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‘I know it must seem…’ His voice trailed off, his voluntary attempt at explanation fading before it began. ‘You just don’t understand.’
‘I know I don’t.’ They were both holding the phone, both holding onto this inanimate object, both staring at it, both looking at it—neither letting go. Behind the strength of his voice she could hear the pain. Behind the terseness she could hear fear. ‘I wish I could say the right thing.’
‘You can’t.’ Letting go of the phone, he dragged his fingers through his hair. She half expected him to walk out without another word—could feel the tension in him, the indecision, and nodded when he asked if he could use her bathroom.
He felt sick as he went over and over the conversation with Antonia. He hoped to God he’d sounded happy enough about the news. His mother would soon be on her way—with her latest boyfriend on her arm, no doubt. Running the tap, he splashed water on his face, then did it again, taking in the lipsticks and perfumes that adorned the surfaces. It was easier to focus on nothing than what was in his head. Contraceptive pills, toothpaste—ordinary things, just so out of place in this strange, strange moment.
Baby Luca was here, bearing the name that drenched him in sweat each night, filled his nightmares. The name that he choked on was one he’d have to say daily now…He could see the beads of sweat on his grey complexion—could feel the bile rising within him, no matter how many times he washed his face. God, should he cancel dinner? For the first time he truly didn’t know if he could manage normal for an evening—yet at the same time he didn’t want to be alone.
‘I wish I could help.’ She was standing at the open bathroom door, walking in behind him, staring at his reflection in the mirror. And he stared back at her—infinitely better than staring at his own face—so much easier to focus on her beauty than deal with his own demons.
For a moment she’d seemed bold—but as he turned around to her, suddenly she was shy. Lazzaro lifted her chin with his fingers—staring down at her when, as if opening the lid on a velvet box, her eyelashes lifted to show two brilliant sapphires…entrancing, dazzling…bewitching.
The same eyes as Roxanne’s. The shade of blue identical. Hell, sometimes he forgot, actually forgot that she was using him—actually forgot his conversation with Malvolio, actually forgot that she’d lied and schemed her way into his life. She was probably lying and scheming right now—right now, at this very minute—trying to worm her way into his heart, trying to get inside his head. Right now, when it was so hard, so very hard to be alone.
When Luca had died he’d sworn never to let a woman get close—never to let a woman under his skin in the way his brother had. But, staring at Caitlyn, blinded by her beauty, it was scarily easy to renegotiate with himself, so very tempting to take the comfort he needed now, to lose himself in the urges he had been resisting since the moment she’d stepped back into his life.
They were the same shade of blue—only he could see a swirl of black around each iris that intrigued him. He’d never stared into Roxanne’s eyes like this—had never been lulled into the dizzy whirlpool of attraction with Roxanne, never wanted to lower his head to hers the way he did now, towards Caitlyn’s…
Only he’d sworn that he wouldn’t.
Supremely focussed, incredibly driven, self-control was something he had never had to knowingly exert. He worked hard and, when time allowed, he had the funds and the stamina to play equally hard. His dark good-looks ensured an endless smorgasbord of suitable playmates, and his conscience was rarely if ever pricked.
He never promised anything of himself.
So why the dilemma? Why, when never had he craved oblivion more, was he hesitating?
She did something to him—altered his usually direct thought processes until they were scattered to the wind. Her image darted into his mind’s eye over and over throughout the day, and her scent reached him even when she wasn’t present—overwhelming him, just as Roxanne had Luca.
This was a woman who could get under his skin.
His lips were so close that if she moved a mere inch they would be touching. Only still he hesitated. Still he wrestled with something deep inside. And if life was a series of choices, in that split second Lazzaro’s was made: he would lose himself in her, would drown in the balmy oblivion of lovemaking, would bathe in the warmth of her body—only on his terms. He knew he was strong enough to hold back, to take only what he needed tonight and nothing more.
