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The giddy jump in her pulse was familiar, but the strange feeling of disappointment not so much.
Why had she expected there to be something more this time? It had been three whole weeks since his visit to London—and they had both been extremely busy.
Three weeks since she’d woken up to find him gone again, and had been stupidly crestfallen.
They’d had a wonderful evening, after he’d given her a heart-to-heart about her business, persuaded her to do the runway show in TriBeCa and fixed her problem with the Dharavi Collection...
And confided in her why he didn’t celebrate his birthday.
But as they’d sat on the couch together watching an old black and white movie on the large flat-screen TV she never used, a series of unanswered questions had tormented her. How had he survived as a child with so little love? How selfish was his mother, that she hadn’t wanted to celebrate her son’s birth? Had she made him feel guilty just for being born? It had made Ally feel desperately sad for him. But it had made her even sadder to know he didn’t want to celebrate it with her.
He’d shut down as soon as he’d told her, closed himself off again and made it clear she couldn’t go there. So she hadn’t.
Still she’d hoped he might be there in the morning. So she could get up the guts to ask him a few of the questions that still burned inside her, but of course he hadn’t been.
She clicked on the phone’s reply bar but her fingers stalled as she tried to formulate a response to the businesslike text—a reply that didn’t sound too needy, or too clingy, or too over-emotional.
This was an invitation she’d been waiting for and hoping to receive every day for the past three weeks, ever since that morning—she didn’t want to spoil it with expectations that were unlikely to be fulfilled.
Eventually she settled on a simple reply.
Looking forward to it. I could do with a break from all the chaos here. A
But as soon as she’d sent the text, she added another line.
I’ve never been to Rome.
She didn’t want him to know how much she was looking forward to seeing him.
What mattered wasn’t what Dominic put in a text, but that he had asked her to be with him and she was going to see him again, tomorrow night.
* * *
Twenty-four hours later she was feeling considerably less positive as she stood in the empty penthouse suite of a five-star hotel overlooking the Palazzo Poli.
Decorated in glorious Baroque flourishes to match the building outside, with an imposing four-poster bed in the main bedchamber, the suite of rooms was spectacular. She’d been whisked by limousine from Fiumicino airport and then greeted in Dominic’s suite two hours ago by one of his assistants and a small army of beauty professionals. Ally had brought her own gown for the evening—one of the early prototypes she and her seamstress had been working on for the past two weeks. But even after being prepped by the team of beauticians and a hair stylist for an hour, she didn’t feel any more secure.
Why hadn’t Dominic met her at the airport? It was nearly six o’clock and she’d been ready for over an hour; all she’d received so far was a text to say he would be late—but no explanation as to why.
Rome’s nightlife buzzed with vitality a hundred feet below as she stood on the suite’s ornate balcony. The scene was awe-inspiring—or should have been. The water tumbled over the iconic Roman stonework of the Trevi Fountain, given an enchanting glow by the nightlights. The fountain was the imposing centrepiece of a square choked with tourists and a few courting couples.
But, unlike the many other new sights and sounds she’d seen since marrying Dominic, the scene below her failed to inspire the usual excitement or exhilaration. Because, for the first time, he wasn’t here to share it with her.
Her gaze landed on one of the couples in the square, fooling around on the side of the fountain. The girl stood with her back to the water and threw in a coin over her shoulder. Her boyfriend locked his arms round her waist and swung her in a circle. The noise of the crowd and the free-flowing water drowned out the sound but she was sure she could hear the girl’s carefree giggle floating on the warm Roman evening.
The sight pierced her heart—reminding her of the time when Dominic had lifted her and spun her around in his arms when they’d agreed to become business partners. She’d felt so young and happy in that moment, convinced that, whatever the limitations of their marriage, she was doing the right thing, but now she wasn’t so sure. Had she become too dependent on Dominic, on his strength and support? She’d tried so hard to remember that end-date, that this relationship was essentially a business arrangement with some spectacular benefits. But why didn’t it feel like that any more? And where had this yearning come from to know more about him, to have him give her more?
She heard the suite door open and close behind her.
A low voice rippled down her spine. ‘Alison, bonsoir—sorry I am late.’
Swinging round, she felt her heart leap into her throat. The swell of emotion so strong and elemental at the sight of him—strong and indomitable in the tailored tuxedo—it flooded through her body like a tsunami.
And suddenly she knew the answer to the question she had been so careful not to ask herself until now.
The reason she wanted more, she needed more, was that she had fallen hopelessly in love with her husband.
‘Bonsoir,’ she said, her voice coming out on a panicked whisper as she pressed shaking palms into the red velvet of her gown.
