she hadn’t even realised she’d felt. She was surprised by it, surprised to feel anger that she hadn’t known was inside her. “Yes,” she muttered, shifting her gaze away from him, torn between defending her family and agreeing with him. “With Ashton, it’s complicated.”
“No, it’s simple. He broke your heart.” Had he moved closer? Or had she? In the middle of a packed room, they were pressed together so she could feel his warmth through the fabric of his suit. “That should make him persona non grata.”
“His mother is my mother’s oldest friend. We grew up together, besides which, he’s one of Edward’s best friends. So while our breakup was inconvenient for everybody, it didn’t change anything except my life.” And my heart, she tacked on silently, unintentionally moving her eyes away, surveying the room. They latched to Ashton quickly enough and she felt a roll of something like nausea. She took a gulp of champagne as she looked away.
“Why did you break up?”
Her heart stammered. “Do you mind if we don’t talk about it?”
His eyes narrowed and she was reminded, for a moment, of exactly who he was. Luca Montebello was rich, powerful, famous in a lot of circles, and also her boss. He was definitely not used to being told ‘no’.
“Of course,” he dipped his head in silent agreement, contradicting h
er uncharitable thought. “So why is this woman your – what did you call it?”
“Frenemy,” she murmured with a smile.
“Right.”
“Well, let me think. Debbie’s mother used to look after Alice and me after school. Mum worked quite long hours so it was easier for Mrs Walton to pick us up and mind us. We spent a lot of time together. I adored Debbie, but as we got older we – grew apart.” Loyalty made it hard for Bronte to go into the details of Debbie’s petty obsession with things that seemed so irrelevant now. “Suffice it to say she was competitive in a way that I didn’t know how to handle. I didn’t really understand how deep it ran – I thought it was just her nature, but it went on and on and on. Everything I had, she had to have – and I was by no means spoiled or indulged. If I did well at school she would imply I’d cheated, if I wouldn’t let her copy my exam then I was a bad friend, and so on and so forth. It came to a head in college when a rumour circulated that I was pregnant, and then that I’d had an abortion.” She grimaced, the feeling of hearing that rumour still fresh in her mind. “I eventually learned that Debbie had started the rumours. That was the end of it, for me. I still had to see her, from time to time, but now we’re civil, and nothing more.”
He lifted his eyes upwards. “She sounds like a piece of work.”
Bronte frowned. “I don’t know. She was insecure and immature. I don’t want to continue judging her for some bad decisions she made as a seventeen year old. But I make it a rule to approach her with extreme caution.”
He laughed. “Wise decision.”
Perhaps his laugh attracted Ashton’s attention, or perhaps he’d been moving towards them anyway, but a moment later, the sound of his familiar voice wrenched something apart inside of Bronte’s chest.
“Bron.”
She faltered a little, paling, her eyes jerking towards the voice.
Thank God, he was alone – no blonde supermodel at his side right now.
“Ashton.” The word was a whisper. Acid burned her throat. Beside her, Luca moved in, his arm curling around Bronte’s waist, drawing her tightly to his side, moulding her against him so that when she inhaled she smelled the citrus of his cologne.
She stared at Ashton for the first time in six months, since he’d come to the flat to collect the last of his things, and her heart throbbed with remembered pain. This was the man she’d thought she would marry. Her first boyfriend, her first love, her first everything. Her hand moved across her body, her fingers brushing Luca’s for support before dropping back to her side.
Luca extended his right hand. “Luca Montebello.”
Ashton looked in Luca’s direction for the first time, frowning as though Luca was the last person he’d expected to see. “You’re Bron’s boss.”
“We’re together,” Bronte blurted out, the awkwardness obvious in the hastily offered explanation.
“You’re –,” Ashton looked from Bronte to Luca, his handsome face lined with disbelief. “As in, romantically together?”
Bronte was quivering like a leaf. Luca pulled her closer; she nodded.
“You’re not serious?”
Luca spoke, perhaps understanding how difficult it was for Bronte. “Why wouldn’t she be serious?”
The question seemed to rouse Ashton back to his usual eager-to-please self. “Oh, I just meant – I was surprised.” He took Luca’s hand and shook it.
“We’ve been keeping it low key,” Bronte managed to say.
“Sure, I mean, with Luca’s high profile, and the fact you work for him, that makes sense.”
“Bronte works for my company, not for me,” Luca slid in.
“Yeah,” Ashton was obviously awkward. “Anyway, I just thought I should come and say ‘hi’.”
Bronte could only nod.
Ashton didn’t leave though. “It’s…good to see you again, Bron. You look…good.”
“Thank you.” Just a whisper.
Luca squeezed her side. She lifted her gaze to his and his smile did something she would have previously said was impossible: it calmed her. She returned it, then faced Ashton with a hint more confidence.
“I’ll let you get back to it,” he said, his lips pulled downwards. “I’m sure I’ll see you again later.”
“No doubt,” Bronte agreed. It was only as Ashton began to walk away that she felt she could breathe with a hint of normality. Luca didn’t release his grip on her side.
“Are you okay?”
She stared up at him, shaking her head from side to side, mouthing the word, ‘no’.
“What do you want?”
“I want to get drunk.”
He lifted a brow, his intelligent eyes scanning her face.
“Fine. But not here.” He released his hold on her hip and took her hand in his, lacing their fingers together. “Come on.”
3
IT WAS STILL A WARM evening, the sky filled with dusk colours. He held the door to his car open for Bronte, then came round to his side. The noise of the cocktail party could be heard even from here. He revved the engine and turned the car towards the driveway, then went in the direction of the local village.
Bronte, beside him, was shaking.
“You’re angry.”
“No, I’m emotional. I don’t know why. It was over between us a long time ago. I think it’s just seeing him again, and at something like this – a wedding, that’s about love and happiness – and knowing he’s with someone else. It’s just a lot to take in.”
“He’s not what I expected.”
“In what way?”
The village was only a mile and a half down the road. He slowed down as he approached, turning into the car park of The Swan and Duck. The stone building with dormer windows glowed with golden warmth.
“He’s – pretty.”
She laughed, a shaky, uncertain sound.
“You know what I mean?” Luca continued, not sure he’d adequately explained himself. “With his beige pants and tight shirt, and brogues, someone who cares a lot about how he looks. I have no doubt he used to fight you for the bathroom mirror in the morning.”
Bronte laughed again, nodding. “Actually, that’s pretty accurate.”
“I could tell. One look at his colour coordinated pocket square makes that obvious.”
“I didn’t realise at the time but yes, I suppose he is somewhat vain.”
“I would have pictured you with more of a – masculine man.”
He wondered at the description – he hadn’t, in truth, put any thought into Bronte or the kind of partner who could make her happy, but the second Ashton had approached them Luca had sensed the ridiculousness of it. Anyone could see how ill-suited they were – how much more Bronte deserved.
“He’s – masculine,” she said.
“Well, he is, I suppose, a male,” Luca conceded, cutting the engine and turning towards her, frowning as he studied her face. “But you deserve someone different.”
Her lips parted. Soft, pale pink lips, centered in a pretty English face with her creamy pearlescent skin.
“You didn’t like him.”
“I spent the sum total of thirty seven seconds in his presence.” But he’d always been a man who relied on his instincts, and they’d fired to life at the sight of her ex-boyfriend. “But no, I didn’t particularly like what I saw.”
“Why not?”
“Because he made you cry.” The answer surprised Luca. It was the bald truth. Seeing and feeling Bronte’s reaction, her shaking, her whispered voice, had stirred some ancient, barbaric desire to protect her honour, to fight the other man, or to at least give him a good shove out of Bronte’s life. But that wasn’t Luca’s position here. He was doing her a favour, allowing Bronte to save face, and nothing more. She wouldn’t thank him for taking their pretend relationship further than that.
“We were together a long time, and the break up came out of nowhere,” she said slowly, as though trying to make sense of things herself. “I wondered how I’d feel, to s
ee him, and the truth is, I just feel sad.”
“Because you miss him?”
Her large, green eyes pinned him to the spot. “No, not exactly.” She turned away, pressing her fingers to the door of the car, opening it and stepping out before he could seek further clarification.
They walked side by side towards the front door of the pub.
“I always thought we’d get married.” She pushed the door inwards; he followed. It was an old pub with wooden floors and low ceilings. He had to duck his head in the entrance way. Bronte moved as though she’d been here before, turning a corner and leading them to the bar. “What will you have?”
“You first.”
She frowned, scanning the cocktail menu and selecting something fruity. He chose a mineral water for himself.
“You’re not going to drink?”
“I’m driving.”
“Right. Of course.” She nodded. “Then we should have just gone to the room.” Her cheeks flushed pink again at the very idea and Luca couldn’t help comparing her to the kind of women he usually dated. Bronte lacked any degree of sophistication. Everything she thought was clearly stamped across her features. It was refreshing. He’d never known a woman who could get so easily embarrassed, and over something as minor as sharing a room.
“The room is still part of the hotel,” he said, resisting an urge to tease her. “I thought you needed a complete break.”
“That’s very kind of you.”
“You sound surprised?”
Her drink appeared and before she could pay for it he handed his Centurion card over. “Start a tab.” He gestured to a booth across the room. It was out of the way, private and dimly lit.
She nodded, walking towards it on those beautifully high heeled shoes, her bottom swaying as she moved so he found his gaze dropping lower before he could realise what the hell he was doing.
“So you thought you were to be married?”
She stirred the straw of her drink. “Yes.”
“Did he think that too?”
“We never actually talked about it. But we were together for four years, living together for almost three of those,” she said with a small shake of her head before sipping her drink. “I wouldn’t have wasted so much time with him if I didn’t believe he was as invested as me.”
It Started With A Lie: A forbidden fake-boyfriend Cinderella romance (The Montebellos Book 5) Page 3
