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Yes, it was special. Special in every way. But the most special thing about it was that he’d done this for her.
He’d done this for her while she’d been working the same punishing hours that he’d been working. She’d accused him of being a workaholic and now she was discovering that at least part of his working day had been devoted to building somewhere that she was going to love. Not somewhere he’d lived as a rich single guy but somewhere he’d chosen with her in mind.
Somewhere that was their own.
Her impression of him shifted into a different shape. Thoroughly confused and hating that feeling, she pulled away from him and he sighed.
‘Now what’s going through that head of yours? Tell me what you’re thinking.’
She was thinking that this house, the fact he’d built it in the place she loved most on earth, was an enormous gesture. But it was a gesture with meaning. He’d built it for their future. For the family he’d imagined having. It was all part of his master plan. Looking at the olive groves, she imagined two small versions of Cristiano playing in the shade and then splashing in one of the beautiful turquoise pools.
Maybe he had loved her in his own way. Looking at what he’d created here, she was almost ready to believe that.
Which made the sense of loss even more painfully acute.
They ate lunch on a shaded part of the terrace, surrounded by the lavish gardens and fragrant citrus groves.
Laurel ate fish with lemon and herbs picked from the garden, her cheeks pale and her eyes tired as she pecked at her food. The dogs lay by her feet in a state of dopey adoration, refusing to leave her side as they panted in the heat.
And he was as bad as the dogs, Cristiano thought wryly as he waited for her to confide in him. He knew exactly what was on her mind. It didn’t take a genius to guess and he could have raised it but he wanted to see if she would do it without his prompting.
Aware that confidences were hardly likely to be forthcoming when things were so tense between them, he chose to steer the conversation onto neutral territory. ‘Where have you lived for the past two years?’ He watched, hiding his concern as she toyed with the fish on her plate, her usually healthy appetite clearly challenged by their problems.
Would she tell him what was worrying her?
‘I based myself in London.’
‘You didn’t touch a penny of your allowance in all the time we were apart.’
‘I wasn’t with you for the money, Cristiano.’
‘I would have supported you financially. I made that commitment when we married.’
He waited for her to make a pointed remark about the commitments he hadn’t made but she didn’t.
‘You’re surrounded by people who are only interested in you for what you can give them and you’re complaining because I didn’t want that?’
‘I wanted to provide for you.’ And the strength of that need shocked him because he’d always considered himself progressive for a Sicilian male.
‘Ah.’ Her eyes lifted to his. ‘The Provider.’
The past hung between them and he was acutely aware that although he’d provided for her materially he’d neglected her shamefully on the one occasion she’d reached out to him.
And suddenly he knew with absolute certainty that there was a reason why this was such a hot button for her. It wasn’t just that he, with his horrendously busy schedule and careless attitude had let her down shamefully, it was that he’d ripped open a wound that hadn’t completely healed.
He knew that her childhood had been difficult, but she’d given him few details and he hadn’t pressed. But suddenly he wanted to know who, or what, had caused the original wound.
The shrill tone of his phone disturbed the silence and Cristiano, pre-programmed to answer it promptly, automatically reached for it and then remembered his promise about priorities.
His hand froze in mid-air.
Swiftly recovering, hoping desperately that she hadn’t noticed the detour his hand had taken from the glass in front of him to his pocket, he returned his attention to the woman seated opposite him. The phone continued to ring and Laurel raised an eyebrow.
‘Are you going to answer that?’
‘No.’ It took a painful degree of willpower but somehow he managed not to reach into his pocket although his palms were sweating and his fingers were aching to just answer the damn thing.
It was a relief when it stopped ringing.
