by Sarah Morgan
The weeks passed, slowly, very slowly until it had been a month since Cristiano left and by the end of March Sam felt like the walking dead.
The villa on Cap Ferrat was still gorgeous, the gardens still perfectly manicured, the views as breathtaking, but Sam couldn’t find pleasure in it anymore. In bed at night, she tossed and turned. She’d try to sleep but couldn’t stop thinking long enough to let sleep come. Some nights she just gave up pretending sleep would come and then she’d leave bed to go out on her balcony. Sitting there, wrapped in a blanket, she’d look at the stars and listen to the ocean and fight tears.
It was crazy, absolutely crazy. Charles and her parents were killed in car accidents and she was so scared of cars, and scared to drive, she hadn’t driven a car in years. She didn’t even like being a passenger in other people’s cars. And yet who did she fall in love with?
A Grand Prix driver.
Curled in the chair on her balcony, Sam dragged the blanket more tightly around her shoulders, burying her chin in her blanket-covered knees.
She couldn’t believe she’d given Cristiano an ultimatum.
Worse, she couldn’t believe he’d accepted it.
What a fool she was. Not just for giving him an ultimatum, but for missing him as much as she did. Because even now, in late March, she found herself still waiting for his Italia Motors sports car to appear, or the phone to ring and discover it was Cristiano on the line.
But he didn’t call her. He didn’t communicate directly with her. He sent messages, terse e-mails, conversations and discussions through Marcelle who had somehow—and this was perhaps one of the hardest things to swallow—become Gabriela’s new nanny.
It was Marcelle who chauffeured Gabby to the parties and playdates that began streaming in once people knew that darling little Gabriela, was actually Gabriela Bartolo.
It was Marcelle who updated Cristiano on Gabby’s progress in school and extracurricular activities.
It was Marcelle who advised Cristiano when Gabby seemed tired or a little under the weather.
Sam might resent Cristiano for cutting her so completely out of his life, but she did admire his devotion to Gabby. He called her daily, no matter where he was on the road, as attentive to her now, as when they all lived together. Three weeks ago he was phoning Gabby from Australia, ten days ago it was Malaysia, and now Bahrain.
He was doing well on the road right now, too. He took first in Australia, third in Malaysia and first again in Bahrain. Sam might have a broken heart, but Cristiano was on a roll.
Less than a week later, Cristiano was back in town. She hoped she’d see him, maybe have a chance to talk to him when he collected Gabby for the weekend, but she didn’t even know he’d been at the villa until Sam saw Marcelle walking Gabby out to the car.
Cristiano didn’t linger. He took off once Gabriela was buckled up and Sam watched the two people she loved best in the world disappear for a weekend together.
She was truly on the outs. And it hurt. And the hurt didn’t get better, it was just getting worse.
I’m so lonely, Sam thought. I’m lonely and lost and this is how I felt when Charles died, only no one’s died. Cristiano was very much alive—traveling and working and racing and being interviewed on television.
How ironic that she, who hated cars and racing, now watched everything she could about the Grand Prix.
No, he wasn’t dead. He was just moving on with his life, and excluding her from it.
Sam tried to distract herself that weekend while Gabby was with Cristiano. She took walks down to the water, walks into the village, walks through the Rothschild garden and museum.
But the walking didn’t stop her from thinking, and it didn’t stop her from feeling.
Sam loved Cristiano like mad. She missed him so much she felt shattered inside. It wasn’t one thing she missed, it was everything.
She missed the way they talked late at night with the TV turned down low.
She missed the way they used to smile at each other over Gabby’s head when she said something particularly funny.
She missed his sexy voice, his even deeper, sexy laugh.
She missed the way he touched her low on her back.
She missed the way when he hugged her, he’d bring her so close and her insides would flip—eager, responsive, excited.
She missed making love—God, she missed making love.
She missed the life she’d had with him…even if it had been brief.
Shaking her head, she tried to chase away the pictures filling her head, pictures of him, and her, and them together, pictures that were tormenting her heart.
If only she hadn’t lost so many people in her life. If only she were a different person altogether.
Sam drew a deep breath, battling for her famous British stiff upper lip, the one Cristiano had teased her about, but if only he knew, the lip wasn’t very stiff.
The lip, as a matter of fact, was trembling.
Sunday afternoon finally arrived. Gabby should return by dinner. To pass time Sam tidied Gabby’s room, sorted clothes, reorganized toys and then with nothing left to do, headed outside to visit the garden.
Restlessly she wandered around the garden, through flower beds and then past the fountains to the pool.
Taking a seat on one of the chaise lounges at the pool, Sam pulled her knees up against her, propped her chin on her hand and gazed out at the ocean. The sea was still so beautiful here, layers of cobalt-blue and azure-green. She didn’t think she’d ever get tired of looking at the water, and as long as she just concentrated on the water, on the tide and the breaking surf, she’d be okay. But the moment she lost focus, the moment she let herself think about her, Gabby, Cristiano—she just lost it.
She loved Cristiano.
And that’s all it took for her eyes to fill with tears, and her mind to spin off in futile directions.
She loved Cristiano but he wanted different things than she did. He wanted glory and she just wanted security. Family. Peace.
Closing her eyes, she wouldn’t let herself cry. She’d cried far too much this past month. Cristiano’s not dead, she told herself, he’s just away.
And he’ll come back. He will. He has to.
Next time she opened her eyes the sun was lower in the sky and a light blanket covered her shoulders. Blinking, disoriented, Sam shifted, stared up straight into Cristiano’s shadowed face.
Cristiano? Sam sat up swiftly, knocking the blanket off her in her haste. “What are you doing here?”
“Brought Gabby home.”
“What time is it?”
“Almost six.”
“Six?” She put a hand to her head, still dizzy from sitting up so quickly. “That long?”
“You’ve been asleep since I got here, and we’ve been back a couple of hours.”
Sam stood, busied herself folding the blanket. “Where’s Gabby?”
“Playing in her room.”
This was so strange, she thought, surreal. She hadn’t seen or talked to Cristiano in weeks and weeks and she’d done nothing but miss him and now here he was and they were having a conversation as if it were the most normal thing in the world.
The fact that they could have a normal conversation made it that much worse.
There was no reason for them not to be together. There was no reason…
Other than the fact that she feared losing him in a violent accident and he refused to acknowledge how difficult, or heartbreaking, such a loss would be for her and Gabby.
“Congratulations on the win in Bahrain,” she said now, holding the blanket against her as she faced him. She was so full of conflicting emotions, emotions that hadn’t dulled in the weeks since they said goodbye.
Some people just felt right, she thought.
Some people just made sense.
And except for this crazy, dangerous, reckless career of Cristiano’s…. he made perfect sense to her.
“Thanks,” he answered, hesitating. “How is ev
erything?”
Her gaze searched his. God, she’d missed him, missed that face, the deep grooves near his mouth, the fine creases at his eyes, the dark hair, the mouth…kissing that mouth.
Horrible, she wanted to tell him. Terrible. I hate life without you, I hate that you’ve moved on so quickly, moved on so completely without me. “Fine.”
Her voice wobbled and she forced herself to smile to keep the sadness from showing in her face.
She adored Gabby, loved being with Gabriela, but she wanted more than to be just maternal. She wanted the rest of being a woman—the love, the passion, the skin, the sex. To be a lover, not just a mother.
“You’re well?” he persisted.
She nodded, not trusting herself to speak this time.
His hazel-green eyes narrowed as he studied her, expression shuttered, giving nothing away. “You look tired.”
She started for the house and he fell in beside her. “I don’t sleep as well,” she said carefully. “But it’s probably just all the changes.”
His mouth tugged grimly. “Chef Sacchi said you don’t eat anything he makes anymore.”
“I eat.”
His gaze was critical as it swept over her. “No, it doesn’t look like you do. You’ve lost weight, and you were already thin to start with. I can’t have you starving yourself. It’s not a good example for Gabby—”
“I’m not starving myself. Okay?” And if he could eat, great, but how was she supposed to get food down when it felt as if her heart was always in her mouth?
They’d reached the villa’s veranda and Cristiano stopped walking. He looked up at the house where the late-afternoon sun reflected red-gold off the second story windowpanes. “I wanted to talk to you about Gabby’s summer plans.” He paused before continuing. “Gabby’s school holidays are coming up and I’d like her to go to the United States Grand Prix with me in June.”
United States in June? Gabby go halfway around the world without her? Sam balled her hands. “For how long?”
“Two to three weeks.”
Eternity. Sam exhaled slowly. “That’s an awfully long trip.”
“It’d be a great opportunity for her to see more of the world, and you know Gabby, she’d love it. She’s so curious, just a great little traveler.”
“You’ll be competing?”
“Yes.”
She frowned. “So how will you…”
“Marcelle will be there.”
“Marcelle’s going to the United States with you?”
“Sam, Gabby’s only five. She needs someone to look after—” He broke off and then shook his head. “I’m sorry. But of course you know that. You’ve spent more time with her than anyone. You used to be her nanny.”
Used to be her nanny. Well, that was putting her in her place. No wives or mothers, no best friends or lovers. Just the nanny. Back to the hired help.
Sam would have laughed if it weren’t so bloody painful. Because of course he was right. She was the nanny and she’d served her purpose.
But that didn’t mean Sam didn’t wish she could be Marcelle because Sam wanted to be going to America in June. She wanted to go to the United States Grand Prix. She wanted to be at the track and watch Cristiano race.
“Tell Gabby goodbye for me,” he said pulling out his car keys. “She’d wanted me to stay for dinner but it’s not a very good idea.”
“You’re welcome to stay—”
“No. It’ll just get her hopes up, make her want something that’s not going to happen.”
“What’s not going to happen?”
“This.” He gestured at the villa, at her, at the twilight. “What was. What we were.”
So it was done, all over, there’d be no going back, and no second chances.
Silently they walked around the side of the house to the driveway where his Italia Motors sports car waited. He opened the driver’s side door but didn’t climb in. Instead he folded his arms across his chest and stared down at her, hazel eyes dark, unreadable. “I hope someday you’ll find whatever it is you’re looking for.”
Her eyes burned and she blinked. “You might not believe it, but I was looking for you.”
“You were looking for a safe, sanitized version of me, but not me, because if it were me, we’d still be together.”
Sam stared up at him, seeing the face she loved and the man she admired and despite his new stiffness she could still feel the man somewhere in there. “Why can’t you see that you’re so valuable, a woman wouldn’t want to lose you? Why can’t you see that it’s not selfishness, but love?”
“Then it’s a very controlling love, and I don’t want to be controlled. I want to be accepted. Big difference.” He slid behind the steering wheel, closed the door. “And you’re not the only one afraid, Sam. Love is scary—and risky—for everyone.
“Bella, you have to live while you’re alive.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
THE phone rang and Sam leaned across her bed to answer it. Probably yet another call for Gabby from one of her friends. With her famous father winning two of his last three big races, Gabriela Grace Bartolo had become the most popular little girl in the Côte d’Azur.
“Hello?” Sam answered, punching the mute button on the TV remote control.
“Sam.”
Cristiano. They hadn’t spoken in weeks, not since that day he’d dropped Gabby off before the San Marino Grand Prix. She swallowed, her hand gripping the phone tightly. “Hi.”
“Do you have a minute?” His voice was hard, clipped, impersonal. She could have been anyone.
And maybe that was the punishment. She was just anyone.
“Yes. Gabby’s already in bed asleep.”
Silence stretched across the line, a silence where Sam wanted words, where she wanted warmth, and more than anything, she wanted comfort.
Tell me it’s going to be okay.
Tell me you still love me.
Tell me we can make this work, because I want this to work.
“Do you have a lawyer?” he asked.
“A lawyer?”
“To represent you.”
Sam drew her knees up against her, wrapped an arm around her knees, hugging them close. “Do I need one?”
“You should. It’s smart. That way you’re protected. You’ll have someone looking after your best interest.”
And I thought that would be you. I thought you’d be looking after my best interests for years to come.
“If you need some names—”
“You’re going to help me get a lawyer for our divorce?”
He hesitated for a fraction of a second, and his silence was even colder than his voice. “I don’t want you to think I’m taking advantage of you.”
A huge lump filled her throat making it almost impossible to breathe right much less speak. “You’ve never taken advantage of me before. I wouldn’t think you’d take advantage of me now.”
“When it’s over, Sam, it’s over.”
“I don’t understand what that’s supposed to mean.”
“It means if you want something, get it now.”
Get it? Get what? “And just what do you think I want to get?”
“Your piece of the pie.”
My God, the expression sounded absolutely horrible coming from his mouth, especially in light of what they were discussing now. “I have never cared about your money! You know that, Cristiano.”
“You deserve some security, Sam, get it. I’ll see that my assistant forwards the referrals. They’re all names of people you could trust—”
“Cristiano,” she spoke urgently, unable to keep from interrupting, panic and fear, hurt and disbelief tumbling one over the other inside her. Their first meeting had come from nowhere, sudden, explosive. She couldn’t bear to think their end would be the same. “Does it have to be this way?”
More silence stretched across the phone line. “I promised I would always look after you, the way you looked after Gabriela.”
Sam couldn’t completely stifle her cry despite covering her nose and mouth so he couldn’t hear. The tears were falling, great tears that couldn’t be stopped. “I’m sorry.” Her voice shook and she wiped at her nose. “Cristiano, I’m so sorry.”
“I am, too.” Yet his voice was as dead as dead could be. “You’ll keep the villa, and the Monte Carlo penthouse. Twenty thousand a month maintenance. Twenty thousand child support. Does that sound fair?”
No, she wanted to cry. No, it sounds lousy. I don’t want your money. I don’t want your home. I just want you.
“You’ll receive the first set of papers by the end of the week. Have your lawyer read them over and then get back to me.” He paused again, and the silence stretched. “Any questions?”
“No.”
“Sam, I don’t want to drag this out. It’ll only hurt and confuse Gabriela.”
Fist pressed to her heart, she told herself to just get through the rest of the call. Just make it to the end and then get off the phone. You can cry all you want then. “I understand.”
“I don’t want this in the news, either—”
“I’d never go to them.”
“Good. I guess that’s it then.”
He must have said goodbye because suddenly there was a click and he was no longer there, no longer on the line.
Slowly Sam put the phone back down and even more slowly she stretched out on her stomach on the bed, burying her face in the crook of her arm.
She used to panic, thinking she couldn’t bear to lose him, couldn’t contemplate life without him.
And she had lost him.
But he wasn’t dying. He was divorcing her.
Which in some ways was so much worse because it’s not as if they didn’t have other options, it’s not as if they couldn’t have found a way to work through their differences. Especially as there had been so much good between them, so much good worth saving.
So much worth fighting for.
He hadn’t fought for it—them—their relationship. But then, neither had she.
It was the strangest thing—her head snapped back, eyes opening, jaw dropping slightly before she snapped her mouth closed and sat up and threw her legs on the side of the bed.
