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So that was why he was sending her to the villa. He had no intention of being there himself. Of sharing any part of himself with her. The knowledge made her ache and she looked away, giving up all hope of connecting with him. He didn't want her concern. Didn't want to acknowledge his own emotions.
Why the hell had he sent her to the villa?
Four hours later Rico was slumped in an unbelievably uncomfortable chair in the relatives' room that he had come to hate over the past few weeks. He'd finally decided that the peace of his villa held more attraction than this waiting room filled with his well-meaning but exhausting relatives. There had been no change in Chiara's condition, his mother and grandmother were insisting on staying at the hospital and the press were still baying like wolves, desperate for a story.
So why, when it was the only place that offered any sort of sanctuary from the unremitting strain of his current situation, had he sent her to the villa? What madness had possessed him?
And why, when he despised her from the very depth of his being, couldn't he get her out of his mind? His thoughts should have been filled with nothing but his sister, but he couldn't stop thinking about the one woman who had almost destroyed his sanity.
He clenched his fists and, without questioning himself too closely, glanced at the security guard in the doorway and instructed him to arrange for the car to take him to the villa.
Slumped in the back of the car, eyes gritty from lack of sleep, he acknowledged that the reason he'd sent her to the villa was because he didn't trust her not to leave if she went to a hotel. It was quite obvious that she didn't want to be here and she'd already proved that she was more than happy to run when the going got tough. And the going had got extremely tough, thanks to her taste for boys barely out of their teens. Jealousy shot through him and he grimaced as the pain flared, bright and agonizing as ever. Perhaps she'd been right to run.
At the time he'd wanted to wring her neck with his bare hands, so running away had actually been a wise move on her part, although it had merely confirmed her guilt as far as he was concerned.
He strode into the villa with every muscle of his powerful body tensed in readiness, prepared for battle, but there was no sign of Stasia and he assumed she was already asleep.
She'd certainly looked pale and exhausted when he'd finally sent her away from the hospital. Was it the strain of seeing Chiara, he wondered grimly, or the strain of seeing him? Was her conscience finally troubling her?
Dismissing the staff, he poured himself a drink and gave a grim smile, acknowledging the weakness of man.
Even knowing her tricks, knowing what she was capable of, he still wanted her. He'd taught himself to hate her and yet he still wanted her with a primitive desperation that drove almost everything else from his mind. Which just went to prove that their relationship had nothing to do with the mind and everything to do with the body, he reflected, taking his drink on to the terrace and standing for a moment with his face towards the sea.
Like it or not, Stasia was in his blood. And divorcing her wasn't going to change that fact. So the sooner he learned to live with it, the better for both of them.
It was just a reaction to his current situation, he assured himself. Seeking physical release was a natural male response to stress and tension and the tension in his life at the moment was reaching snapping point.
His thoughts turned to his sister and his shoulders sagged and his expression grew bleak. The strain of keeping it together for the rest of the family was starting to tell and he stared at the large swimming pool that lay just beyond the terrace, wondering whether a different form of exercise might relieve some of the pressure.
Later, he decided, pacing back inside and settling himself down on one of the long white sofas positioned to give an undisturbed view of the pool and the sea beyond.
The doctors had promised to call if there was any change and in the meantime he had some important calls to make. He was only too aware that his staff were making valiant attempts not to hound him but equally aware that his complex business empire didn't run itself.
He finished his drink, poured another one and then put in a call to his Finance Director, who was currently troubleshooting at the New York office.
An hour later he ended the call and picked at the plate of cold meats that the maid had discreetly placed in front of him at some point earlier.
He ate without noticing the food, his head buried in a pile of papers that his assistant had sent over from the office. Occasionally he paused to scribble a note in the margin or make another phone call and it was after midnight when he finally tossed the papers on to the table and leaned back with his eyes closed.
The idea of a swim grew steadily more appealing and he rose to his feet in a fluid movement, stripping off his clothes as he walked towards the pool. The water shone blue, illuminated by a row of tiny lights that ran the length of the pool and he dived naked into the cool water, surfaced and swam to the other side with a powerful front crawl. He powered through the water with steady, even strokes, the physical demands he placed on himself sufficient to momentarily drive the present from his mind.
He felt her before he saw her.
Felt her presence on the poolside.
Something in the atmosphere changed. Something so subtle that to anyone else it would have been unde-tectable.
But not to him.
Their hyper-awareness of each other had always been part of their amazing physical relationship. Even in a crowded room he'd been able to sense her presence and he knew it was the same for her.
He surfaced, cleared the water from his eyes with a sweep of his bronzed hand, and saw her standing on the edge of the pool watching him, as slender and fragile as a young deer, her stunning fiery hair trailing loose over a white silk shirt.
His shirt.
'Stealing my clothes, Stasia?' Without thinking, he spoke in Italian and he saw her quick indrawn breath, saw the shiver of response.
'I wasn't expecting to stay.' She replied in Italian, her voice smoky and slightly hesitant because she'd never been that confident in his language. 'I didn't pack anything.'
