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“Your mother and that – that –,”
“Vitalo,” she supplied, when he apparently couldn’t locate a suitable curse.
“Si,” he snapped, throwing the scotch back and refilling the glass angrily. “Have been sleeping together for a decade.”
The ice on her spine turned into an ice shelf. She stared at him, then frowned, because how could that be the case? “My mother is at least ten years his senior,” she said. “And I think I’d know if they’d ever…”
“Why would you?” He prompted, dragging a hand through his hair. “Why would she tell you? Why would he?”
“I…” her hand lifted to her stomach, curving over it protectively, and his eyes followed the betraying gesture. And, as if the penny was only just now dropping, he stalked across the room and lifted her left hand.
“Cristo,” he groaned. “You married him. The baby is his.”
Her face blanched of all colour. She nodded.
“They are sicker than I had realized. To use me is bad enough, but to use you? Her own daughter?”
“She’s not using me,” she promised. “Mom has no idea about this…”
“How do you know?”
“Because we haven’t told anyone,” she insisted.
“Perhaps you have not, but I would put money on your mother having known all along.”
“You’re wrong,” she said with a certainty that was only slightly eroded. “There’s absolutely no way Vitalo and my mother have ever been anything other than friends.”
I never thought she’d cheat. And with someone I love, like a brother.
Her father’s words swirled through her, and she shivered, reaching for the wall behind her and bracing her back against it.
“They were together tonight,” he said, and the spite was gone from his voice, leaving only dejection. “I followed her to the bar, watched her go in. Watched him hug her. Her kiss him. It was enough. I’ve known since I first met her that there was someone else. I knew she’d spent the night here, but I thought, in time, she would get over it. I thought I could be enough for her…”
“I don’t believe any of this,” she whispered, her expression stiff. “Vitalo is the last man on earth who would ever hurt my father, and there’s no way he’d sleep with me if he’d had any kind of relationship with…”
Only the night they were together was clear in her memory, and she recalled in total, perfect detail the fact that they hadn’t swapped names until after the fact. She recalled too his shock when he’d learned who she was. His panic. How quickly he’d left. How he’d refused to so much as speak to her in his office.
God.
The wall wasn’t enough. “I need to sit down.”
“You didn’t know,” Lorenzo surmised, holding an arm out to offer support.
“Of course not. I…” She gripped him tightly, her expression showing utter desperation. “I feel sick.”
He swore in his native Italian. “Where is the bathroom, cara?”
She pointed down the hallway and moved in that direction, Lorenzo supporting her. She just made it, bending over the toilet and retching until her stomach co
ntents were clear and her head was hot and clammy. She straightened to find Lorenzo had wet a face washer and was holding it out to her. “Thank you.”
She flushed the toilet and closed the lid, sitting down on it and holding the washer over her face. It felt like heaven, cool and refreshing.
“Why do you think they’ve been together so long?” she prompted, trying to cling to the facts in the hope something would shake loose to dispel his certainty.
“It doesn’t matter,” he said, cagily, and it was enough to breathe hope into her heart.
“You don’t know, do you?”
