The sky was a startling blue; milky and pale with a golden orb of sunshine radiating heat. Far in the distance, she could make out the stoic ute that belonged to her farm-hand Jackson Scott. He must have been somewhere amongst the grapes, though she couldn’t spy him from the house.
Her eyes skidded back to the clock beside her. He was late.
Cristiano.
Her heart turned over in her chest and her temperature spiked as it had done every time she thought of his impending arrival. For months she’d dreaded this day. Since the booking had come through and she’d learned that she would once more come face to face with him.
She swallowed convulsively and reached for the flour on instinct. She lifted a small handful and sprinkled it onto the ancient timber workbench that had belonged to Angus’s uncle, then tossed the dough onto it with a satisfying thwomp. A little flour lifted in a plume of white and sprayed the front of her apron.
Ava didn’t notice.
She’d thought often of the last time she’d seen him. How could she not dwell on that scene? How could she not remember it with regret and doubt? Had she done the right thing?
The love she’d felt for Cristiano had been the very definition of passion. But everything about him had terrified her. His lust for life and his impatience with the predictable; these were qualities that Ava could never aspire to. And though Ava had known with an absolute certainty that she had loved Cristiano, she had also understood two other facts.
First, that he would never change. His spirit of adventure was as firmly a part of his makeup as were his dark brown eyes and flop of black hair. Second, that they were absolutely, essentially incompatible. For as much as Cristiano sought newness and the thrill of danger, Ava wanted only calm and the reassurance of familiarity.
How could she ever have been what he wanted of her?
To leave Casa Celli, the only home she’d ever known, and travel the world by his side – why, it had been as impossible to contemplate as if he’d asked her to take to the depths of the ocean and swim to America.
Sophie? Sure. Olivia? Of course. Her sisters were far more inclined to just the kind of wild abandon that defined Cristiano.
Not Ava.
Never Ava.
Not that. And especially not now.
Her fingers worked with expert skill over the dough, forming it into three equal size balls and then rolling them into long snakes. She knitted them together at the top and then plaited them to form a loaf, before covering them in a cotton tea towel.
Her plan had been to keep herself as busy as possible, so that she would forget that Cristiano was not a ‘normal’ guest.
The rest of his party had checked in the day before. She’d crossed that enormous hurdle. Though they had no idea she and Cristiano had ever been anything to one another, she knew. She’d looked at them – these people he was friends with – and wondered how she could have ever been a part of the crowd. They were so different to her. So glamorous and care-free, they had seemed fogged with laughter and joy. Ava had taken a nauseating pleasure in studying them covertly, wondering at this glimpse into Cristiano’s other life. His life since her. The life he’d left her for.
How could she not have felt a tremble of emotion as she’d prepared his cottage for him? She’d made the bed with the same linen that she used in all the other cottages, and yet her cheeks had blushed, for she’d tucked it over the mattress and imagined him in it.
Shards of memory as sharp and unwelcome as a broken mirror had punctuated the simple task. Picturing him in the King size bed had meant remembering.
His hands. His legs. His body, so tanned and kissed by sunshine and water. The way his taut chest moved up and down, up and down, rhythmically in time with his breathing. She remembered every detail, and each one caused the ache in her gut to intensify.
The flowers she had picked from the colourful gardens and arranged in a vintage mason jar had seemed to mock her, despite the fact it was a thoughtful gesture she included in each and every one of the six little cottages.
She heard the car long before she saw it. A quirk of the driveway, the dip in its middle, sent echoes reaching towards the house. She heard the engine, and her pulse began to fire.
Her fingers shook as she reached behind her back and unhooked the apron. On autopilot, she hung it over a nearby chair; and then, with a gnawing sense of inevitability, she looked.
Beyond the hedge of frangipani trees, down the sloping gravel drive, and over the cresting hill, she saw it.
Him.
For even though the windows were tinted, she knew. There was something in the driver’s air of casual arrogance that immediately communicated his presence to her.
Three years after leaving, Cristiano was back.
Fear, anticipation, and something far darker and more terrifying, flooded her system.
The most important conversation of her life was looming, and she could no longer put if off.
Her mouth was dry; she was powerless to turn away.
The car was black, and as it drew nearer to the house, she could see that it was a Range Rover – undoubtedly a luxury model. The windows were so dark they concealed all detail.
And yet she knew.
She kept her hands by her side, and her gut rolled as though she’d crested through the loop of a rollercoaster.
He ignored the car spaces to the side of the house and pulled up directly in front of the stairs. Did it look the same to him now as it did then? She tried to remember the first time he’d come to Casa Celli. But those memories were vague. Despite the fact she had loved him completely, there was no sharp, clear first memory. Just an impression of having been hit by a bus from the instant she’d known him. Her whole life had tipped on its axis, rendering her powerless to resist the force of what was happening to them.
The car stopped gently in front of the house, but nothing else happened.
The waiting was excruciating.
She leaned unconsciously forward, peering closer to the window, as though willpower and curiosity could combine to hasten his appearance.
Get a grip, she muttered inwardly, though her hands tightened together in front of her slender waist.
The clock ticked on, and it sounded clunky and loud in the emptiness of the old farm kitchen.
Her eyes moved to it compulsively and her stomach dipped again.
Tick, tock.
Ava couldn’t lean any closer or her nose would be pressed against the glass.
The driver’s door opened suddenly and with the palpable confidence that was Cristiano’s stock in trade.
She startled backwards instantly, as though he’d whipped her.
Her heart was pounding; her limbs were shaking.
He was on the wrong side of the car for Ava to easily see him. The first view she had was of his head. Dark hair, thick and glowing with sunlight.
She held her breath, and pressed her lips together. Her heart was hammering so fast she thought it might leap out of her body.
The car door shut with a resounding thud, and then she saw him.
Her gasp was reasonable. He had been her first and only lover, and he had haunted her dreams every night since he’d left.
And now, here he was, the embodiment of so much of her life.
Did he feel anything?
It was impossible to tell. He walked with the gait of a man who was completely himself. His hands were not shaking like hers. His face did not show signs of sleeplessness, like hers.
Though he was still a small distance away, she watched as he climbed the steps two at a time, and she tried to see if he was any different.
His hair was shorter than he’d worn it then; now it was a practical style that suited him well, as opposed to the unruly dark mane he had kept pulled into a bun on top of his head. That had suited him too, though. He had been unruly and dark.
His face was just as striking as it had been when she’d loved him. A square jaw dusted with stubble and cheeks that had dimpl
ed when he laughed. And he’d laughed a lot. They both had. Like carefree teenagers with the world at their feet. Cristiano had made her truly happy for the first time since losing her mother Meredith.
Ava stared at him as though time no longer mattered. She had loved him with all her heart, and that same heart was rabbiting furiously in her chest. His eyes were covered by sunglasses but she didn’t need to see them to know exactly how they would look. Dark brown and as meltingly desirable as warmed chocolate. She remembered his eyes perfectly, for she’d stared into them for so many hours she had lost any perception beyond him, and them, and what they meant to one another.
She tried to swallow but her tongue was heavy and thick in her mouth. He wore a pair of beige chinos and a white polo shirt, and Ava knew exactly what was concealed by the casual clothes. He was slim, but muscled, lean and lithe. He had a strength that came from his being; a strength that his virile, beautiful body had easily expressed. As he reached the top of the stairs, he paused for a moment and Ava’s breath hitched in her throat.
Was he thinking of her? Was he remembering their time together? Or had she truly become what he’d said she would: a girl he’d known once and never thought of again?
Her chest contracted painfully at the remembrance of his words. There’d been more of course. Such harmful claims never came out of nowhere. No; the statement had been buffered on both sides by painful utterances.
And everything he’d thrown at her had proved only one thing: that she had been right to end it.
Oh, she’d never stopped loving him. How could she? But nor had she regretted her decision. When faced with his personality and hers, compatibility was a fantasy. In all ways but one, anyhow.
She heard the glass doors of the house opening, and steeled herself. She could not be hiding out in the kitchen when he arrived. Appearing resilient and unscathed was part of her plan to handle this turn of events.
With a quick glance at her reflection in the mirror on the kitchen wall, she stepped into the reception area.
And froze.
Resilient and unscathed? Yeah, right. She might as well have had physical scars scored deep into her face, for all that she was unmarked by him, and what he’d meant to her.
Barely anything stood between them. Only perhaps ten steps, or eight of his longer strides. But Ava was powerless to take them. Her feet were planted to the floor as though the soles had been glued. Her body wouldn’t work. Every single fibre of her being was employed waiting to see him. To observe him. To process the fact that now, after more than three years apart, they were back in the same room. In this room, where they’d last spoken.
Her stomach dipped and her throat constricted.
He was looking in her direction, but she couldn’t see beyond his reflective glasses. Slowly, almost like he had read her thoughts, he lifted the sunnies from his eyes, brushing them along his forehead to sit in amongst his thick crop of dark hair.
His eyes seared hers.
And she knew then that the same rage he’d felt when he’d stormed away from her was there.
Time had passed. Temper had not.
“Good afternoon, sir. You must be the last of our wedding party.” Marie, blessed Marie, calm and efficient, glided out from the hallway and moved towards Cristiano, rendering Ava obsolete.
He didn’t speak. He stared across the reception area at Ava, his eyes charged with the same electricity that powered her soul.
“Ava.” A drawl. A cynical, condemnatory use of her name.
Her smile was shaky; it was clearly a fraud, and yet it came to her automatically. “Cris.” The word ached in her mouth. It was soaked with emotion. How she had uttered the shortened version of his name over and over again. Through laughter. Passion. Love. Lust. Hunger. Need. And finally desperate rage and grief. Her gut clenched.
He placed his suitcase down on the floor without taking his eyes off her face, but the simple act seemed to bring her back to the present with a thud. “Marie,” she shifted her gaze to her off-sider. “I’ll check Mr Barata in.” Her voice was raspy and thin, hardly surprising under the circumstances.
“You sure, Aves? It’s no worries for me to do it.”
Ava shook her head, and moved jerkily towards the enormous oak desk. It had been in the house since the beginning; over a hundred and fifty years of wine making history were encapsulated in the property, and Ava was now a proud part of that. She ran her hands over the smooth timber surface to take comfort from its strength, and tried to see him as just another guest.
But he wasn’t.
Their history was a messy, tangled thread that had followed her to the present. “How have you been?” Though the question showed weakness, she didn’t care. Marie disappeared back in the direction she’d come from, her pretty brown hair flicking behind her as she went.
A muscle jerked in Cristiano’s cheek, and the same knowledge she’d always had of Cristiano was back with certainty. He might have looked as cold and in control as ever, but he was not unaffected by this meeting.
“I have been excellent, Ava.” He leaned forward, bracing his elbows on the desk, so that his face was only inches from hers. Up close, she could smell his citrus fragrance and it sent her pulse firing.
“I see.” She swallowed, and flicked her gaze down to the reservation book. Though she used a state-of-the-art computer system to monitor her online reservations, Ava liked the reassurance of a physical book, too. She ran a finger down the page until she saw his name, and then ticked beside it. Her hair, once long and flowing, was short now, cut in an Elfin style that drew attention to her swan-like neck and delicate features. “I’ve put you in the cabin nearest the lake.” Her cheeks flushed pink and she pushed past the unwelcome memories of how often they’d swum in that glorious body of water. “The view at this time of year is quite spectacular.”
He tilted his head forward. “I remember the lake was always spectacular.”
Inwardly, she groaned. How had she ever thought she’d be able to get through this week? No amount of time nor mental preparation would ever have made her ready to see him again.
“And you, Ava? Have you been well?”
The question had the appearance of civility, but it was coated in an undercurrent of disapproval. And she understood. He had never forgiven her for choosing her settled life over the love and freedom he’d offered.
She nodded quickly. What else could she say?
“Here you go.” She lifted the keys from the desk and placed them on the counter top, careful not to touch his hand.
His sardonic smile showed he understood. He took the keys with a flicker of his eyes. “The vines look good.”
She swallowed. Anxiety was a knot in her gut. “Thanks.”
He arched a brow. “Still Riesling and Sauvignon?”
“Yes.” She licked her lower lip nervously, a habit she shared with her sister Sophie. “Jackson – he runs the vines now – wants to graft some Tempranillo on. He had a Sparkling Temp in Spain once and he reckons he could corner the industry here.”
Cristiano ran a hand over his stubbled jaw. “The soil would suit Tempranillo,” he nodded. “It deserves consideration. Certainly some market research.”
Ava’s smile was wry. Market research took money – a lot of it. It was one of the reasons she’d held Jackson’s creative pursuits at bay. But if she didn’t give him some latitude, her fear was that he’d leave her. And without him and Marie, she’d be utterly lost.
“Anyway,” she shrugged, and the gesture drew Cristiano’s attention to her slender fragility.
Her voice tapered off into nothingness as she stared across the short distance, into his eyes. His beauty was a thing of enormous rarity. She’d thought it the very first time she’d seen him, and she’d thought it every time since. Even now when she understood there was a darkness to his heart that should have muddied how she felt for him.
“Anyway,” he blinked to clear whatever thoughts had been wrapping around him. “Last one t
o check in, she said?”
Ava nodded.
Cristiano was furious with himself. Furious with her. He turned on his heel, collected his bag and almost stormed out of the homestead as he had done then, the last time he’d seen her. He needed to put some distance between himself and Ava or he knew he’d lose it. And he hadn’t come back to Australia to do that. He’d come to stand beside one of his best friends on his mate’s wedding day, and to hell with his whole complicated history with Ava bloody Henderson.
That was in the past, and none of it mattered anymore.
“Hey, baby.” Ava’s voice was a gentle, sweet pitch, the smile obvious in the tone of her words. She padded into the carpeted room, and her heart flipped over at the sight of Milly. “Did you have a good sleep?”
Milly stretched her chubby little arms over the edge of the cot and squealed with delight. “Milly did sleep!”
“Yes, darlin’.” Ava laughed and reached down, scooping her daughter up and holding her tight. If Ava seemed a little out of sorts, Milly didn’t notice.
“My want dink.”
“A drink? Yes, it’s hot today,” Ava murmured over her head. “Come on, sweetest of hearts.”
Ava hitched Milly onto her hip and moved with easy comfort down the stairs. And with every step she took, she wondered just how she was going to explain to Cristiano that this beautiful little girl was the lingering proof of their brief, passionate affair. How could she break it to the man who wanted no-strings and no-ties that he was, in fact, a father?
2
“Ava?” Marie’s voice was ringing through the house. She lifted the bread out of the oven and placed it down onto the bench with a satisfied grin.
“Yeah?” She called back, smiling over at Milly, who was happily engaged in finger painting her high chair tray with yoghurt.
The door swung open and Marie strolled in. “The incredibly gorgeous Cristiano Barata is back.”
Immediately her smile dropped and her eyes flew to Milly. “Back where?”
Billionaires: They're powerful, hot, charming and richer than sin... Page 62
