‘Partly.’ He sipped his wine, his eyes still appraising her. ‘But it is more than that. It is the way you tremble when I touch you—even lightly.’
As if to prove his point, he reached across the table and lifted her hand, pressing a kiss against the sensitive flesh of her inner wrist. To her chagrin, a shiver of awareness flew over her, coating her flesh in goosebumps and warming her core.
The widening of his eyes showed he had seen the effect he had on her. ‘Nothing about you adds up.’
Fear stilled her. She was failing. She was letting her own selfish needs get in the way of what she was supposed to be doing. What she’d been paid handsomely to do.
Cressida was counting on her and Tilly had given her word.
She had no right to be jeopardising everything just because she was...falling in love?
Her mouth parted in surprise. Was that what she was doing? It felt so alien to her.
Her heart rocketed in her chest and her mind ran away with her. Love? She’d never been in love. Not once. She’d dated some nice guys, and she’d even slept with two of her boyfriends—the ones she’d thought might eventually become serious prospects for Happily Ever After. And there’d been one ill-advised one-night stand that had taught her she didn’t go in for casual sex.
But she’d never felt anything remotely like this.
‘I’m not an equation,’ she mumbled, pulling her hand away and reaching for her wine. ‘I’m not something to make sense of.’
‘On the contrary, you are a riddle I want to solve.’
She swallowed, her throat knotting visibly as she tried to refresh her parched throat. When that didn’t work she lifted her wine to her lips and gulped it gratefully.
She toyed with the collar of her dress. ‘Speaking of solving riddles,’ she said, in a heavy-handed attempt at changing the subject, ‘I have something for you.’
He was quiet, but she sensed his impatience with the roadblock she’d erected. She reached into her handbag and pulled out the book, passing it to him with a shy smile.
He unfolded it, and when he saw the title his confusion grew. ‘This is the book you told me of?’
‘It’s not just a book,’ she corrected. ‘It’s a series. This is one of them. The only one I could find at that little shop.’
She sipped her wine again, surprised to realise the glass was almost empty.
‘Thank you,’ he murmured, flipping the pages and giving them a cursory inspection before putting it aside. ‘Did you read a lot when you were growing up?’
She wasn’t fooled for a moment. He seemed to be making casual conversation, but it was all part of his same quest to solve the riddle of who she was—a riddle she’d never be able to answer.
Desolation washed over her. Was there any way she could be honest with him? The idea gnawed at her mind.
She reached for her wine, the idea taking purchase inside her. If she told him the truth, then what? Would he go along with her ruse? Would he still look at her as though he wanted to peel the clothes from her body and make her his? Or would he judge her for engaging in this kind of subterfuge? For taking payment for a lie?
Or what if she could speak to Cressida? What if she confessed the truth to the other woman and asked her to release Tilly from their agreement? She’d have to pay the money back but, given time, she could do that.
Suddenly keeping this secret for the heiress felt all kinds of wrong.
‘That does not seem like a complex question,’ he prompted.
Her eyes were enormous in her face. ‘Huh?’
‘Did you read much when you were growing up?’
She pulled a face, doing her best to hide her embarrassment and refocus her attention on their conversation. ‘Yes.’
She had lived in the pages of books. Jack, less so.
‘And these were your favourites?’
‘Amongst my favourites,’ she agreed. ‘I adored any mystery books. I must have read the same ones a thousand times.’
He reached for the bottle of wine, topping her glass up as he settled back in his chair.
‘And you?’
‘No, I didn’t read.’
‘Not at all?’ she murmured, finding that almost impossible to comprehend. ‘That’s so sad.’
He laughed. ‘I had other pastimes that I enjoyed very much.’
‘Such as?’
‘Exploring.’ His face flashed with an expression similar to what she imagined he might have worn as a young boy. ‘My mother and I would walk—at least we would when she was well enough.’
He stared out at the ocean, a smile crinkling the corners of his eyes as he thought back to those brief windows of happiness in his childhood.
‘She didn’t have a lot of money, as I have said, so she would pack a bag with apples and water, and a little cioccolata for me. We lived above the marcato, and every now and again she would surprise me with a fresh-baked pastry or some deli meat. We would leave early in the morning and not return until nightfall. All day we would walk through the winding streets of Rome, studying the ancient buildings, learning about the city.’
He turned his attention back to Tilly.
‘I do not consider I missed any advantage because I wasn’t an avid fan of books.’
She dipped her head forward and a wisp of red hair brushed against her pale complexion. Tilly had read in order to have exactly the same adventures.
‘Those walks sound beautiful,’ she said softly. ‘Was she sick often?’
His eyes met Tilly’s, and again she had the sense that he was waging an internal war. Perhaps it was easy for her to recognise because she was fighting a similar battle. What to show and what to hide.
‘Yes.’
It was impossible to flatten the sorrow in her expressive eyes. She reached across the table and curled her hand over his. He stared at their fingers, as did she. Was he noticing the way they fitted together so well? Even the contrast between his deep tan and her cream complexion created a striking image.
‘When I started school, I remember her telling me that things would be different. I didn’t realise at the time why—only that she seemed buoyed up by the prospect of something on the horizon. With hindsight, I understand. Finally I would be cared for during the week, which would allow her to work. She saw an opportunity to get her life back on track.’
‘Do you think her life wasn’t on track, Rio?’ Tilly asked thoughtfully.
He swirled his wine in the glass without drinking it. Having not spoken to a soul about his childhood, he found the combination of sunshine, wine and the beautiful woman opposite like a magical key to the doorway of his past.
‘She was twenty-four when I was born,’ he murmured, his eyes lifting to Tilly’s face. ‘Your age.’
She ran her thumb over his hand. ‘What did she do? For work, I mean?’
His smile was perfunctory. ‘She was an architect.’
Pieces of the jigsaw slipped into place, building a framework as to who he was.
‘She taught you to love old buildings,’ Tilly murmured thoughtfully.
‘Yes. Though it wasn’t so much teaching as opening my eyes. Whenever we walked past demolition sites we’d marvel at what might have been done if only someone had intervened. She loved history. The past. She wanted to preserve it.’
‘She sounds like a wonderful person.’ And a lot like her son, she added silently.
‘Si.’
He wondered at the way he was opening up to this woman he barely knew—a woman he had thought he would despise. But the more he got to know her, the more he understood Cressida’s differences from the Marinas of the world. Cressida didn’t have it in her to lie.
‘And when did she first get sick?’
His eyes were as hard as flint; they showed no emotion, but Tilly could feel it vibrating from him in waves.
‘A month after I started school. She thought it was a cold, but it wouldn’t go away. Then there was stomach pain.’
He closed hi
s eyes for a moment, and when he looked at her once more it was as though he was piercing her with his pain. Tilly felt his trauma as if it was her own.
‘She was too sick to work. She lost her job. Money became tighter...she became increasingly ill.’
‘Oh, Rio,’ Tilly murmured, shaking her head as she contemplated his life. ‘What about her parents? Your father?’
‘Her parents didn’t speak to her from the moment they discovered she was pregnant.’
‘Not even when you were born?’ Tilly demanded, aghast and outraged in equal measure.
His expression was sardonic. ‘Not when I was born. Not when she got sick. Not even when she died—though they are both alive to this day.’
‘And do you speak to them?’
He shot her a look of impatience. ‘Would you?’
Her heart flipped painfully.
She searched for something to say—something that might alleviate his suffering—but he continued, ‘I do not believe in second chances, Cressida. We have one opportunity in life to make the right choice. They did not. Nor did my father. Forgiving them would be a sign of stupidity—a weakness I will never allow myself to possess.’
The words were spoken with such passion that she couldn’t help but comprehend the depths of his commitment. But the philosophy itself...? It spread panic over her—and not just because she feared her deceit was something else he would not forgive.
‘But what if they regret what they did? What if—?’
‘No.’
He slashed his free hand through the air and her nerves quivered.
‘No,’ he softened it, bringing that same hand to rest on hers, sandwiching it between his palms. ‘If you can imagine the way she lived her life—the shame she felt at our poverty, the worry she felt when I complained that I was hungry...’
His eyes met Tilly’s and the strength of burning emotion made her want to say or do something—anything to erase his pain.
‘I was always hungry.’ He gave a short, sharp laugh.
‘You were a growing boy.’
‘And she was a dying woman,’ he said softly. ‘She stayed alive until I was almost finished at high school, and I believe that was through determination alone.’
He pulled his hands away, reaching for his fork and spearing a sphere of bocconcini.
She didn’t see him eat it. She was imagining this proud, strong man as he’d been back then. ‘What about your father?’
He forked a piece of calamari. ‘What about him?’
‘You said he’s not in the picture,’ she prompted. ‘But surely when she got sick...?’
‘No.’
Her brows knitted together. ‘Did he know?’
He flicked her a look of subdued amusement. ‘Si, cara.’
‘Perhaps he wasn’t in a position to help,’ she suggested, finding it impossible to reconcile the idea of a man turning his back on the dying mother of his child.
Rio’s eyes narrowed and he was a businessman again. One capable of eviscerating his foes without breaking a sweat. ‘Why are you so determined to see the best in people?’
She sipped her wine nervously. ‘I don’t know. I didn’t know that was something I do.’
He nodded curtly. ‘You do. And I would think you’ve had enough experience with people and their selfish proclivities to adopt a more cautious attitude.’
‘No.’ She shook her head. ‘Not yet.’
He lifted one dark, thick brow. ‘I hope you do not change,’ he said quietly. ‘Your optimism is refreshing.’
‘But misplaced?’ she suggested.
‘Yes—in this instance. My father was a very wealthy man. He could have bought my mother an apartment, given her an allowance and ensured I went to excellent schools. It would have been barely small change to him.’
‘Surely he did something to help?’
His laugh was a dark sound. ‘He offered to pay for the termination.’
Tilly’s gasp was loud. There was one other couple in their corner of the terrace and they turned towards them, apparently curious at what was going on.
With an effort at discretion, she said more quietly, ‘Are you sure? Are you absolutely sure?’
Though she didn’t want to suggest it of the woman he obviously viewed as a saint, it wasn’t inconceivable that his mother had lied at some stage, to sour Rio against the father he’d never met.
As if he’d read her mind, he said, ‘My mother never told me. At least, she didn’t mean to. But there were times when her pain was so severe that her doctors put her on huge quantities of morphine. It made her...communicative.’
Tilly grimaced. ‘That’s rough on your mother. To have kept a brave face through so much adversity, raising you without badmouthing your father, no matter how sorely she was tempted, only to find the confession escaping without her control. How invasive.’
His eyes showed surprise at her perception. ‘That is exactly how I feel. I would never have confronted her with what she’d said. Seeing her experience guilt for telling me would have been mortifying. Worse, if she’d tried to apologise. In any event, I was glad to have answers. I had always wondered about him. I was relieved to discover that I could hate him. That I was right to feel that. It had been in me for a long time, but we are taught not to hate our parents, no? I felt vindicated.’
She nodded, but knew there was nothing she could say to relieve his pain. It must be a pain akin to death.
‘Is he still alive?’
‘No.’
She reached for her wine and lifted it towards her lips without drinking. ‘I don’t know what to say.’
A muscle jerked in his square jaw. ‘You are the only person I have ever spoken to about this. It is enough that you have listened.’
Was it wrong to feel such delight in a moment of sadness? Tilly did. Her heart soared. He had confided in her—and confided something that he had never shared with another soul.
‘I imagine your mother would be very proud of you.’ To Tilly’s mortification, she found herself choked by the words.
He shrugged. ‘She always was.’
His eyes met hers, and she couldn’t have looked away for a million pounds. She was trapped in his gaze and there was nowhere else she wanted to be.
‘Even my smallest feats attracted an improbable amount of praise.’ He was amused—or perhaps aiming to lighten the tone.
‘My mother is like that,’ Tilly said, thinking of Belinda Morgan with an indulgent smile. ‘If I won a spelling competition at school it was like an Olympic Gold to her.’
His expression was watchful. Almost calculating. Tilly didn’t realise why at first, but a moment later it dawned on her. Cressida’s mother was nothing like Belinda, and she had certainly never been proud of her daughter.
‘I see.’
Tilly panicked for a moment, wondering if he really did. She needed to regroup urgently. She needed to speak to Cressida.
‘Would you excuse me a moment?’
He nodded and she stood, scooping up her bag as she made her way across the terrace and back into the restaurant. She pushed inside the restroom and lifted her phone out of her bag, dialled Cressida’s number.
It went straight to voicemail.
She tried again—without success.
Tilly stared at herself in the mirror for a moment, studying her face, bracing her hands on the counter.
She’d promised Cressida she’d help, and generally she wouldn’t even think of letting someone down. But she’d never known a man like Rio before, and the sense that she would stuff everything up if she kept lying to him was like a snake tightening around her chest.
She tapped out a quick message to Cressida.
We need to talk. I have limited email access. Please get in touch.
She made her way back to the table, her mind overflowing with erratic, confused thoughts as she eased herself back into the seat.
‘You said you’ve known lots of women like me?’
It was out
of left field, but he caught her drift immediately. ‘And then I said you are unique.’
The hair on the back of her neck stood on end. Pleasure was dancing through her.
‘You have an active social life?’ she asked, moving back to her original subject.
He seemed to allow the shift, and she was utterly relieved. She reached for her wine and drank thirstily. But when she placed the glass back on the table she felt woozy. She had barely eaten, she chastised herself inwardly, reaching for a piece of cheese and popping it in her mouth.
He was watching her. More specifically, he was watching her lips. Her mouth.
He picked another piece of cheese off the plate and lifted it to her lips, brushing it across them, waiting, watching. She parted her mouth just enough and he pushed it inside. His thumb stayed at the corner of her lip and she chewed, but her heart was like thunder in her breast.
‘Yes.’
Confusion swirled inside her. ‘Yes, what?’
‘Yes, I have an active social life. I presume that’s a coy way of referring to my sex life?’
More wine. No. More food. Her wine glass was empty anyway. She needed water. She looked around, searching for a waiter. There were none nearby.
She nodded. It was a confession she might never have made if it hadn’t been for the two decent-sized glasses of Pinot Grigio she’d just consumed in rapid succession and on an empty stomach.
‘Have you ever been serious about anyone?’ she asked, the question escaping as if blurted out by accident.
His eyes shimmered with an emotion she didn’t comprehend. ‘Si.’
Jealousy fired in her soul.
‘Really?’
He nodded. ‘A long time ago.’
‘What happened?’
His laugh was light-hearted enough. ‘She broke my heart.’
‘Really?’
‘No, cara. Not really. At the time she betrayed me I was angry. I thought I might be falling in love with her.’ He shook his head, his smile natural. ‘I wasn’t. I couldn’t have been. Everything she was turned out to be a lie.’
Acid was bubbling down Tilly’s spine. She stared at him with a sense of deep panic.
Everything she was turned out to be a lie.
Innocent in the Billionaire's Bed Page 8
