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Dante was moving to London and he was getting a house!
The child in her wanted to scream. She wanted to tell him that she was scared. Scared he would create a proper home simply because he knew how to and she didn’t. That Nico would grow up preferring to go round to Papa’s, while she...
‘Miss Perry?’
She’d been so lost in her thoughts that Justina hadn’t realised Dante was no longer there. One of the glamorous D’Arezzo stewardesses was standing over her, her perfectly plucked eyebrows raised in question and Justina turned her head just in time to see Dante disappearing into the cockpit. ‘Yes?’
‘Signor D’Arezzo has decided to land the plane himself, so he’s gone in to join the pilot. Would you care to fasten your seat belt?’
Justina felt even more wrong-footed as the stewardess checked that Nico was properly clipped in. What the hell was Dante doing, landing the damned plane? She hadn’t even known he could fly!
She glared as he exited the cockpit after a butter-smooth landing. ‘I suppose you’ve learned to walk on water, too?’ she questioned acidly.
‘Now, now, Justina,’ he chided. ‘Shouldn’t your role be to congratulate me and to tell Nico what a talented daddy he has?’
She didn’t trust herself to answer—just felt an increasing swirl of frustration as they prepared to leave the plane. This wasn’t how it was supposed to be—although when she stopped to think about it what had she imagined would happen? That Dante would just disappear into the ether, only appearing at Christmas and birthdays, with a smile on his face and a gift in his hand?
Even so, they were halfway back to London before she had plucked up enough courage to ask, ‘When do you anticipate moving to London?’
‘Straight away,’ he replied, shrugging his shoulders with the lazy gesture of someone who could afford to do exactly what he wanted. ‘Why wait? I’ve had my people look into availability, and I’m taking a house in Spitalfields which isn’t too far from you. A rather beautiful Georgian house in a glorious green square, as it happens.’ He tapped his finger on his laptop. ‘Would you like to see some photos?’
Justina felt queasy. ‘I’ll pass, thank you.’
Her apartment felt soulless and bare after the faded splendour of the Tuscan palazzo. She stood in the centre of the oatmeal sitting room while Dante put down her suitcase and thought how gorgeous he looked in his dark suit. And about as accessible as a remote and icy mountain peak.
She fiddled with the button of her jacket. ‘Dante?’
He bent to drop one final kiss on top of his sleeping son’s head, unprepared for the savage twist of pain he felt at the thought of having to say goodbye. Straightening up, he looked into her wide amber eyes and felt the twist of something else, too. Did she know how far she had pushed him and how close he was to snapping?
‘Justina?’ he said, striving for a neutrality which was only hanging by a thin thread.
‘Can’t we...?’ Say it, she urged herself. Just say it. ‘Can’t we still be friends, at least?’
At that moment he could have gone over there and shaken her. Why was she so damned stubborn? Why couldn’t she see what was staring her in the face?
With an effort he fought against the slow burn of rage. ‘I’m not sure whether we can ever be friends,’ he said. ‘Not in the circumstances. But I’m hopeful that we can achieve the amicable relationship you said you wanted.’
Justina only just managed not to wince. Had she really been stupid enough to demand something like that?
Because why on earth would she want something which now filled her with such dark foreboding?
CHAPTER ELEVEN
THINGS BEGAN TO go wrong the moment Justina got back to England. It started when the lift in her apartment block broke down and for the next two days, until it was mended, she had to lug everything up and down seven flights of stairs. It might have been simpler if she’d swallowed her pride and asked Dante for help, but she was so determined not to rely on him in any way that she said nothing—just kept reflecting on the fact that he had been right all along and this apartment really was no place to bring up a baby.
It got worse when her breast milk dried up—and she was eaten up with guilt as a result. The midwife told her it sometimes happened as a result of stress, and that she wasn’t to beat herself up about it, but that was easier said than done. Justina’s emotions seemed to be veering all over the place. She felt a failure as a woman and now a failure as a mother.
And wasn’t she missing Dante like crazy? Didn’t the memory of his closeness ta
unt her to the point of pain when she lay in bed at night, wondering why she felt so empty inside? Hadn’t she been left thinking that the “right” decision now seemed all wrong?
She had only managed not to cry during a midwife’s visit by the simple expedient of rubbing her balled fists against her eyes, and it wasn’t until Dante arrived soon after and started frowning at her face that Justina glanced in the mirror and saw that her mascara-smudged eyes had left her looking like a panda.
‘What’s happened?’ he demanded. ‘Is it Nico?’
‘No. Yes. Well, in...in a way.’ She swallowed. ‘I’m not...I’m not producing any breast milk, and the midwife says that I’m to give him a bottle from now on.’
For a moment his eyes softened, and so did his voice. ‘That’s a real pity, Justina.’
