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A sweet, shimmering happiness spread over her skin and suddenly she wanted him to know. Wanted him to know that she loved him and share her happiness.
Heart pounding, she turned towards the door—just as her stomach gave a loud rumble. Except she couldn’t do it on an empty stomach. She would need a strong cup of coffee first. Or better still, some eggs and bacon!
* * *
Stifling a yawn, Massimo rolled ont
o his side. From downstairs he heard the sound of water running, cupboard doors shutting and, leaning over, he picked up his watch. He frowned. It was nearly two o’clock in the afternoon! Still, it was hardly surprising they’d slept in so late. They hadn’t got to bed until three. He gave a smile of pure masculine satisfaction. Or to sleep until five.
His smile faded. It wasn’t just their fevered lovemaking that had wiped him out. Last night had been emotionally draining too. He’d pretty much told her everything about his past: every hellish detail. He hadn’t planned to—he still didn’t really understand how he’d ended up doing so—but...
He braced himself against the bed. Until he’d met Flora his childhood had always been a locked room inside his head. And for good reason. His memories had power: the power to make him feel like a desperate, unhappy little boy again. Thinking about it, let alone discussing it with anyone, had simply not been an option. And he’d worked hard to keep it that way.
But somehow, yesterday, Flora had not only picked the lock, she’d kicked the damn door off its hinges.
How had she managed to do that? To blow his mind, his life, wide open like that?
Probably because she’d known grief too, he thought quickly. It had nothing to do with who she was as a person. Remembering her anxious face watching his, he shifted uncomfortably in the bed. Except that it did! She had put her own grief to one side and let him rage. She had listened, and she had forced him to face his feelings, and somehow that had lessened their power to hurt him. She hadn’t actually held his hand, but she had been there by his side. And instead of feeling claustrophobic, it had felt liberating. His breathing slowed.
What if she was always there? By his side?
His phone juddered on the bedside table, and still reeling from the idea that his relationship with Flora could be more than just a no-strings fling, he picked it up without thinking. Glancing at the screen, he froze.
There were eleven messages.
All from Alida.
Deep inside he felt a familiar shifting sensation—a sense that his footing was not stable—he frowned. But why? Last night, Flora had helped him face the past: now he would face the present. And this time it would be different. He would be different: calm, detached, unassailable.
Standing up, he took a deep breath and punched a number into his phone.
‘Finally! I would have thought you could have at least rung to see how I was.’
Even though he’d known what to expect, her voice sliced through his nerves like a scalpel. It was as polished and deadly as her glossily painted fingernails, and instantly he felt his bravado fail and once again, he was small and young and stupid.
Breathing out jerkily, his fingers tightened around the phone. ‘I thought we agreed last night it wasn’t serious?’
He heard her laugh—a tight, bitter sound that made his heart bang against his ribs.
‘You mean compared to dining with the Prime Minister?’
He swallowed. ‘There wasn’t anything I could do—’
‘There never is. Not now. Now you’re far too important to be bothering with me.’ Her voice was spiralling higher and higher. ‘Too busy making all that money and sleeping with all those women to have time to talk to me.’
‘I spoke to you yesterday—’
‘You lost your temper with me yesterday! I can’t imagine what your father would have said if he was still alive.’
‘Can’t you? I think that’s highly unlikely. He’d have said exactly what you told him to say.’
Even before he’d finished speaking he knew his tone had come out more accusatory and emotional than he’d intended.
‘Oh, here we go.’
He flinched. She was spitting the words down the phone at him, bile and bitterness ricocheting over the line.
‘You needed boundaries. I was simply supporting your father. And you were so difficult to love. Always crying or having a tantrum. Poor little Massimo! Only you’re not poor, are you? You’re rolling in money. But what do I see of it? You barely send me enough to keep a cat alive—’
