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Prologue
YAYA HAD ALWAYS LOVED the afternoon sun best. Right here, in this small conservatory overlooking La montagna di Apollo. When she’d moved to Tuscany with Gianfelice, she’d chosen this room to be her space. A place away from his life, his magnetism, his enormous presence.
She’d loved him – who wouldn’t have? – but in a way that was terrifying and all-consuming, in a way that had threatened to swallow her whole. Here in this small room at the very edge of the villa, Paula Montebello had found space to breathe, to calm her fluttering heart, to connect with the teenager she’d been before Gianfelice had swept in and changed everything.
Here in this room with the warmth of the sun playing against the glass, the view one she’d been comforting herself with for over six decades, Yaya stared out at it all and felt herself slipping – away from the world, herself, her home, her life. It was as though a chord had been cut and she was suddenly untethered, sinking; all the griefs of her long life rushing towards her, demanding attention, seeking recognition and retribution.
She fell to the ground in abject fear – not of death, but of the mistakes she’d made, mistakes she had no hope of fixing now. It was too late; she was slipping.
IT SIMPLY WASN’T POSSIBLE. He wouldn’t allow it. Yaya wouldn’t – couldn’t – die.
Rafaello Montebello’s stride was characteristically long and confident as he cut a path through the deserted hospital. Despite being one of the best in Europe, it bore signs of inattention – the sort of indicators he would never allow in a single one of the businesses he oversaw. Out-of-date posters on the walls, a fluorescent light bulb flickering with irritating irregularity, a rubbish bin that was overflowing. He scowled even as he admitted none of these things were responsible for his dark mood.
Seeing Yaya like this was the equivalent to being buried alive. Vital, strong, funny Yaya now weak, crumpled against the pale linen of the hospital bed sheets, her perceptive eyes shut, her lips parted.
“It was a stroke.” Alessia had broken the news to each of them, her gentle voice shaking only the slightest. She was a doctor and therefore the best person to translate the medical situation into terms they could easily understand, but she had also known Yaya a long time. She bore as much grief as they did. “The housekeeper was there; yaya was in an ambulance almost immediately. Believe it or not, the prognosis is positive.”
Raf’s lips were a grim line in his chiselled, symmetrical face. He would trust his cousin’s wife with his life, but it was impossible to believe what she was saying was true. Not when Yaya looked so weak; so close to death.
His heart skipped a beat as he emerged into the cool Italian evening.
He wouldn’t allow her to die. Raf felt somewhat reassured by that resolution. He was accustomed to getting what he wanted, even when that seemed impossible. This would be no different.
Chapter One
One month later
LAUREN STIFLED A YAWN, lifting her wrist to consult the time on her slim gold wristwatch. It was late, but Paula – or Yaya as she’d insisted on being called – was energetic this evening, wanting to play cards well after bedtime. One of the nurses, a Swedish woman named Ellen, had disapproved, but Lauren had ignored her.
Lauren knew what was coming, and the importance of indulging wishes outweighed that of making sound health choices now. It was Yaya’s choice as to how she spent the time she had left – no nurse should be allowed to interfere with that.
“Don’t forget, the family will be here in the morning. You’ll get to meet my boys.”
In the week since Lauren had arrived at Villa Fortune, Yaya had spoken of little else. Massimo, Fiero, Nico, Luca, Raf and Gabe – so that Lauren almost felt as though she knew them, as well as the women three of them had married – Elodie, Maddie and Alessia. It was Alessia – a doctor – who’d contacted Lauren, begging her to accept this job.
“I know it’s different to the work you usually do,” Alessia had said down the phone line. “Yaya’s older and you work with children, but I’ve asked around – you’re the best.”
Pride had puffed Lauren’s chest. At twenty eight, she’d been working as a sort of grief counsellor-come-companion for six years. Her own personal experiences had given her an ability to offer true insight, and out of necessity she’d developed a toughness that meant she was able to keep a professional distance when needed. That didn’t mean she was inured to feelings though; her job was one of the hardest things anyone could do, but it was also one of the most important. So much focus was put on living well, and not enough on easing and accepting the inevitable end.
At this time of night, Villa Fortune was deserted, the usual hum of daytime activity muted to the faraway clicking of a grand hallway clock and the distant rolling of waves towards the shoreline. Though she was tired, Lauren was also restless and the waves called to her. Pausing at the top of the stairs, she changed direction, moving away from the generous sized bedroom she’d been allotted and moving downstairs instead, towards the kitchen. There had been no teabags in the house when she’d arrived but a day after expressing a preference for the drink, the housekeeper Vittoria had magicked some up, and a pot of tea was always sent up on Lauren’s breakfast tray in the mornings. It was a habit she now shared with Yaya, who’d transitioned from her usual coffee to sharing a pot with Lauren.
She flicked the kettle to life, her eyes on the pool beyond the window and in the distance, the moonlit Tuscan hills rolling towards the sea.
The stretchy hours of the middle of the night were always the hardest. It was at this time she thought of goodbyes – their inevitability and their wrenching pain. She also thought of Thom. His pain at the end, and her inability to do anything about it except be at his side, as though witnessing his hurt could somehow lessen it. Out of habit, she twisted her wedding ring, spinning the small diamond to the underside of her palm and tapping it against the marble countertop as the kettle thundered to a boil.
The teabags were stored in a canister near the window; she lifted one out and placed it into a mug, watching as the colour seeped from it, staining the water. The milk swirled through it before being completely absorbed. A moment later, Lauren discarded the bag into the bin and cupped the mug in both hands, making her way towards sliding glass doors that led to the terrace. It was a beautiful space and Yaya’s stories had made it come to life in a vivid and wonderful way. Stories of birthdays and Christmasses and christenings and we
ddings, of laughter and food, long tables that stretched across the terracotta tiles and into the afternoon warmth, tables laden with pasta and fruit and cheese and meat, glasses of wine and each of the men Yaya had raised. She described so perfectly the noise and happiness, so that it was easy for Lauren to picture the sunlight streaming through the vine-covered pergola, faces happy, stories being shared.
She moved to one of the deck chairs and sat down, crossing her legs at the ankles and staring out at the view without really seeing, her mind absorbed by thoughts of Yaya and Thom and what lay ahead.
So the sound of splashing water followed by the sensation of a barrage of droplets across her front had her sitting up with a racing heart, her eyes scanning the water’s surface for who – or what! – had intruded on her space.
Strong arms – so a who then, not a what – pulled through the water, muscular and confident and despite the fact Lauren was Lauren – cool and disconnected, she felt a blade of interest slice through her, surprising her with its strength. It only intensified when the man stopped swimming at the edge of the pool, apparently unaware of her presence. He stood at the shallower end of the pool, his torso above the water’s surface so she had a full view of his broadly muscled chest, devoid of hair except for an arrow of dark that ran down his centre towards the waistband of his pants. At least, she hoped he was wearing pants! Heat flooded her cheeks; she told herself she should look away but her eyes wouldn’t obey. Her mouth was dry and there was an unfamiliar tightness beneath her ribs.
The moon shimmered from behind a cloud, casting the pool in silver light and as she watched he reached out a hand, his fingertips extending towards the luminescent blade as though to meet it mid-air. He splayed his fingers wide and her pulse kicked up a notch in a way that was unfamiliar and unwelcome. A moment later he dove beneath the surface.
She should go; she was invading. Whoever he was, he had no idea he was being observed. Standing, cupping her tea, she was midway to turning when she heard more splashing. A quick, instinctive flick of her gaze showed he was stepping from the water, his body toned and clad in only a pair of briefs.
It wasn’t conscious, but a gargled noise filled Lauren’s throat. Faint, yet just loud enough for him to hear and quickly turn his face towards her.
“Cristo, I thought I was alone.” His smile was crooked and easy, charming like a Hollywood actor, his teeth white. In the moonlight, his features were cast into lines and shadows. She could tell that he was conventionally handsome, that his face was angular and strong, symmetrical with strong masculine traits. A straight nose, thick eyebrows, a full head of dark hair, and facial growth that didn’t look at all carefully cultivated – more so just left untouched.
“I was just having a tea before bed,” she said, unnecessarily, lifting the cup aloft and taking a small step towards the door. “I didn’t mean to invade your privacy.” Because surely he must be one of the boys Yaya was so proud of?
As if sensing her unspoken question, he moved closer, his stride long and confident as he closed the distance between them. She had only seconds to brace for his impending nearness and in those seconds she wondered at her strange reaction. She was twenty-eight years old and a widow; it wasn’t as though she’d never seen a near-naked man before!
But Thom had been so pale, so weak, especially at the end when illness ravaged his body – it was totally disloyal to think in comparative terms but this man was all vitality and strength, his frame sculpted from gold and marble.
She stilled, her lips parted, her eyes wide, waiting, preparing, uncertain.
“I frightened you?”
His English was ever so slightly accented, husky with his native Italian.
She swallowed, forcing moisture back to her mouth. “Not at all.” Her voice emerged stiff and formal, the words dripping in ice; she was glad.
“You’re one of her nurses?”
A team of nurses had been hired to provide round-the-clock care for Yaya. There was also a doctor making regular house calls and an occupational therapist consulting several times a week.
“I’m more of a companion.”
The man’s brow lifted. “A companion?”
Lauren nodded, wondering at her instinct to defend herself. “Alessia hired me.”
“Ah.” His eyes scanned her face. “To do what?”
Lauren considered that. “To be with Yaya.”
