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‘How is this my fault?’ She seemed almost to choke in disbelief.
He stared at her in frustration, her words replaying inside his head. He didn’t think this was normal. For him, ‘normal’ had always been his parents’ relationship. Normal, but unattainable.
He was suddenly conscious of his heart hammering against his ribs.
They had been so happy together, so comfortable, and yet still sweetly infatuated like the teenagers in love they had once been. Whereas he—
His body tensed. The idea that he would ever be capable of replicating his parents’ marriage had always seemed too ludicrous to contemplate. So he had done what he always did—he’d pushed the possibility away, deliberately choosing a way of life that was the antithesis of theirs.
And his parents had done what they always did too, indulging him even though he knew that they’d longed for him to fall in love and settle down.
Remembering his mother’s reaction when he’d called to tell her he was married, he felt his heartbeat slow. It had been a bittersweet moment. She had been so happy for him, but also sad that Alessandro hadn’t been alive to see his eldest son finally find love.
What would she say if she knew the truth?
Looking over at Imma, he pushed the thought away, guilt making his voice harsher than he’d intended. ‘This “charade”, as you put it, wasn’t my idea.’
She lifted her chin. ‘True. But if you’d had your way I’d have signed over the olive oil company the morning after we slept together and you and your vile brother would probably still be toasting your victory in some bar in Palermo.’
Her description was just about close enough to his last meeting with Ciro for colour to stain his cheekbones.
Shaking his head, he took a step back, his jaw tightening. ‘I don’t need this, and I certainly can’t live like this for a year.’
‘This isn’t just about you.’
There was a tautness in her voice, and her mouth was trembling slightly. He realised that she was close to tears.
She sucked in a breath. ‘For once I don’t want to have to think about what someone else wants or needs. I thought with you—’
As she glanced away he felt his spine stiffen. The events of the last few days must be starting to catch up with her. Or maybe she had been in shock all along.
‘You’re right. This isn’t just about me.’ He flattened the anger in his voice, picking his words very carefully, suddenly afraid that the wrong ones would make her run again. ‘So tell me what you want—what you need.’
There was a moment of silence.
‘I don’t know.’ She shook her head. ‘I really don’t know. I’ve never known. Maybe if I had none of this would be happening.’
Her shoulders tightened, making her look smaller, wounded, like a bird with a broken wing. Seeing her like that—so diminished, so vulnerable—made him ache inside.
‘I doubt that,’ he said gently.
He sat down on the sofa, and after a moment, as he’d hoped she would, she sat down beside him.
‘There are a lot of reasons why this has happened, cara, but you’re not one of them.’
She stiffened. ‘I know you hate him. My father, I mean. But he’s not all bad. He used to be different before...when my mother was alive. He’s just been on his own for too long.’
His pulse stalled. He did hate her father—and yet right now the reason for that hate seemed irrelevant. What mattered more was Imma’s pain.
‘How old were you when she died?’
‘Eight.’
Her stark single-word answer made his heart kick against his ribs. Watching the flicker of sadness in her green eyes, he felt the ache in his chest spread out like a dark rain cloud.
His father’s death had felt like something tearing inside him—and he was an adult, a grown man. Imma had had to deal with the loss of her mother as a child.
‘He hated not being able to help her,’ she said quietly. ‘I think that’s why he’s like he is now. He can’t bear the idea of something happening to me and Claudia—something he can’t control.’
