“Have fun,” she said scathingly. “You don’t need me for that. I’ve already given you everything I could.”
There was a beat of silence where she seemed to acknowledge that included her virginity. The despondency in her expression tensed his gut. Regrets?
“Mira—”
“I think I’ll sell my villa as is. Start fresh somewhere.”
“No.” His tone was vehement enough to make her flash him a look. “Stay,” he said with more control. “Put this back on.” He brought the ring to her.
“Why?” She stiffened and retreated a step.
“Protection.” It was the first word that came to his lips, but it was true. He couldn’t stand what he’d heard of Otto’s behavior toward her. “The harder I go after Otto, the more likely he is to try to take it out on you. That will never happen again, Mira. Not if I’m alive to prevent it.”
“I don’t know how you think you can stop him,” she muttered.
“By standing between you.” He picked up her hand and gently unfurled her fist. “You walked away from me in London three years ago because you didn’t trust me. I did the same with you today. No more. It’s us against him. And we will win.”
Her mouth was pouted in doubt, but she let him work the ring back onto her finger.
Chapter Nine
MIRA’S GREAT-GRANDPARENTSon her mother’s side had purchased the villa on the Amalfi Coast as a holiday home. Even at that time, it had been old. Half of it was built from stones that were still visible in some of the interior walls.
The grounds had shrunk to a postage stamp when an addition had been built onto the original cottage and the pool put in. The pool needed work and the exterior stairs were cracked with age. One corner of the terrace was sagging. The trees needed pruning, but they were mature and thriving, and the views were outstanding.
Mira looked to Rocco, but he was silent as he followed her through the house.
She was still feeling raw and unsettled by everything that had happened this morning—Rocco’s suspicion of her, her spilling of the fact that Otto wasn’t her father, then Rocco’s insistence that they continue this farce of an engagement.
She had sat in his office for a full hour while he rolled heads over the spy. She had told herself she ought to simply walk out, but she hadn’t known where to go.
When she had left Otto’s office—was it only six days ago?—she had been blinded by hurt and anger, lashing out wildly in every direction, including coming to Rocco and accepting his outlandish proposal.
What she had really been seeking was relief from the pain of being lied to. Of being cast adrift by a man she had believed was her only family.
For a few hours in Rocco’s bed, she had forgotten all of that, only to be slapped by his suspicions when she rose. Provoked by more pain than she could stand, she had told him Otto wasn’t her father.
He swore he would keep that secret for her, but she wasn’t sure she believed him.
And yet, she had let him put this ring back on her finger. The allure of having his protection had enticed her. She was so tired of feeling alone and on her own.
“I’ll put my best team on this for you. We’ll turn it into something you can truly love,” he said as they arrived on the terrace. “And if you don’t, I will buy it from you. I’ve always wanted a house here.”
“Really?”
“Sì. My aunt used to bring me to a beach here in the summer.” His restless gaze skimmed the cliffs below and the blue water lapping at the horizon. “It was a long walk down thousands of steps with our picnic lunch, and even worse when it was time to go home, but I loved it.”
“I know the beach you mean. That’s a nice memory to have of her.” She was touched that he had shared it with her. “Am I recalling correctly that she raised you?”
“Until I was nine.” His expression grew flinty. “She was… I don’t know if there was ever a diagnosis. My father’s friend gave me some insight years later. Silvio.” He looked at her with that penetrating way he had sometimes, as though he thought the name ought to mean something to her.
“What did he say?” she prompted gently, curious about what formed him.
“That she became sensitive after an illness. Silvio knew my father from an early age, so he was acquainted with the whole family. He said my aunt had had a terrible fever when she was six or seven. Seizures. They went away within a year, but he said they altered her personality. She became upset more easily. I suppose it would be treated as a mood disorder today. Perhaps depression? I’m not sure. I only know she had spells of sadness and upset. It was disturbing. I won’t pretend I wasn’t affected. I was very young and felt very helpless, but Zia cared about me very much. It wasn’t her fault that she struggled. We managed.”
“You loved her.”
“I did.” His profile tightened with intense emotion, then hardened to hide it.
