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The waiter returned, brandishing menus, and Antonio took them without looking in the waiter’s direction.
‘Thank you,’ Amelia murmured, flying the flag of civility for both of them.
‘And you?’ Antonio pushed, after the waiter had left. ‘Was your childhood full of fun?’
Amelia bristled. ‘I’m sure you know the answer to that.’ She reached for her water, sipping it, turning back to the view. Inexplicably, her heart was racing.
‘I have an impression,’ he agreed with an air of relaxation. ‘But you have not told me specifics.’
‘With good reason.’ She tilted a small smile at him. ‘I don’t like to speak about it.’
Speculation glowed in the depths of his eyes, eyes that were—at times—dark black, and now showed specks of amber and caramel. ‘Then make an exception on this occasion. For me.’
CHAPTER ELEVEN
HE WATCHED AS she considered those words, wondering at the sense of reserve she wore like a cloak. It hadn’t been there on the night in her cottage, when she’d brandished a meat cleaver and made him laugh, despite the seriousness of his business with the diSalvo family. Was it him that unsettled her?
The nature of their marriage?
Inwardly he cringed—how could it be anything else? Blackmailing someone into marriage was hardly a way to encourage closeness. Yet here they sat, husband and wife—as much an enigma to one another as the day they’d first met.
‘I think,’ she said, and he didn’t realise until then that he’d been holding his breath, waiting for her to speak and half believing she wouldn’t, ‘some people would characterise it as fun.’ She wrinkled her nose and his gut twisted, hard. He made an effort not to move, to appear natural, but it was as though he was hyper aware of every movement he made, every movement she made.
‘But not you?’ he asked, the words low and husky.
‘No.’ Her eyes met his and there was that thread of defiance, a whip of strength, that made his body arc up in immediate response. ‘Not me.’ She smiled, a tight smile, as she reached for her water glass, sipping from it slowly, her eyes landing on the view beyond them. ‘I think the novelty of freedom is exactly that—a novelty. As a child I was always afraid.?
?? She cleared her throat, and said no more.
So he prompted, ‘Afraid of what?’
‘What my mother would do.’
As though screws were being turned in every joint, his body tightened. ‘She hurt you?’
‘Oh, God, no.’ She spun back toward him, her eyes enormous, and he could see so much of the famed supermodel in his wife’s face that he wondered if they were alike in ways other than the physical. ‘My mother was the kindest person you could ever meet. Too kind.’
‘Is there such a thing?’
Amelia’s frown was instantaneous but it was as though a storm cloud was moving in front of the sun. ‘Modelling is a hard business. You can never be the prettiest, the skinniest, the best. She spent her life trying.’ Amelia shook her head. ‘She was a “good-time girl”—that was her reputation anyway, and it came to define her. She could never grow out of it, never shake it free. As I’ve got older, I’ve come to realise that she was living in fear, that she was afraid people wouldn’t like her any more if she wasn’t always the life and soul of the party.’
‘I’m sorry if she lived with that fear.’
‘I am too.’ Amelia swallowed. ‘But I spent a long time being angry with her.’
‘Why?’ he asked, though he had his own reasons for feeling anger towards her too.
‘She shouldn’t have kept me,’ she said with a wry twist of her lips. ‘I used to wish she’d put me up for adoption, you know.’
Sadness for the young Amelia flooded him—a surprising reaction, and not entirely welcome. ‘Why were you afraid of her, then?’ He reframed their conversation to her original statement.
‘Because she was erratic, and almost always drunk or high. She’d invite random people back to whatever hotel we were living in at the time. I can’t even tell you how often I woke up and found she’d left the hotplate on or taps running.’
Oh, Cristo.
Tears sparkled on Amelia’s lashes, making her eyes shine like the ocean on a sun-filled day but, instead of letting them roll down her cheeks, she ground her teeth together, her expression almost mutinous. ‘New boyfriends every few weeks—some of them creepy or not very nice, some of them fun but bad for her. I resented them all.’ She shook her head. ‘No, I hated them all. I hated them for taking her away from me. She was never a great mum, but at least when she was single, she’d try. Not very hard.’ She frowned. ‘Or maybe she did try hard and she just wasn’t wired that way.’
And—he couldn’t help himself—he reached out, pressing his hand over hers and squeezing it. ‘And yet you turned out okay,’ he said, the praise too faint, too light, but he wasn’t sure what else he could offer.
