by Joanne Walsh
She shouldn’t forget he’d preferred another woman’s arms to standing by her, his wife, when she’d lost her baby. She shivered some more, despair washing over her. She didn’t want a quick tumble in his sheets that had no future. She didn’t to want him . . . but she did! Despite the way he’d let her down. She was like a crack addict, relapsing at the first whiff of a fix.
His hands fell away from her as she straightened herself up and pushed herself away from him, not meeting his eyes, mustering what remained of her floundering ego. She lifted her chin and forced a smile. “That was very nice, but I think not. It . . . it was just a reflex. An old habit that taking it’s time to die.”
She experienced a twinge of guilt as she thought she saw hurt flicker in his expression, and felt an odd nip of loss as if something precious was slipping through her fingers. “An old habit, huh?” he drawled. “For something that’s dying, it seems pretty strong and healthy to me.”
“I just needed to get it out of my system,” she lied. “But it’s done now. I can move on. And, by the way, I’m not up for an affair.” She was surprised at how cold and hard she’d managed to sound, and prayed to herself that he’d buy it.
Tension thrummed between them. He let out a sharp breath, then gave her an assessing look. “Okay,” he said slowly and equally as coldly. “I’m glad that I was able to be of service.” He paused and whipped up his wrist to look at his watch. “Talking of moving on, I think we’d better get going and hit the markets. Are you ready to go?”
“I’ll just go and freshen up, and get my coat. Oh, and could I borrow a sweater?”
“Yes, of course.”
She nodded her thanks, then straightened her spine and walked past, her head held high, feeling his eyes on her back. But once she’d reached her room and closed the door, she sank down on to her bed, her head banging with competing emotions, tears blurring her vision. She’d been a fool, a wanton fool, kissing him like that, and now she had no choice but to brazen it out. She sighed and wiped her eyes with her sleeve.
At that moment, her phone pinged and she saw she had a video message from her brother. She opened it and saw Tom’s kids, four-year-old Rory and two-year-old Erin, who was clutching the family’s wriggling terrier puppy, wishing her a happy Christmas. Rory was wearing the shepherd’s costume that Ashlynne knew her sister-in-law had made for him to appear in his pre-school’s nativity play, and Erin, not to be left out, was dressed as an angel, complete with a wire coat hanger and tinsel halo wobbling above her small fair head. The dog had a Santa hat on. “Miss you, Auntie Ash!” Rory shouted, and then the two children sang the first verse of a carol, “Away in a Manger.” As she listened to their piping voices, the tears began to fall in earnest. How she missed her family; she felt so far away from home.
Less than twenty-four hours in Lorenzo’s company and he’d had her weeping twice, steaming with anger and worked up into a sexual frenzy. She wiped her face with the back of her hand. There was no point in denying it: despite the five years they’d been apart, he still had the power to make her live on the edge of her emotions, scrape at them until they bled. She needed to keep on reminding herself that he hadn’t been there when it had mattered, and a leopard never changed its spots. And, she still had the ordeal of Christmas day to get through in his company: the fifth anniversary of when their baby had died.
Chapter Four
‡
The Christmas fair in Campo Santo Stefano was crammed. Ashlynne had been to it before in years gone by, but never on Christmas Eve, and it had never looked quite as enchanting as it did today: sparkling and shining with hundreds of lights that illuminated the dark, grey foggy day as they hung around little alpine huts selling gifts, toys, scarves, gloves, lace, soaps and wines. All around, people were enjoying the holiday feeling, as they talked, laughed, shopped and sipped spicy mulled wine, wrapped up against the biting cold, their breath visible in the frigid air, crunching snow under their booted feet. A Santa Claus on stilts slithered and weaved through the crowd ringing a bell and calling out, “Buon Natale!” and in the windows of the ancient buildings lining the square stood small, twinkling Christmas trees, either natural spruces or ceppos, traditional Italian pyramid-shaped wooden frames.
The smells and sights as they wandered along lifted her mood. She’d been dragging her feet since they’d left the apartment, but no-one could be immune to the comfort and joy that permeated the atmosphere here. Even her, even after that kiss, and even though Christmastime had become a time of sadness for her. She glanced under her lashes at Lorenzo. He’d said virtually nothing to her, but clad in his heavy overcoat and a woollen hat, he looked incredible. She was glad of her own new beanie, just purchased from a stall—after her ears had nearly dropped off from frostbite, even under her animal-print scarf which she’d wound around her head—along with a pair of thick leather gloves. Lorenzo had insisted on paying for both items. But otherwise, he’d remained taciturn, obviously still smarting from her pushback earlier.
She’d been feeling so bad when they’d set out, her head bursting with conflicting emotions—love, hate, loss, guilt, lust, shame, anger, sorrow . . . wondering, what next? It was amazing what one ill-advised kiss could rouse. But the merry scene here in the campo was a welcome antidote. She’d had enough of being angry, of being on the defensive. She didn’t like being that person, needed to get back to being positive. Feeling her mood improving, she began walking a little faster, but soon slipped after skidding on a well-trodden patch of snow. She tumbled, landing on her bottom.
She was surprised by Lorenzo, who forgot about giving her the silent treatment, and crouched next to her in seconds. “Cara! Are you okay? You went down pretty heavily. Have you hurt yourself?”
She sat for a while and let the shock of falling dissipate while she caught her breath. “No, I think I’m okay.” She lifted a snowy foot and surveyed it. “My sneakers haven’t got enough grip on them.”
He put a helping hand under her arm. “Let’s get you up.”
“Thanks.” She allowed him to bear her weight, while he hauled her onto her feet. She felt a bit lightheaded and she started laughing to cover her embarrassment. She caught sight of Lorenzo trying to suppress his own laughter. He found it as funny as she did, but was still acting stuffy and aloof. She decided to tackle that. “Dear me,” she mocked herself, “What am I like? Nearly fell over yesterday, and managed to actually do it today. And my coat rode up when you pulled me up and I’ve got snow all over my butt.” She gathered her coat to show him, a mischievous grin lighting her face.
He cracked a slow, sexy smile. “Signora, may I ask your permission to sweep your backside,” he drawled.
“Be my guest,” she giggled, and saucily angled her bottom towards him. He brushed it with quick, firm strokes, then finished with a light slap.
“Oi, cheeky!” she protested.
“Sorry. Couldn’t resist.” He scooped her towards him, his arm around her waist. “Look . . . it’s much more fun when we’re laughing. Can we call a Christmas truce?”
Thank heaven! She knew what her decision would be. She leaned her head to one side and put on a show of pouting thoughtfully. “Um . . . Oh, alright, go on then. I’ve got a wet bottom so I’ll agree to anything.” In truth, it was a relief to be talking again, and she was exhausted by being screwed up with lust and misery. And she did appreciate what he’d told her last night about how he’d felt when she’d lost the baby. Though that wasn’t to say she wouldn’t be on her guard against him and any more sexy stuff, or she’d forgiven him for Claudia.
He gave her a peck on the cheek, then let her go. “I suggest we go have coffee to celebrate our peace treaty and get you dry. I think I know just the place.”
“Okay,” she said, and stopped when he slid her gloved hand into his. When she turned to look questioningly at him, he added, “It’s just in case you fall over again.”
“Of course,” she agreed smiling knowingly. She’d never tell him so, but she k
ind of liked the verbal sallies she had with him.
They left the busy square and made their way towards the Rialto Bridge, stopping on it to watch as a huge straw nativity scene on a gondola glided under them along the Grand Canal. She resisted the temptation to lean into him as they stood taking in the sight, and tried to ignore the annoying flutterings that overtook her tummy when he pulled her hand to take her with him as he turned to start walking again. The reflex was still fighting for survival. Eventually, they reached a small coffee shop, its steamy windows filled with delicious-looking pastries and iced Christmas cookies.
“Nonna’s!” Ashlynne exclaimed delightedly, pressing her nose up against the glass of the shop front.
“I hadn’t forgotten how much you loved Nonna’s Christmas cookies,” Lorenzo replied, holding open the shop door for her and gesturing for her to step inside.
“I need a shot of sugar,” she retorted as she went past him. “For the shock of falling over.”
He raised a humorously sceptical eyebrow.
They settled at an intimate, low-lit corner table, and Ashlynne ordered hot chocolate and Lorenzo an espresso and a plate of assorted cookies. When the goodies had been served, she helped herself. “Mmm, chocolate, with gingerbread and cinnamon. I’ve missed these so much.”
“They are the best,” he confirmed, watching intently as she licked the smears of chocolate and crumbs from her fingers.
Then they both fell into silence, just sipping and munching companionably, until Lorenzo broke it. “I don’t want spoil things, but I’d like to talk about what happened earlier this morning, clear the air—”
“Lorenzo, I told you, it was just an old habit dying hard.” Ashlynne took a sip of her hot chocolate and tried to appear unconcerned. She just didn’t want to go there, spoil her new-found equilibrium.
“I’m not so sure about that,” he countered. He looked down, picked up a teaspoon and stirred what remained of his coffee. Then he raised his eyes to hers again and she saw the determination in them. “It seems to me as if the attraction between us is as strong as ever it was. I know you feel it too.”
She didn’t reply. Somehow, her lips couldn’t move to form another lie. And she knew him of old: he would keep on hammering away at this until he got her to confess.
“I’m talking about physical attraction, Ash. That’s separate from what’s happened between us emotionally.”
She stared at him, her brow furrowing. “What do you mean?”
“I mean that it’s okay to want to have sex with me and still hate me.”
“I don’t want sex with you. I don’t hate you, either,” she said quickly, then added, “Well, not anymore.”
The corner of his mouth quirked upwards and he leaned back in his chair, his arms folded. “But you’re still unhappy with me.”
She raised her chin at his challenge, forgetting her intention to keep things nice. Why did he not understand what he’d done to her? “So would you be if you were me. What you did when I was pregnant was unforgiveable.”
She watched as his lips thinned, but then he surprised her by saying, “I agree with you.” Though he amended, “If I go with your version of events.”
“My version?” she flared. “Oh, I get it. You want me to accept your version. That you were a great husband.”
“I wasn’t a great husband,” he said flatly. “I’ve already told you I accept I was too wrapped up in my own affairs at that point. But I loved you, despite my flaws and mistakes, and I won’t let you rewrite history as being otherwise.”
He’d loved her. Something burned deep inside her—a flame of hope—but it was swiftly snuffed by her blood running cold, as she remembered what had really occurred. He’d never said he loved her at the time their marriage broke down, and he certainly hadn’t demonstrated it. He’d been absent a lot of the time, and had been distant, unyielding and arrogant when he was. Perhaps he was trying to rewrite history?
“You loved me?” she echoed. “Your way of showing it was strange.” She brushed an unruly red curl out of her line of vision and she could feel her cheeks heating with her anger. Inwardly, she cursed herself for letting the mood of holiday reconciliation elude her again. But she couldn’t let his infidelity go. It had been cooking inside her for the past five years and it demanded release. “How does a husband show his love for his wife by cheating on her when she’s expecting his baby, and then crushing her like an insect when she asks for a divorce?”
He surveyed her calmly. “What can I do to get you to accept that I did not cheat on you?”
“Nothing,” she replied fiercely. “You know that Claudia admitted it to me. Called me up and told me every single detail of your affair.”
He exhaled heavily, and she could see his exasperation was actually barely under tight control. “You know that Claudia, for reasons known only to her, was lying. You also know that I sacked her straightaway, even though she’s the daughter of a long-standing business associate—”
“And then got her another job with another long-standing business associate—”
“I wanted to make sure that she didn’t hold any grievances and couldn’t cause any more trouble than she already had in our marriage,” he responded levelly.
“Our marriage was in enough trouble already,” she muttered, and quickly withdrew her hands and put them safely under the table when she saw him reaching for them. She felt an unexpected tug at her heart when she saw the mixture of frustration and sadness that suddenly marred his expression as she did it.
“Like I said,” he admitted softly, “I made mistakes and I could have been a better husband. I should have spent more time with you, and I’m so, so sorry for what happened with the baby. And, I admit that I was probably a little too heavy-handed in the way I went about the divorce. But you need to accept my word that I never cheated on you. I loved you too much to do that.”
As he said this, she was stunned when she realized she saw something in his eyes and his face, heard something in his voice that prodded at her, told her that his apology was sincere. She was left alone whirling in her own universe of uncertainty. Why had she never seen or heard it before? A thought she’d had earlier that morning struck her again: she’d been living on her anger for so long . . . Though that raised a painful prospect—that she might just have got him wrong.
Lorenzo pulled her back into the present. “If I’d been you, I would have divorced me. I was away far too much, preoccupied by my work. I should have been more mindful and appreciative of my beautiful wife. But, you seemed so intent on ending the marriage, so unwilling to try again, that I felt there was nothing for it but to end things quickly but fairly. I made sure I gave you a good settlement—”
“It felt like you were shoving money at me to make me go away,” she interjected, wanting to keep arguing with him, because that was less scary than admitting she’d made a huge mistake. “Your answer to everything.”
He looked at her wearily. “You really are determined to make me the bad guy, aren’t you? When did you get so cynical? I felt I owed you a decent sum to make sure you were taken care of and not just cast back out into the world with nothing to fall back on.”
She hesitated. His payoff had helped start over and found The Curly Bird business. And he had been generous. She sensed her foundations rocking. Was he right: had she been too cynical in her judgement of him?
He broke into her thoughts. “I can see now that I didn’t deal with some things very well. I guess I was angry and puzzled, and I was hurt too. I don’t handle rejection well.”
She hesitated again and chewed her bottom lip. If she didn’t feel unsteady enough already, this new, reflective, repentant Lorenzo was enough to knock her to the ground. “You’re being very open and honest these days,” she ventured, not sure how else to respond.
He gave a self-deprecating smile. “Let’s just say I’ve been forced to take a long, hard look at myself, take some advice, think about doing some things differently.”
<
br /> Ashlynne was intrigued and she couldn’t help showing it. “How do you mean?”
“Let’s just say that after we went our separate ways, I tried carrying on as I had done before I met you, but I found it no longer worked.”
“You mean, ruthlessly cutting deals, opening new hotels, being Europe’s most successful playboy . . . ”
“You know about that?”
“The British tabloids and gossip rags are a mine of information. And, before you say it, I didn’t go looking for it. It was all there, including the interviews with the discarded women, plastered over the magazines we bought in for the salon. Who’s your current squeeze now?”
He gave her a smile. “The Italian, German and French media were all over my sins too. But, I am well and truly single right now. What about you?”
She couldn’t stop herself from grinning at news that he was on his own. She let her hands come up from under the table to take a pretend swipe at him. “I’m single too.”
He caught hold of her hands, over the plates and cups on the table top, and gripped and shook them with passion as he spoke. “I knew that I had to stop what I was doing, how I was doing it. And then, I bumped into Sergio Gennaro in London a couple of years ago and he told me a few home truths. About what he thought I’d done to you, and how much better you were doing without me. He’d been like an older brother to me when we were close and his words really sank in. By then, I’d realized that I’d lost the best thing that had ever happened to me, but at the same time, I also realized that I could never get you back, that it would be unfair of me to try when you were thriving without me. However, there was nothing to stop me taking a long hard look at myself.”
Wow! The best thing that had ever happened to me. Had he really just said that? “Good old, Sergio. So now you’re a reformed character?” she said flippantly, attempting to cover her amazement.
“I’m trying,” he said.
