by Kate Hewitt
‘I’ll wait here,’ he said when they were in the bedroom they’d shared since coming to Capri, save for last night. ‘It should only take a few minutes.’
Wordlessly Laurel nodded and then barricaded herself in the bathroom. She turned the lock and let out a shuddering breath. The moment of truth.
Fortunately the test came with instructions in English and, squinting to make out the fine print, Laurel read them and then did what was necessary. She turned the test over so she didn’t have to look at it and sat on the edge of the bathtub, her heart rollicking within her. Three minutes had never seemed so long.
Outside the bathroom door she could hear Cristiano pacing the bedroom and she wondered what he was thinking. Hoping for. Was there a part of him, like her, who wanted her to be pregnant? Who wanted the choice to be taken away? She knew if she was pregnant Cristiano would marry her as he’d promised. He was a man who’d closed off emotions, yes, but he was also a man of honour.
Laurel tried to imagine what that life would look like: married to Cristiano, a baby in her arms, then a smiling toddler stumbling on chubby legs while they, the proud parents, looked on. It was a beautiful image, but one that was shrouded in the mists of impossibility. If Cristiano married her simply because of the baby, that code of honour that ran through him like a rod of steel would turn into resentment and bitterness because he’d be living a life he hadn’t chosen.
Laurel took a deep breath as she glanced at her watch. Four minutes had passed. There could be no delaying it now. Reaching out slowly, as if it might bite her, she took the pregnancy test and flipped it over. She stared at the single pink line as her heart went into freefall. One line: not pregnant.
Even though she knew in her heart what the test was telling her, she scrambled for the directions and read them again to make sure. One line: not pregnant. It was irrefutable. And, really, she’d known all along. Her cycle was, in this case, depressingly regular.
She threw the test away and washed her hands at the sink, staring hard at her reflection. So she wasn’t pregnant. It was better this way. She knew it, felt it, even though part of her still railed against the unfairness of it all. A pregnancy wouldn’t have helped anything. In fact, it most likely would have made things worse. So this was a good thing, she told herself as she dried her hands and then tidied her hair, determined to seem composed and even upbeat. In this moment she did not want Cristiano to see how he was crucifying her.
Taking another deep breath, Laurel opened the door. Cristiano stopped his pacing and turned to face her, his expression utterly fathomless. ‘Well?’ he asked when the silence stretched on for several seconds.
‘I’m not.’ Laurel spoke flatly, folding her arms across her body, needing to hold herself together.
Cristiano stared at her for a few moments, his gaze assessing, speculative. ‘But, as you said before, it is not possible to know for certain at this stage?’
‘No, but I’m quite sure, Cristiano, just as I was when you first mentioned the possibility. My period isn’t due for another week.’
Something flashed across Cristiano’s face too fast for her to discern what it was—disappointment, relief or something else entirely. ‘Even so...’
‘There’s no point, trust me. If by some miracle or twist of chance I was pregnant, I would tell you. But I don’t need to stay here until it’s irrefutable, for heaven’s sake.’ Unless you want me to stay...for my own sake. For ours.
Neither of them said anything for endless moments, moments where Laurel felt the last, faint, frail thread of hope she’d still nourished fray and then snap. And, because she couldn’t bear Cristiano to send her away, she spoke first.
‘I suppose I should book my ticket.’ She lifted her chin and forced a smile to her lips that felt like a crack in her skin. ‘Pack my things. It’s...’ She swallowed. ‘It’s been fun, Cristiano.’ It had been so much more than that, but what else could she say? Cristiano did fun. He didn’t do much more than that. And this entire affair had always been on his terms.
He stared at her for a long moment, his eyes hard, his expression still so unrelentingly inscrutable. ‘Yes,’ he said finally. ‘It has.’
* * *
The next twenty-four hours seemed to go into hyper-speed. From the moment Laurel had walked out of their bedroom to the awful one when she left Capri, Cristiano felt as if everything was moving in a fast blur while he was stuck in slow motion.
His mind felt numb, frozen in the same gear it had been in when Laurel had walked out of the bathroom, her face wiped of expression, her eyes so terrifyingly blank. He used to be able to see everything in her eyes—every thought, every emotion, every hope. But standing there, with the silence yawning between them, he hadn’t seen anything.
And then those awful words... It’s been fun. Such a casual dismissal of everything they’d shared and experienced together. Yet how many times had he said it over the years? The words had tripped off his tongue with thoughtless ease. Sometimes he’d tossed them over his shoulder while strolling out of a room.
And now this.
That evening Cristiano found Laurel in their bedroom, packing a suitcase. Her face was pale and composed; she looked lovely, even peaceful. Perversely Cristiano wanted her to look heartbroken, or at least a little distressed.
She looked up when he entered, her hands stilling on the pile of folded clothes. ‘I booked my ticket,’ she said, her voice toneless.
Cristiano felt as if everything inside him was coiled so tightly he was going to snap. Fall apart into broken pieces like a clock too tightly wound. ‘Have you?’ he asked, his tone diffident. Almost.
‘Yes; a morning flight from Naples to Rome tomorrow. And then on to Chicago.’ She started packing again. ‘I’ll be home by tomorrow night.’
‘Late.’
‘Yes.’ She resumed packing, her head bent. ‘Late.’
Cristiano watched her pack for a few moments and then he realised how little she was actually putting into her one small suitcase. ‘Wait,’ he said, his voice coming out terse and demanding. ‘What are you doing? Why are you not packing all your clothes?’
‘I hardly need evening gowns in Canton Heights, Cristiano,’ Laurel said without looking up.
An entirely unreasonable indignation rose up in him. ‘They’re yours. They belong to you. You should take them.’
‘They’d require two or even three suitcases,’ Laurel returned evenly. ‘I don’t want to pay the extra baggage allowance for clothes I’m never going to wear.’
‘I’ll pay it, then,’ Cristiano insisted. It suddenly felt important that she take the clothes he’d bought for her, the gifts he’d given.
‘And how would I manage to carry all those suitcases?’ Laurel asked, a note of exasperation entering her voice. ‘I’m taking the funicular to the ferry, and then a bus to the airport and then to the plane. I can’t manage it.’
‘I’ll arrange private transport,’ Cristiano said. It seemed simple to him, and for some ridiculous reason he really wanted her to take the clothes with her. ‘A car from the villa that will take you all the way to Rome.’
Laurel gazed at him levelly for a moment. ‘As eager as you may be to get me out of your life quickly, I’m fine with public transport.’
Cristiano stared at her, silently fuming, because of course he hadn’t meant it that way. But he didn’t even know what he had meant, or how to explain. So he stayed silent, and Laurel kept packing, and after a few more tense moments Cristiano turned on his heel and walked out of the room.
He didn’t sleep that night, lying awake and gritty-eyed, staring at the ceiling as he went over the last two weeks and kept telling himself this was what he wanted. What he had to want.
Because what was the alternative, really? Their lives were so different. Laurel wasn’t going to want to give up her job, or even that house she claimed to love so much. And Cristiano’s life was in Italy, managing his hotels and making new business deals. This made sense. This was the on
ly way. It had to be.
He didn’t come out of the study when he heard her suitcase bumping down the stairs. Didn’t trust himself to say goodbye in the cool, civil way he wanted to. He was being a coward, and he knew it, but the other option—of breaking down or begging her to stay—felt impossible. Unbearable. So he stayed still and listened as the suitcase bumped down each step and then the front door clicked softly shut.
The house suddenly felt deathly silent.
He buried himself in work for the next three days, trying not to think. He didn’t sleep, and barely ate. On day four he finally dragged himself up to his father’s bedroom, pausing in surprise on the threshold at seeing Elizabeth sitting next to him, smiling at something Lorenzo was saying, her head bent close to his.
The image was arresting in its poignant intimacy. The love was so visible between the two of them, it felt as if it shimmered in the air. Cristiano could hardly credit it, yet he knew it was true. Laurel had been right.
Elizabeth caught sight of him first, her expression freezing before she managed a cautious smile.
‘Cristiano,’ Lorenzo called, beckoning to him with one gnarled hand. ‘Come in.’
‘I don’t want to disturb...’
‘You aren’t,’ Lorenzo assured him. ‘But you look terrible. You miss Laurel.’ It was a statement, and one Cristiano chose to ignore.
‘You seem well,’ he said stiffly, although his father had been spending more and more time resting in bed.
‘I feel well.’ Lorenzo shot Elizabeth an adoring look. ‘I feel very well.’
Cristiano gazed at the two of them, feeling flummoxed, weary, yet strangely cheered. Who was he to deny his father his happiness? Laurel had asked the same question and he’d dismissed it, because he had truly believed Elizabeth Forrester couldn’t make his father happy. But, against all odds, it seemed she could.
He left them a short while later, drifting around the house like a ghost. There was no reason to stay here, of course, now that Elizabeth was proving to be such a capable nurse. He could return to Rome, to his penthouse, to his life. All of it felt empty.
* * *
‘May I talk to you for a few minutes?’
Cristiano turned at the sound of Elizabeth’s tense voice. ‘Yes,’ he answered, as tense as she was.
Elizabeth took a deep breath. ‘I know you don’t like me, Cristiano. I know you don’t trust me. And,’ she continued before he could protest against either statement, which he wasn’t even sure he would have, ‘I know I have not shown myself well in your eyes.’ She grimaced. ‘I’ve not shown myself well in my own eyes. I’ve made a lot of poor choices—choices borne out of fear, but that doesn’t excuse them, I know.’
Cristiano felt compelled to say, ‘Laurel told me something of your life.’
‘Did she? Laurel has always been far more forgiving of me than I deserve. I know that.’ She let out an unsteady breath. ‘But I want to reassure you, Cristiano, that I love your father. I’ve always loved him. I know you didn’t trust me ten years ago, and you had reason not to—good reason—but the only reason I took that money was because I’d known what it is to be poor and I never wanted to be it again.’ She managed a rather wavering smile. ‘It was wrong, and I accept that, but I was never going to leave him. I realise there’s no reason for you to believe that, though. I don’t deserve your trust in that or any matter.’
But Cristiano found he did believe her, much to his chagrin. ‘I believe you loved him,’ he said. ‘And that you love him still. You wouldn’t be here otherwise.’ He paused. ‘But are you really prepared to stay until the end, as difficult as that will be?’
She lifted her chin, reminding him of Laurel. ‘Yes, I am, because that’s what love does. I didn’t come here thinking it would be easy, you know.’ Her eyes flashed. ‘I’ve had enough of easy.’
‘Have you?’ Cristiano asked, more curious than sceptical.
‘Yes, I have. Love isn’t easy. It’s hard and messy and painful, but worth it. I believe that.’ Her chin tilted up another notch and her gaze fastened on his, unrelenting in its perception. ‘Maybe that’s something you need to think about.’
* * *
Twenty-four hours later Cristiano stood in front of a small farmhouse of weathered white wood, with a view of rolling fields and a distant glint of the pond Laurel had once told him about. Cristiano let out a long, low breath as he surveyed the house with its bowed front porch and peeling paint that Laurel had thought of as home. Had been willing to risk everything for.
Slowly he mounted the steps; he could tell from the darkened windows and empty driveway that she wasn’t home. It was six o’clock in the evening, twilight stealing slowly over the hills, the sound of crickets chirruping in the air.
Cristiano hadn’t given a lot of thought to what he would do when he got here. He’d been focused on the how—the travel, the logistics—his mind buzzing and blank with the import of what came next.
And now she wasn’t even here.
He peered in the windows, noting the mellow oak floorboards, the hand-made quilt thrown over the back of a squashy sofa, the many photographs on the walls. It was a well-loved home and, for a woman who had been dragged around the globe in search of the next boyfriend and protector, it must have felt like the ultimate sanctuary. No wonder Laurel had wanted to keep it.
But would she want to keep him?
He’d spent his whole life staying emotionally safe. Today he was going to risk it all.
The sound of a car had him turning. A beat-up truck pulled into the drive, and after a few seconds Laurel got out. She was wearing her nurse’s scrubs, her hair held back in a ponytail, and she looked tired, lovely and so very, very welcome. Cristiano had to keep himself from catapulting himself off the porch and dragging her into his arms. There were things he had to say first. Things Laurel needed to hear.
She mounted the steps, fishing in her bag for her keys, still not seeing him. Not wanting to startle her, Cristiano said softly, ‘Laurel.’
She stilled and then looked up, the blood draining from her face. She swayed slightly where she stood and Cristiano took a step forward.
‘Laurel,’ he said again, and this time he didn’t hide how he felt. It came through in her name, the loveliest word in the world. Laurel’s eyes widened and he knew she understood, or at least he hoped she understood.
‘Cristiano.’ Her voice was a breath. ‘What are you doing here?’ A wary look came into her eyes. ‘I’m not pregnant. For sure.’
‘That’s not why I came.’
‘Why, then?’
‘Because I need to tell you that I love you.’
She blinked, looking dazed. ‘You...?’
‘Love you.’ He’d agonised so much about saying it, three little words that cost so much, meant so much, yet suddenly seemed so surprisingly easy to say.
Cristiano felt buoyant and so, so light, as if a huge weight had just tumbled off him. A weight that had never really been there at all, except in the terrible void of his own fears. ‘I love you,’ he said again, just because he could. ‘I was stupid not to realise it before, and even stupider not to say it. Stupid to let you walk away when you’re the best thing in my life.’ He laughed out loud, amazed at the words tumbling out of him. Amazed at how much he meant them.
‘Cristiano...’
For one heart-stopping second he thought she was going to let him down. This was the risk he’d taken, and here was the danger, the awful, awful pay-off. But in the next second he realised it didn’t matter. Well, it mattered; of course it mattered. His life was over without Laurel in it. But he would have said it all anyway, no matter what her response, because he needed to. Because he wanted to be a man who admitted his feelings. His love.
‘I know I might be too late.’ He spoke over her, his voice roughening. ‘I know you might have changed your mind, or perhaps you didn’t love me in the first place. I wouldn’t blame you, considering how I’ve acted. How afraid I’ve been. But I’ll sti
ll say it, because I want you to know. Because you deserve to know, after everything we’ve had together. After everything I put you through. I was so afraid, Laurel, of what love was. What it meant. How it could make you hurt. I was afraid, and I let that fear control me, but I won’t any longer. I refuse to. I love you, Laurel Forrester, and that won’t ever change.’
Tears sparkled in her eyes and she let out a trembling laugh. ‘Good,’ she said, and stepped into his arms. ‘Because I love you too, and that won’t change either.’
‘Thank heaven.’ He wrapped his arms around her, breathing her in, savouring the feel of her. ‘Because we are done with all this drama, do you hear me? We love each other, we’re getting married and we’re not spending a single night apart ever again.’
‘Back to giving orders, are you?’ Laurel asked, tilting her face up to him as her mouth met his in a quick and breath-stealing kiss. ‘Good thing I don’t mind.’
Cristiano laughed and pulled her closer. ‘Good thing,’ he agreed in a murmur, and kissed her again.
EPILOGUE
Three Months Later
‘YOU LOOK BEAUTIFUL.’
Laurel twitched at her veil as her mother sniffed and dabbed her eyes. ‘The most beautiful bride that ever was.’
Laurel managed a tremulous smile. ‘As long as Cristiano thinks so,’ she said.
‘Of course he will,’ Elizabeth said. ‘The man is mad about you.’
‘As Lorenzo is about you.’ Laurel met her mother’s gaze in the mirror as they shared a sorrowful smile. The last three months had been filled with joy, as well as sadness. Lorenzo was holding his own, and he and Elizabeth were inseparable. But their days together were numbered, and they both knew it, making them all the more determined to seize love and happiness while they could.
While Elizabeth had remained with Lorenzo in Capri, Laurel had stayed for several weeks in Canton Heights to work out her notice, before moving to Rome to be with Cristiano. She’d informed him that she wasn’t going to be a good trophy wife any more than she’d been a good mistress—she wanted to work and be active—and Cristiano wholeheartedly agreed. Already she’d joined several committees, including one led by Michel Durand, to help determine public policy on end-of-life care. After ten-and twelve-hour shifts in a hospital, this kind of work was different and invigorating.
