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Unease flared, even as curiosity kept her gaze fixated. One of the central nooks accommodated a pretty peach-coloured writing compendium, with an elegant silver pen lying on top and a bright orange reading glasses case alongside it. In the next cubbyhole sat a large trinket box, fashioned from dark wood with mother-of-pearl inlay, and a smaller silver box with an ornamental lid. A neat stack of hardcover books filled another space, and below them a solid silver photo frame lay face-down on the desk’s polished surface.
Don’t look.
But the strident command in her head couldn’t stay her hand. Her fingers stroked the velvet backing of the frame and then tilted it up. She stared at a photo of a much younger Nico, in profile, gazing adoringly at a striking golden-haired woman in a long white veil and wedding dress.
A door opening and closing, followed by the sound of footsteps and fast, rough breathing, catapulted Marietta’s heart into her throat. The footsteps travelled down the hall, then retreated, and seconds later, through the window, she saw Nico emerge onto the terrace.
His back was to her but she could see he was breathing hard, his impressive shoulders lifting with each deep, controlled breath. His T-shirt stuck to his broad back and his running shorts emphasised narrow hips, a taut backside and long, muscular legs. He was hard and honed, every sweaty, musclebound inch of him, and for a few seconds Marietta lost all sense of her surroundings as some visceral response to all that hardcore virility short-circuited her brain and triggered a burst of heat in her belly and breasts.
He turned and strode into the house. ‘Marietta?’
She jolted back to herself and looked at the photo, still in her hand. Gently, her fingers shaking a little, she replaced the frame. She’d wasted precious seconds and now it was too late to avoid discovery. She couldn’t close up the desk with the necessary care—she’d never risk damaging this beautiful antique—and get out of the study undetected.
She clasped her hands in her lap and swallowed hard. She had trespassed, but not with any malicious intent. This was a minor transgression, she assured herself. She would own it.
‘I’m in your office,’ she called out.
He was there within seconds, and she saw on his face the exact moment he registered the raised lid of the desk. Saw his nostrils pinch and flare, his mouth flatten into a hard line, and knew with a sharp mix of certainty and regret that he wouldn’t simply shrug off the intrusion.
His large body went still—so still it frightened her.
Her heart thundered in her ears. ‘Nico, I’m sorry.’ The apology spilled out in a breathless rush. ‘I came in to use the phone and saw the desk and it was so beautiful... I... I didn’t think.’
If possible his features grew tighter, his eyes harder. He said nothing, and the silence, broken only by his harsh breathing, was awful.
‘I’m so sorry,’ she said again, and her voice cracked. Because this time she wasn’t only apologising for opening the desk. This time she was telling him she was sorry about his wife. She knew nothing about his marriage, of course, but the photograph, the desk so lovingly preserved—almost like a shrine—told her two things.
Nico had loved his wife.
And his wife was no longer alive.
Marietta’s throat constricted. ‘Please say something,’ she whispered.
He moved to the desk, carefully lowered the lid and laid his palms on the tambour. He didn’t look at her, and somehow that was ten times worse than his hard, silent stare.
‘Go,’ he said at last, and the command was all the more terrible for its quietness.
‘Nico—’
‘Get out, Marietta.’
Still he didn’t look at her, and the rebuff needled deep, even though she knew she’d earned it. Smothering the impulse to apologise yet again, Marietta turned her chair and wheeled out of the room.
CHAPTER SIX
NICO WALKED OUT to the terrace with two crystal tumblers balanced in one hand and an unopened bottle of vintage cognac from the back of his liquor cabinet cradled in the other.
He paused. Marietta sat in her wheelchair at the table by the pool with her back to him, her slender form silhouetted by the dying light of the sun, which was now no more than a sliver of fiery orange on the horizon. Her long mahogany hair spilled in loose waves down her back, and before he could censor his thoughts he found himself wondering how it would feel to slide his fingers through those thick tresses, wind them around his hands...
He tightened his jaw. Shook off the thought as swiftly as it had surfaced. Marietta was his friend’s sister and right now her safety was his responsibility. This incessant awareness of her was an unwelcome distraction and he needed to shut it down. At the very minimum h
e needed to control his thoughts and reactions around her—especially after today, when he had not reacted well to finding her at Julia’s desk...had not known how to handle the unexpected gut-punch of emotion or the glitter of sympathy in Marietta’s eyes.
Seeing the woman who’d lit a slow-burning fire in his blood these past forty-eight hours alongside the only mementoes he had of his dead wife had unbalanced him, had fired a shock wave through his brain that had stolen his ability to do more than clip out a few terse words.
And that look he’d seen on Marietta’s face... Apology mixed with pity, of all things. His gut had hardened, everything within him rejecting that look. Rejecting the idea of Marietta feeling sorry for him. Of anyone feeling sorry for him. Nico elicited a range of reactions from people—respect, obedience, trust, fear—but rarely sympathy or pity. If ever. Witnessing both in Marietta’s eyes had left him feeling sideswiped. Exposed. Something he had worked hard for the last decade not to feel. And yet even now, years later, he didn’t always succeed in burying his feelings—did he? Occasionally the darkness would try to claim him. The guilt and the burning sense of failure that had dogged him ever since Julia’s death would rise up and torment him.
He strode to the table and set down the bottle and glasses. He’d come out here to make peace, he reminded himself. Not to examine his inner workings.
