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He found still-damp soap in the bathroom, and the plastic bag full of her things still outside on the terrace, but of Sorcha there was no sign. He felt the skin-chill of apprehension—even though logic told him she couldn't have gone far. That they were out in the middle of nowhere.
But the logic on which he'd relied all his life suddenly seemed hopelessly inadequate—because Sorcha was strong and resourceful. And proud. Who could have blamed her if she'd decided to walk the few kilometres up the mountain into Panicale, where someone would telephone for a taxi to come out to her? What if she had? What if she had?
Unexpectedly, he felt his heart twist with pain.
She had laid her emotions bare for him to see last night—and he had responded with less interest than he might have given to a new business strategy. Because strategies were safe, and you knew where you were with them—whereas the way she made him feel was...
Scary.
Yet he hadn't given a thought to how she must be feeling...to what it must have cost her to come out here like that and tell him what he meant to her. She had made a gesture of humility—stripped away all her pride to tell him how much she cared.
And what had he given her back? Nothing.
Standing on the terrace, looking down at the silver gleam of the olive groves, he saw something bright moving into his line of vision and his heart missed a beat—because it was Sorcha. Walking towards him, barefooted and wearing a dark T-shirt of his, with her bright hair contrasting against it and cascading down her back, like a beautiful waterfall.
As she grew closer he could see that her eyes were even greener than the lush grass. But they were shadowed with wariness.
'I thought you'd gone’ he said softly as she approached.
'I was..."What? Wondering whether she was in line for the prize of Idiot of the Year. She bit her lip. "Cesare—'
'I thought you'd gone’ he whispered, and he shook his head like a man who was just emerging into the bright clear day after a subterranean holiday. He reached out and caught her hands in his, turned them over in his palms and looked at them, and then back up at her dazzling emerald eyes.
'I don't know how to do this, Sorcha’ he said softly.
Sorcha's gaze searched his. "What? '
To tell you about the emotion you stir up in my soul. ’ He stared at her, as helpless then as he'd ever felt in his life, and shrugged his shoulders—as if the movement could shift the intolerable weight which lay on them. 'I don't know why.'
She gripped tightly onto his hands, never wanting to let them go. 'Don't you, Cesare? Don't you really?'
He knew what she was doing. On an intellectual side he could see. She wanted him to confront his demons—to let them out so that they might fly away and torment him no longer. But was it really that simple?
'Tell me,' she whispered, aware of being on fragile ground. One false move and all would be lost.
'People used to pity Maceo and envy me,' he said slowly. 'Because he had come from the slums while I was brought home to a mansion—but you know, Maceo needed nobody's pity. The home he grew up in was a real home. With a mother who was there and a father who came home. ’
'And you didn't have that?'
He shook his head. 'My father was rich beyond most men's wildest dreams—but it never seemed to be enough. It was as though he needed to go out and earn more and more, to fill some kind of hole that could never be filled.'
And Cesare had done the same, Sorcha recognised. History had repeated itself, as it always did. 'And your mother?'
'Oh, she was very beautiful—and restless. She did not want a world dominated by a baby when her husband was flying all round the globe chasing achievements. She wanted her taste of the high-life, too...'
His voice tailed off and she saw the furrows which deepened his brow. Sorcha drew in a deep breath. It was as if Cesare had drawn the outline of a picture, and now he needed her help to colour it in. And if they were to be a couple, then that was what couples did, wasn't it? They helped one another. They were there for one another. They laid feelings on the line because those feelings mattered—they didn't pussyfoot around or worry about how it might look, or whether they would be hurt.
'She wasn't there for you?' she said.
He nodded, sensing that it was not censure he heard in her voice, but a fair evaluation of the facts. And in confronting those facts he found they somehow assumed less dominance, less power to hurt. 'No, she wasn't there. There were other people to care for me, but it wasn't the same.' He drew in a deep, shuddering breath as he did the unthinkable and confronted his past head-on. 'Maybe that's why it isn't easy for me to show...love,' he said shakily, and gave her a look like a lost little boy. 'Because I haven't had much practice.'
Sorcha stilled. "Cesare? ' she said breathlessly.
He stared down at her. 'I really thought you'd gone when I woke up this morning. ’
Her eyes were still wary. She looked into his face—but she wasn't a mind-reader, and she wasn't going to second-guess him for the rest of her life.
'Do you want me to go?'
