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‘Why on earth not? I’ve been rescuing you since you learned to climb trees. Why not now? You can’t cook, you can’t walk, you can’t drive, but you can rest and recover there while you keep out of the way and wait for the police to catch her. It’s the obvious solution.’
It was. So obvious he’d already thought of it and dismissed it. On the surface it sounded the perfect plan. The only ‘but’—and it was a huge one—was that it meant spending the next two weeks with Anita alone, with no one to diffuse the tension.
And that was a bad idea.
CHAPTER TWO
IT took them a while to discharge him, but finally he was wheeled to the entrance.
Anita’s car was there, drawn up to the kerb, engine running. All he had to do was get out of the wheelchair and into it.
Huh. It was a nightmare, but he gritted his teeth and managed somehow. His inflexible right foot in its support bandage was the most awkward thing—that, and the fact that his wounded thigh muscles really didn’t want to lift his leg, and his heavily bandaged right hand was all but useless.
It didn’t help that it was tipping down with rain, either, but at last he was in, more or less dry with the help of a man with an umbrella, and the door was shut.
‘OK?’ she asked briskly as he was finally settled beside her, but he’d known her nearly thirty-five years, and the concern in her voice was obvious to him.
Obvious, and strangely reassuring.
‘I’m fine,’ he lied through gritted teeth. ‘Just get us out of here.’
He turned up the collar of his rain-spattered and bloodstained leather jacket and hunched down in the seat as she pulled away. He was glad to be getting out of the city. He didn’t think Camilla Ponti posed a real threat, but the last thing he wanted was Anita in danger, however slight the risk.
She left the city streets behind, heading out of Firenze, and after a few minutes she turned her head and flashed him a smile. ‘Better now?’
They were on the A1 heading south past Siena towards the Montalcino area where both his family and hers had lived for generations.
Home, he thought with a sigh of relief.
‘Much better,’ he said, and resting his head back on the seat, he closed his eyes and drifted off.
He was asleep.
Good. He’d lost a lot of blood, and he’d be exhausted. She didn’t suppose he’d slept much last night, what with the pain and awkwardness of his injuries, and anyway, it was easier for her if he wasn’t watching her while she drove, because his presence, familiar as it was, always scrambled her brains.
Even when he was fast asleep she was ludicrously conscious of him, deeply, desperately aware of every breath, every sigh, every slight shift of his solid, muscular body.
She knew every inch of it. Loved every inch of it. Always had, always would.
Fruitlessly, of course. The one time she’d felt there was any hope for them it had been snatched away abruptly and without warning, and left her heart in tatters. Anyone with any sense would walk away from him, tell him to go to hell and find his own solution, but Anita couldn’t do that.
She couldn’t walk away from him. Goodness knows she’d tried a hundred times, but her heart kept drawing her back because deep down she believed that he loved her, whatever he might say to the contrary.
And one day…
She gave a soft, sad huff of laughter. One day nothing. She was stupid, deluded, desperate.
‘Hey.’
She turned her head and met his eyes briefly, then dragged hers back to the road.
‘How are you?’ she asked. ‘Good sleep?’
‘I’m just resting.’
‘You were snoring.’
‘I don’t snore.’
‘You do.’ He did. Not loudly, not much, just a soft sound that was curiously comforting beside her. As it had been, for those few blissful weeks five years ago.
‘Why did you laugh?’
‘Laugh?’ She hadn’t—
‘Yes, laugh. If you can call it that. You didn’t look exactly amused.’
Ah. That laugh, the one that wasn’t. The laugh because against all the odds she could still manage to believe he loved her.
‘I was thinking about my meeting yesterday,’ she lied. ‘The bride thought we could wrap it all up in an hour. She was miffed when I left.’
‘Is that where you were when I rang you?’
She nodded, biting her lip at the little rush of guilt, and he tilted his head and frowned.
‘Anita? It wasn’t your fault. I knew you were in a meeting.’
‘I should have been out by then. I could have answered it—should have answered it.’
‘I wouldn’t have answered you if I’d been with a client.’
Of course not. She knew that, but it didn’t make any difference, and if he’d died—
His hand closed over hers, squeezing gently. ‘Hey, I’m all right,’ he said softly. ‘I was fine, and the ambulance came really quickly, because she’d already called it.’
‘Well, good. I don’t suppose there was a lot of time to waste, and what if she hadn’t called it? What if you’d passed out?’
He dropped his hand again. ‘It was fine, the bleeding was all under control,’ he lied. ‘And I’m all right, you can see that. Now I just have to get better. I wonder if they’ve found her yet.’
‘Will she go to prison for it?’
He laughed a little grimly. ‘What, for hitting me with her handbag? No. She didn’t mean to do this, Anita.’
‘You’re very forgiving.’
‘No, I’m not. I’m thoroughly peed off because I shouldn’t even have been here, I should have been on holiday and the only reason I wasn’t was because of her. I’m just a realist and anyway, it’s not really me she’s angry with, it’s Marco. It’s just profoundly irritating.’
Irritating? She nearly laughed. ‘So, have you warned him? Your client? She might go after him.’
‘Don’t worry, he’s out of the country now. He was leaving yesterday straight after our meeting, but anyway he has very good security.’
‘Maybe you should move to somewhere more secure. Your apartment isn’t exactly impenetrable. OK, she might be just a bit of a nutter, but what if it was someone really serious, with a real grudge?’
He shrugged, contemplating the idea not for the first time, but he loved it where he was, overlooking the rooftops. He had a fabulous view and he was loath to lose it. Sometimes he sat out on his little roof terrace and imagined that the rolling hills there in the distance were home.
They weren’t, he knew that, but sometimes he just had a yearning to be back there, and those distant hills made him feel closer. The idea of moving to some gated community or apartment complex with hefty security and nothing to look at through the windows but carefully manicured grounds brought him out in hives.
‘I’ll think about it,’ he said, knowing full well he wouldn’t, and he closed his eyes and listened to the rhythmic swish of the windscreen wipers as she drove him home.
He was asleep when she turned onto the long gravel drive that led to her villa.
It had once been the main dwelling on her family’s farm, long superseded by a much larger villa, and she loved it. It was small and unpretentious, but it was hers, it had stunning views, and it was perfect for Gio’s recovery because it was single storey and so he wouldn’t have to struggle with stairs.
Her headlights raked the front of the villa, and she drew up outside and opened the door quietly, easing out of the car without disturbing him. She’d put the radio on quietly while he slept, and she left it on while she went in and turned up the heating.
It wasn’t cold, exactly, but it was cheerless even though the rain had stopped now, and she pulled sheets out of the linen cupboard and quickly made up her spare bed for him. It was a good room, the view from the bed stretching miles into the distance, and on the top of the hill on the horizon was the Palazzo Valtieri, home to his family for hundreds of years.
The lights were off now, the palazzo deserted, but normally she could see it in the dark. It was quite distinctive, and at night the lights could be seen for miles. She’d lost count of the number of times she’d lain there in her bedroom next to this one and stared at them, wondering if he was there, if he was awake, if he was looking for the lights of her villa.
Probably not. Why would he? He didn’t feel the same about her, he’d made that perfectly clear five years ago when he’d ended their relationship without warning. And anyway, most of the time he was in Firenze, where he lived and worked.
But still she looked, and wondered, and yearned.
‘Stop it!’ she muttered, and made the bed. Torturing herself with memories was pointless—as pointless as staring at the palazzo on the hill like a love-struck teenager night after night.
But she felt like a love-struck teenager, even after all this time. Nothing had changed—except now she didn’t have to imagine what it felt like to lie in his arms, because she knew.
She tugged the quilt straight, turned it back so he could get in, and went outside, switching on the porch lights.
He was awake. She could tell that, even though his eyes were closed, and as she walked towards him, her boots crunching on the gravel, they opened and looked straight at her through the windscreen.
He didn’t want to come in. She could tell that, just as she’d been able to tell he was awake. Well, that was fine. She didn’t really want him to, either, because it meant keeping up an impossible charade of indifference for the next two weeks, and she really, really didn’t know if she could do it.
But it seemed that neither of them had a choice.
He had to do it.
There was no point delaying it, he had to get out of the car and hobble into the house and try, somehow, not to remember the last time he’d been in there.
The night of his brother Massimo’s wedding, nine months ago.
Long enough to make a baby.
That was a random thought. And if he hadn’t stopped, if he hadn’t walked away and got back in his car and driven back to Firenze, they might have done just that.
They’d had a great day. A quiet family wedding, with a simple ceremony in the town hall followed by a meal in a restaurant owned by a member of their housekeeper Carlotta’s family.
And then Massimo had taken his bride home, and the rest of them had ended up at Luca’s with all the children. Too much for him, and too much for Anita, so he’d given her a lift home, and she’d offered him coffee before he headed back to Firenze, and he’d accepted.
Except they’d never got as far as the coffee—
‘Gio?’
He eased his fragile and protesting foot out of the car with his one good hand, and then swung round and stood up, propping himself on the door for a moment.
‘OK?’
‘Bit light-headed.’
She clicked her tongue and took his good arm, draping it round her shoulders and sliding her arm around his waist so she could help him to the door. He didn’t lean much weight on her. He couldn’t, she was tiny, so he wasn’t sure how much of a help it was, but it gave him a legitimate excuse to be close to her for a moment.
He actually didn’t need her help. So long as he took tiny, short steps, it was OK. Not good, but OK. And if he took it slowly, he’d be fine.
Did he tell her that?
No, because he was weak and self-indulgent, and he was enjoying the feel of her arm around his waist too much, so he told himself he didn’t want to hurt her feelings.
As if it would. Anita was made of sterner stuff than that. He’d ripped her head off a million times when she’d been helping him limp home after he’d fallen out of a tree or off a wall or come hurtling off his bike at some crazy break-neck speed, and she’d never once turned a hair or paid any attention to his objections.
So he kept quiet and let her help him, and enjoyed the side-effect of being close to her firm, athletic body, savouring the nudge of her hip against his, the feel of her arm around his back, her warm fingers curled around his wrist.
And the scent of her, the perfume she always wore, the perfume he’d bought her countless times for Christmas or birthdays, always apologising for being unimaginative but doing it anyway because that scent, for him, was Anita.
‘All right now?’
He nodded, words failing him for a second, and she shot him a keen look.
‘You really are feeling rough, aren’t you? I was expecting you to tell me to let go and stop interfering and that you didn’t need my help and go and do something useful like cooking—’
She broke off, meeting his eyes and then laughing as she saw the wry humour reflected there.
‘Surely not? Surely you haven’t finally learned to be gracious, Giovanni Valtieri, after all these years?’
‘Hardly.’
He chuckled and lifted his good hand, patting her cheek patronisingly. It always annoyed her and her eyes flared in warning.
‘Don’t push your luck,’ she said, and dropping him there in the entrance hall like a hot brick, she stalked into the kitchen, hips swishing. ‘Coffee?’
He followed her slowly, enjoying the view in a masochistic way because there was no way he would act on this crazy attraction between them. ‘Only if you’ve got a decent coffeemaker now. I don’t suppose there’s any food in the house?’
‘Not yet. It’s in the car. I’ll put the coffee on. Do you want to lie down for a while, or sit in here?’
And there it was—the sofa, an old battered leather one where he’d nearly lost his self-control last June. But it looked really inviting, and it was set opposite a pair of French doors out onto the terrace and he could see the familiar lights of the valley twinkling in the distance. His home was out there somewhere in the darkness, and if he couldn’t be there, then this was the next best thing.
‘Here looks good,’ he said, and made his way over to it and lowered himself down cautiously. So far, so good, he thought, and stretched his leg out in front of him with a quiet groan of relief.
‘Better?’
