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He didn’t get an answer before the taxi pulled up and he had to go into his meeting. But when he emerged a couple of hours later there was still no reply from Connie. He frowned again.
Hi—how are you doing? My meeting’s finished and I’m in with a chance of making an earlier flight back to Rome. I can meet you in town, or back at the Falcone. You choose.
He didn’t get a reply to that either.
He texted Raf. Not wanting to, but feeling an edge of anxiety. Rome was safe enough, but maybe Connie had been mugged for her phone? These things happened.
Raf knew nothing, and told him so. He said he would text Connie as well, to let her know Dante was trying to get in touch.
Next Dante phoned the Falcone, to see if Connie had got back there safely. But she hadn’t.
His frown deepened. So did his level of anxiety.
Repeated texts to Connie got no response. Fear bit at him, warring with reason.
She was OK—of course she was OK! Maybe her phone was dead. Maybe she just wasn’t checking it. Maybe...
He was on board his flight, waiting for take-off, when a text finally arrived from her.
Dante, I’m so sorry—I’m back in England. I’ve heard there’s a chance of getting on a Master’s course at very short notice, so I thought I should go for it! I’m sorry to cut short our fabulous holiday, but perhaps it’s for the best. Time to get on with our own lives—they’ve been on hold long enough.
The text ended with kisses—four of them. That was all.
A flight attendant was coming by, checking seat belts. Dante stopped her progress.
‘I need to get off this flight immediately.’ His voice was urgent, imperative.
‘I am so sorry, but that isn’t possible now.’ The flight attendant was polite, but adamant.
He sat back, closing his eyes in frustration.
But also in so much more than that.
Connie let herself into her cottage. It was dark already. The coach from Heathrow had only taken her to Taunton. She’d had to change to a local bus to the village, and then get a taxi here. Exhaustion filled her—but it was not of the body.
The cottage was cold and bleak and it smelt fusty, having been empty for so long. Slowly, numbly, she went around putting on the lights, picking up the pile of post that had accumulated since Mrs Bowen, who had keys, had last done so on her behalf, and dumping it on the table, where the rest of it was neatly stacked.
She went into the kitchen, flicked the heating on. She wouldn’t light a fire—she had no energy for it. She had no energy for anything. No will for anything. Except to crawl up to her room, get under her duvet, and sob her stupid heart out.
But what was the point of doing that? None.
Bleakly, she stared into the little living room. This was where Dante had proposed to her. Proposed a bizarre marriage of mutual convenience. He would get something he wanted. She would get something she wanted. It had been equal. Fair. A perfectly balanced contract. Win-win for both of them.
And it had worked. Worked while Gran was alive...worked while Connie was the way she’d been when they had tied the knot: lumpy, frumpy and dumpy.
But then...
Then I went off contract.
And that had changed everything between them.
She shut her eyes in misery.
Because I just could not resist taking the chance of making my wildest fantasy come true.
The fantasy of having the most fabulous man in the world look at her with an expression in his eyes that was not friendliness, or pleasantness, or even, after her grandmother’s death, sympathy and concern.
She had wanted what she had never thought she would ever see in his eyes.
