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Most of me hoped desperately he didn’t recognise me from our night together. Because that would get awkward, fast. But as he continued to stare at me, a darting pain in my chest told another story. And I realised to my horror there was a small part of me that wanted him to recognise me. If only to validate that one night, and the consequences which I had borne in my body for a few agonising weeks.
Seconds ticked by as my face began to burn, the dark emerald green of his irises fired with something I recognised too, not arousal but fierce awareness. My skin prickled alarmingly, and I hated myself for responding to him. Even now.
I also hated that small part of me which was still that hopeful, romantic girl who needed this man’s validation—who could still seek his approval even after he had discarded me so easily.
But then he broke eye contact, covered his face with his arm and flopped back on the bed.
‘Just get out,’ he groaned, the despair in his voice somehow calling to that stupid girl too.
I ruthlessly ignored the dart of sympathy and disappointment as I closed the door firmly behind me.
CHAPTER SIX
Renzo
WASITHER? I wondered, as the echo of something stirred in my groin which I hadn’t felt in years.
The high cheekbones, the heart-shaped face, the full lips, the sprinkle of freckles across her nose. And those pale blue eyes—so deep, so wary—as they watched me had all seemed familiar, probably because that girl had haunted my dreams for four years...
But how could it be her? The girl whose virginity I had taken what felt like a lifetime ago—when I had been another man, living another life? The girl I hadn’t been able to forget, even though I had wanted to? The girl who had tried to contact me and who I had ruthlessly discarded.
My mind, my body had to be playing tricks on me. Casting me into a new level of hell. As if I wasn’t in a deep enough purgatory already.
It isn’t her. Even you cannot deserve such torture.
Ever since they had prised my shattered body out of the mangled wreckage of the Destiny prototype, and cast me adrift in a new horrifying reality, I’d been a stranger to myself. A man who was only half-alive, and half-whole and who could no longer hide from the truth of who he really was.
A failure. A fraud. Not the billionaire playboy, but the gutter rat who had done anything and everything to get out, to get away from the squalor of where he had started.
I dropped my hand from my eyes, to gaze out at the redolent orange and gold of the sunset that my new—and unwanted—employee had revealed so cavalierly.
I kept the drapes closed for a reason. I hated to look at myself, to see what I had become. So I lived in darkness again. The way I often had as a young runaway. Feral and starving and desperate to escape his guilt and his destiny.
To think I had thought I had once outrun my fate and named the racing team I loved Destiny to make it official. A grim smile twisted my lips at another unwanted irony.
With the terrazzo doors open, though, the salty breeze began to freshen the sour smell in the room, and the dying sunlight warmed my skin.
I lay there for what felt like forever taking in the novel—and not entirely unwanted—sensations. But then a whiff of something delicious filled my nostrils—garlic and oil, tomato and... Was that lobster? My nostrils flared, and my stomach growled in protest.
I stared at the tray she had left on the chest of drawers beside my bed. And scowled.
But my stomach, dormant for so long, continued to protest. I was furious that it was tempting me out of my stupor. But I couldn’t seem to prevent myself from crawling out of the bed, despite the angry protests of my withered leg, and the unused muscles that cramped as I rose.
I threw off the coverlet, using every ounce of the strength I still possessed to stand, determined to throw the damn tray off the balcony. I wobbled precariously, clasping the bedpost, angered even more by the weakness and exhaustion that dragged at me, as I staggered, each step sending shards of agony through my leg, the torn ligaments stiff and painful.
After five agonising steps, I finally reached the chest, my naked body dripping with sweat, the effort to stay upright so great I was panting like a man who had run a marathon not simply crossed a room.
Ashamed of my weakness, I glared at the damn tray, grasping the wooden beading on the chest to stay upright. It took all of my remaining strength to lift the silver dome covering the food. But when I did, the determination to throw away the meal I didn’t want was whisked away on a tantalising breath, as the intoxicating aroma consumed me.
The freshly made pasta was covered with a light tomato sauce which gleamed in the sunset, the succulent chunks of lobster—once a favourite indulgence—tempting me beyond reason.
My hollow stomach howled, begging me to take a bite.
I stood there, shaking and sweating, naked and pathetic, staring down at the perfect dish for what seemed like an eternity. Unable to throw it away, but also unable to take that small incremental step away from the misery I had wallowed in for so long.
Eventually, I could not withstand the temptation any longer. I lifted the fork in trembling fingers, wound one long ribbon of pasta around it. Scooping up a bite of lobster too, I shoved the food into my mouth. The flavours burst like sunlight on my tongue. Rich and fresh and sensual—the perfectly spiced dish sent visceral pleasure through my system for the first time in over a year. A low moan escaped my lips and I shovelled a whole mouthful in next. I ate too fast, gulping down one mouthful then another—like a starving man—and was reminded of those rare occasions when I had had the chance to eat my fill as a boy.
But after only a few forkfuls, I had to stop eating, my empty stomach rebelling at having to digest too much, too fast.
