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He shrugged, and kicked one ankle over his knee, reclining indolently and inspecting her with arrogant ease. “And yet you are stuck with me.”
Her heart pinched inside of her chest. With great effort, she held onto the cool exterior she’d spent the last three years perfecting. “No, I’m not.”
His black eyes showed a sense of surprise, but nothing else in his demeanour altered. “I’m not offering. Nor am I asking. I’m telling you that I will be overseeing your recovery and safety for the foreseeable future.”
Jane pulled her lower lip between her teeth and gnawed at it. “And I’m telling you that I’ll call the police if you don’t leave me alone.”
She knew him so well. She had become a world expert in the ways of Carlo Santini, so that even the most minuscule gesture spoke volumes to her. The way his knuckles were white, for example, as he gripped his hands in his lap, showed her that he was only managing to hold onto his temper with an extreme effort.
She smiled at him tersely. “You heard the doctor. I need to avoid stress while I’m recovering. And you stress me. Thinking about our failure of a marriage is not something I like to do. So if you care about me at all, you’ll leave. And let me be.”
He dipped his head forward so that she wouldn’t see the way her words had struck a cord in him. Wasn’t that the very reason he’d allowed her to leave him? To let their divorce go unchallenged? He had been bad for her. He’d known it at the time, and he’d wanted to avoid hurting her, so he’d let her go.
And now?
Now, there was a threat far greater than the firestorm they unleashed on one another. Now. There was someone else out there looking to hurt Jane. And he knew, in his heart of hearts, that it was because of him. Because she’d been married to him, and he’d had the misfortune of being born to one of Italy’s most notorious organised crime bosses.
He clenched his jaw and firmed his resolve. “You are in danger, cara mia. My protection is not optional. But you do not need to worry your pretty little head. Once that threat has passed, I will leave you alone again, and get back to my own life.”
His own life. She angled her face, tilting it away from his intense gaze. His life, since their divorce, had apparently involved a string of glamorous women. He had evidently not had the problem licking his wounds that she had hers.
“Divorcing you made me wealthy. I can afford security.” She’d been aiming for confident independence, but suspected she’d sounded as though she were bragging. In truth, she’d never wanted the money he’d insisted on giving her. What did a twenty year old need millions of pounds for? She’d bought herself a reasonably modest townhouse, and maintained a nice enough lifestyle to help her forget about the man she’d once loved. But other than that, she had a huge chunk of money sitting dormant in a bank account. “I can get a bodyguard.”
“Fine. You may do that too.”
“Carlo…”
“Damn it, Jane.” He stood up as he exclaimed loudly, and crossed to the bed. The sight of her bandaged head and pale face helped him to calm down, but his annoyance at her newly-developed stubborn streak was still simmering inside of him. He sat down beside her, and put a hand on her thigh. “You were my wife.”
His voice cracked, and the note of anguish was almost her undoing. Almost, but not quite. This man had shown her the most exquisite pleasure, but God, he’d hurt her beyond bearing.
She closed her eyes, and forced herself to remember the stunning Alessandra. The bitter advice she’d enjoyed heaping on Jane at every opportunity. Advice which, it turned out, held more than a kernel of truth. Carlo had never loved Jane. Not really. He’d married her, and then he’d spent the next twelve months ignoring her in every way but one. Sexually.
The parties he’d gone to, and been fawned over by myriad beautiful women, had been one of the many proofs she had of his lack of true affection. Alessandra had made sure Jane had known about those parties. And about the women. But it was not strictly Alessandra’s fault. If Carlo hadn’t been such a philandering bastard, then Jane wouldn’t have had anything to fear. Alessandra wouldn’t have had anything to jubilantly throw in her young face.
And yet still he’d come to her. Night after night, he’d returned to their bed and taken her in his arms, his body seeking hers like a magnet, demanding and offering the ultimate fulfilment. And every night, she’d given in. Because she was weak, and she had needed him. She’d cried afterwards. After they’d made love, and her body’s needs had been met, but her soul was languishing. She’d cried silently into the pillow and wished on the stars outside their window that she would be stronger the next day. That she would talk to him. That she would beg him to love her better.
But she had not. She’d taken what crumbs of affection he’d had to offer, and told herself it would be enough. Only it hadn’t been. Eventually, it had become too painful. The coldness with which he could leave her in the mornings had shown her all too clearly how little he cared for her.
No. Great sex was not, in the end, enough. Loving someone, with the entirety of one’s heart, was an agony when that love remained unreturned. And her love had been isolated. A beacon in their relationship, she’d loved him, and he’d pushed her away whenever he could.
She blinked her bright blue eyes, refusing to give tears the dignity of falling down her cheeks.
“I was not your wife,” she intoned flatly. She blinked, and stared out of the window at the yellow street lights visible through the foggy evening air.
Carlo sat very still. She was so young. Older now, than when they married, but still just a child. His gut tightened with emotion as he took in her pain-filled expression. “I remember the wedding. You wore a big white dress. I wore a tux.”
She rolled her eyes but refused to look at him. “A wedding does not a marriage make. I was just a toy to you.” She sniffed, and cursed her lack of strength when a hot tear slid fatly down her pale cheek. “A stupid, ignorant teenager, too hopelessly attracted to you to realise that sex isn’t love.”
He stared at her, willing her to turn to face him, but he did not move. “You were in love with me.”
She tried to swallow past her dry, razor-sharp throat. “Our marriage was a mistake. We both went into it wanting something from one another that just wasn’t possible.”
“Is that so?” He leaned forward, so that a hint of his masculine aftershave teased her nostrils. “What did you want from me, cara?”
She fumbled her fingers along the edge of the blanket. Her voice was a husk when she spoke. “I wanted a family.” Her thick dark lashes fanned along her soft cheeks as she squeezed her eyes shut. “I wanted a happy ending. But those don’t really exist, do they?”
He was longing to touch her, but he knew she’d reject the contact. “And what did I want from you?”
