by Kate Walker
She might have told herself that she was staying for Marco. She might declare that fact to Ricardo’s face and assure him that the baby was what she wanted. She might try to believe it, need to believe it was the truth for her own emotional safety. But the reality was very far from that.
She wanted to stay to be with Ricardo. No matter what conditions he imposed on her living on the island; no matter what role he expected her to play, she would take the little he offered with both hands, grab it and hold it for as long as he let her, so long as it meant that she could be close to the man that she loved.
‘G-good morning,’ she managed, wondering as she spoke whether the words were really appropriate. The atmosphere in the room felt thick and clouded, as if a fog were filling up her lungs, choking her, making it difficult to breathe. She had the most unnerving feeling that the Ricardo she was facing this morning was a man she had never met before in her life.
He was sitting in a chair near the window, his long body apparently relaxed, long legs stretched out in front of him, crossed at the ankle. But his face denied the appearance of relaxation, with every muscle looking tight and drawn in a way that hardened his jaw, thinned his beautiful mouth and made his eyes into piercing lasers that subjected her face to such scrutiny that she almost felt as if they might scour off a layer or more of skin.
In contrast to her rumpled and still half-awake state, Ricardo must have been up and out of the bed for some time. He had obviously showered and shaved; his black hair was still slick with moisture and just beginning to dry in the warmth of the day. And he was fully dressed in tailored shirt and trousers, the formal style of his clothes, together with their sombre, all black colouring combining to create an impression that was cold and remote as well as ominously dangerous and controlled.
‘I made some coffee,’ was his surprisingly casual comment, a wave of his hand indicating the tray that stood on a table by his chair. ‘Would you like some?’
‘OK. Yes, please.’
If her voice shook slightly it was because of the confusion in her mind. However she had seen this ‘morning after the night before’ working out, it was not like this.
She had hoped—dreamed—that she might wake up in Ricardo’s arms. That, safe and warm—and close—they might have a chance to start the new day in a very different way from how they had yesterday. A chance to start again. What she had feared, the fears growing stronger when she had sensed that the bed beside her was empty and Ricardo had got up, was that he had decided that their night together had been a terrible mistake and that he would decree they must go back to the no sex non-marriage he had declared they must have.
Instead, what she had was a near exact repeat of waking up the previous day. As if nothing had changed when in fact everything had.
Deciding she would feel better if she could face him on more equal terms, she scrambled out of bed while Ricardo was pouring coffee and pulled on the robe that lay over the end of the bed, knotting the tie belt and yanking it tight around her waist. The sleeves hung loosely over her hands, the length of it falling almost to her ankles, and she could probably have wrapped the front a couple of times around herself and still have plenty to spare. Only now did she belatedly realise that the reason it was so big and ill fitting was because it was actually Ricardo’s robe and so more than several sizes too big for her.
That thought made her distinctly nervous, as it pushed her to recall yet more of the night before. It was the touch and the feel of the towelling robe that brought it back, the evocative scent of Ricardo’s skin on the soft material. In the night when she had been sleepwalking, someone had put that robe around her and…
Her throat was so tight that it hurt as she recalled how he had called her tesoro, angelo mio, the soft voice full of concern. A voice so very different from the one he had used since she had woken this morning.
So what had happened in the night? What had she done? What had she said? The questions sent a sensation like the slither of something nasty and very cold down her spine so that when Ricardo brought the coffee over to her she reached for it with enthusiasm, hoping it would warm her chilled body, ease the tension in her throat.
‘Thank you.’
She was relieved to find that this time her voice was actually quite strong and even. At least the way she felt inside was hidden from him for now. But how long that would last when he stood so close, the clean scent of his fresh-from-theshower skin reaching out to enclose her, the softness of his newly drying hair making her fingers itch to touch, she didn’t know. Just to look at his mouth was to recall how it had felt on her skin, the sinful pleasures it had awoken, the hunger she hadn’t been able to control.
Edging carefully back, she came up against the bed and perched awkwardly on the side, struggling with the drowning looseness of the robe. A quick sip of the coffee brought some much needed warmth into her veins.
‘About last night…’ she began, edgy and unsure but knowing that she couldn’t leave the topic hanging between them, with both of them avoiding it.
‘Last night was last night,’ Ricardo answered calmly, his carved features showing no response. ‘And what happened then is one thing. Today is a whole new day—and things have changed.’
‘Changed how?’ Lucy questioned edgily, unease making her shift uncomfortably from one foot to another on the soft cream coloured carpet. ‘And where do we go from here?’
‘That’s what I want to find out.’
Ricardo didn’t return to his chair, instead he paced around the room, back and forth.
‘And the only way forward is for you to tell me the real truth.’
That made Lucy’s heart clench, her throat tightening so that she almost choked on her coffee.
‘I have been telling you the truth!’
‘Not the whole truth. At least not where your illness was concerned.’
And then Lucy knew where he was going with this. In spite of the weight and warmth of the robe, her skin felt suddenly chilled and clammy, so that she had to fight to control a shiver of real apprehension.
How had she revealed things last night? What had she told him of the darkest days of her illness, the terrible fears and thoughts that had assailed her? And how was that going to affect their relationship from now on? The future that she had thought they would have together?
‘Ricardo…’ she began stumblingly but he held up a hand to silence her.
‘No—let me.’
Prowling over to the window again, he sat down on the wide window seat, staring out for a moment at where the waters of the lake sparkled in the sunlight, before he turned back to her. His expression was totally blanked off, eyes dark and hooded.
‘You told me you were ill. You didn’t tell how ill. You said you had a breakdown.’
‘Post-natal depression.’ Lucy’s voice was low and unsteady.
‘But it wasn’t just that, was it? You weren’t just depressed—you were…’
With a rough, almost angry movement he raked both his hands through his hair, shaking his head roughly as he did so.
‘Last night you went sleepwalking—out of the room, along the corridor. You said you were looking for Marco.’
As Lucy drew in a sharp, uneasy breath his dark eyes flashed to her face and locked with her own worried gaze.
‘You were lost. Frightened. You thought you’d lost him. But you were also scared of finding him—scared that you might harm him.’
‘That was the way I felt sometimes. I felt…separate from him—I couldn’t bond with him.’
And with those words—the words she had struggled with most—finally said, suddenly it was as if the wall in her mind had come down and the words were just tumbling out, faster and faster, falling over each other in the need to have them said.
‘There were times when I couldn’t even believe that Marco was mine—ours. I thought that I was going mad—or that the world I lived in was crazy. I dreamed that I’d harmed him—maybe even killed him and so I’d g
o into his nursery to check if he was all right. But if he woke then he just cried and cried until the nanny came and only then would he stop. The nanny could stop him crying but I couldn’t. I felt that he hated me—that I wasn’t really his mother and he sensed that.’
‘Post-natal psychosis,’ Ricardo said when at last she came to a halt. ‘Not just post-natal depression but the psychosis I looked it up on the Internet,’ he added at her start of surprise. ‘I’ve been reading all damn night. Why the hell didn’t you tell someone?’
Carefully Lucy put down her cup on the bedside table so that the way her hands were shaking wouldn’t mean that she spilled the rapidly cooling coffee all over the floor. She couldn’t drink it anyway. Her stomach was tying itself in knots and she felt sick. Ricardo had accepted the depression but this was something else entirely. This was something that affected his precious son.
‘I didn’t know what was happening to me and I was afraid to tell anyone. I was scared—terrified.’
‘Terrified of what?’ Ricardo demanded harshly.
‘Of you.’
Her low-voiced response might actually have been a blow aimed at him. She saw his long body jerk just once in response to it.
‘Terrified that you would throw me out. That you wouldn’t want me when you had what you wanted—Marco. Specially not when you thought that I was a danger to him—and at the time I was convinced that I would harm him. Perhaps I already had.’
‘And so you left.’
Ricardo got slowly to his feet once more, resuming that restless pacing up and down as if he felt imprisoned and was hunting for a way out—any way out.
‘I couldn’t see any other way to go. I thought I’d feel better if I just got away. But I didn’t feel any better—the truth was that I felt a whole lot worse. And that was when I knew I needed help.’
‘And you turned to a doctor.’
It was impossible to interpret the meaning in Ricardo’s comment. She couldn’t read anything from the flat, inflexionless words.
‘Who else was there for me to turn to? You know my mother and I have never been able to talk—not properly. And there wasn’t anyone else. Certainly not you. I could never have gone to you. We didn’t have that sort of marriage. Not any sort of real marriage. Not then—not now.’
‘You’re damn right not now!’
Even as the words were flung in her face, Ricardo was turning on his heel and heading for the door. Lucy could only stare after him in blank bemusement, not knowing what had happened or what was going through his head.
‘Ricardo…’
Her shaken use of his name brought him to an abrupt halt. Just for a moment he paused, then he turned back very slowly. For a long drawn-out moment he simply stared at her, eyes narrowed, his mouth clamped into a thin hard line. Then at last he drew in a deep, uneven breath.
‘What you’re saying,’ he said at last and the sound of the ruthless control he was imposing on his voice made a horrible sensation like the march of tiny, icy footprints move slowly up and down Lucy’s spine. ‘What you’re saying is that it wasn’t the illness—the post-natal depression—that drove you away from here. It wasn’t anything that was wrong with you—it was everything that was wrong with us. We should never have married and that was what was at the root of things all along.’
His words dropped into a silence that Lucy had no idea how to fill. How could she when the only words that she could say were yes and you’re right? That was exactly where the problem lay and hearing it stated in such blunt, unequivocal terms stripped all the strength to respond from her, paralysing her voice so that she could only nod in silent, desperate agreement.
‘The only thing I do not understand,’ Ricardo went on, still in that terrible flat, emotionless voice, ‘is why the devil you ever came back. Once you had got away, why not stay away—as far away as possible?’
And there was only one answer to that.
‘You know why,’ Lucy managed, her voice just a thin thread of sound. ‘Marco.’
‘Marco,’ Ricardo echoed heavily, nodding slowly in impassive agreement. ‘Of course.’
‘You do see…’
‘Of course I see.’ He almost smiled but it was a terrible, bleak smile, one that had no light in it whatsoever. ‘What else could you do? For Marco. You were quite right about that—and right about our marriage too. That was the worst possible mistake, right from the start. It was never going to work. It is never going to work.’
He’d turned again, was wrenching the door wide open with a violence that almost tore it from its hinges.
‘It ends now,’ he tossed over his shoulder, not looking back, striding determinedly away from her as if he couldn’t wait to put distance between them. ‘I’m ending it now. It’s best we forget the whole marriage idea and go our separate ways, I’ll get my solicitor onto it right away.’
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
SOMEHOW Lucy managed to force herself to get dressed.
It was a struggle to make herself take off Ricardo’s robe and drape it over a chair, when she was longing to hold onto it, to huddle inside it, inhale the lingering traces of his personal scent that clung to the fabric in a way she clearly could no longer do with the man who owned it.
But she needed to feel covered, protected—armoured against whatever might come next. She had no idea when Ricardo might come back and what he had planned if he did, but she had to be ready. She found a pair of jeans and a T-shirt amongst the clothes in the wardrobe and pulled them on, grimacing at the way that the jeans hung off her. Had she really lost that much weight while she’d been ill?
The knock at the door came just as she was fastening a belt around her waist to hold them up. Had Ricardo come back already? And, if he had, then was that good news or bad? Had he changed his mind…?
The thoughts died in her head as she opened the door to find one of the maids standing outside.
Of course. Ricardo would never have knocked. He would have just marched straight in without waiting to be asked.
‘Yes?’ she asked uncertainly, the apprehension that gripped her growing as the young woman poured out a string of rapid Italian. Lucy couldn’t completely understand, but got the gist of something that sounded like ‘Pack now? Are you ready for me to pack all your clothes?’ And the way that the maid indicated a suitcase she had brought with her seemed to confirm that that was what she meant.
‘I don’t understand…Why would you want to pack for me?’
The answer was another tirade of Italian, foremost of which—and totally without needing any translation—was the constantly repeated ‘Signor Emiliani’.
Signor Emiliani said this…Signor Emiliani did that…Signor Emiliani had instructed her to pack, ready for the Signora to leave.
Oh, had he?
Lucy didn’t stop to think, only reacted. She was out of the door in a second, rushing down the corridor before she had time to think. He was throwing her out. After he’d had what he wanted, he was getting rid of her. So much for all his promises to let her stay.
She didn’t know if what she was feeling was agonising pain, sheer blind fury or a dangerously volatile and potentially lethal combination of both. She only knew that she was going to find him and have this out with him. She couldn’t settle until she did.
He was no longer in his bedroom, but she had a strong suspicion of just where she might find him. If he was busy organising things and issuing orders left, right and centre, then there was one place he was likely to be.
She was right. When she marched straight into his office—not allowing herself to pause at the doorway for fear she might lose all her courage and back down, maybe even run away—it was to find Ricardo sitting at his desk, a litter of papers spread out before him, his dark head bent over something he was writing.
‘I said come back in half an hour!’ he snapped, not looking up and obviously mistaking her for someone else.
‘Oh, really?’ Lucy questioned cynically. ‘I got the impression that I
was to go away and not come back at all—ever—wasn’t that what you said?’
Ricardo’s head came up fast in astonishment, and the look she caught in his dark eyes shocked and disturbed her. For just a moment he looked like a completely different man.
She couldn’t put a name to what she had seen and it didn’t stay around long enough for her to take it further. One swift blink and it was gone and in its place was cold, hard rejection.
‘Lucia! I sent someone to…’
‘I know you sent someone to pack for me—to make sure I got out of your house as quickly as possible—but I have news for you. I’m not going.’
Deliberately she folded her arms across her chest, chin lifting defiantly. She even planted her feet wide apart on the gold and blue rug before the desk, challenging him to come and move her if he dared.
‘And don’t call me Lucia.’
She wasn’t going to let him know how much it hurt to hear his own personal version of her name on his lips, spoken in that seductive accent. It had once meant so much to her. But that had been when she had believed they had a relationship.
‘My name is Lucy.’
Ricardo’s mouth twisted in a wry smile.
‘I know,’ he said and there was almost a note of amusement in his tone. ‘Lucy is what I just wrote here. Lucy Emiliani, soon to be Lucy Mottram again.’
He tapped his pen down on the topmost piece of paper on his desk, making Lucy crane forward to read. She gasped as she realised that it was a cheque—obviously a replacement for the one he had written before, which she had torn to shreds and scattered to the winds. A cheque for the same impossibly huge amount of money that he had offered her then.
‘I told you I didn’t want that. As I recall, I ripped up one cheque already—’
‘That was when I thought I wanted you to stay.’
