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Everything was going to be fine.
Of course what they’d shared in the countryside hadn’t simple ceased to exist because they’d come back to London. Of course they were still them – the chemistry and attraction that had driven them together as tangible as ever.
“No,” he drawled, and when she looked up, he’d dressed fully, looking as suave and untouchable as ever. But she knew better now. “That wasn’t on my agenda at all.”
She lifted her shoulders, moving towards him, happiness keeping her steps light. “Wasn’t it?”
He frowned.
“Don’t you think there was something inevitable about that?”
He cocked his head in what she took to be agreement.
“This has been so stupid. The last few days, ignoring each other, feeling like we were walking on eggshells. How can we go from that,” she pointed to the chair, “ to pretending we don’t exist?”
He didn’t respond. His eyes were haunted, watchful.
“Bronte –,”
She shook her head, pressing a finger to his lips. “We don’t need to discuss it. Let’s just pretend the beginning of this week never happened, and pick up where we just left off.”
It all made sense. She wasn’t going to analyse where it was going, it was enough to know how she felt about him, and to suspect he felt the same way about her, even if he might not be ready to admit that. Yet.
“How about tonight,” she prompted, thinking ahead to how they could spend their time. Dinner in, definitely, with a bed only a few steps away at all times. Or maybe a lounge room – they’d just proven a bed was an optional extra.
He shook his head. “I can’t.”
The words stilled her momentarily.
“I’m having dinner with Fiero.”
Her heart skipped a beat but she refused to listen to the nagging doubts that were breathing through her. Doubts had given her hell the last few days. The best thing to do was listen to her body, and his, and on that score she had all the information she needed.
“Then afterwards,” she said, tucking her finger in the waistband of his pants and pulling him towards her. He was too big; she couldn’t pull him, but he stepped towards her of his own accord.
“I’ll message you,” he said throatily, dropping his lips to hers and brushing them quickly. “Bene?”
Bene? Good? No. Some time later that night, having not heard from Luca, she suspected things were not ‘bene’. She scanned her phone, her heart in her throat, pride holding her back from texting him, the certainty she’d felt earlier that day that they were meant to be together eroding easily, now that their bodies’ intimacy was further away from her. Maybe it was a post-sex high. Maybe it was just damned wishful thinking.
Bronte squeezed her eyes shut, but it did nothing to blot her thoughts or memories. “How stupid are you?” She groaned, banging her hand against her forehead. “How bloody stupid?”
Coward.
He stared at the email from one of his assistants in Rome, the flight confirmation for later that da
y staring at him accusingly. This was a dick move.
Or was it a kind move? Removing himself quickly from Bronte before she could get any more of the wrong idea about him and what he wanted?
Hadn’t he been honest with her? Hadn’t he told her all along what he could – and couldn’t – offer?
Sure, in between dragging her into bed at the drop of a hat.
He swore to himself as he stepped out of the car, riding the elevator to the executive level, barely taking in his surrounds. He stalked into his office, shut the door with a bang and strode to his desk.
A button on his phone connected straight to her office.
“Yes?” Her voice was cool. It told him all he needed to know. One syllable and he heard it. Hurt. Confusion.
