Winning Back His Runaway Bride

by Jessica Gilmore

  ‘I’m sorry, Charlie, I didn’t think. I can see that teaching small children ballet on honeymoon isn’t exactly the most romantic thing to do. Don’t worry, I’ll call Lucia and apologise. I should be wining and dining you, planning boat trips to Capri and tours of Pompeii, not expecting you to put fifty small ballerinas through their paces.’

  Was that what he thought? That she was the kind of person to take umbrage because she expected champagne and flowers rather than helping out his goddaughter? Of course, he only had a few months’ memories of her; he didn’t really know her at all.

  ‘No, that’s not it. This sort of initiative is exactly the kind of thing I enjoy. In London I was volunteering at a local community centre, teaching dance to some of the borough’s most disadvantaged children and we put on our own gala. It was a lot of fun...’ She stopped abruptly. The Kensington gala was one event she did not want to relive.

  ‘Then what is it?’

  She sighed, freeing her hands as she got to her feet and walked over to the large French windows, staring out at the lemon trees framing the sea far below. ‘Matteo, look, I know this is difficult for you. The doctor said not to try to prompt your memory, that it is better if it comes back by itself, and so I am really trying to not talk about things from the last year. But I need to tell you that experience has taught me that where keeping promises is concerned, you can’t be relied upon.’

  He made no sound and when she looked back at him he was sitting statue-still, his eyes fixed on her, his expression unreadable. ‘I see.’

  She looked down at her hands, hating that she had to say this to him, that reality was intruding on their idyll.

  ‘Your intentions are always good; I do know that. You don’t mean to be so...’ She searched for the right word, not wanting to say self-absorbed, one of the many words she had thrown at him the day of the gala. The day before she had walked out. ‘So hard to pin down,’ she said instead. ‘But the reality can be so very different. Right now, I’m sure that you are absolutely certain that you will prioritise the rehearsals and the ballet, that of course you will be here in two weeks’ time. But at some point you’re going to get access to a phone and a laptop and to work emails and that means something will come up and you will need to be in New York or Paris or Berlin. Then where will I be? I don’t want to promise anything to Rosa, just to have to let her down. That would be much worse than letting her get over this initial disappointment.’

  Charlie looked up and bit her lip as she absorbed the shock in Matteo’s hazel eyes. Shock, hurt and dawning knowledge. ‘Am I that unpredictable?’ he asked, his voice low and even. She swallowed. ‘It can’t be easy for you. Not trusting me to keep my word.’

  ‘No, it’s not always easy.’ She couldn’t, wouldn’t, lie to him, not more than she had to. ‘I do my best to understand, but it’s not much fun having to always cancel plans or do things on my own. So maybe it’s best if you do make our apologies. Safer.’

  Matteo rose with easy sinuous grace and was at her side before she had a chance to move away, turning her to look at him, one hand tilting her chin so she had no choice but to meet his determined gaze. ‘Charlie, I’m not an idiot. I can see things aren’t perfect between us. I can see there are things you are trying desperately not to say. But I also know that I love you, and I know that asking you to marry me felt like the most right thing in my life, that being here with you is exactly where I want to be. Where I need to be. So, trust me on this. Trust me to keep my word. Trust me to make it up to you. All of it.’

  She wanted to—how she wanted to. ‘I...’

  ‘Carlotta, cara,’ he said, low and intent. ‘Give me a chance?’

  She was drowning in the intensity of his gaze and all the reasons, the many good reasons, to stand her ground slipped away as if they had never been. Could things be different? Could she trust him this time?

  ‘Okay,’ she said before she could think about it too closely. ‘But Matteo, please don’t let Rosa down.’

  Or me, she wanted to add. Please don’t let me down again.

  * * *

  The sun was beating down, hot and fierce. Matteo had forgotten just how intense the early summer sun could be when he was away from the shady arbours of the villa, the sea breeze of the pool and the dark alleyways of the village itself. But he welcomed the heat, he welcomed the prickle on his skin, the tightening band around his head. The discomfort focused him and he forced himself to walk ever faster, ignoring the aching muscles still recovering from the accident just nine days before.

  The path he was on was well known and well used. The whole coast was a mecca for ramblers and walkers, especially at this time of year with the early summer flowers blooming in such profusion. But Matteo strode grimly on, following the path as it wound downhill towards Amalfi, barely seeing the colourful displays on all sides or noticing the spectacular views as he rounded yet another curve in the road. Much of the path had steps, and he pounded on, overtaking walkers and botanists as they ambled at a more sedate pace down the steep hillside path, barely nodding at those taking the far more onerous route uphill from Amalfi to Ravello.

  Something was wrong, and he couldn’t push that knowledge to the back of his mind any longer. His marriage was clearly no idyll and he was even more clearly no perfect husband. Ever since his conversation with Charlie yesterday grey shadows had been gathering at the corners of his mind. Words and hints of scenes, of empty rooms and pained silences, of misunderstandings and chasms and himself imprisoned in pride and isolation. He had no idea if they were real memories or his imagination working overtime with all the things she’d left unsaid.

  Okay. Start with the facts. He took a deep breath and forced himself to focus, to face the problem rationally, as if it were a thorny legal problem or a contract issue he needed to resolve. What did he know for sure? He was clearly an absent husband, clearly an unreliable one, at least in Charlie’s eyes. But that was it. He had no more, no idea how things could have come to such a pass in so short a time.

  It seemed inconceivable to him, right now mentally and emotionally still at the cusp of married life, that in a year’s time his wife would tell him that she couldn’t rely on him. His work was demanding, time-consuming and international but that didn’t mean there was no room for a personal life. His work-life balance was skewed towards work, of course it was, but there had been time for girlfriends and events, to ski or rock climb or sail before.

  It was so discombobulating. This difference between who he thought he was and who he actually seemed to be. Worse was the lack of control. He’d known since childhood that a man in his position couldn’t show any weakness. Yet not only were his ribs still sore, not only were his bruises protesting at the relentless pace, but his mind, the mind he relied upon to manage a multibillion-pound company, was also letting him down. No wonder he hadn’t pressured Charlie to give him a phone or access to the internet, no wonder he had been happy to let her manage his grandfather; he could only imagine what the old man would say to him about this current state of affairs.

  Matteo cursed long and low in both English and Italian. He’d spent thirty years proving how strong he was to his grandfather, how fit he was to take on the generations-old family business, to show that he was not just better than his parents but free of all their taints, and yet here he was. Just fallibly human after all. Not just with his memory loss but, it seemed, with his inability to manage a marriage as well. Just like his father, on wife number five, or his mother, who had spent the decade between divorcing Matteo’s father and remarrying with a string of famous lovers. He’d wanted the opposite of that. He’d wanted stability. He knew all the best relationships required shared goals and compromise. So why wasn’t he compromising in his?

  Or was he? Charlie was his only source; she could be an unreliable narrator.

  Matteo had planned to take the walk in one go; it was only three kilometres or so after all
. But when he reached the pretty and unspoiled seaside village of Atrani he realised that, despite the days of rest and recuperation, his body was still not fully recovered and he thankfully stopped at one of the local ristorantes for some much-needed water, the thick black espresso he so missed in London and an almond pastry.

  He sat under the shade of the umbrella, looking out at the bustling village square with the tantalising hint of sea between the buildings, but he barely took in the view, barely noticed the conversations babbling around him in several different languages. He was still reliving the last few weeks, trying to figure out what had gone wrong, reaching for those grey shadows in the corner of his mind.

  Everything had been perfect up to the day before the wedding. That he knew as if it were yesterday. He smiled wryly. For him it practically was. The only cloud on his otherwise perfect blue-sky horizon had been his grandfather’s obvious disapproval of Charlie.

  Their first meeting had not been a success; from the moment she’d walked into the ostentatiously formal restaurant in a floral maxi dress teamed with chunky jewellery, her hair silver, it was clear his grandfather was not going to be her biggest fan. He had been slightly mollified when he’d realised that Charlie’s mother was a diplomat and her father a reasonably well-known political journalist and biographer, but that approval ebbed when Charlie confided how much she disliked embassy parties and networking.

  He’d clearly hoped that Charlie was just a passing phase, so when Matteo had announced their decision to marry as quickly as legally possible it had led to the first and only argument between them. An argument which had ended with his grandfather downright refusing to come anywhere near the ceremony.

  The memory of that fallout was still so recent to him he could still feel the twist of shame and guilt at disappointing the man who’d raised him, the man who believed in him, the man who had given him the only family he’d ever really known.

  Matteo reached out for a cube of sugar and crumbled it slowly into his coffee cup, his mind racing. But that wasn’t true, was it? He had always thought of his grandfather as his only real family, the only person willing to raise him after his parents divorced. But although his mother had been too flighty to take care of him herself, his Italian grandparents had wanted him too, had given him long glorious summers here. And when his mother did finally settle down and remarry, she’d offered him a home. He was the one to refuse, his ties to his grandfather by then too strong.

  Besides, he’d secretly gloried in the knowledge that he was the chosen one, the heir to a company with roots hundreds of years old. Harrington Industries had grown and grown over the years, surviving wars and depressions to become the globe-spanning behemoth it was today. Much of that growth had been driven by his grandfather and it was up to Matteo to maintain it, to keep growing it, to know where to invest next, where to pull out of, responsible for the jobs and livelihoods of thousands and thousands of people.

  He finished the coffee and pastry, leaving a handful of euros on the table before resuming his walk. What else did he know? His last memory was of the day before the wedding. His mood was excited, anticipating the day, their honeymoon, their life together. He’d had no doubts that this was the right thing to do.

  What had changed?

  According to the police he’d been on his way to Kent when he’d crashed and Charlie had come to the hospital from her grandmother’s cottage, he was sure of it. Why was she in Kent; why had he been on his way there? Had she gone home to her grandmother while he was away; had they moved there? Once more the answers danced around his mind, tantalisingly within reach before darting away again.

  Focus. His grandfather had been ill, they’d been on honeymoon, they’d cut it short. And then what? He cursed again. It was time he remembered.

  Amalfi was just ahead, busy with tourists and day trippers, coaches swinging down the precipitous narrow roads, small scooters darting here, there and everywhere. Still preoccupied, still trying to remember, goddammit, Matteo glanced casually one way then the other, then crossed the busy road leading into the town, only to find himself crashing to the ground as he threw himself out of the way of a scooter speeding along the road. The rider yelled out some profanities, not even slowing, and Matteo lay there for one long second, every bruise and rib yelling its protestations at further ill treatment.

  ‘I’m fine...bene...grazie,’ he repeated as concerned people tried to help him up, muttering at the lack of care shown by the scooter riders. He was barely aware of his surroundings as events and memories began to swirl faster and faster through his dizzied mind. Finally on his feet, he headed, as if in a daze, to another café, where he ordered a grappa, drinking it down in one swift gulp. And slowly, slowly, all the jagged memories slotted back together.

  He remembered. Everything.

  The wedding. Charlie glowing, his pride and happiness. The three perfect days in Paris, followed by the terrifying worry as he had been summoned home to what he thought was his grandfather’s deathbed. Worry—and guilt. Their last words so bitter, his grandfather so angry. Angry at him. His determination to make it up, and with that determination the old single-mindedness. A single-mindedness that meant he barely noticed his new wife’s growing unhappiness until it was too late.

  All he could do was let her go, expediate the divorce and try and carry on with his life. It had seemed he owed her that much.

  Only then he’d got the divorce papers and realised he would never forgive himself if he didn’t fight for his marriage. For his happiness—for her happiness. He’d been on his way to Kent to beg Charlie to give him a second chance.

  He’d been planning to win his wife back.

  That plan hadn’t changed. The only thing he needed to figure out was how.

  Matteo leaned back in his chair. If he returned to the villa and told her that he remembered everything, would she leave? Knowing Charlie, it was highly likely. But she wasn’t indifferent to him; he would swear to it. The way she leaned into him, that secret smile just for him, the way she looked at him sometimes...

  No, she wasn’t indifferent. If he could just buy himself some time, prove to her that he had changed, remind her of all that had been good in their relationship, then maybe they had a chance.

  She had brought spontaneity and joy into his life. Maybe it was time he returned the favour. And he knew exactly how to do it. It would involve a little subterfuge at first, but the cause was good. His mouth curved into a smile. Winning back Charlie wouldn’t be easy, but it would be fun.

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHARLIE LOOKED UP as Matteo walked slowly down the stone steps leading to the swimming pool, then jumped to her feet in alarm. He looked terrible, as if all the rest and recuperation of the last eight days had been for nothing. She could have sworn there were new scrapes and bruises on his arms; his skin had lost some of the recently acquired healthy glow and perspiration shone on his forehead.

  ‘Whatever happened to you?’ she exclaimed. ‘Are you okay?’

  ‘Nothing’s wrong. I’m fine,’ he said not altogether convincingly. ‘I just decided to do the walk down to Amalfi; I needed to clear my head.’

  He’d done what? ‘Walk down to Amalfi? In this heat? Are you insane? You haven’t been given a clean bill of health yet.’

  ‘It’s only a few kilometres, three at the most. It’s fine. If it hadn’t been for an unfortunate encounter with a scooter, you wouldn’t have noticed any difference. I’m fighting fit, I promise you.’

  Charlie crossed her arms as she looked at him sceptically. ‘Please elaborate on what an unfortunate encounter with a scooter means?’

  Matteo grinned unrepentantly at her and her heart tumbled as he walked over to her, casually taking her hand in his, a zip of desire running through her veins at his touch. She was a sad case, lusting after the man who’d broken her heart.

  ‘I’d like to say that the scooter came off worst in t
he encounter, but sadly it rode off unscathed. My fault. I wasn’t looking where I was going.’

  ‘Yes, you’re clearly fighting fit if you are walking out in front of scooters and think taking a long walk in the midday sun is a sensible idea,’ she couldn’t help but scold him, trying to sound calm even as she frantically searched his face for any sign that his concussion had returned. ‘I’m not sure that any of this will have helped your ribs to mend, to say nothing of your concussion.’

  ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to worry you, but I am pretty sure the concussion is gone. You’re right about my ribs though; if it’s any consolation they are making their feelings about the matter very clear. But, to be honest, I’ve had worse outcomes from climbing sessions or riding particularly aggressive waves before. Honestly, Charlie. You don’t need to worry.’

  ‘It’s all very well saying that,’ she said, freeing her fingers and returning to her sun lounger, both relieved at the space between them and instantly missing his touch. ‘But you’re the one doing crazy things. Maybe if you didn’t I wouldn’t need to worry.’ Charlie didn’t want to examine her feelings too closely, think about the fear that had quickly filled her when he’d limped in pale and bruised, how her heart had skipped a panicked beat and she’d mentally been reaching for her phone to call the doctor. He was a grown and free man. If he wanted to do stupid things, that was on him. ‘How was the walk, heatstroke and nearly getting run over aside? It’s on my list of things to do while we are still here. The walk part; you can keep the other two.’

  ‘Absolutely beautiful, but I’d recommend doing it early in the morning or in the evening. Truthfully, it was a little bit too warm to really enjoy it. How about you? How was your morning?’

  ‘Buon giorno,’ Charlie said very, very slowly and carefully, pronouncing every syllable. ‘Mi chiamo Charlie. Tu com ti chiami?’

  Matteo’s eyebrows shot up and she giggled at the surprised look on his face. ‘I decided that if I was going to try and teach Italian children ballet I needed to be able to say more than thank you in their language so I finally opened that app I installed when we got married. To be honest I’m no natural linguist; my mother would be so disappointed in me. It’s a good job I decided not to follow her into diplomacy.’