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She didn’t move until the door shut behind him. Then, galvanised by sheer self-preservation, she rushed to the window to make sure he was really leaving.
His long limbs had already carried him to his car by the time she nudged aside the curtain.
Inexplicable longing battered her. Her heartbeat thundered as she acknowledged that this might be the last time she ever saw Rocco Vitelli.
Greedily, she drank him in: the way his hair lifted in the cold breeze, the set of his strong, powerful shoulders as he hunched deeper into his jacket, even the hand he lifted to wave the driver away from opening his door caused her heartbeat to escalate until Mia feared it would burst out of her chest.
Dry-mouthed, she forced herself to turn away. Limbs shaking, she collapsed into the chair and buried her face in her hands, the reality of her lucky escape washing over her.
After several minutes of taking deep, careful breaths, she rose. A strong cup of tea would help get over the shock. That was all it was, she stressed to herself. Seeing Rocco again had shocked her.
Shocked and excited her. Reminded her how good they’d been together. In the boardroom. In bed. She closed her eyes in shame, sternly reminding herself of the consequences she’d suffered for once being a lust-sick fool. A stupid, besotted fool.
But she was over that. God, was she over it.
Nothing ripped off rose-tinted glasses quicker than finding out the man you loved saw you only as a brood mare. And a thief.
Realising she was standing in the middle of the room, wringing her hands, she abruptly stilled the movement. She would not let him affect her like this. Whatever ill wind had blown him here, he was gone.
Whirling, she started for the kitchen, then paused.
Something
was wrong. With a start, she realised she hadn’t heard Rocco’s car leave.
The tiny cottage she’d inherited from her grandmother after her passing last year was on the outskirts of a Hampshire village. It was where she’d retreated to after barely surviving the tornado that was Rocco. It was located in a quiet cul-de-sac and at this time of day, before children returned from school, the place was so peaceful, she could normally hear even the quietest engine idling.
Dread crawling up her spine, she moved with leaden feet towards the window and nudged aside her curtain.
Rocco stood on the pavement, deep in conversation with Mrs Hart.
Mia’s heart slammed in her chest, then jumped into her throat when Rocco’s head jerked up.
No!
His gaze snapped to the window, snagging hers with the accuracy of a grappling hook. Even from that distance, the look in his eyes knocked the air from her lungs. Fingers frozen around a clump of curtain, she watched in dread as, without breaking eye contact, he retraced his steps down her flagstone path.
This time there was no knock.
He merely turned the handle and strode in. Straight to where she stood. Long, strong fingers pried the curtain from her hand, edged her away from the window.
He reached into his breast pocket.
Her palms grew damp with the rush of apprehension. ‘No!’ Dear God, not another ghastly letter. What would it demand of her this time? The very heart beating in her chest?
But what he extracted wasn’t a letter. It was far too small, barely three inches wide, coloured and glossy.
Bewildered, she watched him pass a thumb over its surface, his gaze fixed on the image. His face was ashen, harsh pants rushing through his clenched teeth as he fought for breath.
Finally, his intense, almost unholy gaze speared hers.
‘You wanted to know why I came here? Because Nonna is convinced there is a vital secret I need to uncover. Something that belongs to me. So I’m going to ask you once, Mia. Who is this child? Where is he and, more importantly, what is he to me?’
CHAPTER TWO
MIA REELED AS her heart kicked.
Was this some sort of sick, twisted new game? Was Rocco now colluding to make her appear unstable so he could take Gianni away from her?
