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She’d crashed, gone over an embankment, had never stood a chance in a car she hadn’t known how to handle. A car he’d given to her. He’d inflicted upon her the same fate that had met every other member of his family. He’d done that to her because he’d never once had the courage to accept what she’d said and faced up to what he really felt.
That he needed her. That she made him feel special and strong and protective. That he wanted to look after her.
That he loved her.
Anguish twisted him inside.
My God, but he did!
He loved her. And now it was too late.
He’d never wanted to love. Love only compounded pain, made it infinitely worse than it would otherwise be. But why had he thought he could deny love by simply ignoring its existence, by simply not thinking the thoughts or saying the words?
By not telling the woman he loved?
He was right not to want to love. Wouldn’t the pain he was feeling right now be so much easier to bear if he hadn’t loved her?
But he hadn’t told her, and right now that made his pain worse. He’d denied what she’d meant to him and he’d rejected her love. How must she have felt following him along those roads in those conditions? She must have been desperate to catch up with him.
The police car pulled up outside the hospital, its lights making crazy patterns on the slick roads. The storm had long gone and a strange calm had descended. That was outside at least. His storm had only just begun.
He looked up at the horizontal concrete façade, the windows lit with a dull glow and the occasional blip of colour from a machine.
He didn’t want to go inside. He wanted to deny it now, even though he knew it must be the truth. It was going to be one of the hardest things he’d ever done. But there was something even harder to follow.
How was he going to tell Daphne?
They led him along the long corridors, the atmosphere antiseptic, their bright fluorescent lighting garish and cold in this late hour. Then they made him wait outside a room in the morgue, giving him even more time to think about how he should have done things differently, how he should have told her what she meant to him, how wrong he’d been.
He hadn’t been fair to her. He’d bullied her at work, he’d bullied her at the Gold Coast, and he’d bullied her into this wedding. And now there was no chance to tell her he was sorry.
Now it was too late.
They called him inside, into a room where the clinical furniture and fittings faded into bland insignificance, where the cloaked trolley held centre stage. He walked slowly to one side, the policemen close behind, and stopped, wanting to know, not wanting to know, because until he knew for sure, there was always a chance they were wrong, however unlikely that seemed.
‘Mr DeLuca?’ The attendant’s brow was furrowed with concern.
‘She was pregnant, you know. Our first child.’
The man’s eyes blinked slowly, as if he hadn’t wanted to hear that. ‘Are you all right, Mr DeLuca?’
He gave a brief nod. ‘Ready,’ he muttered on a breath that tasted of death and cold ash.
The attendant peeled back the sheet. Damien’s heart stopped and he rocked on his heels as he scoured her face. Under the scratches and contusions her features still looked quite lovely considering she’d suffered such a sudden, savage end, her eyes closed, her lips slightly parted as if ready to draw her next soft breath. She looked at peace.
But she didn’t look familiar.
‘It’s not Philly.’ He sagged on a breath that brought relief, just as quickly replaced by a savage new fear. He turned to the officers behind him.
‘So where’s my wife?’
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
IT WAS so cold. Two minutes in the driving rain had been enough to soak her to the skin. Now she was out of the weather but there was no way she could warm up here. She’d found what had to be an old picnic rug that smelt as if it had seen more dogs’ breakfasts than picnic lunches, but it was at least something to drag over her shoulders and it helped to break up the otherwise wall-to-wall motor oil smell.
She was cramped, uncomfortable, and had no idea of the time, only that it must be still dark and she was so tired but way too cold to sleep. It hurt to move. It hurt not to move. But what hurt more was that she wouldn’t even be missed for hours. Damien was at the apartment, most likely, and at the house no one would question her absence before lunch time.
Every time she’d heard a car approach, she’d banged and yelled till she was hoarse. But no one had heard her and the cars had just kept on driving.
She was stuck here, shivering, until the sun rose. How long until sunrise? But how hot was it expected to be today? Right now the idea of warmth was attractive but how long would it take before she cooked inside here?
