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If his phone hadn’t rung he would have kissed her. And one kiss would never have been enough. He would have wanted all of her.
Swearing under his breath, he strode back to the monastery.
He would not be a slave to his libido. He would master it until he found a mistress who would serve as an outlet for it.
Yet no matter how hard he tried to envisage this mythical woman, the only image that came to his mind was that of his wife.
CHAPTER SIX
GRACE STEPPED INTO the master bedroom with a real sense of trepidation. It was the first time she had been inside it since the day of her return. There was no denying this room was now very much Luca’s territory.
Puffing air through her bottom lip, she walked straight to the door that housed her old dressing room and flung it open.
That sense of walking into the past hit her again. The rows of clothing were exactly as she had left them. All that wonderful colour.
She hadn’t bought anything colourful since she left Sicily. Part of that had been because she had known his goons would be searching for a woman who wore vivid colours. The main part had been because the lightness in her heart had darkened and she had subconsciously bought clothes that had reflected that darkness. It had been the same darkness that had killed all her creativity.
Would the light ever return?
Had Luca been through her dressing room in her absence, looking for clues as to where she had gone? When he’d finally realised that she’d left him, had he been tempted to throw all her clothes onto a bonfire?
His mother had said he’d kept all her possessions in case she returned to collect them.
No matter how hard she tried to push the image out of her head, all she could see when she closed her eyes was the agony etched across his features when he described the effect her disappearance had had on him.
The raw emotion that had resonated from him had almost sliced her in two.
Surely he didn’t really need it spelled out why she had left? Who in their right mind would knowingly bring a child into such a dangerous world? It was different for him. Luca had been born and raised in it. To him, it was normal.
That had been made abundantly clear two days before she’d left.
* * *
She’d been in her cottage painting. For the first time ever, the smell of the turpentine she used to clean her brushes and thin her paints had made her queasy. Truth be told, she’d been feeling nauseous for a few days, had assumed she’d picked up a bug. Her usual boundless energy had deserted her too, so she’d decided to call it a day and get an early night.
She hadn’t even opened the door to their wing when she heard the shouting.
Luca and Pepe often rowed but this had been a real humdinger of an argument, vicious, their raised voices echoing off the walls of the corridor surrounding Luca’s office. A loud smash had made her jump back a foot.
For an age she had stared at the office door wondering whether she should go in and defuse whatever was going on between them or leave them to get on with it. There was always the risk she could walk in to them throwing stuff at each other and inadvertently get caught in the firing line.
Before she could make up her mind, the door had flown open and Pepe had stormed out, almost careering into her.
He’d stopped short. ‘Sorry. I didn’t know you were there.’
‘Don’t worry about it,’ she’d said. ‘Is everything okay?’
A stupid question. Even if she hadn’t heard them argue, one look at the thunder on her brother-in-law’s face would have answered it.
‘Ask your husband,’ he had replied curtly.
When he had left their wing, he had slammed the door hard enough for her to feel sorry for its hinges.
She’d entered Luca’s office and found him pacing in front of the window, a glass of Scotch in his hand. A large trail of coffee stained one of the white walls, a smashed cup on the carpet below it.
‘What’s the matter?’ she’d asked. ‘Who’s been throwing inanimate objects at the wall?’
He’d spun around to face her, his features contorted in the same thunderous expression as Pepe’s.
‘I thought you were in your studio,’ he’d snapped.
Unused to having that tone of voice directed at her, she’d flinched.
‘I’m sorry,’ he’d muttered, shaking his head. ‘It’s been one of those days.’
‘I heard you arguing with Pepe. What was that about?’
‘Nothing important.’
‘It must have been important that way you two were shouting at each other. And smashing things.’ Deliberately, she had kept her tone even, hoping it would be enough to defuse his rage and calm him down enough to talk to her.
