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It wasn’t meant to be... His words haunted her but where Alissandru was concerned there were no sad thoughts of what might’ve been in Isla’s troubled mind. His rejection had been brutal and blunt. She had been a mistake, a mistake he regretted, and the miscarriage and his reaction to it had drawn a final line under that reality.
And yet she had been drawn to Alissandru Rossetti in a way she had been drawn to no other man. That bothered her, seriously bothered her. Admittedly he was gorgeous but she had been aware of his prejudice from the outset and should’ve protected herself better, holding back instead of surrendering to the fierce attraction between them. She had believed that she could be totally adult and blasé about sleeping with him and she had been devastatingly wrong in that assumption because Alissandru had ultimately hurt her more deeply than anyone had ever hurt her. She was not as tough as she had believed and was now even more painfully aware that she had to get tougher.
When Alissandru turned up that evening, Lindsay tried to head him off, but when he became icily imperious with her unfortunate friend, Isla gave up listening behind her bedroom door and emerged, bitterly conscious that she looked a mess.
‘Alissandru...’ she said flatly.
He had never seen her so pale, her freckles stark across her porcelain skin, her violet eyes dull and haunted. He had to tighten his hands into fists not to reach for her, not to try to offer the physical comfort that he knew would be offensive to her. ‘I don’t want to crowd you, but I thought you might want to talk,’ he reasoned quietly.
Bitterness flashed through Isla, sharp and painful and unfamiliar, for such bitterness did not come naturally to her. ‘We have nothing left to talk about,’ she told him curtly.
Alissandru looked amazing...of course he did, breathtakingly elegant in a dark designer suit that was exquisitely tailored to his lean, muscular physique. He emanated energy and authority in vibrant waves, the smooth planes of his high cheekbones taut below his incredibly expressive dark golden eyes. Such stunning eyes, now telegraphing the kind of guilt that was unwanted because she knew as well as he knew that he hadn’t wanted their baby and that any offer of sympathy was sheer hypocrisy on his part. Yet the sheer pulsing zing of his dark, sizzling, sensual allure still filtered through that awareness, mocking her failing self-discipline as every skin cell in her body fired with wanton renewed energy.
‘Why don’t we have dinner and discuss that?’ Alissandru murmured hoarsely, his tension increasing as she stood there, her delicate face colouring with much-needed warmth, lighting up her sad eyes and accentuating her fragility.
‘I’m leaving London in a couple of days, so there’d be no point,’ she declared. ‘I’ll let you know what I decide to do about Paulu’s house once I’ve thought stuff over.’
Alissandru was startled by the truth that he had genuinely forgotten about the house. ‘I’m not such a bastard that I’d trouble you with that matter now,’ he argued in a vehement undertone. ‘Where are you going to stay?’ he pressed curtly.
‘That’s my business,’ Isla assured him, half closing the door. ‘Goodnight, Alissandru.’
Where the hell was she going? Would she be safe there? Would someone be looking out for her? Looking after her? She looked like hell! With difficulty, Alissandru suppressed his concern, acknowledging that it was time for him to move on. He could hardly force Isla to talk to him or to listen to him. He had walked away from her in Scotland and now he had to do it again. He could not understand the wrenching sense of loss attacking him or the sensation that something in his world was very wrong. ‘I’ll stay in touch,’ he breathed in a driven conclusion.
Good luck with that, Isla thought wryly, knowing she was not about to unblock his number on her phone. Alissandru Rossetti was in the past now and only wounding memories would result from any further contact from him. She had to find a new focus in life, she told herself urgently, and embrace her future alone.
CHAPTER SIX
ISLA EXPERIENCED JOY for the first time in many weeks when she first saw the glorious cherry trees that lined the imposing private road that led up to the Palazzo Leonardo. Great foaming swathes of white blossom hung low above her hire car, making her feel as though she were driving through a tunnel of bridal lace.
It was a hot day, hotter than she had naively expected in spring, and she recognised familiar sights in every direction she looked on Rossetti land. Her visit at the age of sixteen had filled her with more memories than she had ever cared to recall. Although it had been her only trip abroad, Fantino’s assault had distressed her and made her reluctant to dwell on her recollections of her visit to Sicily.
The Rossetti family lived in a very grand home but the place where their ancestors had chosen to build was quite simply magnificent. A lush green grove of natural woodland covered the hills behind the ancient palazzo, which presided over a wonderful patchwork carpet of lemon and orange groves, olive trees and vines. It was still very much a working agricultural estate, and Paulu had run the estate for his brother.
Stiff with considerable nervous tension, Isla parked on the gravel fronting the sprawling property. She had to call at the palazzo to pick up keys and directions for Paulu and Tania’s house but it would only be polite to greet Paulu’s mother first and offer her her condolences and some explanation for her arrival. Constantia Rossetti had been very kind to Isla when she had attended her son’s wedding and, since Isla was planning to live in Paulu and Tania’s home for at least a few weeks, she wanted to be on good terms with the older woman.
As far as Isla had been able to establish, Alissandru was still in London. The fact that she had lost Alissandru’s child or that they had ever got close enough to even conceive a child was a secret, she thought gratefully, a secret known only to the two of them. Not that Alissandru had been grieving, she conceded ruefully. An Internet search of his recent activities had shown him attending a charity function with a beautiful but severely underdressed blonde on his arm. Was that sort of woman the type he went for? Skinny as a twig and showing off all of her flat chest?
Clutching a wriggling Puggle tightly beneath one arm, for Isla did not dare to leave him unattended in the hire car when he was still so disposed towards chewing anything within reach, Isla hit the modern doorbell. The bell was somewhat comically overshadowed by the giant wooded metal-studded double front doors that provided the main access to the palazzo.
A manservant greeted her and without hesitation showed her through the echoing main hall out into the delightfully feminine orangery, which was decorated in classic pale colours. The entire wall of glass, which overlooked a courtyard garden, had been pushed back to allow the fresh air and sunshine from outside to percolate indoors. The single occupant, a tall dignified woman with greying hair swept up in a chignon, stood up with a quiet smile.
‘Isla... I can hardly believe that you’re here with us again,’ she remarked warmly.
‘I’m so sorry that it’s taken me this long to visit,’ Isla murmured, offering her condolences and a brief explanation for her failure to attend the funerals. ‘But I wanted to see the house.’
‘Of course, you did,’ Constantia commented sympathetically. ‘I haven’t been back since...er, the crash, although I have ensured that the house was kept clean. Nothing has been touched or changed. I want you to know that. Everything is exactly as it was when they left that morning.’
‘I’ll go through my sister’s stuff,’ Isla proffered hurriedly. ‘And perhaps Alissandru would like to take care of his brother’s things when I’ve left again?’
‘Is this only a flying visit?’ the older woman asked as a tray of tea was brought into the orangery, and in response to her inviting gesture Isla took the seat beside hers, feeling ridiculously like a schoolgirl in the older woman’s dignified presence.
‘I’m afraid I don’t know. I haven’t made up my mind about what I’m going to do next,’ Isla told her, her
cheeks warming a little with self-consciousness as she thought of the short-lived secret interlude she had had with Alissandru.
‘Oh, what a dear little dog!’ Constantia carolled, stroking Puggle beneath his chin and urging Isla to let him down to explore while she explained that her pug had died the previous winter and she had not yet had the heart to replace him.
The older woman was friendly and welcoming, although tears were visible in her eyes more than once as she reminisced about her son, finally squeezing Isla’s hand and apologising for her emotionalism by saying, ‘It’s such a treat to talk about him to someone.’
