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What about Belle turning up on your doorstep pregnant with Cai all those years ago?
The thought popped into my head, and I held on to it, as I walked into the suite.
A middle-aged woman, exquisitely dressed in a designer pants suit, stood in the centre of the sitting room, surrounded by rails of clothing and flanked by three other women—one of whom seemed to be her assistant. The other two wore tailored white labcoats as they arranged an array of cases filled with make-up and perfumes next to a very professional looking salon chair which had appeared as if by magic.
I had never felt more underdressed in my life, wearing my standard kitchen uniform of flour-stained T-shirt and worn jeans.‘Bonjour,’I managed.
All four women turned in unison, then the ringleader strolled towards me on ice-pick heels with a warm smile lighting her dark eyes.
‘Mademoiselle Burton. A pleasure,’ she replied in accented but perfect English as she gripped my hand. Her gaze roamed over me. ‘You are perfect,’ she said as approval twinkled in the deep brown. ‘Monsieur Camaro told me you were exquisite. He did not lie.’
Monsieur Camaro said what now?
I tugged my fingers out of her grasp, starting to panic.
‘I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name?’
‘I am Madame Lavigne, stylist to the stars,’ she said with a humorous flourish.
She folded her arm through mine to draw me into the room and introduced me to the other women, which included her assistant, Sophie, a renowned hairstylist called Natalie Dupont and a top make-up artist called Farah Amin.
‘But you must call me Amal, Jessie,’ Madame Lavigne murmured as her assistant started to take my measurements. ‘You must not be concerned.’ Amal’s smile became sympathetic, as I stood dumbly, so out of my depth I was drowning. ‘We have only five days to finish your look for the Allegri Ball in Monaco. But we will make you a vision, I guarantee it.’
The panic knotted around my throat. ‘Okay,’ I said, but I felt anything but okay.
The ball I had once been so excited about was only a week away.
Our time together was nearly over. In a week, I would have to leave the chateau. And Renzo.
There would be no more nights of liberating pleasure, no more sunset swims in our secret cove, no more days spent seeing him become more and more engaged in his business, no more chances to see Renzo devouring my food as he joked with me about my skills in the kitchen being almost as good as my skills in his bed...
And there would be no more opportunities to finally ask him all those questions that had been queuing up in my head... About the man who took my virginity, who got me pregnant, who fathered the baby I lost, but who was still an enigma in so many ways.
Should I tell him about the pregnancy? The miscarriage?
Over the last few weeks, I’d begun to question my decision to bury the truth inside me. He wasn’t the man I had met four years ago anymore. Plus my feelings for him had become so much deeper, and more complex, not just as we tore each other’s clothes off each night, but during all those magic stolen moments during the day too.
But as the highly professional Amal and her team got to work putting together my ‘look’ for the Allegri event, I realised Renzo hadn’t forgotten, or wilfully ignored our approaching end date, the way I had. By hiring Amal Lavigne, he was fulfilling his end of our bargain. Which had to mean, he was ready to let me go...
How could I tell him about the miscarriage now? Without looking manipulative... Or worse, needy? And how could I ask him all the questions that still tormented me, about his nightmare, and the reckless playboy who had discarded me so easily...
As the stylist and her team measured me, and prodded at me, chatting about the marvellous society debut that awaited me in Monaco, my heart sank into my toes. I didn’t object to any of it, and an hour later, after they had left and Renzo appeared looking sheepish, I pretended that I was still excited about the ball, and that I was happy to accept the beyond generous new wardrobe so I wouldn’t feel out of place at the event.
But as he made fierce passionate love to me that night, forcing me to three brutal orgasms before finding his own release, and then left the room while he thought I was sleeping, my heart swelled painfully in my throat and tears scalded the back of my eyes.
Our affair would be over in five days’ time, and I refused to risk ruining the short time we had left together with anything deep or heavy. But that meant burying the pain and the truth about the miscarriage back inside me again—which had been threatening to spill out for weeks now without me even realising it. But far worse, it meant pretending I hadn’t fallen hopelessly in love with the man that reckless playboy had become.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Five days later... In Monaco
Renzo
MYBREATHGOTtrapped in my lungs and the familiar heat pooled in my groin as I stood in the doorway to Jessie’s adjoining suite on the upper floors of Dante Allegri’s Inferno Casino.
We had arrived in Monaco that afternoon on the Destiny Inc helicopter, and I had been ushered out of her suite two hours ago, so that the stylist and her crew could prepare Jessie. But I had heard them finally leave moments ago.
I watched as Jessie stared at her reflection in the mirror, now, unaware of my presence.
