I’m sorry.
The penthouse isdark and cold when we step through the front doors half an hour later. I’m desperate to get out of my damp clothes.
I should be happy Nero agreed to go through with Vita and Gino’s plan. That was my goal for the evening, and I achieved it.
But I’m not happy. Far from it.
For the first half of the ride home, I was consumed with memories of Sandro. The way he’d looked at me when he’d realized what was about to happen. The moment of his death. The damn unfairness of it all.
But that’s not the only thing dragging me into this dark place.
Something unpleasant churns inside my belly, like an agitated snake eager to escape its enclosure.
The more I try to untangle my feelings for Nero, the less I like what I find.
It bothers me that Cleo thought I was some random date Nero picked up within a few days of coming home, as if that’s exactly what he would do.
It bothers me to question how many women he’s taken to that same restaurant before me.
It even bothers me to remember how Cleo hugged Nero, how comfortable she was touching him—my husband. I know she’s married, but that hasn’t stopped Nero before, has it? What if they have a history? What if he slept with her?
Damn it all to hell. Why do I care? Why am Ijealous?
I don’t love him anymore. I don’t want him anymore.
Idon’t.
“You haven’t said a word since we got into the car,” Nero says from somewhere behind me.
I kick my shoes off, leave my purse on the credenza in the lobby, and pad toward my room. “I’m tired.”
“Is that what this is?” he asks, following me into my bedroom. I should tell him to get out, but I don’t.
Instead, I hide inside the walk-in closet, shutting the door behind me to keep him out while I change.
I tie my damp hair into a bun and slip into a T-shirt and a pair of sweats.
There’s an angry buzz beneath my skin.
The question bursts out of me before I can swallow it down. “Do you have a history with her?”
“With who?” he asks from the other side of the door.
“Cleo.”
There’s a long, pregnant pause.
“Does it matter? I thoughtwewere just friends.” His tone carries a hint of amusement.
Does he think this isfunny?
I jerk the door open.
His palms are anchored on the doorjamb, and he leans forward, bringing us nearly nose to nose. “Do friends get jealous of each other?”
“I’m not jealous,” I grind out, even as the thought of him being with someone else makes my lungs shrivel up.
Now that I’ve had him, I don’t want anyone else to have him, even if I’m determined to never sleep with him again.
