by Sarah Morgan
And that was her terror—her need was huge. She couldn’t bear to ever be that empty and hungry again. But she wasn’t sated, not yet, not by a long shot. She was still starved, starved for more, starved for abundance and secretly it horrified her, just how great her need was.
If this time with Cristiano didn’t last, if this closeness and warmth disappeared, what would she do then?
She couldn’t let herself rely too heavily on him, couldn’t let herself become too vulnerable. She had to know that comfort—closeness—never lasted.
Her parents had loved her and they’d died. Charles, who’d loved her, died. She didn’t have to be a rocket scientist to see a pattern here. Anyone who might love her would leave or perish.
Fighting panic, Sam scooted out from beneath his arm, slipped from the bed and realizing she couldn’t find any of her real clothes, picked up one of the hotel towels still tossed over the chaise lounge in the bedroom corner and wrapped it around her.
Covered in the towel, Sam went to the living room, opened the balcony door and stepped outside. Breathe, she told herself, just breathe.
She took long slow, deep breaths until her heart stopped racing and the panic eased. She wasn’t starving now, not this moment. She wasn’t alone right now. Cristiano was just inside, in bed. Don’t anticipate the worst, she reminded herself. Focus on the moment.
Leaning on the balcony railing she looked out and around. It was the middle of the night but the city was still alive. For a few minutes Sam watched the cars and taxis below until she turned toward the ocean. Far out the horizon was dark but close to the harbor, illuminated yachts bobbed.
“Can’t sleep?” Cristiano’s voice sounded behind her.
Warmth filled her, warmth and delight. Leaning on the balcony Sam flashed him a welcoming smile. “No. My head’s spinning too much.”
“Too much champagne?”
“Too much you.”
“Impossible.” He stepped outside to stand beside her. The night had grown cool and when she shivered he wrapped an arm around her and brought her close. “I’m good for you.”
She looked up at him over her shoulder. “I was never going to get married again. This is all your fault, you know.”
“Marriage doesn’t have to be a losing proposition, Sam. Good things can happen in relationships.”
“If marriage is so wonderful, Cristiano, why did you wait until now to get married?”
“Timing.” He kissed the top of her head. “And fate.”
“So you’ve never met anyone you even considered marrying?”
When he didn’t answer immediately, she knew she had her answer. But she didn’t rush him and eventually he answered. “There was someone once, but the timing couldn’t have been worse.”
“So it ended?”
“Yes.”
“And we’re together because you got tired of waiting for the right woman to come along,” she concluded.
“No. We’re together because of fate.” He scooped her into his arms and began walking back toward the bedroom. “And now we’re together because it’s late, and I’m tired, and we’re going to bed.”
In the big bed with the soft down pillows, Sam nestled close to Cristiano’s warm chest. She’d only been with him two days and yet she already had her favorite place to be. And if she was scared, it was only because she couldn’t bear the thought of ever being without him. The last time she’d been held like this, she’d been just a child, not much more than Gabby’s age.
“Thank you, Cristiano, for everything,” she whispered.
He kissed her temple, smoothed her hair. “Sleep, bella. There’s a little girl anxious to see you in the morning, and trust me, she won’t care if you haven’t slept in days.”
The next morning they returned to the villa in Cap Ferrat and yes, Gabby was thrilled to see them. She danced around their legs as they walked from the car to the house and finally Cristiano picked her up to keep from stepping on her. “You’re as bad as a puppy,” he teased.
Gabby responded with a big lick on the side of his face.
Cristiano groaned and Sam laughed quietly thinking she’d been right, about those thoughts she’d had on the plane. Nothing was the same. Not for Gabby, not for her, not for any of them. But they did adapt, slowly settling into a new routine where they spent the work week in Monte Carlo and Cristiano’s penthouse apartment and then weekends and school holidays at the villa.
It was a relatively easy commute and Sam and Gabby loved the villa best. It was always such a treat to return to the villa after five days in the city.
It was nearly the end of January and with February approaching Sam knew she had to do something about Gabby’s party but wasn’t sure where to even begin.
“Call an event planner,” Cristiano told her when she confessed to him one evening that she was nervous about throwing a big party. Married to Johann they’d never had money to do a proper party and yet Sam knew that some of the parties Gabby had attended were incredibly lavish.
“That’ll cost a fortune,” Sam told him, crawling into bed after checking on Gabby once more for the night.
“Money’s not an issue,” he answered, “and you did promise her a real party. It’s her fifth birthday after all.”
“I know, but spending huge amounts of money on five-year-olds doesn’t really make a lot of sense.”
“It’s not about the money, Sam. It’s about giving Gabriela something special to remember.”
And Sam knew that, but one of the hardest transitions for her in married life was this concept of spending freely. She’d never had extra money. It was a necessity to be frugal and fifteen years later it was a very hard habit to break. “You honestly don’t mind me putting on a big party for Gabby?”
“I’d be disappointed if you didn’t. This has been a traumatic year for her. I’d like nothing better than for her to have an absolutely magical fifth birthday.”
“So clowns, face painters, trained dogs…that’s all okay?”
“Acrobats, jugglers, magicians. No problem.”
“What about elephants?”
Cristiano grabbed Sam, rolled her beneath him and kissed her until she melted against him. “No elephants,” he growled when he finally lifted his head. “And let’s skip the tigers, too.”
He dipped his head to kiss her once more and it didn’t take long for the sweet, playful kiss to spark into hot, explosive desire.
CHAPTER TWELVE
SAM hired an event planner Chef Sacchi had worked with when he was the head pastry chef at the La Palme d’Or in Cannes and after the event planner visited the villa, saw the space for the party and heard the circus theme, he promised he could create something fantastic that would thrill children and adults alike.
“We shall do our own Festival du Cirque Monte-Carlo, yes?” The theatrical young man said. “A tent, a marquee, red carpet and of course the circus acts.”
“My husband has only two stipulations,” Sam said. “No elephants—they would be hard on the gardens, and no tigers. If one escaped he knows the neighbors would complain.”
“Ah, yes, a wise husband.” The young man nodded his head thinking. “We can pass on the exotic animals but I can maybe find you a small elephant, one not so big it’d crush the daffodils.”
Sam fought the desire to smile. “I’m sorry. Cristiano was really quite clear. No elephants, but I think the children would love small ponies.”
Two days after trucks began to line the villa driveway as scores of workers from the different party rental companies set to work constructing the circus tent, the center ring and the bleacher seating. Lights were strung inside the white tent and more lights were strung outside the tent. A great cobalt-blue sign with fancy gold lettering that had been hand-painted just for the occasion was hung outside the tent, Festival du Cirque Gabriela, and in the middle was a big gold number 5.
Weeks earlier the invitations had been hand delivered by a courier, the red and white striped envelopes wi
th red and gold card stock inviting the children and their parents to Gabriela Bartolo’s fifth birthday party. Sam had feared many children wouldn’t drive from Monte Carlo to the villa in Cap Ferrat for the party, but there was only one regret and that was a last minute cancellation when a little girl came down sick.
The event planner didn’t forget anything. He brought in food stalls to offer guests everything from cotton candy to croque monsieur and croque madame, hired a half dozen of the best clowns in Europe and even imported a small antique carousel the children could ride amid flashing, swirling lights.
The circus party was a gigantic hit. Gabby stood with Sam and Cristiano in front of the soaring white tent as guests arrived, greeting each of her friends from school with delight. As the children and their parents followed the red carpet into the tent, through the entrance’s black and white striped poles, Gabby could hardly contain herself.
Once the guests had all arrived the circus began with a welcome from the circus’ ringmaster, a short stout gentleman wearing a red coat, black pants and boots. He wore a top hat and carried a whip but promised the children he wouldn’t use it if they were good, which elicited squeals from the children and then fresh squeals when a white-faced clown with a hat many sizes too small ran out into the ring chasing a small dog. The dog jumped into the ringmaster’s startled arms and then jumped out and barking frantically dashed in and out of the stands before disappearing again.
And that was just the beginning.
There were acrobats, trapeze artists, white Austrian horses and Spanish dancers. Clowns chased each other into the stands, tumbled out of miniature cars, sprayed one another with water and tried to get pigs to dance and dogs to talk and by the time the ringmaster reappeared at the end to thank the children for coming, and to invite them into the center ring for cake, Gabby was speechless with awe.
After the cake was cut and eaten, the children and parents began to depart. Within a half hour nearly everyone was gone and the cleanup crew began breaking down the tent. “I loved my circus,” Gabby said wistfully, as the canvas tent was peeled off the poles.
“It was a good party,” Sam agreed.
Nodding, Gabby yawned and leaned against Sam’s leg. Cristiano saw the yawn, too, and he stooped to pick up Gabby. He straightened and turned toward the house, but not before Sam had seen him wince. He was in pain again.
“I can take her,” Sam offered and Cristiano shot her a hard glance.
“I have her,” he said.
They set off for the villa, Gabby’s head on Cristiano’s shoulder, her eyes half-closed. Cristiano wasn’t walking slower than usual but he was certainly favoring his right leg a little more but Sam said nothing to him about it knowing it would only irritate him. He never discussed the injury, never talked about pain, either, but she knew he felt it, lived with it, and there were times she wished she could do something for him—more for him—but Cristiano was proud. There were things, like his accident, he just wouldn’t share.
Gabby fell asleep early that night worn-out from the big day, and Sam and Cristiano had dinner in their room, and watched the evening news from their bed.
As the news program moved from world news to local news, and economic and current events to sports and entertainment, the announcer mentioned a tragic loss in the sporting world: thirty-one-year-old Nils Hiukka, two-time Indy 500 winner died in Phoenix, Arizona, that morning after a tire failure during a practice run sent him into a concrete wall.
Cristiano reached for the remote control and abruptly turned the television off before tossing the control onto the nightstand.
Sam looked at Cristiano. “You knew him?”
“Yes.”
She waited for him to say more, but he didn’t. He simply stood, headed for the bathroom where he stripped off his clothes and stepped into the shower.
Sam was already in bed with the lights out when Cristiano returned. She heard him flip the covers back on his side, felt the mattress give beneath his weight, and then he was behind her, pulling her toward him.
“You’re upset,” she murmured.
“He was a former teammate.”
Cristiano fell silent, and as the silence stretched, she felt the room grow cold, the bed empty. He was there, but not, and his arms might be around her, but he’d detached, disappeared from her.
“Cristiano,” she whispered his name as she turned in his arms to face him. His eyes were open and he was staring at a place past her head. “When were you on the same team?”
“Ten years ago. Before I drove for Italia Motors.”
He fell silent again and she bit her lip, hoping he’d soon talk, tell her more but he didn’t. He remained strangely silent and reserved, so unlike the Cristiano she’d come to know.
After several minutes Sam reached up and touched his mouth with her fingertips. He was so beautiful, his nose was long, perfectly straight, his chin squared, and his mouth with that curve in his upper lip, the lower lip firm, sensual. She loved his face. She’d never get tired of looking at him. “What are you thinking?” she asked gently.
For a moment she didn’t think he’d answer, and then he exhaled slowly. “About my father.” Cristiano turned his head, looked at her. “He liked Nils, but he used to say that Nils’s enthusiasm overruled his judgment.”
“Nils was reckless?”
“His tactics bordered on reckless, yes.”
“What kind of driver was your dad?”
“Brilliant.” There was no hesitation on Cristiano’s part. “I realize you don’t know anything about racing, but my father was one of the greatest drivers of all time. Less than ten years ago he won thirteen Grand Prix in one year—Australia, Malaysia, Bahrain, San Marino, Spain, United States, Monaco—you name it. He won it. Before he died, he won four World Championships—only Juan-Manuel Fangio of Argentina won more, and that was in 1950s.”
He was right, she didn’t know anything about racing but she was impressed. “Your father sounds remarkable.”
“People always wanted to know his secret, and there wasn’t a secret to his success. It was just him. His personality. Behind the wheel he was always cool, calm, unflappable. But he was incredibly strong. He won because he didn’t tire—physically or mentally.”
Sam slid up Cristiano’s torso, pressed a light kiss to his chin and then his lip. “He taught you to drive?”
“Yes.” His lashes flickered down, and then up again. The corner of his mouth lifted in a small, rueful smile. “It’s funny. As a driver he was cool and calm, as a father he could be short-tempered. I think he resented anyone or anything that took him away from the track.”
“He must have traveled a lot.”
“He lived to race. He didn’t care what he drove, either. He’d race anything—Corvettes, Ferraris, F1s, Champcars, oval racers, even long distance sports car races.”
“Did you ever go with him, on those trips?”
“No. My parents divorced when I was young, and I was sent to boarding school. I hated it. All I wanted to do was race, too. My dream was to someday drive with Dad. To make his team. And then when I was twenty-six I won the French GP and Italia Motors—my father’s team—signed me.”
“You must have been thrilled.”
He laughed faintly. “Over the moon. But of course I didn’t get to race with him right away. I was the third team member, which meant I did a lot of sitting and waiting for my turn. I hated sitting, I’m a Bartolo after all, but a year later, here in Monaco for the Grand Prix, an injury to the second team driver opened up a spot for me. I took second that day, my father took first, and I never had to sit as an alternate again.”
“So you helped each other win?”
“Teammates look out for each other. It’s what you do.”
Sam heard his voice deepen and she glanced up into his eyes. Cristiano’s hazel-green eyes were shadowed with pain.
“I’m sorry Gabby will never know him,” he said huskily. “She should have known him. He would have enjoyed
her tremendously.”
“You said he died just months before she was born.”
“Four months before she was born. In October. At the Brazilian Grand Prix.”
Sam heard the heartbreak in his voice and it reminded her of the grief she’d seen in his eyes back in Cheshire. And not just grief, but remorse.
Sam chewed on her thumb and looked at Cristiano, studying his thick dark hair, his incredible cheekbones, and the most beautiful mouth in the whole world. “Tell me,” she said softly.
“Tell you what?”
“Tell me what hurts.”
“You already know my legs hurt.”
She pinched his chest, just above his nipple. “I’m not talking about your legs. I’m talking about the other things, the hurt inside you.”
He lifted a hand, smoothed his palm over her hair, letting the curls coil around his fingers. “Sorry, bella. Men don’t talk that way.”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s not—” his eyes briefly glinted, a flash of humor “—masculine.”
She smiled wryly and then her smile faded and she leaned closer to his chest, letting her heart beat against his. “Your dad died at the race in Brazil.”
“Yes.”
“And it still makes you sad.”
“Yes.”
“It was an accident, wasn’t it?”
“Yes.”
Sam heard the catch in his deep voice and her eyes closed, her hands open on his shoulders. She could feel his pain. She could feel it as strong as anything and she was almost afraid to touch him. To be so close to someone and know how much they hurt.
To know you couldn’t save or heal, change or fix. All one could do was listen. And care.
Care. God, she cared. She cared so much she thought she’d die if anything happened to him. For the first time in eight years she felt like a real person again, she felt whole and happy and for the first time since Charles died, she knew she’d have a long, normal life. With Cristiano. With Gabby. Her family.
