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‘Every minute of every hour of every day,’ Caitlyn countered, watching as he closed his eyes. ‘I know you must feel awful…’
‘You know, do you?’
‘My grandfather died six months ago—’
‘You compare the death of a young man—’
‘No!’ Caitlyn interrupted with a shout of her own. ‘No, but I know how it feels to miss someone, and I know how it feels to love and mourn someone. But I also know peace, Lazzaro, something that seems to elude you even two years on!’ Her voice was softer now. ‘I know you rowed before he died—I read it in the papers, and Antonia said it was awful. But by all accounts Luca was out of control, something had to be said—and I don’t get it. You’d have been prepared for his anger. How did you let him hit you? How—?’
‘Drop it!’ His voice had a stern warning ring—angry, even. Only it wasn’t aimed at her, instead it was turned onto himself. The past few days had been hell—the past few weeks, in fact. Knowing his family would soon all be together, that Luca’s name would be said again. Like living in a sewer—the filth and grime seeping through the floorboards no matter how much he tried to gloss it over. And now here she stood—understanding in her voice, eyes that seemed to reach inside him—and it would be so, so easy to push aside doubt, to convince himself that she actually was different, that here was someone he could tell.
And how he wanted to tell. Only Malvolio’s warning was ringing in his ears like the doomsday bell, and eyes as blue as Roxanne’s eyes were staring back at him, just as they had that fateful day.
‘It shouldn’t be like that, Lazzaro…’
‘How should it be, then?’ Lazzaro fixed her with his glare, tried to warn her off—to get her the hell back—tried to ward her off, tried to keep his head, before she melted his heart again.
‘I don’t know…’
‘That’s right, you don’t know—you don’t know,’ he repeated. ‘So don’t tell me I’m not dealing with things properly when you have no idea what happened that day.’
‘Tell me, then,’ Caitlyn begged.
‘Why?’ he asked.
‘Because I want to know.’
‘Why?’
‘Because…’ Like pulling the cork on a champagne bottle, she could feel the trepidation, feel the pressure building inside, and she didn’t want to do it, didn’t want to release what was inside. Only she couldn’t hold it back, and just closed her eyes as she let it out—as the cork hit the wall and words spilled and bubbled and overflowed. ‘Because I care about you, Lazzaro—and I’m sorry if that’s not what you want to hear, or if it troubles you. I’m sorry if I’m not supposed to have feelings for you and I’m only supposed to be around when my services are required, but I happen to care about you—’
‘What?’ He was practically sneering. ‘You want me to open up to you?’ He mocked her with a black laugh. ‘So you can use it on me later?’
‘Why would I use it on you later?’
‘You contradict yourself,’ Lazzaro jeered, because it was easier—easier to keep her at arm’s length than let her drag him in. ‘One minute I am the lowest form of life—a man you say would sleep with his friend’s wife—yet in the next breath you tell me you care. How?’ he roared. ‘How could you care about someone like that?’
‘I don’t know,’ Caitlyn whispered. ‘I just know that I do.’
There was the longest silence—his eyes were scales that weighed her up, his mind was begging him to see reason. Only he didn’t want to.
Really didn’t want to.
He wanted her to care—because so did he.
‘Caitlyn, I have not slept with Bonita—I would never do that—I’m asking you to believe me.’
‘Bonita’s not the problem…’ Thick black tears were rolling down her cheeks. She knew that because she saw the streaks on her hand when she wiped them away, pathetically grateful when he peeled off a wad of tissues and handed it to her. ‘I’m just not up to this, Lazzaro. Hot one minute, cold the next…I don’t understand why sometimes you choose to hate me…’
