Redemption Of The Untamed Italian (Mills & Boon Modern)

by Clare Connelly

  Would it be like that with Cesare? Would she one day be able to disentangle this pervasive sense of hurt from all the lovely memories she had? Would she be able to cherry-pick her way through their time together and see only the parts she wished to recall?

  ‘He’s not going to be here,’ Laurence chided gently. ‘I spoke to his secretary a week ago and she was adamant he couldn’t make it. You’re not going to run into him at the party.’

  Jemima’s eyes shifted to Laurence’s. She’d been selective in what she’d told him about her time with Cesare. ‘A fling,’ was how she’d described it. ‘Just a fun way to pass some time.’ It had taken every scrap of energy she had to present a brave face to Laurence, but she was glad she’d done it.

  She didn’t want him bearing even a hint of guilt over this—he deserved none, but she knew he’d feel it regardless.

  ‘I don’t care if he is,’ she lied haltingly.

  ‘Sure you don’t.’ Laurence’s laugh was sympathetic. ‘Come on. Come for an hour. Drink some champagne. Dance. Be happy, please.’

  Her heart turned over in her chest. ‘Am I really so bad?’

  ‘You’re miserable,’ he said earnestly, so handsome in his tuxedo. He lifted a hand and brushed her cheek. ‘This is our triumph. I want you there with me. It wouldn’t feel right without you.’

  She smiled, but her chest was hollow because the celebration was, for Jemima at least, tainted by the knowledge she was privy to.

  Cesare had, of course, been right. Two weeks after she’d returned from Isola Giada, Laurence had called, out of breath with excitement, to say one of the Silicon Valley tech companies in which he’d invested twelve months earlier had just gone viral—its worth had trebled.

  She had no idea how Cesare had foreseen that, but he had. He’d known that night at dinner, and he’d known four weeks later when she’d gone to him and begged him to follow through with the purchase.

  He’d used her, and the worst of it was he’d told her as much. Not in so many words, but again and again he’d talked about his desire to win, to succeed at all costs, and she hadn’t seen that as a warning—she hadn’t heeded it at all.

  Even knowing that, she couldn’t shake her grief. Because it didn’t change a damn thing.

  She loved him.

  One deed didn’t define a person.

  Besides, she felt an overarching sadness for him. A sadness that he wouldn’t see how much he had to offer. He should have asked her out on a date and she’d have said yes.

  Except he hadn’t wanted to date her. He hadn’t wanted anything other than sex, she reminded herself firmly.

  ‘One hour,’ Laurence promised, putting a hand on Jemima’s back and gently propelling her to the door.

  She swallowed, wishing she could tell him she really would prefer to stay on her own, as she had been for five long weeks.

  But Laurence was right. This would be good for her, and at some point she had to stop being a hermit and get back into the swing of things.

  ‘He definitely won’t be there?’

  Laurence stopped walking, his expression showing more sympathy, so she tried to paste a bright smile to her face.

  ‘What did that bastard do to you?’

  ‘Nothing,’ she muttered, shaking her head. She’d styled her hair into a chignon, but her fringe fell over one eye. ‘It would just be kind of awkward, that’s all.’

  ‘He won’t be there.’ Laurence’s tone showed he wasn’t buying her act.

  She needed to try harder. ‘Okay. Let’s go.’

  Pausing to check her lipstick in the mirror and grab her clutch, she slipped her arm into the crook of Laurence’s. They were on one of the top floors of the hotel, and the ballroom was several floors down. The lift hurtled them there with elegant efficiency, and as soon as the doors opened the noise was deafening. A band was playing crooning jazz songs, and at least two hundred guests were packed into the beautiful, historical room.

  Jemima stopped walking, her heart in her throat.

  ‘What is it?’ He was so solicitous, she felt like a complete cow for how self-absorbed she’d been. Even his triumph had become about her.

  ‘Laurence, I’m really so proud of you. Look at what you’ve done.’ She gestured towards the ballroom. ‘You said you were onto a winner and you were right.’ She smiled at him, then lifted up to press a kiss against his cheek.

  He grinned, lopsided and so handsome, reminding her for a second of Cam with his cheeky eyes. ‘Thanks, Jem.’

  The party was filled with investors, some of Europe’s wealthiest business people milling about in couture, chatting loudly. But Jemima was internationally known, and her entrance caused a different kind of stir. She was conscious of the eyes that followed her around. She was used to that kind of attention, but she hadn’t banked on how difficult it would be to keep up the veneer of happiness, knowing that she was being watched. Fortunately, she found a friend of Laurence’s she knew quite well and latched onto him, keeping the conversation light and superficial, so her mind was barely engaged.

  When he asked her to dance, she agreed, if only because it would take a few more minutes out of the hour she’d promised Laurence, and she desperately wanted it to be over.

  She was weary beyond bearing.

  He watched her until he couldn’t bear it. He watched her dance, smile, her eyes lifting to whoever the hell was holding her so close to his goddamned body, and he gripped his hands into fists at his side, his expression like thunder so that no one dared approach him. He watched her and he felt as though he was going to punch someone or something.

  Fury lashed at his spine, but he knew he didn’t have any right to feel like this. He’d told her there was no hope for them. He’d sent her away rather than admit there was any possibility they could be more to one another.

  This was his choice. All of it.

  He watched her dance and felt as though he was being lit on fire.

  With a growl, he stalked from the ballroom, pressing his back to the darkly painted wall opposite, his eyes trained on the door.

  He would stand here and he would wait. God help him if she emerged with the other man. What if they were seeing each other? Sleeping together?

  His fist pumped. Insanity seemed to burst inside him.

  He could picture her body, but never with any one else. It wasn’t possible.

  Time dragged. He contemplated going back into the party, but he knew it wasn’t wise. If she was still dancing with the guy—hell, kissing him—then he wasn’t sure he could contain his reaction.

  And so he waited, the burgundy carpet of the hotel somehow irritating even though it was an inanimate object.

  He waited, and every time the doors opened he leaned forward, away from the wall. The first time it was a couple, too busy making out to notice he was there. The next time it was an elderly man, hobbling with the aid of a cane towards the lifts. Then, another couple, and following that a mother with a small child.

  When the door next opened, he didn’t hold any hope, which made it all the more shocking to see her.

  He stood straight, his eyes drinking her in. She was alone. His body rejoiced. But she was miserable. His insides rolled. She looked...

  Broken.

  The word breathed through him accusingly. He stayed exactly where he was, watching as she walked past, her head dipped forward, her forehead crinkled, her eyebrows knitted together, her expression so completely distracted. She sashayed as though she were on a catwalk, but he knew her well enough to know it wasn’t intentional. She wasn’t even conscious that she did that—it was an ingrained elegance she carried with her all the time.

  God, he knew that about her, and everything else.

  Why hadn’t he realised what was happening? How come he hadn’t realised that every night they’d spent together had embedded a part of her ins
ide him?

  She’d realised. She’d known. And she’d tried to make him understand that, but he’d been so damned determined.

  She stopped walking and he held his breath. She stopped walking and stood perfectly still, her head bent, and then she shook it slowly from side to side before starting to walk once more.

  His chest lurched.

  She approached the lift, pressed her finger to the button and then stepped back. Only once the doors opened and she disappeared inside did he move. His stride was long and urgency propelled him to move quickly. Nonetheless, he only just made it, sliding his fingers into the steel doors as they were almost completely closed. They sprang open, and Jemima lifted her gaze slowly, and then made a groaning noise, shaking her head and stepping backward, as if he was the last person she’d expected to see.

  His breath was ragged, torn from him. He stared at her for several long seconds and she stared back. And then she shook her head, as though she could send him away, or maybe pretend he didn’t exist. Keeping his eyes on her, he swiped his key against the dashboard and pressed the button for the top floor. She stayed right where she was, staring at him, her features tight, her eyes heavy on his face.

  The lift lurched to life. She lifted her hands and curled them around the railing, as though she might fall.

  ‘Is it you?’

  His gut churned.

  ‘I don’t... You’re not... You weren’t going to be here.’

  Her words rang with accusation. He bit back a curse. He hadn’t planned to come. He hadn’t, for a second, thought she would know that, nor that she’d make her plans around it.

  Had she chosen to attend the celebration because she thought he wouldn’t be there?

  Could he blame her?

  ‘Change of plans.’

  ‘Oh.’ She nodded, frowning, and jerked her head towards the control panel. ‘Can you press number twelve, please?’

  He thought about refusing. He thought about lifting her against him and holding her until the lift stopped at his floor, carrying her into his room, placing her down on the floor in front of him and talking to her until she understood.

  But he’d done enough damage here. This was about fixing things, not making them worse.

  He jabbed his finger into the button, and the lift stopped almost immediately, the doors pinging open.

  She pushed up from the back of the lift. ‘Excuse me.’ He stepped out of the lift to make way for her, keeping his hand against the doors for her.

  She moved past without looking at him, her back ramrod-straight, her shoulders squared, and he felt a lurch of self-disgust. She was hurting because of him. He watched her for several seconds with a growing sense of consternation and then he began to move after her. She didn’t realise until she reached her hotel door, perhaps sensing he was still there, a safe distance behind her.

  She whirled around, and now when she spoke her voice was infused with an almost primal frustration. ‘What are you doing, Cesare? Why are you here?’

  She was hurting, and it was because of him. He closed the distance between them, but didn’t touch her. He couldn’t. He had no right. ‘I came to see you.’ The admission was gruff.

  ‘No.’ She spat the word at him emphatically. ‘Absolutely not.’

  ‘Just to talk,’ he said gently, even as panic was spreading through him. ‘For a moment.’

  ‘No.’ A whisper now, hollowed out.

  ‘Please.’ His voice rang with urgency, and her head jerked a little, disbelief in her features. She was going to say no, and God, what would he do then?

  He’d come here knowing she might tell him to go to hell, and he had his answer prepared: he was already there.

  But Jemima wasn’t like that. She didn’t have it in her. She was entirely decent and kind, and far fairer than he deserved.

  ‘Two minutes,’ she said firmly, pushing the door open and giving him a wide berth. ‘And then you get the heck away from me.’

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  ‘I’M NOT KIDDING, Cesare. Two minutes. Stop standing there and tell me what you want.’

  She was shaking like a leaf. She just hoped he couldn’t tell. There was a part of her that was terrified she’d hallucinated him. She’d been thinking of him as she’d left the party. Dancing in another man’s arms had made her ache for him in a way that had blindsided her.

  And then, all of a sudden, he was in the lift with her, surrounding her with his masculine scent, filling her tummy with butterflies and her veins with flame, and all she’d wanted to do was hurl herself at him and tell him she’d do whatever he wanted if it meant she got a little more time with him. Thank God she hadn’t. Thank God she remembered what the last five weeks had been like—no way could she do anything that would set her back.

  She crossed her arms over her chest, glaring at him with all the emotional energy she felt, deep in her body.

  ‘How are you?’

  She rolled her eyes. ‘Fine. Is that it?’

  ‘No.’ He moved closer, and she started turning away from him, stalking deeper into her hotel room. She flicked the kettle on and stayed near it, bracing herself in the small kitchen.

  ‘I wanted to see you.’

  Something inside her snapped. Her self-control, her temper, something.

  ‘It’s been five weeks,’ she almost shouted.

  ‘I’m aware of that.’ His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed.

  ‘So what do you want?’ She grabbed for a tea cup, slamming it down noisily on the marble bench. ‘Let me guess. If I have sex with you tonight you’ll give me—what?—a diamond necklace? An Italian villa? What exactly is my price these days?’

  He visibly winced, and that empowered her. She liked it. ‘Or do you want two nights? Three? It’d cost more for that, you know. At least an aeroplane.’ She tore the top off a tea-bag envelope, shooting him a furious glance as she upended the bag into the mug.

  ‘You have every right to be angry,’ he said quietly, and his calmness was like fuel being doused over her fire.

  ‘Damn straight I do! I don’t want you to be here! I didn’t want to see you again! For five weeks I have felt... I’ve been...’ She shook her head—there were no words that would do justice to how she’d felt. ‘And now you’re here, looking at me like—I don’t even know—and I just... I can’t do this. Do you have any idea what this is like? What these five weeks have been like?’ She swallowed, her throat thick and dry. ‘Please, just leave me alone.’ Tears streamed down her cheeks. She reached for the kettle, filling the mug and gratefully lifting it towards her lips.

  ‘And I will,’ he promised, moving to the other side of the kitchen bench. She was glad there was some distance between them. She needed that in order to be able to think.

  ‘Please just go.’

  ‘I have one minute left.’

  Strength rallied in her core, so she glared at him. ‘So use it.’

  ‘I don’t know what it’s been like for you, but I can tell you what it’s been like for me.’

  She didn’t want to hear, though. She shook her head, sipping her boiling-hot tea, her body barely able to contain her blood, it was rushing so hard and fast.

  ‘I went to Alaska. To work. To think. To make sure I didn’t weaken and contact you. There’s no phone service there, and you were a million miles away from me. I went to forget you, and instead Alaska became an echo chamber of my thoughts and wants. You were everywhere I looked—in my dreams, my head, my blood, my body—and I needed, simply, to hold you.’

  She ground her teeth together, refusing to be placated by his words. ‘Like I said, one last night? What’s my price?’

  He flinched. ‘You have no price. You can’t be bought. Money had nothing to do with us, with what we were. You knew that all along, and perhaps I did too, on some level, but it comforted me to see a commercial as
pect to our arrangement. Commerce I am familiar with and good at. If we were simply a different kind of business deal, I could understand how to get you out of my head. I thought I’d be able to work to the terms we’d agreed, just like any other deal. But I was so wrong.’

  Against her will, without her permission, his words seeped under her skin a little. She shook her head, physically rejecting the sentiment. ‘No way.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘You can’t come here after five weeks, after that last day, and say this and think it makes a damn bit of difference.’

  He jerked his head in a silent nod and jagged his fingers in his hair in a gesture that was sheer panic. Good. He should panic!

  She sipped her tea. ‘Thirty seconds.’

  ‘Christo, I’m trying.’

  ‘I’m not messing around, Cesare. You haven’t said anything that makes me want to hear more.’

  ‘I was mad with wanting you after that first night. When you came to my office, I saw an opportunity. That’s what I’m good at. I see weakness, I exploit it. Your love for your cousin was something I perceived as a weakness, because I’d never really known love like it. I’ve never known loyalty like it. I couldn’t understand what you felt, what motivated you, and so I couldn’t see, then, how wrong I was to use it to leverage you into my life.’

  ‘Into your bed,’ she corrected succinctly, refusing to feel sympathy for him. ‘I was never in your life, really.’

  ‘You were my whole life!’ The words were animalistic, thrown at her as though everything he was came down to this moment, to her understanding.

  But it had been five weeks, and her hurt went too deep to be eased over.

  ‘That’s a load of crap. If I was your life, or any part of it, you would never have let me go.’

  He opened his mouth to speak, but she shook her head. ‘Time’s up. It’s my turn. You keep all parts of your life in neat little rows. You tried to do that with me, and when you couldn’t you let me go, because you would rather not be with me than risk giving me more of you. You have no idea what these five weeks have been like for me, Cesare, or you wouldn’t dare show your face to me. I have been in agony. Every moment has been a torment. I have longed for you with every breath in my body. I have woken up in the middle of the night and reached for you. I have seen you everywhere I go. For two weeks I didn’t leave my flat. I have been miserable. Miserable!’ She roared the last word.