He clicked to enlarge it and there she was, beautiful, with a radiance the camera captured perfectly, her eyes glowing with what could only be described as serene anticipation. She looked happy. She looked sober. Instinctively, he knew this picture had been taken before his arrival with Angiolina. Before she had drunk herself into a state. Before she had ruined his life.
But had she really ruined his life?
For the first time he conceded his own role in the matter. After all, it had been he who had embraced Angiolina’s father as an investor when his gut had warned him to be wary of the man. On paper, Luciano Ferraris had been the perfect investor. He was big on family and big on ethics, but there had been something almost zealot-like about the man. The further the contract negotiations had gone on, the more Luciano had tried to impose his own vision of how the company should be run.
If Luciano had not been his future father-in-law, Marco would have made his excuses and moved on to the next investor.
Starting again using only his own money had been the best thing that could have happened. He could develop the company to his sole satisfaction without having to consider the opinion of anyone else. Any profit was his alone to invest as he saw fit.
Even if he hadn’t turned it around as well as he had, was it really fair to blame a screwed-up eighteen-year-old who had not been in control of her actions? And hadn’t she screwed up her own life too? The damage she had inflicted upon herself had been far worse than anything she had inadvertently caused him.
Staring at the girl in that old photo, he struggled to find any similarities with the adult Pippa. Physically she had matured, but it was more than that. For all her bolshie bravado, the teenaged Pippa had none of the poise or maturity of the fiercely independent woman she would become.
A lump formed in his throat as he allowed himself to admit that she had come such a long way. For all his derogatory words, he could not begin to imagine how hard it had been for her, struggling to support herself from the age of twenty. But she had done it. Without any financial assistance, she had done it.
He just could not understand why she hadn’t pursued her music and why she continued not to. When he had challenged her, his frustration and lingering guilt from their previous vile exchange had spilled over. He had pushed for a reaction and he had got one. Except it was not the reaction he had wanted.
Her music was clearly important to her, her talent sublime. He could not get his head around why she would not at least try to take the professional route.
In all other matters, his Pippa was a fighter.
His Pippa?
The lump in his throat lodged and he rubbed his temples harder as he again took stock of the paperwork piling on his desk, a pile that had been rapidly growing over the past week or so.
Five minutes later, he switched his laptop off, ignored the beeping of his BlackBerry, which was almost full with frantic messages from lawyers and the seemingly hundreds of people involved in the launch, all unable to continue without his say-so, all becoming uptight about his now-frequent absences.
He turned out the lights.
Marco assured himself that he was not leaving earlier than intended because of her. He was leaving because his headache had made it impossible to concentrate. That was the only reason.
Chapter Eleven
The white sand was warm beneath Pippa’s feet, tiny grains clinging to her soles, seeping between her toes. Slowly she stepped forward, inching toward the lapping waves.
When the first spray of water splashed droplets over the calf of her leg, she froze. Despite the glorious heat of the late afternoon, her skin was icy cold.
She took the deepest breath of her life, sucking in as much oxygen as she could, and opened her eyes.
There it was, glimmering like jewels beneath the brilliant sunshine—the deep azure blue of the Caribbean Sea.
Her knees knocked together, goose bumps breaking out all over her body, her stomach a churn of nausea. Somehow she remained upright. No matter how desperately her body begged retreat, no matter how loudly the alarm in her brain wailed, she would not turn back. She could not.
She had allowed the past to dictate her future for too long. Not any longer.
Taking another breath, she lifted one foot and stepped, deliberately, into a low oncoming wave. When it rapidly retreated, she lifted her foot back up again, her attention immediately captured by the indent it left in the wet sand. Seconds later, another hard, low wave washed the print away.
This was not too bad, she thought, taking another step forward. And another. And another. Taking it slowly, focusing solely on her legs, which were being pushed about by the waves, catching her breath between each step.
When she realized she was standing knee-deep in the salty water, she stopped wading and straightened.
She had done it.
Looking upward at the glorious orange sky, she lifted her arms and beamed, relief pouring out as quickly as the waves surrounding her.
She had really done it.
She truly did not know whether to laugh or cry.
Can you see me, Mum? Are you watching me? Are you proud of me?
A tear leaked out. Soon it was joined by others. This time she let them flow.
Oh, Mummy, I miss you.
When her mother died it was as if a light had been switched off. There were no more sunny days, only rain, until a young man ten years her senior had held her tiny hands and let the sunshine back in for a few glorious minutes. That same man had been there for her ever since.
No wonder she had loved him as a child.
No wonder she half-suspected she might be falling for him again.
She had screwed up his life and still he had offered her sanctuary. His mother might have begged him, but Marco was no pushover. If he hadn’t wanted to help her, he would never have agreed.
He was a good, honorable man who deserved to find love and happiness. Her mother would have adored him.
I miss you, Mum. Every single day. I’m so sorry for dishonoring your memory. I swear that one day I will make you proud.
Images flew in her brain. Her mother pulling the straps of Pippa’s shoes secure. Waking in the middle of the night and finding her mother tucking in blankets she had thrown off. Her mother, sitting at the piano, pulling Pippa onto her lap.
“Do you hear that, Pip?” she had said in that soft, melodious voice Pippa had so loved. “Do you hear the magic?”
“Yes, Mummy.”
“One day, my darling, that magic will come from you.”
The tears still pouring, she had no idea how long she stood there lost in childhood memories, but when she next looked up, the sky had darkened to a deep red. The tide had advanced a little too, the waves now lapping at the top of her thighs. They felt stronger, surged more, and she found herself digging her toes in to keep upright.
She had done what she had set out for and in that she could take some pride. She could return to England having accomplished something of significance, even if it would only be significant to her.
She must look a right mess, though, with tears and snot dripping from her, she thought, wiping the back of her hand across her nose and making it worse.
Laughing ruefully, she bent over and scooped some water into her hands and splashed it over her face. As she did so, something slimy jostled against her leg, making her jump at the exact moment a powerful wave crashed into her back. Before she knew what was happening, she had lost her footing and fallen face first into the darkening sea.
Water shot up her nose, in her mouth, in her ears. Her arms splayed forward, her palms hitting the compacted sand, dislodging millions of tiny particles that formed in a cloud around her.
Her heart thundered as fear gripped her chest, her brain freezing in shock.
Limbs splayed in all directions, she tried to get back up, managing to get onto her knees and take a gulp of air before another wave smashed into the back of her neck, knocking her forward again.
; Get up!
She tried again but the water was much stronger than she could ever have credited. It felt as if she were boxed in it, its force determined to crush her.
Get up! All you’ve got to do is get to your feet.
Determined to give it one last blast, she channeled all her strength and somehow managed to right herself, her back to the beach. Relief flooded her as she swallowed huge mouthfuls of air, the relief rapidly turning to fear when she saw how far the current had pulled her back. She was bobbing on her toes, the water swirling around her collar bone.
She tried to twist around, to propel her body through the concrete wall, but she was too far out, and when a surging wave bodily lifted her, she lost her footing entirely. This time she could not regain it.
This time her panic was complete.
She could not get back up. The water consumed her, the currents pulling at her, dragging her further under. She scrambled wildly, too terrified to do anything but kick out, trying to find the surface through blinded eyes.
Her lungs, already suffering from the first bouts, quickly ran out of air.
Was this how her mother had died? With lungs that burned with the intensity of a furnace?
No, dear God no.
The light in her brain started to dim and suddenly her screaming lungs took control, forcing her mouth open to admit air that wasn’t there.
And then the light went out.
…
“Breathe,” Marco muttered feverishly, counting his fourth chest compression. As soon as he reached five he tilted her chin upward, took a deep breath and blew into her mouth, repeating two more times. He could only pray he was doing this correctly.
He started more chest compressions. “Come on, Pippa, breathe, dammit.”
Standing a little way behind him was Joycy, mobile phone in hand, shouting orders to the emergency operator on the other end. He didn’t have to look at her to see the terror in her eyes. It only mirrored what was in his.
He had arrived home to find the house empty. Stepping onto the porch at the back he had found Joycy, transfixed.
“Look at her,” she had said, pointing at the beach.
Squinting, he had followed her finger to where Pippa stood thigh deep in the sea. “It’s a little late for a swim,” he had commented more caustically than he would have liked. From this distance she had looked more like a siren than ever, her long, white-blond hair glimmering in the late sun, beckoning him.
Joycy either hadn’t heard or had ignored the nuance in his tone, too busy staring at the distant siren. He had half-expected that at any second, ethereal music would pipe over the waves, reaching out to him, pulling him to her.
He could not believe what a self-fulfilling prophecy that had been.
At that moment he had lost sight of her.
It hadn’t taken them long to realize Pippa was in serious trouble.
“She can’t swim.”
Joycy’s distraught words had penetrated immediately.
Jumping over the balustrade he had started to run, yanking off his tie, blindly fixing on the flailing body that seemed to be farther away every time he blinked.
When he had reached the water, he kicked his shoes off and ran in, wading as fast as he could until he was in deep enough to swim to her. His chest had been a tight block of ice that threatened to freeze his pumping heart, which had lurched when he lost sight of her. And then he had caught a fan of white-blond hair a few feet in front of him.
After that, everything was a blur. He had no conscious memories of what happened next, only flitting images of bringing her lifeless body to the surface, of beginning mouth to mouth before he had even carried her onto the beach.
He counted out the fifth compression and bent his head ready to breathe into her again when she coughed. Instinct made him thump her chest with his fist. She coughed again and spluttered, water pouring out of her mouth.
His knees gave out and he slumped onto the sand, bending forward to kiss her cold, damp forehead.
“Thank God,” he muttered, breathing into her wet, salty hair.
Pippa’s eyes opened, her gaze unfocused. “Marco?” she whispered hoarsely.
“I’m here, cara. Don’t talk. Just breathe.”
Her dazed eyes locked on him. “You saved me.”
Despite everything, he spluttered weakly. “Even now, when you have almost died, you are arguing with me?”
She attempted a wan smile that warmed his heart, releasing a little of the tension in his bones, but then started coughing again.
Joycy, who had disappeared into the house, returned carrying a heap of blankets while cradling the phone to her ear.
“Let’s get her in the house,” he said, getting to his legs, which had regained some of their strength. The sun had nearly set and a slight breeze was blowing over them. The sooner they got Pippa inside and warm, the better. Hypothermia was a real possibility, even in the Caribbean.
Taking infinite care, he lifted her into his arms while Joycy draped the blankets over her. “And don’t even think about arguing,” he warned, holding her securely so her head rested on his chest and under his chin. She must be able to hear the beat of his heart, a beat that was still too fast even though the danger was gone.
She didn’t answer, nor did she resist.
It was not until he laid her on the sofa that he realized she was unconscious. With clammy fingers he touched her neck. Relief at finding a pulse was so great his chest swelled, full enough to burst.
He sent a silent prayer to whatever god had been looking out for her. He had come within seconds of losing her, an awareness that made his skin go cold. A world without Pippa…he could hardly bear to even imagine it.
Marco grimaced. The danger of drowning might be gone, but there was no guessing what other damage had been done.
…
It was dark when Pippa opened her eyes. She blinked, trying to get her bearings. A tall figure was slumped in a chair to her left, moonlight filtering through the unfamiliar blinds ringing him in a halo.
“You’re awake.” The low, deep throb of Marco’s voice immediately settled the fluttering panic in her belly.
“Where am I?” she asked, although judging by the faint scent of antiseptic pervading the air, she could make a pretty good guess.
“You’re in the hospital.” His chair scraped along the floor as he edged it closer to her. “Let me get you some water.”
The sound of pouring liquid brought stark memories flooding back to her. “You saved me.”
“Hush a minute while you have a drink,” he said, placing the glass under her chin. With immeasurable care, he inserted a straw into her mouth.
She hadn’t known how parched she was until the cold water touched her tongue.
“Just take small sips.” When she obeyed, he murmured, “Now that has got to be a first.”
It took a while but, eventually, she drained the glass. He placed it on the ledge and sat back down, reaching for her hand.
She sighed as his warmth enfolded her. She turned onto her side to face him, unbearably pleased that he was there.
“How are you feeling?”
“I’m fine.”
He laced his fingers through hers and squeezed. “Liar.” Although his lips twitched with amusement, his features were taut. “I’ll ask you again, how are you feeling?”
She shrugged. “Honestly, I’m fine. My ribs hurt a little and my throat is a bit sore but apart from that…” She shrugged again, embarrassed.
“The doctor said to expect soreness in your ribs—that’s my fault, I’m afraid. I gave you chest compressions.”
A lump formed in her throat. A vague image came to her of Marco slumped besides her, his exquisite clothes a sodden mess. Her head began to swim. “Did you give me the kiss of life, too?” She tried valiantly to keep her tone light.
He nodded, his lips curving. “I apologize for not brushing my teeth in advance.”
The solemnity in his eyes belie
d the joviality of his words. Even in the moonlight she could see he had lost much of his color. She wondered if he’d had bad news. Surely she couldn’t be the cause of this wretchedness?
She tried to swallow the lump away. “Thank you for what you did,” she said, squeezing his hand in return. “You saved my life. I knew the sea could be strong—let’s face it, I probably know better than anyone how strong it can be—but I never realized what a danger it could be so close to shore.”
In response, he brushed a lock of hair off her forehead. From the way the pulse in his jaw was throbbing, she could tell there was something on his mind and mentally braced herself.
“I never knew you couldn’t swim.”
“I never learned.” She blinked as more memories jumped out to consume her. “My father had started to teach me before…” She cleared her throat. “Before my mum drowned. But obviously after she died, well… Neither of us went near water after that. Apart from baths and showers,” she added, trying even harder to lighten the mood between them. The atmosphere between them was thick with emotions too raw for her to deal with. Not when she was feeling so vulnerable.
“I’m sorry for not believing you about your water phobia,” he said.
An apology was the last thing she had expected or wanted. It was easier to deal with him when he was angry. Tender Marco unnerved her infinitely more.
“I truly am sorry, Pippa,” he said when she did not respond. “I think disbelieving you had become my default setting. Like with the injuries your bastard of a boss inflicted upon you, I needed proof positive before I could believe you.”
“I can understand that,” she said, looking away. “Honesty was never one of my strong points.”
He squeezed her hand and nuzzled his nose along her knuckles. “What were you doing out there?”
“Saying good-bye to my mother.” She tried to remove her hand from his tight grip but he refused to relinquish it. When she glared at him, she saw his brow had furrowed.
“She drowned not far from here,” she explained. “Off the coast of Jamaica. Her body’s out there somewhere.”
He didn’t answer, simply stared at her, his lips compressed in a tight seal.
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