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Eyes burning, he turned away from the laughing, dancing mass of people. Last time he had been on the yacht Imma had been by his side. Now, without her, he felt empty. Without her all of this—his life, his much-prized dolce far niente—was literally nothing.
It was ironic, really. She had told him that she wanted to find herself, and he had blithely told her that he would give her a year, never once realising that he was the one who didn’t know who he was or what he wanted.
But he did now.
And pushing her away hadn’t changed a thing. Wherever she was in the world, she had his heart. He belonged to her. He would always belong to her.
Only it was too late.
Even though all the dots had been there in front of him he had been too scared to connect them—too scared of the picture they would make. So he had let her leave. Worse, he had let her end it. He hadn’t even had the courage to do that.
He was a coward and a fool. For in trying to play it cool he had simply succeeded in making his own world a lot colder.
The ache in his heart made him feel sick, but he didn’t care. He couldn’t lie to himself any more and pretend he felt nothing for Imma. His ‘sweet life’ tasted bitter now. The pain of loving had been replaced with the pain of loss, as bad as when his father had died.
Closing his eyes, he pictured Alessandro’s face. He still missed him—probably he always would. And yet it didn’t hurt quite as much as before. The tension in his shoulders eased a little.
Now it wasn’t the funeral he remembered, but happier times. Meals round the table. Stories before bedtime. And watching his father dance with his mother, her head resting against his chest and Alessandro singing softly.
Now he could think about his father without flinching, and that was thanks to Imma. She had helped him grieve and had put words to his unspoken fears so that they had stopped being the terrifying larger-than-life problems he had always refused to face.
Like the words of another of his father’s favourite songs, he had let her get under his skin and found he was a better person with her. Or at least good enough for her to confide her own fears.
His heart began to beat a little faster.
Imma had drawn strength from him too. Holding his hand, she had leapt into the unknown. That night on Pantelleria she had even trusted him to take her virginity, and then later entered into a marriage of convenience with him.
She had even trusted him enough to love him.
Staring out across the dark sea, he felt his fingers tighten against his glass.
Maybe it was time he started trusting himself.
* * *
Pushing her sunglasses onto the top of her head, Imma stopped beside the market stall. For a moment her hand hovered over a crate overflowing with lemons, and then, changing her mind, she selected a couple of peaches.
Once—a lifetime ago—this would have been her dream. The freedom to wander alone among the colourful stalls, to linger and to chat to people without the continual unsmiling presence of her security team.
But that dream felt childish now, in comparison to the loss of her dream of love with Vicè.
Smiling politely at the tiny, leathery old woman who ran the stall, she took her change and made her way back past the boutiques and ice-cream parlours.
She had chosen the small town of Cefalù in northern Sicily on a whim, but after nearly five weeks of living here she liked it a lot. It would be a good place to stay while she worked out what to do next.
The villa she was renting was outside the town, a good ten-minute walk away from the noisy hubbub of the market. It was quiet—isolated, even—but right now that was exactly what she wanted. Somewhere quiet, away from the world, where she could lick her wounds.
Thinking back to those horrific last hours with Vicè, she felt a rush of queasiness. She’d been so excited, so caught up in the thrilling realisation of her own love for him, that she’d completely misjudged his feelin
gs. And in the face of his less than enthusiastic response to her suggestion that they take over his father’s business together she’d had no option but to face the facts.
He didn’t need or want her.
He certainly didn’t want her love.
And, to be fair, he hadn’t ever offered her a real relationship. As he’d said, he’d only been doing her a favour.
She had wanted to call a taxi, but he had insisted on driving her to the airport. She would never forget that silent, never-ending journey to Genoa.
