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‘Maybe I was angry with myself, for having allowed it to happen.’
‘Si,’ said Matteo slowly, in an odd kind of voice. ‘I can understand that.’ He gave the ghost of a smile. ‘So, let’s forget it ever happened, shall we?’
‘Yes,’ she said slowly, hoping her pain didn’t show. ‘Let’s.’
He stared at her, washed pale by the moonlight. ‘You can stay here—there’s no way you can appear at the Hedoniste tonight—not looking like that.’ His black eyes were hard and glittering as he saw her lips part in protest. ‘Oh, don’t worry, Jenny,’ he drawled. ‘We won’t have to endure the temptation of sharing. I’ll see if there are any more rooms available. Jean-Claude is bound to have something.’
‘But I don’t want to kick you out of your suite!’ she protested.
His lips curved in a smile which was almost cruel. ‘Then what else would you suggest?’ he taunted softly. ‘That I sleep on the sofa? Or perhaps we vow to share opposite sides of that huge bed?’ He nodded his black head towards its satin-covered expanse. ‘Want to try it, Jenny?’
And show him what a walk-over she was?
‘Forgive me if I pass up your delightful offer,’ she said tightly, and heard his bitter laugh as the door closed behind him.
But after he’d gone, reaction to all that had happened set in and a wave of lassitude washed over her. Her head was spinning and her limbs were aching, but really she ought to go and ‘freshen up’. To remove all traces of Matteo from her body. If only you could take a bar of soap and scrub your heart clean at the same time.
Outside, she could hear the sound of circadas as she kicked off her shoes and wriggled out of her dress, letting it fall carelessly to the floor. She didn’t care. The designer who had loaned it to her for free publicity would let her keep it. And given the state it was in she was going to have to keep it—but she knew she would never wear it again. How could she? She would never be able to look at it again without remembering…
Naked and shivering, she washed her hands and face and then poured herself a glass of wine from the heavy decanter which stood on the antique table by the window.
She meant to take only a sip, but the blood-red liquid filled her with a fle
eting peace and contentment and she finished the glass and went over to the bed.
It was a typical Matteo bed, with a novel lying half-open on the pillow. She looked at it with interest until she saw that it was Italian and she didn’t understand a word. But when was the last time she had read a book? She’d used to devour them in those days before the merry-go-round of publicity had filled her every spare hour.
On the bedside table was his mobile phone, and for a moment she was sorely tempted to flick through it and look at the messages. But she resisted. Dignity, Jennifer, she told herself sleepily. Try to retain just a little bit of dignity.
She sat down on the bed, moved the novel to one side and lay down, putting her head on the soft pillow. In a minute she would go and wipe off her make-up, but for now the room was spinning. She groaned and shut her eyes. Please make everything all right, she prayed. Let this all be over without any more pain—and please don’t let me dream of him. Especially not tonight. Just let me have one night off from the tempting beauty of his dark face.
She hadn’t been intending to sleep, nor to dream. But she did, and it seemed that her dreams were impervious to her pleas. One came to her which was frighteningly vivid. Through half-slitted eyes she could make out his lean, dark body bending over her. The raw, feral scent of him drifted upwards towards her nostrils.
She writhed against the mattress, holding her arms up, wanting him to stay with her. ‘Matt,’ she moaned softly. ‘Oh, Matteo.’
When she awoke it was morning—with sunlight coming in bright horizontal shafts through the slats of the shutters. Jennifer sat up, blinking as she looked around the room. But the bed was empty, and so was the chaise-longue which lay underneath the window.
Her eyes strayed to the ornate wardrobe door, from which hung a floral sliver of a dress in layers of silk-chiffon in her favourite pink, and a pair of sandals which matched perfectly. Jennifer frowned. Where the hell had that come from? Had the good fairy flown into the room overnight and waved her wand?
Slowly, she got out of bed and went over to investigate. As well as the dress there was a matching bra and pants set, and Jennifer did not have to look at the size to know that they were exactly her measurements. And that somehow Matt had got hold of them at some god-forsaken hour and left them here for her.
And then she found the note.
Jenny. You looked too peaceful to wake and I found myself another room for the night. Don’t worry about Hal—I will deal with him. In fact, try not to worry about anything. You should give yourself a break for a while—you look exhausted. Be kind to yourself and let’s try to keep the divorce as amicable as possible. Matt.
It was a pleasant note, a reasonable note—the perfect note on which to end a marriage.
So why did she clutch it with white-knuckled fingers, tears beginning to stream down her face as if they were never going to stop?
CHAPTER FIVE
London was rainy and the flat felt cold and unwelcoming. Jennifer had been living there since the marriage split—she and Matteo had agreed that the luxury apartment would be ‘hers’, just as the ancient stone house on the island of Pantelleria would become ‘his’.
The accountants had suggested that they sell their home in the Hollywood Hills, because apparently prices there had rocketed since they’d first bought it. Jennifer wasn’t going to break her heart about that. It had never felt like a real home to her anyway. But then, where did?
Their schedules had been so frantic that they’d never seemed to have the time to do the things which other newly-weds revelled in. There had been no careful choosing of furniture or browsing over curtain material. Nor had there been any of the usual concerns about what they could or couldn’t afford.
They’d been able to afford almost anything!
