by India Grey
‘I’m glad you’re well again. I’m glad you’re back—i-if that’s what you want…’ Her skirt twisted around her legs, slowing her down. She managed a smile, though it felt as if her face might crack. ‘It was nice to see you again.’
She was almost at the door. She could feel the cold night air at her back, and she turned round and covered the remaining few feet as quickly as she could in her agonising high heels. She didn’t slow down until she had reached the door of the Hotel de Paris opposite.
It was only then that she remembered the letter in her evening bag.
Silvio’s speech was mercifully short. As the crowd clapped and cheered, Cristiano made his way round the back of the platform to where Suki stood.
‘I slept with her, didn’t I?’
‘Who?’
Suki looked up at him with deliberately blank eyes. Cristiano had to grit his teeth, steadying himself against the feeling of panic that was closing in on him. The whole evening had taken on a kind of nightmarish quality, so that he wasn’t sure what was real any more.
‘Kate Edwards,’ he rasped. ‘From Clearspring Water. I slept with her the night before the crash. Why didn’t you tell me?’
Suki’s blank gaze slid away again and she shrugged. ‘What does it matter? You slept with everyone.’
Cristiano jerked backwards, raising his hand so that for a moment Suki thought he was going to hit her. He thrust it into his hair and swore, and then swung round and began to push his way through the crowd.
Except me, she wanted to scream after him, watching his massive shoulders as he walked away, and the way people moved aside to let him through. Everyone except me.
Adrenaline burned through Cristiano’s veins as he ran down the Casino steps. The cool air, with its whisper of pine and the sea, felt good—tasted better than the champagne he’d been avoiding all evening—and out in the street-lit darkness the pounding inside his head was less intense. He knew that Silvio would be looking for him now, wanting him to stand in front of the two cars on the platform while the flashbulbs of hundreds of press photographers exploded all around, but he didn’t care.
He didn’t care about anything except finding Kate Edwards.
She had gone into the Hotel a Paris when she’d run out of here. Standing in the middle of the marble floor, still reeling from the realisation of who she was, he had watched her crossing the square, dodging in front of a car in her haste to get away.
He nodded curtly at the doorman, who leapt forward to open the door for him as Suki’s words came back to him. She wasn’t your type at all…seriously plain and boring…
She was right about the first bit at least—Kate Edwards was different entirely from the women he usually bedded, and yet there was something about her that tugged like a fish hook in his brain and left him in no doubt that he’d slept with her that night.
And that the experience had been worth remembering.
Worth repeating—especially if it helped him to remember.
The receptionist glanced up from her computer screen as he approached the desk and, seeing who he was, started visibly.
‘Can you tell me which room Kate Edwards is in?’
Her pink-painted mouth had fallen open, and she was looking at him in undisguised awe, so it was a second before she answered. ‘Pardon, Signor Maresca…b-but really I shouldn’t…’
‘I hope Miss Edwards would disagree with that.’ He dropped his voice and, looking her straight in the eye, smiled. ‘Please?’
Colour flooded into her cheeks as she tapped the keyboard, and Cristiano felt a grim moment of satisfaction. It had been a long time since he’d actively flirted with anyone, but that at least was something he could still do. He just hoped that Kate Edwards would fall for it as easily.
Because she was his best hope of recovering those lost hours. He’d slept with her then—would sleeping with her again bring them back?
So that was it.
After four years of waiting, hoping, dreaming and wishing, it was finally over.
With a shaking hand Kate swept up all the brand-new expensive cosmetics so carefully picked out by Lizzie and shoved them back into her make-up bag. Most of them hadn’t even been opened. What a waste of money, she thought, stifling a sob.
But what was money compared to four years of her life?
She pulled her cheap suitcase down from the rack by the door and threw it onto the bed. She didn’t intend to waste a second longer on a man who couldn’t even remember sleeping with her. A shallow, cold-hearted playboy, with eyes like black ice and a heart of stone.
Straightening up for a moment, she clenched her fists and took in a deep, shuddering breath. Her eyes and her throat burned with the tears that she couldn’t shed yet. Not while humiliation and fury and bitterness were still so raw.
And the desire.
Her stomach still fluttered with it, and her legs felt weak and shaky. Passing the long mirror on her way to the wardrobe, she caught sight of her reflection and saw that her eyes were huge and dark-centred, her make-up smudged, her lips red and swollen.
She stopped, one trembling hand flying to her mouth, her rapid heartbeat seeming to echo in the muffled silence of the opulent room as her mind replayed the kiss.
How could she have been so stupid?
Not just tonight, she thought bitterly, kissing him like that, but for the last four miserable years. All those nights of waiting, looking out into the darkness and wishing for him. The loneliness of antenatal appointments, when all the other expectant mothers had had their husbands with them and she’d been alone. Visiting times in hospital, when she’d watched proud fathers take their newborns in big, awkward hands and gaze down at them adoringly—all those times when she’d silently wished for Cristiano, silently held onto her memory of his kiss, his touch, the way he’d looked into her eyes that night and the sound of his voice in her head.
This isn’t over…Last night was just the beginning. Wait for me.
Well, she had waited. And she’d hoped and believed that it was the accident that had kept him away. That somehow he’d been trying to reach her, thinking of her the way that she’d been thinking of him, but that something or someone had stopped him making contact.
How unutterably, embarrassingly stupid that seemed now. She had spent four years pining for a man who didn’t exist.
Well, at least tonight hadn’t been a complete waste of time and expensive make-up. At least she had finally learned that Cristiano Maresca was not the kind of man she wanted as a father for her son. She picked up her velvet evening bag from where she had thrown it on the bed and shoved it into the bottom of her open suitcase, suppressing a shiver of relief that she hadn’t handed over the letter. Alexander was better off without him in his life, and Cristiano…
A fat tear wobbled for a second on her eyelashes and then fell, glittering, and sank into the thick blue carpet as she pictured her son. Cristiano didn’t deserve to know Alexander, she thought fiercely. Children weren’t possessions to be passed between rightful owners. It took more than one night of great sex to make a parent, more than genes and chromosomes. It took love. Selflessness. Dedication. Patience. Being there.
And Cristiano Maresca didn’t qualify on any of those counts.
Gathering herself, she yanked open the wardrobe door. Suddenly aware that she was shaking violently, she pulled on the polo-necked jumper that her mother had given her for Christmas over the blue dress and began bundling up the rest of her things and shoving them back into the case from which she’d so recently unfolded them.
A knock at the door made her jump. It must be the concierge, with information about changing her flight home, she thought with a surge of relief, throwing an armful of underwear on the top of the bag and rushing to answer it. Please God, let him have found her a seat on a plane tonight—
She had only opened the door a crack when she realised her mistake.
It wasn’t the concierge who stood there.
It was Cristiano Maresca.
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A jolt of electricity shot through her, and acting on pure adrenaline-fuelled instinct she went to slam the door in his face. But he was too quick for her. Too quick and too strong. Before she knew it she was stumbling backwards as he thrust his body into the gap between the door and the wall.
‘Wh-what are you doing here?’
Kate’s chest was rising and falling rapidly, her breath coming in uneven gasps, but he was perfectly unruffled. His face was completely expressionless, his eyes dark and opaque.
‘I want to talk to you,’ he said softly.
Kate couldn’t stop the bitter laugh from escaping her. ‘Really? That wasn’t what it looked like back there.’
Her voice was breathless and shaky. He made no move towards her, but her heart was hammering viciously against her ribs, and beneath the jumper she was suddenly boiling hot.
‘We were interrupted.’ Leaning back against the wall with deceptive nonchalance, he was still looking at her steadily. ‘I hoped you’d wait.’
‘I did.’ Suddenly the narrow space by the door seemed horribly claustrophobic. Whirling round, Kate walked quickly back into the room, desperate to put some space between them. ‘Last time. I waited last time—remember?’
‘What?’
Something in his tone made her turn back to look at him. He had levered himself away from the wall and was advancing across the room towards her, his eyes burning with an intensity that was almost frightening.
‘Forget it,’ she muttered, going into the bathroom to collect the things she’d left in there. ‘It doesn’t matter.’
She threw her toothbrush into her washbag and, going out again, collided with him in the doorway.
Before she could back away, he caught hold of her shoulders and looked down at her with a twisted, ironic smile that skewered her heart. ‘Actually, it does.’ Noticing the washbag, he frowned. ‘What are you doing?’
‘Packing. I’m going home.’
His grip on her shoulders didn’t loosen, but his gaze shifted from hers, sliding downwards. ‘That’s a shame,’ he said gravely. ‘I would have liked to get to know you better.’ He lifted a hand, brushing a strand of hair back from her cheek. In the soft light his face wore an abstracted expression, and was almost impossibly perfect. ‘Could I persuade you to stay?’
Agonising desire zigzagged through her like lightning, rooting her to the spot for a second as every nerve in her body sang beneath his touch and her senses reeled at his nearness. For all this time she had carried the scent of his skin in her memory, and now it was in her head, and the eyes she had looked into so often in her dreams were staring straight back into hers…
But their expression was different now. Gone was the emotion that had reached inside her and tugged her heart from her chest, and in its place was something darker. Harder. Colder.
‘No.’
Wrenching herself away, she took a couple of steps backwards, gathering up folds of satin, twisting them in her damp fists as she walked around to the other side of the pristine hotel bed. ‘I don’t want to be another notch on your bedpost, another anonymous name on your list of one-night stands.’ Grabbing her case, she viciously shoved the washbag into it and gave a shaky, slightly hysterical laugh. ‘I suppose that if you take into account that night four years ago that would technically make it a two-night stand, but it would also make me doubly stupid to fall for the same routine tw—’
The knock at the door made her jump and stopped her mid-sentence. Rushing to open it, she was dimly aware that she was still wearing the blue satin dress and had just put all the rest of her clothes in the suitcase. What was it about Cristiano Maresca that made it impossible to think straight?
‘Good evening, mademoiselle.’
It was the concierge—a short, sleek man, with a neat moustache like Hercule Poirot. A strange mixture of relief and panic churned inside her at the thought of leaving here now. Walking away down the wide, thick-carpeted corridor. Walking away from Cristiano for good.
‘You asked to be booked on a flight back to Leeds, England, as soon as possible?’ the concierge asked politely.
‘Yes. I’ll just get my—’
‘Pardonez-moi, mademoiselle, but I’m afraid I have bad news. Due to thick fog over Leeds tonight many flights have been cancelled, and the remaining ones are being diverted to Heathrow. I’m afraid there are no seats available on any UK flight with any airline at the moment.’
Kate felt the air whoosh from her lungs and the ground tilt a little beneath her feet as she took in this information. It felt like absorbing a physical blow.
‘But that can’t be right, surely? There must be something…’
‘I’m afraid not, mademoiselle,’ the concierge murmured gravely. ‘I have checked with all the airlines. Of course,’ he added doubtfully, glancing at her very obviously un-designer jumper, ‘if it is urgent I could possibly look into a private charter…?’
Kate shook her head, swallowing back the hysterical bubble of laughter that rose inside her. Dominic was notoriously relaxed when it came to expenses, but she suspected that even he might balk at private jet hire. And, since most weeks she struggled to afford petrol for her ancient car, it certainly wasn’t going to come out of her own pocket.
‘Very well, mademoiselle.’ The concierge gave a little bow. ‘I am sorry not to have been able to help. If there’s anything more I can do for you, please don’t hesitate to call down to Reception.’
‘Thank you,’ Kate murmured faintly, shutting the door behind his departing back and leaning against it for a moment while she struggled to control her desolation.
She wanted so much to go home—back to Alexander. Dominic had given them all a week off to enjoy the considerable luxury of the hotel and explore the city, so their scheduled flight home wasn’t until Friday. She hadn’t argued because, she now realised, deep down she’d secretly hoped that she’d be with Cristiano.
Stupid, stupid, stupid.
She turned round abruptly, gritting her teeth as a crashing wave of homesickness and despair washed over her, not knowing what to do now. Cristiano was at the window. He had pulled the curtain back and was standing by the doors to the balcony, the lurid lights from the square outside casting hollows beneath his cheekbones and making his olive skin look strangely bleached of colour.
‘So, it looks like you’re not going home after all,’ he said, without turning round to look at her.
‘You don’t have to sound so pleased.’ She hated the bitterness and misery in her tone, but was suddenly too tired to hide them any more. Too tired to pretend.
He dropped the curtain, so his face was suddenly plunged into shadow again.
‘I don’t want you to run away until we’ve had a chance to talk.’
‘What about?’
Oh, God. For the first time it occurred to her that he might somehow have already found out about Alexander. Nausea rolled through her. She wanted to sink down onto the bed, but knew she’d feel at a disadvantage with him towering over her, so settled instead for perching on the edge of the dressing table. Her heart was battering against her ribs as he came towards her, and she searched his face for clues.
There were none. Apart from a muscle flickering in his lean, tanned cheek it was very still and completely blank.
‘The night we spent together.’
She gave an anxious laugh. ‘I don’t know why. It clearly didn’t make it onto your list of top ten one-night stands, so unless you need the details to put in some kind of no-holds barred, X-rated autobiography there’s really not much point in going over it.’ Nerves were making her talk too much, too fast, and tears stung at the back of her eyes. ‘It’s funny,’ she went on. ‘Although on some level I understand that when you sleep with a man who is known throughout the world as a heart-breaking, womanising playboy you can’t exactly expect flowers and a card on your anniversary, it would at least be nice to think that he’d recognise you again. Especially after—’
She stopped, su
ddenly breathless. An image, suppressed for the last four years, rose to the surface of her mind. The sun rising over the sea, bathing their naked bodies in rosy pink light, painting streaks of gold into his hair while, bleak-faced and rigid, he told her about his past.
‘After what?’
The man in front of her looked the same—agonisingly, mockingly the same—and yet so different. Tears welled in her eyes and she got sharply to her feet.
‘Forget it.’ Impatiently she dashed the tears away as she made to move past him, and gave a broken laugh. ‘Oh, but of course you already have—haven’t you?’
He gave a low, savage curse. Catching hold of her arm, he pulled her back so that she hit the hard wall of his chest.
‘Yes,’ he rasped, his face ashen, his eyes like glittering pools of tar. ‘Yes, I bloody well have. I’ve forgotten everything from the time I got into that car to qualify for the race to the moment I hit the barrier. It’s lost. Twenty-four hours of nothingness. So that’s why we need to talk. I want to know what happened.’
For a long, shivering moment it felt as if time had stopped as their gazes locked. But then her hoarse whisper broke the silence. Broke the spell.
‘Oh, God, Cristiano. I—I’m sorry.’
Letting go of her abruptly, Cristiano spun round and walked back to the window, raising a hand to his pounding forehead. Why the hell had he just said that? He had come up here to get out of her whatever he could, using whatever means it took—he had intended to seduce her, not confide in her, per l’amore di Dio. He didn’t want anyone to know about this. Never mind some girl he didn’t know, didn’t trust not to go to the papers.
‘I had no idea.’
‘No. Well, it’s not exactly something I want to broadcast,’ he said icily.
‘But why?’ There was a curious tension in her voice, and the light from the lamp beside her turned her skin to gold satin and reflected in her eyes, making it look as if there was a flame leaping in their depths. ‘I mean, you had a terrible accident, and people would—’
