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SLUMPING BACK IN his seat, Massimo stared at the men and women sitting around the boardroom table and frowned. All of them were white-faced and trembling. Some of the women seemed close to tears.
He’d lost his temper. It had been spectacular, brutal and unfair. But he didn’t feel fair.
He felt angry.
And spread out on the table in front of him was the reason why.
The plans for the Sardinia resort. Nine weeks ago they’d been a glittering prize, waiting to be held aloft at the end of a challenging, arduous race. Now, though, the mere sight of them made him want to kick the table across the room.
Abruptly, he stood up and walked towards the floor-to-ceiling glass windows that ran the length of one wall, his eyes tracking the small clouds drifting slowly above the humming centre of Rome.
Where were they going? At some point would she look up and see them too?
At the thought of Flora, he felt his stomach clench painfully. And suddenly he wanted to be alone—alone with his anger and frustration.
‘There’s a lot to think about,’ he said tersely, not bothering to turn round. ‘Let’s take the weekend and reschedule for Monday.’
The meeting was over.
Behind him, the sound of shuffling feet and papers told him that his staff were leaving. After a few moments he heard the door to the boardroom close with a soft click.
Sighing heavily, he added remorse to the list of feelings churning around inside his chest. His behaviour hadn’t just been unreasonable; it had been completely incomprehensible as far as his staff were concerned. The Sardinian development was ready and waiting for the contractors to move in. Work on-site could have started today or yesterday or even a week ago.
So why the delay?
Remembering his fury when someone had asked him that very question, he gritted his teeth.
He knew the answer, of course. That was why he’d lost his temper. But what else could he have done? He certainly couldn’t tell them the truth.
But now, alone, with no one to answer to except himself, his anger seeped away, leaving an aching hole in the pit of his stomach. The truth was there was no good reason to wait. There wasn’t even a bad one. There was nothing except a feeling—a sense that once the palazzo was demolished what had happened between him and Flora would finally and irretrievably be over.
He felt a sudden, painful sting of frustration and, turning, he began to pace the room.
What was he thinking?
It couldn’t be over because it had never actually started. Aside from the cohabiting, their affair had been exactly the same as every other he’d had. Probably the only reason he was even still thinking about her at all was because she’d stormed out on him.
His mouth twisted as he remembered how he’d sat and waited for her in the kitchen—hoping, believing that she would change her mind and come back. How finally, after several hours of increasing anger and frustration and despair, he’d got in his car and driven round the island looking for her. He hadn’t found her. And instead of having the chance to throw her accusations back in her face he’d been left alone to brood in an empty house, where every single room was filled with reminders
of her absence.
Was it any wonder he couldn’t just forget her?
He was still mulling over that thought when there was a soft tap on the boardroom door.
‘What is it?’ he said irritably.
The door opened slowly and a hand slid through, waving a red paisley handkerchief.
Massimo frowned. ‘Is this some kind of mime show or are you stripping? Because, as stripteases go, I have to say it’s not doing that much for me.’
He watched as Giorgio stuck his head round the door. ‘It should really be white.’
Massimo smiled reluctantly. ‘So why are you surrendering?’
Stepping into the room, the lawyer glanced at him nervously. ‘I’ve got a family so I need to stay alive!’ He shot his boss a furtive look. ‘Apparently it was a bit of bloodbath at the board meeting.’
Massimo sighed. ‘Is that what they’re saying?’
