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He hadn’t wanted to see the horror and disapproval that would have been sure to follow in her eyes.
He hadn’t wanted to admit to his wife—even less to himself—that he had taken a wrong turn and was in so deep he could see no way out.
He hadn’t wanted to give her any more of an excuse to leave because, out of everything, that was what he’d feared the most—that if he confided the truth of what was bearing down on his conscience, she would turn around and leave him.
And she had. Grace had learned the truth and left him.
Three years ago he’d had everything: a vivacious, beautiful wife who loved and understood him, a flourishing business, more money than he could ever spend in a lifetime...
The business and the money were still there but he’d thrown the rest away.
Grace was the best thing that had happened to him and he’d ruined it with his pride and selfishness. He had brought a danger and violence into their lives that were far more potent than any threat Salvatore had brought.
He staggered over to the large mirror she kept on a stand close to her easel, which she used for looking at her paintings with a different perspective.
His own perspective had altered too.
That sketch she had drawn of him was as close to real life as it was possible to get.
She had been right all along.
He really was the devil. An evil monster.
The weight of reality pushed down hard on his chest, its tentacles spreading out and pulling at him, making his skin tight and his stomach cramp.
He couldn’t bear to look at his reflection for a second longer.
With a guttural roar, he ripped the mirror off the stand and threw it onto the terracotta floor, where it landed with a deafening crash.
With deep, ragged breaths he gazed at the shards of mirror scattered around him. His distorted image now reflected off thousands of tiny fragments.
The act was not enough to silence the demons screaming in his head or quell the sickness inside.
There were not enough mirrors in the world to purge him.
He didn’t deserve to be purged.
In desperation he spun around, helpless for the first time since his father had died when he’d felt so hollow, as if the heart of him had been ripped out. This felt so much worse.
A sound behind him made him whip around again.
For the blink of an eye he was certain he had conjured her.
‘Luca?’ Grace said, approaching him with soft footsteps. ‘What are you doing in here?’
He tried to move his throat but no words would form.
Her winter boots crunched on the scattered fragments and she froze, her eyes moving from him to the mess surrounding her. She looked back at him, her face creased with concern. ‘I’ve been looking everywhere for you. Whatever is the matter?’
How could she even stomach looking at him, never mind looking at him as if she were worried about him?
He was not worthy of her compassion.
How could he have ever thought he hated her?
‘Please, Luca,’ she begged, crunching slowly towards him. ‘Talk to me.’
How many times had she said those words?
How many times had he fobbed her off, refusing to admit to either of them that there was a problem?
What could he say now? Mere words could never convey the deluge of emotions raging through him or make up for everything he had put her through.
In a trice he closed the gap between them and cupped her cheeks in his palms. Her hazel eyes glittered and swirled but she made no attempt to break away, simply stared back as if trying to read his innermost thoughts.
He knew right there and then that he would have to let her and Lily go. He could not force the misery of this life and this unwanted marriage on her for a moment longer. But...
Before he set her free, he had the means to at least make partial atonement.
Closing his eyes, he brought his lips down on hers and held them there, breathing in the heady sweetness of her breath. He waited for a heartbeat, half expecting her to resist. Instead, her hands rose up his arms, bunching his sweater in her fists, and she swayed into him.
It was the sign he’d been waiting for.
Pulling her tightly into his arms, he kissed her hard, his heart expanding when she released her hold on his sweater and looped her arms around his neck, her responsive kisses as ardent as his own. Her fingers slipped into the neck of his shirt and scraped his skin, the warmth of her touch sending shivery tingles down his spine and lower into his groin.
‘Upstairs,’ he said, speaking into her mouth and sweeping her into his arms.
They had made love in her studio more times than he could ever hope to count, against the wall, on the worktop, on the sofa; pretty much everywhere.
When they had first married he had tried to carry her up the stairs of the cottage. Halfway up, they had collapsed in a fit of giggles and ended up making love right there, never making it to the bedroom.
