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Orla nodded and realised that he could have thought she was asking about his family too. She was suddenly ravenous for knowledge about him.
Antonio waited for the inevitable sense of intrusion to come, whenever anyone probed into this subject. Especially women. But it didn’t. He sensed again that Orla wasn’t the same. That she genuinely wanted to know and that she wasn’t interested in the superficial. Antonio almost cursed her then for not being like that. It would be easier if she were.
However, he found it surprisingly easy to start talking. There was something incredibly peaceful just sitting with her like this. He took a breath. ‘We were on a mission in Afghanistan. I was a commander of the parachute regiment. We were dropped behind enemy lines in the mountains and we found out too late that our intel was flawed. We were surrounded by rebels. Once they knew we were elite legionnaires, we became a high-priority target.
‘Miraculously they weren’t very well organised, and my men managed to escape, but only because I stayed behind as a decoy.’
Antonio wasn’t looking at Orla but he could sense her tensing.
‘They held me captive for a month. They tortured me almost out of sheer boredom more than anything else, wanting information. Angry that the others had got away. My men managed to launch an attack and freed me the night before they’d told me I was going to be executed.’
Antonio heard Orla’s breath quickening; he saw her fingers go white around the stem of her glass of wine.
‘The torture was unbearable … of course. It sent me a little mad.’
Antonio knew that was an understatement. He could still recall the looks on his men’s faces when they’d finally recovered him. One man had vomited.
‘The circular marks on your chest?’
He nodded. ‘Cigarette burns among other things. I was in hospital for nearly four months, recuperating.’
Orla’s voice was almost hopeful. ‘And that’s when you left?’
Antonio shook his head, smiled, but it was mirthless. Because of course that was when he should have left. ‘No, I went back.’ Because he’d had to prove to himself that he could. Fighting the demons that would eventually overpower him.
‘I left after another year, and was eventually diagnosed with PTSD. I’d been having increasingly severe panic attacks … not knowing what it was.’
‘Post-traumatic stress disorder …’
He nodded again. ‘I came here to this place. Marie-Ange and Dominic probably saved my life. They tended to me, made sure I had food. Dominic is ex-military and he knew what I was going through. He was the one who insisted on me seeing a therapist … and I found Tobias in London. He saved my life too.’
Antonio took a deep breath. ‘I’ve been lucky. I have no permanent physical damage apart from a few scars. The mental damage was worse. There are those much less fortunate than me who are led to believe that nothing is wrong with them. That’s why I want to open a place … for people to be able to go, free of charge. It’ll be a charitable organisation.’
Orla said nothing for a long time and then Antonio heard her stand up. He couldn’t look at her. He felt broken. Dirty.
She came into his line of vision though, where he couldn’t ignore her, and put two hands on the arms of his chair and bent down, face close to his, eyes glittering like precious gems. And then she just pressed a kiss to his mouth. Sweet and not asking for more. But like an inferno, need swept up inside Antonio, so much that he shook with it.
Still without saying anything, Orla just stood up and held out her hand. Feeling as if something momentous was happening that he couldn’t quite grasp, Antonio put his hand in hers and let her lead him upstairs. When they came together in bed, it was all the more profound because of Orla’s silence. Antonio couldn’t help but feel as if she’d helped cleanse something inside him. As if her silence held a wealth of compassion and understanding about something that she couldn’t even possibly know, but just did.
When Antonio woke, it was to find himself alone in bed. He was immediately awake and immediately aware that Orla wasn’t near him. It was a sixth sense that seemed to have become honed and developed in just the past few days.
Antonio dropped his head back to the pillow. He felt … curiously light. And then he recalled what he’d told Orla, and that he’d showed her the property yesterday.
What was it about her that so easily slipped under his guard? But even now he couldn’t truly analyse that. All he could see was an image from the other day—Orla and
Marie-Ange in bikinis splashing in the sea with the children. The way Orla had had Lily on her hip and had gently ducked her in and out of the water, as the little girl had clung to her and squealed with delight, had made something in Antonio’s gut clench.
A very alien yearning for something he’d never even dared to think about stole over Antonio now, in his half wakefulness, before rationale could stamp it out. A yearning for a life. An existence. A normality he’d never known.
Just then he heard a soft noise and glanced up to see Orla in the doorway of the bedroom looking fresh and awake. Dressed in shorts and a halter-neck top. Pert breasts pushing against the fabric provocatively. Immediately, Antonio’s body stirred and he growled softly, ‘Come here.’
She didn’t move though, and her face was serious. A trickle of foreboding went down Antonio’s spine.
Orla held up her mobile phone. ‘I just spoke to my father. He’s back in London and wondering where I am and trying to get a hold of you. I didn’t tell him that I was here with you. I have to get home, today.’
For a long second Antonio just looked at her. And then the full magnitude of what she’d said and her serious demeanour burst into his head and spread through his body, making him feel clammy and cold. Exposed. Dousing desire.
He’d forgotten. Everything. Even the text he’d received from Lucilla only a couple of days ago: Gaining control of Kennedy Group still our priority. Please don’t lose focus now. x L.
