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He felt ragged. Undone. Empty.
‘Everything is fine.’
But he knew it wasn’t.
* * *
‘Two pints of bitter, love!’
Lara forced a smile. ‘Coming up.’
After-work drinks on a warm Indian summer evening in London meant packed pubs with people spilling out onto the pavements. Laughing, joking. Delighted that the end of the week had come and they had two days off stretching ahead.
Lara didn’t have two days off. At weekends she worked in a small Italian restaurant, near where she was living at a hostel in Kentish Town. But she refused to feel sorry for herself as she went outside with the two pints and collected money and dirty glasses.
A man leaned towards her. ‘You’re far too pretty to be working here, love. Let me take you out of this cesspit and we’ll run away.’
His friends guffawed loudly, but ridiculously Lara couldn’t even force a fake laugh. She felt tears sting her eyes. Which was pathetic. She was lucky to have found two jobs. She was earning her own money for the first time in her life. She was finally free... If only that freedom didn’t feel so heavy.
She never thought about...him. She couldn’t. Not if she wanted to keep it together.
‘Hey, gorgeous! A pint and a white wine, please!’
Lara looked up at the flushed face of a city boy and forced herself to smile. ‘Coming up.’
CHAPTER NINE
A WEEK LATER Ciro was back in London. He was at a black tie event in Buckingham Palace. Lesser members of the royal family mingled with the guests, and he’d just had a long conversation with a man who was in direct line to the throne of England. And it hadn’t just been an idle conversation—it had been about business. Ciro’s business.
He looked around. This was literally the inner sanctum—the most exclusive group of people on the planet. And he, Ciro Sant’Angelo, a man descended from pirates and Mafiosi, was standing among them. Accepted. Respected. Finally.
So why wasn’t he feeling more satisfied?
Because he’d just had a call from his solicitor to say that Lara had finally been in touch about going forward with divorce proceedings and had given him a PO box address. She’d told his solicitor that she had no interest in taking the money due to her in the event of their divorce and had named a charity for it to be sent to, if they insisted.
Ciro’s charity—Face Forward.
And other things had come to light too—discomfiting things. He’d found the credit card he’d given her on the desk in his study in New York. And her engagement ring and wedding ring, which were both worth a small fortune.
There had been a note.
I’ll pay back what I owe.
On inspection, there had been a sum of just a few hundred dollars owing on the card. A laughable amount to someone like Ciro.
She’d also said that once Hero had her papers in order she would appreciate being reunited with the dog. And a parcel had arrived for her. When Ciro had opened it, it had contained a wedding dress. Clearly from the eighties. It wasn’t even new.
Nothing made sense.
He had to acknowledge uncomfortably that the Lara who had appeared in his hospital room that day...the unrecognisable Lara...he’d never seen her again. Just flashes at the beginning. If she really was some rich bitch who had only been concerned with status and wealth, then wouldn’t she have fleeced him for all he was worth?
Wouldn’t she be here right now? Her elegant blonde head shining like a jewel amongst the dross, dressed in a silky evening gown as she hunted for a new husband?
A feeling of clammy desperation stole over Ciro. Maybe she was still playing him. Maybe she was here. He looked around, heart thumping, almost expecting to see her blonde head, hear her low, seductive laugh...
‘Who are you looking for, Sant’Angelo? Your wife? Have you mislaid her?’
Ciro looked to his right and down into the florid features of a man whose name he’d forgotten and whom he had never liked on previous acquaintance.
