The Italians: Cristiano, Vittorio and Dario: Once a Ferrara Wife... / A Dark Sicilian Secret / Blackmailed Bride, Innocent Wife

He spoke the words easily. He always had, she remembered. For months, she’d struggled to get them past her lips whereas he’d experienced no such barriers to expressing himself.

But, in the end, that love hadn’t revealed itself in his actions.

And now?

She stared down at the key in her lap. ‘I promised myself that I wasn’t going to do this. I promised myself that no matter what you said or did, I wasn’t going to change my mind.’

All she’d cared about was protecting herself from more pain and yet somehow here she was, back in his car and in his life, cocooned by expensive leather and the smell of luxury with that dangerous, incendiary chemistry threatening everything she’d worked so hard to leave behind.

If he’d released her hand it might have helped, but he didn’t. His fingers were wrapped hard around hers as he started the engine, and she knew he was fully aware of what his touch did to her and had no compunction in exploiting that advantage shamelessly.

Despairing of herself, Laurel leaned her head back against the seat. ‘Give me one reason why I should do this.’

‘Because I deserve another chance.’ The engine gave a deep, throaty growl. ‘Because what we have is special enough to keep fighting for.’

Was it?

Finally he released her hand but only so that he could place his on the wheel and steer them out of the nightmare traffic that clogged the airport road.

Whether this was a good idea or not, it was too late to rethink it because he found a gap in the traffic, pressed his foot to the floor and sped out of the airport.

CHAPTER SEVEN

CRISTIANO drove fast, skilfully dodging the heavy morning traffic until the road cleared. He pressed his foot to the floor and the car shot forward like a racehorse towards the finishing line, lightning-fast. Laurel smiled slightly as she felt the burst of speed and power because she loved it as much as he did.

Or maybe it was just because the top of the car was down and the sun was shining down on them, making everything impossible seem possible.

It was all still there, of course—the doubts, the worry and that other nagging emotion that he knew nothing about. But right now, with the breeze lifting her hair and the sun warming her face, she could push it to the back of her mind.

She wouldn’t have admitted it in a million years, but she loved to watch him drive. Loved the confidence with which he handled the car, the subtle movement of his fingers as he shifted gears, the flex of powerful thigh muscle as he urged the car forward. Cristiano made driving a car sexy. To her, everything he did was sexy and that incurable attraction had always been her downfall.

Dragging her eyes away from temptation, Laurel anchored her hair with her hand and glanced over her shoulder. ‘No security?’

‘I think I may have run them over when I left the villa. I was in a hurry.’ His swift smile managed to be disarming and devastating at the same time. ‘Don’t worry. I’m capable of protecting you and anyway, there is security where we are going.’

‘Oh.’ Her hopes of staying somewhere discreet and private dashed by that revelation, Laurel tried not to feel disappointed that there would be other people around. ‘Where are we going?’

‘It’s a surprise. But you can trust me to have your happiness at the forefront of my list of priorities.’

She could have pointed out that her happiness had been right at the bottom of his list of priorities in the past but she could see he was trying so she bit her tongue and said nothing.

‘Have I been there before?’ ‘Not exactly.’

Resigned to the fact that he wasn’t going to reveal anything before he was ready, she leaned her head back against the seat and just watched the countryside. ‘We’re driving towards Mount Etna. You’re going to drop me into the crater of an active volcano and finish me off for good?’

‘Tempting.’ The corners of his mouth flickered. ‘And yes, we’re driving towards Mount Etna.’

Her eyes fastened on the peak in the distance. ‘I’ve always loved this part of Sicily.’

‘I know.’ They were off the autostrade now and climbing upwards, the car waltzing round the bends under Cristiano’s expert control.

‘Taormina?’ Her heart gave a little jump as she realised where they were going. ‘You’re taking me to Taormina?’ It was the place they’d spent part of their honeymoon and she’d been dizzy with the romance of the place. Yes, it was a favourite tourist haunt but with good reason. It was stunning.

The medieval town that had inspired poets and authors for centuries perched on the cliff whilst beneath lay the sparkling perfection of the Mediterranean, its surface reflecting all the colours of a peacock’s wing.

As the sea breeze lifted her hair and cooled her skin, Laurel’s smile faltered. ‘Are we going back to the same hotel?’

‘No. I wish you’d trust me.’

‘I’m trying.’

‘Try harder.’

That was all he would say and she held her breath as he negotiated a narrow road, one side of which fell into an almost vertical drop down to the sea.

This was Sicily at its most spectacular, mountains and sea coming together in dramatic perfection and there, carved into the hillside, was the Teatro Greco, the ruins of the ancient Greek theatre that was one of the most famous archaeological sites in Sicily.

It was the most breathtakingly seductive place she’d ever visited.

Leaving Taormina behind them, he drove on and Laurel was just coping with the thud of disappointment that this wasn’t their destination after all when he stopped the car by a pair of tall, imposing iron gates. All around them were dark cypresses, olive trees and pines. Orange and lemon trees filled the air with their unforgettable Mediterranean scent and for a moment she closed her eyes and breathed deeply.

Even without looking she would have known she was in Sicily.

‘Do you have that key?’

Roused by his voice, Laurel opened her eyes and stared at the gates and then at the key on her lap. ‘This key opens those gates?’

‘Try it and see.’

She stepped out of the car, feeling the sun burning her head. The jeans she’d worn to travel back to foggy London were too hot for this climate and suddenly she couldn’t wait to change into something cooler. Without the movement of the car to cool the air it was baking hot, the ground dry and parched from the lack of rain.

Despite the less than encouraging volume of rust clinging to the handle, the key slid joyfully into the lock but before she could turn it the gates started to open.

The car inched forwards behind her. ‘I admit that I added a few mod cons,’ Cristiano confessed, his smile apologetic. ‘The key is symbolic rather than essential. Get back in. It’s too hot to walk.’

‘Walk where?’ But Laurel climbed back into the car, noticing for the first time the security cameras above the gates. And then they were driving down a dusty lane bordered by olive groves and almond trees that she suspected had been there for centuries.

Here the air was scented with mimosa and jasmine and the sun beamed down on them as if smiling on their choice of destination.

Intrigued, Laurel glanced at Cristiano but his eyes were on the lane as he carefully negotiated the uneven surface. ‘As you can see, this is a work in progress.’ Grimacing as he picked his route, skilfully protecting the undercarriage of the car, he finally pulled up in a shaded courtyard.

Laurel’s jaw dropped as she saw the magnificent honey-hued building. ‘It’s a castle?’

‘Welcome to Castello di Vicario. The east part was built as a monastery in the twelfth century but the monks were booted out by a Sicilian prince with big ambitions who expanded it to house all his mistresses.’ Cristiano leaned back and stared at the building with satisfaction. A profusion of Mediterranean flowers snaked up the walls and cascaded down from balconies, tumbled in colourful bursts against the sun-baked stone. ‘Because of the views and the seclusion, it was used by artists and writers from all over Europe.’

‘But who owns it now?’

‘We do.’ With that simple response, Cristiano sprang from the car and greeted the two Dobermanns who bounded from nowhere.

Laurel gasped as she saw the dogs, suddenly understanding his remark about already having security. ‘Oh.’ She was out of the car in a flash and down on her knees in the dust, hugging the dogs, laughing and crying as they licked her and greeted her with the same dopey enthusiasm she showed towards them. Within seconds she was covered in dust and paw prints but she didn’t care.

When they were first married she’d hated the level of security he’d insisted on but the one compromise she’d been prepared to make was the dogs. With his customary wry humour he’d called them Rambo and Terminator and she’d taken them everywhere with her whenever she left the security of his offices in the hotel. Losing the dogs had been another reason she’d been broken-hearted to leave the island.

Cristiano watched with amusement as the dogs kicked up dust. ‘Why didn’t you ask me about them?’

‘I didn’t dare. I missed them so much—’ She hugged Rambo tightly, pressing her face into his smooth black coat as he whined his pleasure at seeing her again. ‘I couldn’t bear hearing that you’d sold them or something.’

‘I would never have sold them.’ There was an odd expression on his face as he watched her.

‘No, I don’t suppose you would.’ She played the pouncing game with Terminator as he barked for attention. ‘They’re far too valuable.’

‘That isn’t why.’ His gaze enigmatic, he gestured to the door. ‘Are you interested in seeing your home?’

Home?

‘This is where you live now?’ She rose slowly to her feet, one hand still on Terminator’s head. The significance of it wasn’t lost on her. Taormina was their place. It was the place they’d shared their first kiss. The place where he’d first told her that he loved her.

All the best parts of their relationship had been played out in this exquisite corner of the island. They’d strolled hand in hand along flower-decked streets, they’d enjoyed leisurely meals in one of the many intimate piazzas, but nowhere they’d stayed had been as perfect as this. As private, as exclusive—as romantic. ‘When did you buy it?’

‘I bought it while we were married but it needed a lot of attention. It was supposed to be a surprise.’

The shock of it made her heart skip a beat. ‘While we were married?’

‘It was my gift to you. From the moment I saw how much you loved the place I wanted to find somewhere. It took me eighteen months to persuade the owners to sell. Another six months to make the necessary alterations.’ He breathed deeply. ‘And then you left.’ The raw emotion in his voice brought the lump back to her throat and her eyes met his.

When he held out his hand, she hesitated because voluntarily putting her hand into his felt like a big step and she wasn’t sure she was ready to take it. She experienced a painful moment of indecision and then she slid her hand into his and heard him exhale slowly.

It was a huge leap of faith and he apparently understood that because his fingers closed tightly around hers as he led her round the side of the house to a terrace that overlooked the sea.

‘So, what do you think? Does it meet with your approval?’

Laurel looked up at the castello and felt overawed by the beauty of it. His wealth had always been part of who he was, of course. It was impossible not to be aware of it, but it had never interested her particularly. She’d always thought there was nothing his wealth could buy that could move her.

Until now.

She turned her back and discovered that from the terrace she was looking at a one hundred and eighty degree view that took in the snow-covered peak of Mount Etna and the dazzling emerald sea of the bay of Naxos. And on the terrace itself, just metres from her feet, a series of infinity pools cut into the slope, each cascading into the one beneath, the insistent rush of water soothing in the humid heat of the day.

‘I think you have delusions of grandeur,’ she croaked and he laughed and pulled her into his arms in a possessive gesture, not giving her the chance to reject that spontaneous intimacy.

‘The pools are inspired, don’t you think? You always loved to swim so I told our architect to make use of the gradient to create something special. I always thought it was a good idea but I must admit it surpassed my vision.’

‘You saw us living here?’

‘Yes, for some of the time, at least. It was good enough for DH Lawrence and Truman Capote so it must have something special.’

Yes, it was special. Special in every way. But the most special thing about it was that he’d done this for her.

He’d done this for her while she’d been working the same punishing hours that he’d been working. She’d accused him of being a workaholic and now she was discovering that at least part of his working day had been devoted to building somewhere that she was going to love. Not somewhere he’d lived as a rich single guy but somewhere he’d chosen with her in mind.

Somewhere that was their own.

Her impression of him shifted into a different shape. Thoroughly confused and hating that feeling, she pulled away from him and he sighed.

‘Now what’s going through that head of yours? Tell me what you’re thinking.’

She was thinking that this house, the fact he’d built it in the place she loved most on earth, was an enormous gesture. But it was a gesture with meaning. He’d built it for their future. For the family he’d imagined having. It was all part of his master plan. Looking at the olive groves, she imagined two small versions of Cristiano playing in the shade and then splashing in one of the beautiful turquoise pools.

Maybe he had loved her in his own way. Looking at what he’d created here, she was almost ready to believe that.

Which made the sense of loss even more painfully acute.

They ate lunch on a shaded part of the terrace, surrounded by the lavish gardens and fragrant citrus groves.

Laurel ate fish with lemon and herbs picked from the garden, her cheeks pale and her eyes tired as she pecked at her food. The dogs lay by her feet in a state of dopey adoration, refusing to leave her side as they panted in the heat.

And he was as bad as the dogs, Cristiano thought wryly as he waited for her to confide in him. He knew exactly what was on her mind. It didn’t take a genius to guess and he could have raised it but he wanted to see if she would do it without his prompting.

Aware that confidences were hardly likely to be forthcoming when things were so tense between them, he chose to steer the conversation onto neutral territory. ‘Where have you lived for the past two years?’ He watched, hiding his concern as she toyed with the fish on her plate, her usually healthy appetite clearly challenged by their problems.

Would she tell him what was worrying her?

‘I based myself in London.’

‘You didn’t touch a penny of your allowance in all the time we were apart.’

‘I wasn’t with you for the money, Cristiano.’

‘I would have supported you financially. I made that commitment when we married.’

He waited for her to make a pointed remark about the commitments he hadn’t made but she didn’t.

‘You’re surrounded by people who are only interested in you for what you can give them and you’re complaining because I didn’t want that?’

‘I wanted to provide for you.’ And the strength of that need shocked him because he’d always considered himself progressive for a Sicilian male.

‘Ah.’ Her eyes lifted to his. ‘The Provider.’

The past hung between them and he was acutely aware that although he’d provided for her materially he’d neglected her shamefully on the one occasion she’d reached out to him.

And suddenly he knew with absolute certainty that there was a reason why this was such a hot button for her. It wasn’t just that he, with his horrendously busy schedule and careless attitude had let her down shamefully, it was that he’d ripped open a wound that hadn’t completely healed.

He knew that her childhood had been difficult, but she’d given him few details and he hadn’t pressed. But suddenly he wanted to know who, or what, had caused the original wound.

The shrill tone of his phone disturbed the silence and Cristiano, pre-programmed to answer it promptly, automatically reached for it and then remembered his promise about priorities.

His hand froze in mid-air.

Swiftly recovering, hoping desperately that she hadn’t noticed the detour his hand had taken from the glass in front of him to his pocket, he returned his attention to the woman seated opposite him. The phone continued to ring and Laurel raised an eyebrow.

‘Are you going to answer that?’

‘No.’ It took a painful degree of willpower but somehow he managed not to reach into his pocket although his palms were sweating and his fingers were aching to just answer the damn thing.

It was a relief when it stopped ringing.

Observing his struggle, she put her fork down. ‘Next time just answer it. You know you want to.’

Part of him did want to, but he recognised that as a habitual response derived from years of putting work first.

She’d called him ‘the Provider’ and Cristiano acknowledged the accuracy of that description. He’d slipped into that role from the moment he’d taken the distressed call from his mother on the day his father had died suddenly.

He’d left the US immediately, flown home and taken charge. And he’d been in that role ever since, even though his younger brother had long since proved himself capable of playing his part.

What had started as necessity had become a way of life and he’d never even questioned it.

Until now.

Now, the opportunity to close another deal, to expand the business, to make more profit were all subordinate to his need to make his marriage work. For possibly the first time in his life, he didn’t care what the person on the phone wanted. He had no urge to check his voicemail. He didn’t care if his business was collapsing.

The phone started ringing again, the shrill insistent tone disturbing the tranquillity of the terrace and sending the tiny sparrows swooping for cover. And all the time Laurel was watching him, those beautiful green eyes guarded.

‘Answer it. Then you’ll be able to stop wondering who it was and how much money you just lost by not taking the call.’

‘That isn’t what I’m wondering.’ He was wondering how on earth he was going to compensate for what he’d done to her. How he was going to prove to her that he loved her.

What sort of provider had he been to Laurel? Financially, yes, he’d provided for her, but emotionally he’d left her to fend for herself and that knowledge scraped uncomfortably over his conscience.

‘Did you even tell anyone where you were going?’ She sounded exasperated. ‘They’re probably sending out a search party as we speak.’

‘It’s true that I haven’t told anyone.’

‘You’ve probably triggered a security alert.’

‘Very possibly.’ Remembering the startled faces of his security team, he breathed deeply, frustrated by the realities of his life. ‘Perhaps I ought to just—’

‘Yes. Do it!’ She reached for her glass. ‘I don’t expect you not to work, Cristiano. You’re missing the point. I have every intention of going through my own emails later. I respect your drive and ambition. I have plenty of it myself. That isn’t a problem. That wasn’t the problem.’ Her change of tense took them swiftly to the heart of the real problem and it wasn’t his phone, which had once again stopped ringing.

She sipped her water.

Sweat broke out on the back of his neck.

He was thinking, as she was, that he’d let her down when she’d needed him most. Images of her alone in that hospital bed kept flying into his head. ‘If it is any consolation, I feel like an utter bastard for what I did to you.’

‘You mean for what you didn’t do.’

‘That too.’

‘Good. You should feel bad.’ Slowly, she put her glass down on the table. ‘You were thoughtless and insensitive.’

He winced as he recognised himself in that description. ‘So you’re not going to say, Don’t worry about it?’

‘No. You should worry about it. It was shocking behaviour. If you weren’t worried I wouldn’t be sitting here now.’

Cristiano wondered whether it was him or whether Sicily was in the grip of a searing heatwave. His palms were sweating—even his brain felt hot. When his phone rang for a third time he hauled it out of his pocket deciding that one conversation now would save a myriad of interruptions for the next few weeks.

‘Five minutes,’ he vowed as he scanned the number. ‘It’s Santo. I’ll tell him he’s in charge. Then I’m switching it off.’

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