‘And I think you want it too.’
She swallowed, focusing on a point over his shoulder. ‘I think we have to be careful not to do that again.’
His brow furrowed but she didn’t see it. ‘Why the hell not?’
‘You want us to raise this baby together? That’s hard enough without bringing sex into it.’
‘We’re married.’ He laughed softly. ‘And expecting a baby. Sex is already a part of it.’
She was quiet, uncertain what to say, and he moved the conversation along, his eyes watchful. ‘Just think about it.’
She thought about pointing out that she didn’t need to think about it. That her mind was working this morning, as it hadn’t been the night before, and that sex was definitely going to complicate things unbearably.
For her, anyway.
Apparently it had never been an issue for him.
He’d been able to compartmentalise sex from the rest. From the lies. The betrayal.
‘It’s too complicated.’
He compressed his lips with frustration. ‘I think we established last night that nothing about that is complicated. It is as easy for us as ever.’
‘But your heart’s not at risk,’ she said pointedly. ‘But, for me, having loved you once makes me terrified of being stupid all over again. Of mistaking sex for something else entirely. Especially when you can make my body feel like that.’ She stood up uneasily, changing the subject even when her mind was still ticking over the facts, trying to make sense of it. ‘It’s such a nice day. I’m going to go for a walk.’
He didn’t look at her. In fact, he continued to stare straight ahead, almost as though he hadn’t heard. She moved towards the door and his voice commanded her to stop.
‘Wait a moment.’ He stood and she held her breath, wondering if he was going to say something that might change how she felt, while knowing he couldn’t. There was nothing. ‘I will come with you.’
Exasperation was obvious in Skye’s expression. ‘That’s not necessary.’
‘Tell me something, Mrs Vin Santo. Is it only when I kiss you that you listen to reason?’ He stood, his intent obvious as he moved towards her. He came so close, and she held her breath, waiting, knowing what was coming. Knowing she could move away, be firm.
She didn’t.
She stood her ground and stared right back.
No, she did more than that. She willed him to kiss her. For his kisses didn’t only take away her senses and stir her desire. They took away her pain too.
And she longed for that moment of peace. Of clarity and pleasure—of happiness.
‘I don’t want you trying to swim in the canals again.’
‘I’ll keep my land legs.’
‘Perhaps.’ His eyes glinted with determination. ‘But I’ll be there to make sure of it.’
* * *
There really never had been any sense arguing with Matteo. He always got what he wanted. Throughout their marriage, certainly, but even their marriage itself was proof of the lengths to which he’d go to achieve his aims.
She walked beside him, retracing routes that were instantly familiar to her. Paths that she’d travelled often in the past, when she’d been in love and Venice had been the physical representation of that state of mind. When she’d been keen to explore every last crevice of this beautiful city, letting its ancient stories breathe into her.
They passed a gelateria and she slowed a little, staring in at the beautifully arranged piles of confectionery, each colourful heap decorated with a piece of fruit or a wedge of chocolate.
‘You want some?’ he asked, apparently attuned to her every thought.
She bit down on her lip and nodded.
‘Bacio still your favourite?’
The memory was one of her favourites but the cruel irony of it slapped her in the face.
Kisses.
The gelato she’d loved and that he’d teased her with, kissing her as he’d spelled it out, dribbling the ice-cream over her flesh as he’d kissed her everywhere.
‘No,’ she said quickly, shaking her head to dislodge the recollection. ‘Strawberry.’
He arched a brow, perhaps understanding why she was keen to substitute a different flavour. ‘If you’re sure.’
He approached the vendor and she watched for a moment before turning her attention down the street. It was like so many of the little paths she loved in Venice. The water to one side, the lines of houses built so that they were all attached, though painted in different colours, all shades of yellow and orange, some pale, some bright, with window boxes overflowing with flowers. Some houses had rooftop gardens like Matteo’s, and greenery bloomed overhead.
There were not many people in the street, but her eyes landed on a small boy just a little way down. He looked frightened. Her brows drew together as she looked around for an adult who might be accompanying him and saw no one.
She smiled at him encouragingly.
He didn’t return it.
He could only stare.
She drew closer on autopilot, and as she got nearer she noticed new details about him. His clothes were perhaps a size too small. His jeans finished about an inch up from his ankles and his shirt just met his waistband, so that the smallest movement would drive it upwards, separating it and exposing his stomach. His hair was close-cropped.
She paused just in front of him. ‘Hi.’
He blinked.
‘Are you okay?’ she asked in halting Italian. More memories—Matteo in bed, teaching her phrases, laughing at her mispronunciations and penalising her with kisses that made her head spin so that, in the end, she’d longed to say the words incorrectly even when she knew them by heart.
‘Yes, madam,’ he replied in his own tongue, then said something else. Something too fast and accented for her to understand.
Her smile was apologetic. ‘I’m sorry, my Italian is not very good.’
‘He said he’s never seen anyone like you before.’ Matteo’s voice came from right behind her. He stood, holding two gelato cones. He handed one to her and he passed the other to the child.
Matteo spoke in rapid-fire Italian, but she caught enough of his words to get the gist. ‘Eat it. You look hungry.’
The child didn’t need to be told twice. He instantly reached for the gelato, his grubby fingers wrapping around the cone.
‘I wonder what he meant,’ Skye said, looking up at Matteo.
Matteo phrased the question to the child, raising his brows at the response.
‘He said you are very beautiful, and very fancy.’
Skye’s cheeks flushed pink. She stood, giving Matteo her full attention. ‘You’re making that up.’
‘Why on earth would I do that?’
‘I don’t know. Why do you do anything?’
The little boy’s fingers reached out and ran across Skye’s forearm, touching her skin gently as he murmured something in Italian. She smiled down at him, not at all concerned by the touch. Matteo, beside her, apparently didn’t feel the same. He stiffened noticeably.
‘He says you are very soft. Like...’
Skye held her breath. ‘Like what?’
‘Like a petal.’
She laughed. ‘Quite the romantic, huh?’ But she sobered at the look of wonderment on the little boy’s face. ‘Do you think he’s okay? Does he need something?’
‘He’s Romani, most likely,’ Matteo said.
‘Where are his parents?’
Matteo asked the child, but compressed his lips, apparently disapproving of his wife’s involvement in the child’s life.
Skye didn’t care. As though she could simply leave a young boy—he must have only been six or seven, if that—on the streets!
‘His family have a boat near by, he says. He works from here.’
‘Works?’ Skye’s confusion was obvious. ‘He’s too young to work.’
She crouched down again, dislodging the boy’s grip. ‘Do you need anything?’ she asked in English.
He shook his head, then looked at the ice-cream, and Skye smiled.
But she wasn’t convinced. She reached into her bag and pulled out several notes. She handed them to the little boy, making sure his fingers were tight around the paper. ‘Take this and go home,’ she said softly. ‘You should be at school. Scuola.’
His eyes were huge. He looked at the amount in his palm and then hugged Skye, so that she laughed. ‘Home,’ she said gently.
He turned and ran off, his skinny little legs bowed at the knees.
Emotions lurched inside Skye. Damned pregnancy hormones.
‘Are you going to rescue every impoverished child you see? If so, might I suggest we avoid St Mark’s.’
She threw her husband a look of impatience. ‘It’s so sad. That poor little boy.’
Matteo shrugged. ‘He looked happy enough to me.’
Was it any surprise to Skye that her famously cold-hearted husband hadn’t been moved by the sight of the obviously hungry little boy? It was just another mark against him; another proof of his emotional detachment.
They walked in silence for a moment, Skye tasting her ice-cream, enjoying the sweetness and the relief of the cold texture on a very warm summer day. But somewhere near the Rialto Bridge she paused.
‘You gave him your gelato.’
Matteo nodded slowly. ‘So?’
‘Because you thought he looked hungry too.’ Skye scanned his face. ‘Because you did care!’
Matteo’s expression flashed with emotions Skye didn’t recognise.
‘And they say you don’t have a heart.’
‘I have a heart, cara,’ he promised. And her own stuttered to a stop, thumping hard in her chest. ‘And our baby will know that.’ He dropped his mouth towards hers and for a second she held her breath, expecting another kiss. Needing the gesture that was so simple and so complicated all at once.
But instead he took a bite off the top of her ice-cream, and she laughed instinctively, automatically. ‘Hey! I’m eating for two, don’t you know?’
He straightened, a smile in his eyes so obvious that her stomach flipped and flopped with warmth and with...love. She squashed the feeling.
She didn’t want it.
That knowledge sobered her.
‘I wonder what our child will be like,’ she said distractedly as they moved closer to the Grand Canal.
‘Can you imagine him or her?’
‘I sometimes have a dream,’ she said with a shrug of her slender shoulders. ‘I can see a little baby. Chubby with caramel skin like yours—dark eyes, dimples.’ She shrugged again. ‘But I guess all babies are a bit like that.’
‘It is how I picture our child too. A little girl with a fringe like yours.’
‘I don’t think babies are born with hair styles,’ she pointed out. ‘You think it will be a girl?’
He pulled a face. ‘I don’t know. I don’t care.’
‘Really? And here I had you pegged for one of those patriarchal guys who would be all about the male heir.’
He dug his hands into his pocket. ‘I was not close to my father,’ he said after a long silence, one that was heavy with his own reflections and memories. ‘My grandfather more or less raised me. Perhaps if I had seen a different example of father and son bonding I might yearn more for a son of my own.’ His lips twisted into a dismissive smile. ‘As it is, I just want our child to be healthy. And to have his mother’s heart.’
‘Yeah? Why is that?’
‘According to you, I don’t have one,’ he pointed out.
‘That’s according to everyone,’ she corrected, and began walking once more. One foot in front of the other. Trying not to think about his heart and their baby growing inside her. Nor to think about the way he’d moved inside her only the night before.
‘Si. And what do you think, Skye? Am I as heartless as everyone says?’
Her face paled. ‘I don’t think you should ask me that.’
‘Because your answer would hurt my feelings?’
‘Perhaps,’ she whispered. ‘Does it matter what I think?’
He was quiet for a moment, his expression serious, and then he smiled as though physically pushing the conversation aside. ‘I’m hungry. Shall we lunch?’
‘Didn’t we just finish breakfast?’
He made a tsking noise of disapproval. ‘And you say you are eating for two! Breakfast was hours ago.’ He reached down and wrapped his fingers around her hand, lifting the ice-cream cone to his lips while his eyes held hers. He took another bite.
Skye’s heart throbbed at the simple gesture of intimacy.
Really, in the scheme of things it meant nothing, yet it made her soul soar. Happiness was right in front of her and his smile was telling her to grab it.
But his smile lied.
It always had done.
Maybe he couldn’t help it.
She wasn’t going to risk being hurt again just to find out.
‘Lunch sounds good,’ she said, as if pulling a rain cloud over the sunshine of their banter of only seconds ago. The words were cold and damp. Sensible.
Safe.
‘Which way?’ she asked, swapping her gelato to the other hand to prevent any further incursions. Any new suggestions of an intimacy that was fraudulent.
He looked at her for a moment, long and hard, then turned back to the path in front of them. ‘Not much further. This way.’
They walked in silence, but it was no longer comfortable. It was thick with the doubts and frustrations that were, undoubtedly, to become the hallmarks of their relationship.
After almost ten minutes, Matteo slowed. ‘Here.’
Skye paused, looking in the direction he’d cocked his head, and she expelled a breath of uncertainty. ‘Here?’
‘Something wrong with it?’
She took in the crisp white table cloths, the small vases with carnations in each one, the enormous chandeliers that looked to line the dining room, the pianist in the corner playing what she thought to be Bach.
‘It’s just a little more formal than I’d expected.’
‘I’m sure they will fix you a sandwich, if you would prefer.’
It was another breath from the past. The memory of how he’d teased her mercilessly about her love for cucumber sandwiches, something he found bland and so quintessentially British.
‘Fine,’ she said with a furrowed brow, moving ahead of him into the beautiful restaurant.
A man in a tuxedo greeted them, his brows thick and dark, his hair grey. After a short conversation with Matteo in fluent Italian, the waiter directed them into the restaurant. It was so much grander, and more beautiful, from inside.
From this vantage point, Skye could see that the tables were propped beneath windows that looked out over the Grand Canal, and the stately Rialto Bridge as it spanned one side to the other. There were window boxes at each window filled with pretty pink azaleas, and the floor was tiled with shimmering black and white marble. Several waiters and waitresses stood waiting to serve, all in elegant crisp white shirts and black tuxedo jackets, and, like a butler parody brought to life, one stood with a silver tray balanced on top of his white-gloved palm.
‘This way, madam,’ the waiter said, and Skye realised she’d been frozen in time.
What was wrong with her? It wasn’t as though she’d never been in such a beautiful restaurant. She’d grown up with the proverbial silver spoon. She’d had more birthdays in places like this than she could remember.
But being here with Matteo, the strains of world-class piano music reaching them, the flowers moving gently in the breeze, was all so...romantic.
The word whispered itself through her soul and she did her best to push it aside. She kept a neutral expression on her features as she strode through the restaurant, taking the seat opposite Matteo and wishing she’d worn something a little fancier than jeans and a grey T-shirt. At least her jewellery gave the ensemble an air of formality; the clunky gold and green necklace was one of a kind and ma
tched her manicure. A manicure she’d had done when she’d imagined that she’d be flying off to Australia single, pregnant and far away from Matteo and his manipulations. She eyed her nails with a small frown.
‘Yes,’ he said slowly, as she sat down. ‘I’ve been thinking the same thing.’
Her heartbeat accelerated wildly. ‘What’s that?’
He reached into the pocket of his jacket and lifted out a small box. She recognised it instantly. Her back was straight but her spine tingled with apprehension and misgivings.
He flicked it open and slid the box across to her, with considerably less fanfare than the last time he’d presented a ring box for her inspection.
‘Nothing would make me happier than if you’d agree to marry me, Skye. Say you will.’
The words seemed to glisten in the air around her, dancing and lifting her up. She nodded with all the enthusiasm that her heart gave rise to. ‘Of course I will!’
‘I don’t like seeing you without it on,’ he said with a shrug.
Skye reached for the box but made no effort to liberate the ring inside. She ran her finger over the huge diamond, remembering how her first reaction had been one of mixed feelings. Delight, euphoria and bliss at the thought of marrying Matteo Vin Santo, whom she had loved from almost the moment they’d met. But disappointment too that he’d thought her pretentious enough to want a ring such as this. She supposed it was the fact she was a billion-pound heiress, that people presumed she was used to expensive items and only valued those things that had a high material cost.
It wasn’t true, though. Skye had always shied away from ostentation and visible signs of wealth.
‘You don’t like it, do you?’ he asked quietly, his eyes reading every nuanced expression that crossed her face.
She lifted startled eyes to his. ‘I... It’s... It feels a little like a prison sentence now,’ she said with a shake of her head. ‘That’s all.’
‘Now who’s the liar?’ he countered silkily, suspending the conversation when another waiter appeared.
‘Good afternoon, madam, sir. I... Oh! Scusa—mi dispiace! I’m so sorry! I’m interrupting a special moment. My apologies...’
‘It’s fine,’ Skye hastened to reassure him.
‘I go, I go. I give you time.’
Bound by the Billionaire's Vows Page 9
