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He took the coffee from her and sipped. Delicious. ‘Must have been a slow news day,’ he said acidly. ‘Could you bring me in the files about the orphanage in Romania, please, Maggie? As quickly as possible.’
He could tell from her slightly aggrieved expression that she was irritated by his terse response and lack of additional information, but Salvatore didn’t care. He didn’t want to discuss it any more. Not with anyone. The subject was closed. He disposed of the newspaper and threw himself into his work, and for several hours it proved engaging enough to allow him to forget all the domestic trivia which had been weighting him down of late. He told himself he should be celebrating what looked like the end of his liaison with Lina, and the freedom that would bring. But the crazy thing was that several times he found himself wanting to lift the phone and talk to her. He frowned. He didn’t usually ring her from the office. But then, he was usually sated from a blissful night of sex, which kept him going until he saw her again at dinner tim
e. With narrowed eyes he gazed out of his office window, but for once he failed to be dazzled by the spectacular view across the rooftops to where blue sky met blue water.
Because there had been no sex last night, had there? Irritated by her cool assertion that she would prefer to remain at the party without him, Salvatore had indeed jumped into his waiting limousine and been driven home. But he hadn’t gone straight to bed. He had sat out on the softly lit terrace, with music playing in the background, looking up at the stars. On a purely logical level he had been aware that the relationship was approaching its final meltdown stage and would soon be over. But it hadn’t quite reached that stage and he hadn’t stopped wanting her, just as he knew, deep down, she hadn’t stopped wanting him. So why shouldn’t they both capitalise on that? They had entered this arrangement sensibly, which meant there was no reason why it shouldn’t end on a similar, sensible note.
He had been feeling almost nostalgic as he’d waited for her and the minutes had ticked slowly by. He might open a good bottle of champagne and they would toast her success before retiring to his bedroom and satisfying each other in a way he’d been missing ever since he’d flown to Rio. And who was to say that some kind of arrangement like that couldn’t continue, once she had moved into a place of her own?
He heard the sound of the electric gates opening and a car stopping. The slam of a door, and her softly accented voice saying goodnight. His body tensed as he waited for her.
But Lina didn’t come.
She must have known he was there, for the drift of the music would have reached the courtyard and she would have looked up to see the lights on.
Why didn’t she come?
Slow minutes ticked by before it dawned on him that she must have gone straight to bed and his initial surprise and faint outrage was replaced by the quick stir of desire. He was tempted to go over to her cottage and let himself in, as he’d done so many times before. To steal inside and take her silently, absolving them both of the need to talk about what had happened tonight. He wanted nothing more than to lose himself in her soft body. To press his lips against her silky, cushioned flesh. He wanted to feel her tense when he was deep inside her and then to shudder with mindless pleasure. Because wasn’t that the one thing which was always right between them, no matter what else was going on? But he was damned if he was going to tacitly admit he’d done something wrong, following her like a chastened puppy which wanted to be forgiven.
He’d wondered if she might appear this morning to share a coffee with him before he left for the office as she sometimes did, but she hadn’t done that either. And that was when his anger had begun to ferment into an ugly brew. No matter what was happening between them—something which had always been on the cards—shouldn’t she at least have shown a little gratitude that he’d turned up at the damned party and given it his seal of approval?
He left work early and rang for some iced water as soon as he got home, but Henry didn’t answer his summons immediately, and when he did, he looked so unlike his usual unflappable self that Salvatore was forced to ask:
‘Is something wrong?’
‘It’s Miss Vitale, sir. She’s gone.’
‘What do you mean, she’s gone?’
But Henry shook his head, almost as if he were upset, and Salvatore got up immediately and went straight over to the cottage, surprised by what he found there. Because she really had gone. Bedlinen had obviously been laundered and neatly piled up on the mattress and every small room had been scrubbed clean. There was no trace of her. No clothes or books. No sewing machine or velvet. No beads—other than a couple of tiny droplets which were glittering on a rug and which she must have missed when she’d been vacuuming.
Confused now, Salvatore reached into his jacket pocket for his cell phone—and that was when he saw the fat-looking envelope, propped up on the mantelpiece next to a small jam jar of flowers she obviously couldn’t bear to throw away. He ripped it open and withdrew a sheet of writing paper and, mystifyingly, a large wedge of dollars. It was the first time he’d ever seen her writing, he realised—and it was curving and easy to read. A bit like her, he thought with a pang, before allowing righteous anger to flood through him as he read her words.
Dear Salvatore,
It’s difficult to know how to start this letter, but I guess first of all I must thank you for bringing me to America and giving me a home until I was able to establish myself.
It has been a roller coaster of a ride and it looks as if my dream to make something of myself has exceeded anything I could have ever thought possible.
I’ve moved in with Sean for the time being.
Sean? Salvatore thought, with a frown. Who the hell was Sean? His eyes scanned the letter again and he could almost hear her soft voice answering his question.
Do you remember? He’s the lovely actor I sat next to when we went to the gala ball.
He’s got an apartment in Haight Ashbury and says I can have a room there for as long as I need it. So that’s what I’m going to do.
Please could you forward any letters from my mother?
You’ll find some money in the envelope, which covers the cost of the dress and the shoes you bought me for the gala ball. Please accept it, with my thanks.
If starting this letter was difficult, I’m finding it even harder to end it. Maybe I’d just better say that I will never forget you, Salvatore, and that I wish you every happiness.
Yours, Lina.
How ironic, he thought, his body tensing. Over the years he’d received texts and cards liberally adorned with kisses, from women who meant nothing to him. And yet not a single x followed Lina Vitale’s name.
How could something like that hurt?
