by Penny Jordan
Why?
Why had his father been like that?
Why couldn’t he have just been happy?
Why?
He was almost doubled over with the agony of it all—shocked at the depth of his grief over a man who had caused nothing but pain.
‘When?’ he asked instead.
‘Just now,’ Emma said gently. ‘Your mother has a friend with her; she’s staying in a hotel tonight and then coming home in the morning.’
He was obviously devastated, and she felt like an intruder almost, witnessing this most private moment, knowing Luca would never have chosen for her to see him like this. There were no tears, no outward, dramatic displays of emotion—they would have been easier to deal with somehow. No, it was his pain, this deep, wretched pain that sagged those strong shoulders as he had strode to the window then stumbled, bemused almost. She had sat there, torn—instinct wanting her to run to him, yet logic telling her to stay exactly where she was.
‘And Pa?’ She heard him attempt to inject strength to his voice. ‘Did she say anything?’
‘She asked if you could sort that out… arrange things.’
Only that wasn’t what he’d meant. Everything was already sorted, things had been put in place weeks ago—all he had to do was pick up the phone, or ask Evelyn to. No, that hadn’t been what he’d meant and he had never thought he would care enough to ask it.
‘Did he suffer?’
‘No.’
At one time he had wanted him to suffer—had wanted the agony he had inflicted to catch up with his father in death—but wishes were but flights of the imagination, Luca realised, reality entirely different.
‘Your mother said it was very quick and peaceful at the end.’
That did give comfort, why he didn’t know. And then he felt it, her hand on his shoulder, and he wanted to brush it off, ashamed at being seen like this, embarrassed that she should witness such private pain. Yet her touch helped, the bliss of human contact was like a rope to cling to in the dark, ferocious waters of grief. Luca turned and for the first time in his life and only for a moment so fleeting it was barely there he leant on another, felt her warmth, her kindness, felt her tears on his cheeks and accepted the bewildering fact that for a moment she shared his pain, divided it, lessened it even, just by being there.
And then he let her go.
Had to let her go.
‘Organise the plane—I need to be there for my mother. When did you say she gets back?’
‘Tomorrow, late morning.’
Which gave him space. He thought of the billion and one things he had to do—of the people relying on him, of things he had to do.
‘Arrange that I leave at eight a.m. tomorrow. Now, if you will excuse me, I should ring my mother.’
‘Of course, but—’
‘Cancel my diary for the week—I have warned most people that this might happen soon.’ He was back in business mode, standing tall and proud but unable to meet her eyes.
‘Luca…’
He glanced at the envelope he was still holding. ‘If you were thinking of leaving, I would appreciate it if you could stay on at least till I return.’
‘Of course, but…’ How to say it, how to just come out and say it? Finally, the words just flurried out. ‘Your mother thinks that I will be coming with you—she is expecting me to be there for the funeral.’
‘No.’ His response was immediate. He could not do this again, could not let her any closer, because it had already been hard enough losing her once—he couldn’t do it again. ‘I will explain you are needed here.’
‘She thinks I am more needed there.’ Emma was crying. It wasn’t her place to cry, it was his father that was dead, but to see him so lost for that moment, to feel the weight of his pain momentarily rest in her arms, even if it would be agony, even if it was just another charade, she wanted to be there for him. She wanted this time with the man she loved, with the father of her child and maybe, just maybe, being with him, sharing in his grief, might bring them close enough for Emma to reveal her news. ‘You don’t have to do this alone.’
‘No.’ His response was final. He had done everything alone—always he had been alone. Oh, there had been women, so-called partners even, and they had shared in important milestones, family occasions even—yet in his mind he had always been alone. Now she offered a different path and Luca gazed into her eyes and down that unfamiliar route.
To have her with him, to get through this and have her beside him at night, to have that hand hold his as he tried to make it through…
Never had he been more sorely tempted.
‘No.’
He dismissed her, picked up the phone and turned his back.
She quietly closed the door on her way out, and she held it together.
Evelyn was still in tears for her own reasons, so with just a little guidance from her senior, Emma put the plans for Rico D’Amato in place, and for Luca D’Amato too. She struggled through the wretched day and then headed not to home but to visit her father.
‘I loved her, Emma.’ He was holding a photo of her mother and weeping when she arrived. ‘I loved her.’
‘I know, Dad.’
‘I always knew she’d leave me. I knew that one day she’d go….’
Instead of taking the photo away, instead of filling up his little dish with chocolate, or replacing his laundry, Emma sat in the stiff leather chair by his bed—weary with new understanding.
Love hurt.
Love sucked.
Love made you do the unfathomable.
‘I should have supported her with her art,’ Frank wept, as Emma held his hand and closed her eyes. ‘I should have been there for her. I should have been a better father for you…’
Round and round he went, trapped in a circle of dementia and bitter, bitter regret.
It was exhausting to listen to.
And exhausting to leave.
Bone weary, she stepped out of the nursing home and into the dark night, almost knowing Luca would be waiting for her, almost sensing what was to come.
‘I went to your home.’
‘I was visiting Dad.’
‘We are finished, Emma.’ He made himself say it, because she deserved better than lies, better than false promises.
Better than him.
‘There can be no relationship.’
‘I know that now.’ And she did, finally she did, because he couldn’t make it any clearer. His face was stripped of colour, just the blue of his eyes and the blackness of his words resonated in her heart. But love made you daft, love made you care, love made you weak at times, but true love, real love, actually made you incredibly strong.
‘Your offer to come to the funeral, I would like to accept it now. It would mean a lot to my mother and also to me,’ he admitted. One slight weakness and she blinked in confusion, because sometimes he sounded like a man who adored her.
‘I said I’ll come, but there can be no…’ She couldn’t finish but she knew he understood her. Unlike before, this time she meant it, because although she loved him, and wanted him, being intimate with a man who had confessed he didn’t want her meant there was one rule that had to be voiced.
‘I understand that,’ Luca said, and he did. Always sex had been like balm, a release, a distraction, a pleasure—yet with Emma it had been something else, had taken him to places that had shown him all he was missing, all he must forever miss. Emma had been right too. His mother had naturally assumed Emma would join him, and at first he had reeled from even the thought. But to have her beside him… He knew he shouldn’t but, selfishly, his need overrode logic.
‘I am leaving in the afternoon now—Evelyn will come to your home in the morning to assist you.’
And in Luca’s world no explanation was necessary—he could just give his orders and they would be followed. But as Evelyn arrived the next morning with an array of dour suits, as she helped her junior pack and pay last-minute bills and cancel plans and ring
the nursing home, the mood was sombre. Black was Emma’s safe staple—a suit, a jumper, a sexy little dress—but always it was lightened with colour. Pulling on black stockings, a thin black cashmere jumper and then the black suit, Emma felt sick. She had never been to a funeral before—well, just one, but she had been too young to remember her mother’s.
They sat in silence in Emma’s lounge, waiting for the toot of Luca’s driver. Evelyn saw her junior’s pinched face and restless foot that tapped a silent tune as she braced herself for whatever lay ahead.
‘I know something happened in Italy,’ the older woman said gently.
‘How could it not have?’ Emma gave a tight shrug.
‘I warned you,’ Evelyn said, but there was no accusatory note in her voice. She had seen it before and she would no doubt see it again—but it felt different with Emma. ‘You don’t have to go to this—’
‘But I do,’ Emma interjected.
‘He’ll hurt you,’ Evelyn warned. ‘Please don’t get too involved… Luca’s incapable of commitment.’
‘I know that.’
‘And he can’t stand to look at his mistakes.’ Evelyn spoke from years of experience. ‘I’ve seen it happen so many times. Sooner or later, you’ll end up leaving. Oh, you’ll get a glowing reference, a fabulous payout…’ Each word was like an arrow to Emma’s heart, because it washed away the last dregs of the uniqueness that she’d been sure had been them. ‘He’ll hurt you,’ Evelyn said again and then the car tooted its summons and they both stood, Emma tempted to follow Evelyn’s advice—to just walk away now, before he hurt her even further.
‘He already has,’ Emma admitted finally.
‘Then tell him you can’t go with him, tell him that you’ve changed your mind.’
The doorbell rang and the two women stood in silence for a moment, but then Emma picked up her bag and opened the door. She stared into navy eyes that were glassy, and saw a taut, guarded face that, for a little while longer at least, needed her there.
Real love did make you strong, Emma realised.
It wasn’t just for Luca she would go to the funeral.
It was for their baby. For the little bit of history that she would one day have to repeat to their child whose grandfather had just died.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
EVERYTHING seemed different. As the helicopter swept them from the airport, Emma could see the bare vines and naked trees and as they made their way towards Luca’s home, the Mediterranean pulsing swollen and grey as they came in closer to land.
They walked into the house. All the curtains were drawn and a wail went up, women dressed in black sobbing as Luca and Emma entered.
She had never seen such raw emotion and it made her flinch—this wall of pain that hit them with force. In the middle of them all was Mia, who sat dignified and silent. She stood as her son entered and accepted his embrace, and suddenly Emma experienced a stirring of memory within her. Tears and black and grief… She could remember holding her hands up to her father, who didn’t notice, could feel again the bemusement she had felt as a child, seeing her brothers weep, her aunts, everyone… Emma had been holding Luca’s hand for appearances’ sake but suddenly he was holding hers.
Mia led them both past the kitchen where the men stood in strained, respectful silence and into Rico’s study, where she spoke with her son about the arrangements. But despite what was expected of them, Luca put his foot down. For his mother he would do it, would stand in the kitchen with the men and drink whisky and play the dutiful son, would put himself through whatever was expected of him this one last time, but he would not do it to Emma.
‘Luca!’ She could hear his mother’s annoyance, and had no idea what they were saying, but Luca seemed adamant, his voice, firm and non-negotiable, then he led her away, up to the bedroom, where she sat on the edge of the bed.
‘What was all that about?’ Emma asked. ‘Surely now is not the time to argue with your mother?’
‘You are expected to sit and weep with the women while I stand with the men.’ He watched her eyes widen in horror. ‘So, perhaps now is a good time to state my opinion, hmm?’
‘Yes, thank you,’ she conceded. ‘What did you say?’
‘That you are tired, upset…’ He gave a thin smile. ‘That you are English.’
Emma managed a watery smile back. ‘We English have emotions too, you know.’
‘Ah, but you hide them so well.’ She was quite sure he was talking about them, about these past hellish weeks. ‘When it hurts, when it really hurts…’ His hand reached out, pushed a few stray curls back from her strained face and he just stood there, his hand resting on the side of her cheek as her skin warmed to his slight touch. ‘You just keep it all in.’
‘Crying and screaming doesn’t change anything. I learnt that long ago.’
‘You just get on with it?’ he wanted to know.
‘Yes.’
‘Maybe living in England, some of your ways have rubbed off on me.’
She felt as if he was giving her a message, as if beneath his blandness, beneath the void of emotion there was a deeper meaning in his words—which was the edge of madness, Emma reasoned. There was no deeper meaning with Luca, he had told her that from the start, so she jerked her head, removed herself from his contact and wished him gone.
‘I must go back down, I will bring you some supper.’
‘I’m not hungry,’ she told him.
He didn’t listen, and returned a few minutes later with a plate of pastries and a large mug of hot chocolate and some liquor. ‘My mother said to give you this—it’s limoncello—made from the lemons from the family tree, it will help you rest.’ He poured her a small glass and Emma took it, but placed it on the bedside table.
‘I should join them,’ he said.
‘Go,’ Emma replied.
‘Thank you.’ He stood at the door, then turned and added, ‘For being here. It helps.’
‘Does it?’ Her eyes searched his. ‘Luca, if me being here helps…’ She watched his face immediately become shuttered, and knew now wasn’t the time to demand answers—to ask why he shut her out over and over again, only to occasionally let her in, why he was so closed off to emotion.
‘Rest,’ Luca said instead, and once he had gone back to join his family, Emma undressed, feeling exhausted. Even if she weren’t pregnant she wouldn’t have drunk the limoncello, so she tipped the brew down the sink, hating his father’s legacy. Then she undressed for bed, catching sight of herself in the mirror and noticing the slight changes in her body already. There was no bump, it was way too soon for that, but there was a softness to her belly and pressing her fingers to her pubic bone she could feel the firm wedge of muscle. Her breasts were rounder, the areolae darker—small, subtle changes that Luca would never notice. Not that he would see them because she pulled on her shapeless candy-striped flannelette pyjamas as if they were some sort of chastity belt—usually worn for a girls’ movie night and certainly not seduction material.
She slipped between the crisp cotton sheets and willed sleep to come, wished it was morning and that this long night was over.
He came to bed before midnight, undressed and climbed in beside her. Silence would have been welcome, but wails of tears still filled the house at times.
‘I hate this,’ Luca admitted to the darkness, knowing she was awake beside him.
‘I know.’
‘This day has been coming for a long time.’
‘You can never prepare for losing someone you love.’
‘I don’t love him.’ She lay still beside him, her heart stopping for a moment as she heard his truth. ‘I have never loved him.’
‘Luca…’ She shook her head on the pillow. ‘You shouldn’t speak like that on the eve—’
‘So he is a saint now?’ She heard the flash of anger in his voice. ‘All those people out there think they are mourning a good man, a loving husband, a wonderful father, when the truth is…’ He halted, but Emma wouldn’t let hi
m leave it.
‘What is the truth, Luca? How bad was it?’
‘He beat her.’ Here in the dark, with her hand slipping into his, he said it. ‘Over and over he beat her, yet she never cried, she just took it. Only even if she made no noise, you could still hear it…’ The marrow chilled in her bones as he continued. ‘Of course, we were not allowed to tell, of course Ma covered her bruises.’
‘What was he like…’ Emma swallowed ‘…to you and Daniela?’
‘Daniela was his angel—people say children know, but I am not sure as Ma and I hid it well, even from her.’
‘And you?’
He didn’t answer, so she asked again, her hand reaching out to the scar on his cheek, and he held her hand against it for a moment.
‘Did he do this?’
He didn’t say anything more and it took a moment for Emma to realise that he was finally asleep—exhaustion catching up with him at last.
He reached for her in sleep, one strong arm dragging her that little bit closer, and she lay rigid in his arms, telling herself to pull away, except she had never felt closer to him, remembering his tension when they’d lain here all those weeks ago, when every noise, every creak of the house must for Luca have screamed danger.
Sleep didn’t let him rest quietly, though.
With every noise she felt the slight jump of muscle still loaded with adrenaline, his arms pulling her further in until she could feel the press of his groin against hers.
She could feel the hardness of his erection, the tense heat of him, a need so demanding it must have woken him, because he turned away, moved onto his back, remembering their rules.
But distance didn’t help it abate.
She knew that, could feel the thick energy in the room, could hear his tense breathing as he willed it to pass, for sleep to rescue him. For this hell to be over.
She turned on her side, and as her eyes adjusted to the darkness, she could see his were closed, could see the muscled outline of his stomach and the sheet that didn’t disguise his need in the slightest.
Her hand reached out, resting on his stomach, and she heard his hiss of frustration as he thought inadvertent contact had been made, knew he assumed her asleep beside him—that, like himself, her body had forgotten the rules.
