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Flora f
lopped back against the faded sofa cushions and stared miserably out of the window at the rain-sodden garden. After Sardinia, England felt incredibly cold and grey and wet. And, as if the weather outside wasn’t bad enough, inside the house it was distinctly stormy too.
She frowned. It was her own fault. Turning up on her dad’s doorstep, having clearly been howling her head off, and then trying to pretend nothing was wrong had been asking for trouble.
Sighing, she got up from the sofa, dragged on a pair of boots and a coat and stomped out the front door. The trouble was that her father had never really come to terms with her being an adult. Obviously he knew how old she was, but he just couldn’t accept that she was capable of making her own decisions.
And now she’d done the worst thing possible. She’d proved him right.
Her dad had been horrified to see her so upset and then, having recovered his equilibrium, he’d immediately started to take charge of her life. Within twenty minutes he’d got hold of a friend who ran a horticultural business and arranged an interview for Flora. Next he’d cajoled her into choosing new wallpaper and curtains for her bedroom.
Still reeling from the shock and pain of Massimo’s rejection, she hadn’t had the strength to argue. It had been easier just to acquiesce to his wishes. But then Freddie had come home yesterday, and she’d remembered exactly why she’d fled to Sardinia in the first place.
It was hard enough trying to stand up to her father, but against her dad and Freddie united it was impossible.
It had stopped raining now, and the sun was trying to push its way through the drifting clouds. In the park, two small children were playing under the watchful eye of their father. Staring at them, Flora felt a shiver of despair. Being protective was perfectly natural, but Freddie and her dad were so overprotective it was stifling.
At least she’d managed to stop Freddie from flying out to Sardinia. Remembering her brother’s fury when finally she’d given him a severely edited version of the truth, Flora winced. He’d actually been far angrier with himself than with Flora, but that had actually made her feel worse. Him thinking that she couldn’t cope... As if she was useless or helpless or both.
The park was empty now and, glancing at her watch, she saw that it was nearly lunchtime. Reluctantly, she began walking home. After leaving Sardinia, it had taken her a few days to realise when she needed to eat. At first she’d confused the near permanent ache inside in her chest with hunger, until finally it had occurred to her that it had nothing to do with food. And everything to do with Massimo.
Unbidden, hot, swift tears rose in her throat. She missed him so much. And instead of diminishing day by day the pain in her heart seemed to be growing stronger—driven in part by the knowledge that perhaps, had she channelled that last devastating conversation differently, she might not even be back in England. But it had been so hard and he’d been so unapproachable, so brutal.
She felt a sudden flash of anger. It wouldn’t have mattered what she’d said or how she’d said it. The outcome would have been the same. Massimo didn’t love her. She wasn’t even sure he knew how to love.
Glancing up, she saw that she was back at her dad’s house and, with a sigh, she pushed open the back door.
‘Where have you been?’
It was Freddie. His face was creased with exasperation.
‘I went for a walk.’
His eyes narrowed. ‘And you didn’t think to tell Dad?’ Punching buttons on his phone, he shook his head. ‘I need to tell him you’re back. He went out looking for you in the car!’ He stopped. ‘Yes...No...She’s here...No. She’s fine. I’ll see you in a minute.’
Feeling like a child who’d been caught with her hand in the biscuit tin, Flora hung up her coat shakily. ‘I was only gone a few minutes, Freddie.’
Her brother stared at her, his face flushed, his grey eyes dark like storm clouds. ‘You were gone for nearly an hour, Flora.’
Her face grew still. He was right. She’d looked at her watch and seen the time for herself. Only it hadn’t registered. Nothing really registered at the moment.
Freddie shook his head. ‘You are so selfish sometimes. Do you have any idea how worried Dad’s been about you?’
‘I didn’t—’ she began.
But Freddie interrupted her. ‘I’m not talking about now. I’m talking about all the time you were away. All that time—day and night—he was waiting for a phone call to say you’d been hurt or worse. It was bad enough that you ran away like that—’
Flora swallowed. It wasn’t fair of Freddie to try and make her feel guilty about what she’d done. She had run away—but only because if she’d told them she wanted to go they would have talked her out it.
Her brother stared at her irritably. ‘And then when something does happen you don’t even tell us.’
‘There was no point,’ Flora said quickly. ‘I was coming home. And nothing really happened.’
‘He hurt you. How can you say that’s nothing?’
‘I’m not.’ She glowered at him. Her temper felt thin and worn about the edges. ‘He did hurt me, but being hurt is part of life, Freddie. I can’t stay in my bedroom all my life, playing make-believe!’
Her brother scowled at her. ‘I should never have let you go over there. And I certainly shouldn’t have let you stay on living there when that snake Sforza moved in.’
