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‘To what?’ he said silkily. ‘To demonstrate that our chemistry is still very much mutual and alive?’
It wasn’t much of a consolation that Ciro didn’t look overly thrilled about that fact.
He shook his head, his dark hair gleaming. ‘In this at least you can’t hide your true nature.’
He started to walk around her and Lara’s skin prickled. Her pulse was still pounding. She felt raw.
‘How could you do it?’ he asked from close behind her. ‘How could you take that man into your bed every night and let him—?’
Lara whirled around, bile rising. ‘Stop it! I won’t discuss my dead husband. Not on the day of his funeral. It’s...immoral.’
Ciro emitted a harsh bark of laughter. ‘Immoral, is it? More immoral than promising yourself to a man only to leave him by the wayside as soon as you realise how close you’ve come to sullying the perfect Templeton family line with a brood of half-Sicilians?’
Lara’s heart squeezed painfully. At one time she had fantasised about the children she would have with Ciro, wondering if they’d inherit their father’s dark good looks and vital charisma. The fantasy mocked her now. She’d been so deluded.
Her voice trembling slightly, she said, ‘You accuse me of being immoral, but you admitted that your motive for marriage was nothing but a cold calculation to improve your social standing.’
Ciro stood back and his dark gaze narrowed on her. She immediately felt exposed.
‘There was nothing immoral about seeking out a union that would benefit us both. You really didn’t have to go so far as to feign feelings for me, cara. It was entertaining, but unnecessary.’
Lara smarted as she recalled yet again how naive she’d been. Because it wasn’t as if he’d led her on—he hadn’t professed any feelings for her. Instead she’d pathetically read too much into every tiny gesture and word, building up a very flimsy belief that he was falling for her too.
Ciro continued. ‘Why didn’t you try to secure your future by giving Winterborne an heir? Is that why he left you with nothing? Because you didn’t fulfil your wifely duty?’
Lara shook her head to negate what he’d said. She couldn’t seem to formulate words. Memories were rushing at her in a jangled kaleidoscope of images—Ciro proposing, down on one knee in the middle of a piazza in Florence, with everyone looking on and clapping, the pure joy she’d felt in that moment.
And then another memory—the awful dark, dank smell of fear as she’d been jostled in the back of that van with a hood over her head. Ciro’s arms had been around her and she’d clung to him with a death grip...
‘I don’t... I never wanted to marry—’
‘Me,’ Ciro interjected. ‘Yes, I know.’
Lara swallowed. He’d misunderstood her. She’d wanted to marry Ciro so desperately that she was afraid if she opened her mouth now it might all spill out and then he would tear her to shreds.
She couldn’t imagine—didn’t want to—what he would do if he ever found out that her uncle had been behind the kidnapping in an elaborate bid to show Lara the lengths to which he would go to ensure she married someone ‘suitable’.
She had to regain control of this situation and of her fraying emotions. She injected all the froideur she could muster into her voice. ‘You’ve proved your point, Ciro. You haven’t forgiven me for leaving you. But if it’s a wife you need I suggest you look elsewhere. I’m not available.’
She turned away to leave, but before she could take a step her arm was taken by a firm hand. She stopped, every part of her body tense against the inevitable effect Ciro had on her.
He drew her back around to face him. ‘Please do tell me what it is you’re so busy with now that you’re a free woman again?’
He dropped her arm, but the imprint of his fingers lingered. She rubbed it distractedly. She looked at him, but the truth was that she was busy with nothing, because she literally had nothing—as he well knew.
She had just enough money in her account to see her through a week, maybe, in an inexpensive hostel. And that was it. She had nowhere to go. No one to go to.
The stark reality of just how isolated she was hit her like a body-blow.
‘The fact is you’re not busy—isn’t that the truth, Lara?’
It was as if Ciro was delving casually into her mind and pulling out her innermost humiliation for inspection.
She tipped up her chin. ‘I’ll keep myself busy finding a job, somewhere to live.’
Ciro snorted. ‘A job? You wouldn’t know a job if it jumped up and bit you. I doubt an art history degree gets you very far these days. You were bred to fulfil a role in society, Lara. Anything else is beneath you.’
Hurt hit Lara squarely in the chest. She’d once confided in Ciro about wanting to do more than what was expected of her. No doubt he thought she’d been lying.
