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Cesare's eyes narrowed, and suddenly he wanted to hit out at her—to hurt her back as she had hurt him, and maybe make these feelings go away. The world was a dull and predictable place without Sorcha, but at least it wasn't full of pain, of torment and uncertainty.
"What right do you think you have’ he flared, and even though the rain was striking his face like hammer-blows he barely felt it, 'to just turn up here our of the blue and ask me questions like that?'
Right? No right at all. She should have done that thing people always recommended when you went to see a doctor—writing all your questions down in some coherent sort of order to avoid wasting time by saying the wrong thing or making a fool of yourself. And yet the question had released something—it was like loosening some dark, dank floodgate which, once open, couldn't be shut again.
All she could feel was the deluge of raindrops as they thundered down onto the terrace, and the beating of her heart and the terrible wrench of pain there. "Would you have done? ' she whispered.
Her words were lost in the storm, but he read them as they were framed by her trembling lips and he hauled her inside, into the dry, where their bodies dripped water into puddles which lay on the wooden floor.
'Nothing has happened between Letizia and me. But what do you want me to say?' he demanded. 'That the thought of sleeping with her hadn't crossed my mind? Then I'd be lying! That she isn't ready and willing to? Then I'd also be lying! Or that I am going to spend the rest of my life in celibacy because I could never seem to get it right with you? Well, that would be the biggest lie of all, Sorcha.'
Red-hot anguish caught her by the throat so that her words came out like a torrent of lava. 'Maybe I want you to lie! '
He laughed, but it was a mirthless and bitter sound. That is, as you say...tough’ he grated. There are many things you can say about our relationship—but at least no one can say it wasn't honest.'
She heard the tense he'd used. Past tense. She swayed. It was over.
His black eyes flickered over her, but he didn't loosen his grip. He could feel the rapid thready beat of her pulse beneath the pressure of his fingers. Witch. Witch, 'You still haven't told me why you're here.'
And Sorcha knew then that her jealousy—though agonising and very real—was yet another emotional wall she had been trying to hide behind. And wasn't that the mark of a woman who wasn't brave enough to fight for what she wanted?
This wasn't about pride or possession—not any more. And it wasn't about social convention either—about a woman never declaring her feelings for a man before he had indicated his, as if matters of the heart were like some kind of bidding war. This was about telling this man how she really felt about him—because she would never forgive herself if she didn't.
'I'm here because my life seems empty without you. It's like you lit something in my world and now the light's gone out.' She drew a shuddering breath, because this was the hardest thing of all. To open her heart to him—to leave herself open to the possibility that he might not want her. 'I'm here because I think I love you.'
Cesare stilled, like an animal in the jungle at the dead of night who had heard the sudden rustle of something unknown in the undergrowth. Love?
He thought of the times women had declared love for him in the past—but never with that conditional word. I think I love you. The word should have made it less believable, and yet somehow it did the exact opposite—for it showed human fragility as well as fearlessness.
He stared at her, at the way her wet hair streamed down around her shoulders, the way her wet dress hugged her body—a water nymph, just like the first time he had ever set eyes on her—and he felt a powerful pull of longing which went bone-deep.
But the barriers he had built around his heart were too high to be toppled by a single word.
He lanced her look. 'Maybe you just miss my body the way I miss yours? '
Sorcha licked a raindrop from her lips. Was that bravado she heard lurking behind the mockery of his words? Or was she crediting him with a softness which wasn't really there?
She thought of the eighteen-year-old Cesare in Maceo's photos—of all the hopes and fears in his young face. Of how she'd always thought him strong and invincible and somehow immune to the pain of living. Maybe he didn't want her. Or maybe he didn't want her on the level of anything deeper than just good sex. But she would never know unless she had the courage to follow this through. Now.
Sorcha's heart was beating painfully as she pulled her hands free from his grip and placed one palm softly against his wet cheek.
The candles on the terrace had long been blown out by the wind, but the darkness was illuminated by a fork of lightning, so that everything in the room was silver and black.
Show him, she thought. Just show him how much you care.
'I think I love you’ she said again, and she put her arms around him.
She felt him stiffen, but he did not move, and she uttered a silent prayer as she held him closer, tightening her arms around his soaking body. Please know that this isn't sexual, she prayed. Know that it's because I love you and I want to cherish you—to comfort and protect you as women have always done with their men—no matter how strong or proud or arrogant they may be.
For a while he just stood there, stiff and unmoving, but gradually he made a little sound in the back of his throat and his arms went round her, like a man who had suddenly caught hold of a lifebelt. But his words contradicted his gesture.
'You have chosen the wrong man’ he said harshly, against her wet hair. 'You know that, don't you?'
Sorcha felt the salt taste of her tears as she shook her head. 'No,' she whispered. 'I don't.'
But Cesare didn't trust the torrent of feelings which holding her like this was threatening to unleash.
'You need to get dry,' he stated matter-of-factly, gently pushing her away from him. 'Come with me.'
