Читать книгу Bound By The Billionaire's Vows - Clare Connelly - Страница 11

CHAPTER ONE

‘DO YOU HAVE an appointment?’

An appointment? With her own husband? Skye clutched her handbag tighter, thinking of the divorce papers contained within the soft kid-leather. A hint of perspiration ran between her breasts and she shifted uncomfortably. Though the luxurious foyer was well air-conditioned, Skye had been sweltering since touching down at Marco Polo airport earlier that day. Travel weariness, and the exhaustion that had dogged her since walking out on her marriage to Matteo, combined to give her a sense of overwhelming desperation at the task ahead.

‘Signor Vin Santo has a full afternoon. I’m sorry,’ the receptionist murmured, her expression offering no corresponding apology. If anything, it was all manicured smugness.

Skye’s voice was soft when she spoke, weakened by the difficulty of what lay ahead. Divorce was essential—and it had to be now. She’d go to almost any lengths to get Matteo to agree easily. She needed his signature on these papers so she could get the hell out of Italy. Before he discovered the truth. ‘If you tell Matteo I’m here, I’m sure he’ll cancel whatever he has on.’

The receptionist’s disdain was barely concealed. ‘Signorina...?’

Skye’s own smile reflected the other woman’s emotion. It was a common mistake. Skye was only twenty-two and she was often told she looked younger still. The make-up she’d applied painstakingly that morning had sweated off throughout the day, and she stood in the impossibly glamorous offices feeling as out of place as she had been in their marriage. Nonetheless, she had a right to be there. A reason. She tilted her chin, staring down at the receptionist as though this weren’t the culmination of all her nightmares.

‘Signora,’ Skye corrected emphatically. ‘Signora Skye Vin Santo.’

Skye had the satisfaction of seeing the other woman’s mouth form a perfect red ‘o’ of surprise, but she recovered swiftly, reaching for the telephone and lifting it to her ear. Her eyes dropped to Skye’s finger and Skye was glad she’d slipped the ten-carat solitaire back into place for the day. ‘Mi dispiace! I’m so sorry, Mrs Vin Santo,’ the receptionist said, pressing a button and waiting for the phone to connect. ‘I had no idea Signor Vin Santo was married.’

Skye’s nod was dismissive, but the words cut deeply. Why should this woman have known of her boss’s marital status? It wasn’t as though they’d been married long. Skye had walked out on him after just over a month. A month too long.

How had she been so fooled by him even for that period of time? Hell, why had she even married him? That was easy. Out of nowhere, an unwelcome image of Matteo flooded her mind’s eye, reminding her of how he’d been the evening they’d met. In a cocktail suit, so handsome and charming, so intent on seducing her. She’d been so easy to seduce and he’d been so persistent. Fate, she’d told herself at the time. Lies, she’d later discovered. All of it.

She heard the rapid-fire Italian conversation without comprehending. Her eyes were fixed to the view of Venice, a city she’d once adored with all of herself. A city she’d thought she’d spend the rest of her days in. She hardened her heart to its charms now, ignoring the way the gondolas glided past, full of grace and pride; the way the water formed glistening little sunlit peaks and troughs as it was stirred by the activity. She ignored the way the ancient buildings huddled together, singing the secrets of their souls, the way the bridges seemed to emote wisdom and strength. She ignored the dazzling colour of the sky and the birds she could see but not hear—she didn’t need to hear them to remember the way they sounded. The flapping of their wings was the breath sound of Venice.

It was beautiful, but it was no longer for her. Skye spun round, glad to turn her back on the view, even when it meant she was staring at the disdainful receptionist once more. The woman stood—she was taller than Skye had been able to appreciate while seated—and made her way to stand directly in front of Skye.

‘Signor Vin Santo will see you now. Is there something you would like? Some water? A soda?’

Vodka, Skye thought with a wry smile. ‘Mineral water would be good. Thank you,’ she tacked on belatedly. She hadn’t meant to sound rude. Her whole mind was now focused on the job ahead. The most important performance of her life. Getting Matteo to sign the damned papers so she could finally move on—far, far away from him.

‘Certainly, madam. This way.’ The receptionist moved a little ahead of Skye, swishing her hips as she went, and Skye felt a momentary jab of envy for the other woman’s curves. Skye had always been slim, but she’d desperately wanted larger breasts and hips when she was younger and had spent much of her teenage years stuffing her bras with tissues.

‘Here we are,’ the receptionist smiled, noticeably warmer now she knew to whom she was speaking, and stepped aside. ‘He’s waiting for you.’

Why did that conjure a very strong image of a wolf?

Because Matteo was all predator. All strong, ruthless, heartless predator.

And she’d been his prey.

Well, that was no longer the case.

Skye squared her shoulders defiantly, mentally bracing herself and straightening her spine, sucking in a deep breath which she hoped would bring courage.

Still, nothing could have prepared her for that moment. The moment when the door swung open and Matteo stood just inside it.

Nothing.

The air ceased to exist; it was sucked out and she stood in a vacuum. A space devoid of oxygen, gravity, reason and sense. There was just her and Matteo, her husband. Her beautiful, hyper-masculine, ruggedly handsome, lying, cheating husband.

Her throat was dry, her nerves quivering.

Strength be damned.

She wanted to run at him. But to kiss him? Or claw his eyes out? Probably, she realised with a sinking heart, the former. She wanted to wrap her arms around his neck and pull his head down, pull his mouth to hers, to greet him as though she still believed in love and happily ever after.

He looked good enough to eat. It was pure coincidence that he was wearing the suit she’d always loved—the navy-blue one that drew attention to his broad shoulders and dark tan. Her eyes lifted to his face: his square jawline with the stubble that was nothing to do with fashion and everything to do with his impatience with something as dull as shaving; higher, to his generous lips and patrician nose; to cheekbones that were firm and high, slashed into his face in a sign of his determination; and eyes that were so dark they were almost black but for the flecks of gold that glistened in their depths.

Eyes that were staring at her now, undertaking their own inspection, running down her body with the kind of passion and possession she had, once upon a time, found mesmerising and addictive. Eyes that missed nothing, that skated over her stiletto-clad feet, higher to her slim, bare legs and the floaty dress she wore that fell to just above her knees and covered her in a mysterious cloud of pale yellow fabric. Her arms were bare; he caught a glimpse of her wedding ring and grimaced.

Good.

Let him feel the awkwardness of this.

His eyes lifted higher to her face, roaming it freely...marking it for changes?

There were not many. In fact, Skye would have said she looked almost exactly as she had five weeks earlier when she’d left their house, their marriage, their life. All of her changes were internal, except for the heavy fringe she’d had cut a week or so earlier, having decided spontaneously that she needed a change. Some outward sign that she was no longer the same woman who’d been caught up in the Matteo Vin Santo Show.

She had grown up—a lot—in the short space of time. She barely recognised the woman she’d been. So naïve, stupid and so damned trusting!

‘Thank you for seeing me,’ she said, breaking the silence with a businesslike tone, pleased with how crisply she enunciated each syllable. ‘I won’t take up much of your time.’

Ah, how well she knew him! She saw the glint of sardonic mockery in his eyes and she resented him for that. His ability to make her feel foolish and immature even in this, the most adult of circumstances.

He said nothing, though, simply stepping deeper into the room, making room for her to enter his office. She did so with no degree of pleasure. She’d been in the room before, and her eyes fell to the table, taking in the very spot where she’d sat and started to sign the papers. The papers that had been the beginning of the end.

‘You don’t love me, do you?’ She stared at the documents and then her husband as all the pieces of information came together. ‘I asked my lawyer about this. He told me everything. You. My dad. The whole sordid history. This is why you married me!’

His surprise was obvious and it infuriated Skye.

‘You really didn’t think I’d find out? You didn’t think I’d ask about this?’ She waved the contract in the air. ‘It’s all been about this damned hotel, hasn’t it? A hotel my dad bought from your grandfather. A hotel you’ve been trying to buy back for fifteen years. My God! This is what our marriage is all about!’

Silence stretched between them. Silence that pulled, pulled and pulled at her nerve-ends until they snapped.

‘We should talk about this later,’ he said seriously. ‘Just sign the papers and we’ll go for dinner tonight.’

‘Don’t.’ She slammed her palm down on the table. ‘Don’t you dare infantilise me! I deserve to know the truth. I want to hear it from your own mouth. This hotel is why you came to London. Why you met me. Right?’

His eyes narrowed and for a moment she wondered if he would say something to make this better, to alleviate the pain that was cracking through her soul.

‘Yes.’

Skye’s heart shook in her chest. She gripped the chair-back for support. ‘And why you married me?’

He was quiet for a long moment; it was a silence that tore her to shreds. And then he gave a simple, decisive nod that was the death knell to the fragile hopes she still held deep inside.

The memories were swirling through her, threatening to suck her back in time, but the door clicking shut jolted her into the present.

They were alone.

‘Well, Skye, this is...unexpected.’

Her heart thumped painfully in her chest, ramming against her ribcage. God, his accent. How had she forgotten the sensual appeal of his husky, deep, Italian-edged voice?

Be strong. This will be over soon enough.

‘You must have known I’d come back at some point,’ she said with a shrug of her slender shoulders, pleased with how confident the words sounded, even as her fingers were shaking a little.

‘I knew no such thing,’ he countered. His accent was thicker—a sign of his fury, she knew. It was only in moments of deep emotional distress that this happened. ‘You disappeared into thin air after you left my office without so much as the courtesy of a goodbye.’

Skye’s caramel eyes flew wide. ‘Courtesy? You want to talk about courtesy?’

His eyes narrowed warningly. ‘I want to talk about where the hell you’ve been.’

‘Like you care,’ she said with a roll of her eyes.

‘My wife disappeared, leaving no way to contact her. You think I don’t care?’

‘This is all about acquisition and ownership for you, isn’t it? Your wife.’ She shook her head angrily, realising that she was fighting a losing battle. ‘I was in England,’ she said on a sigh.

‘Not at your house,’ he said, and for a second her heart squeezed. Because it was proof he’d looked for her. Proof he’d tried to find her.

‘No.’ A rejection of that tenderness.

She knew why he’d looked for her and it had nothing to do with their sham marriage. He must have been furious to discover that she’d cancelled his purchase. That she’d found out about the pieces he’d been casually, secretly, manoeuvring through their short, disastrous marriage. Had he thought he could keep her so sensually fogged that she wouldn’t wake up and realise what the hell was going on? He had almost been right. He’d come so close to taking the hotel from her without her even realising.

‘Where were you?’ he pushed, his own words hardened with something she knew to be anger. Because Matteo Vin Santo liked to win. He liked to win at all costs, and she’d found out just in time.

‘It’s none of your damned business.’ She glared at him now, the veneer of civility slipping away. She tried to grab it but being here with him, in this room, overpowered by how damned handsome he was, made something inside her snap.

‘You’re my wife,’ he corrected, moving closer so that she caught a hint of his masculine fragrance. Her knees almost buckled. ‘I have every right to know.’

But it was the wrong thing to say. His casual insistence of his rights fired every hint of anger in her body. ‘That’s outrageous.’ Her eyes held the strength of steel when they locked with his. ‘You have no rights. Not where I’m concerned.’

A muscle throbbed at the base of his jaw. ‘You’re my wife.’ As though that explained everything!

‘That’s what I’m here to talk to you about,’ Skye asserted forcefully in an attempt to regain control of the situation, reaching for her handbag at the same moment a sharp knock on the door preceded the interruption of the receptionist.

She brought a bottle of mineral water and a glass with ice cubes and a wedge of lemon into the room and placed them on the boardroom table.

‘Thank you,’ Skye murmured, relieved to have a form of distraction. She hoped it might calm her raging nerves. She twisted the lid, waiting for the hiss of bubbles to silence and the receptionist to leave the room, before tipping half the water into the glass.

‘What, exactly, are you here to discuss?’ he prompted, crossing his arms over his chest. She didn’t need to look at him to know how broad that chest was. She lifted her mineral water and moved towards the window instead, staring down at Venice without really seeing it.

‘Our marriage.’ The words were a ghost. They conjured all the memories she wanted to forget.

The love-at-first-sight romance. The wedding itself. The way their marriage had been marked by nights of complete sensual abandon. Long days of waiting for him to come home hadn’t mattered. She’d been so exhausted she’d napped and eaten, preparing for his return, and then she’d been his willing sex slave. Self-disgust at her stupidity gnawed at her gut.

She twisted the enormous diamond around her finger before sliding it off one last time. ‘And how we’re going to end it.’ She spun round, her back to the view, her eyes landing squarely on his face, locking to his. She bravely held his gaze as she placed the ring on the boardroom table, then hastily stepped away from it as though it might burn her.

His expression was grim, but he said nothing initially. There was no shock. No outrage. No attempt to argue. To win her back.

Because it had never really been about her.

It had been about him, his grandfather, her father, and some stupid hotel she’d never even heard of. A vendetta that she knew nothing about which seemed to have controlled the lives of all those she’d loved. Her father, her husband...

Skye straightened her back, wounded pride forming the shield she needed.

‘I have the divorce papers here,’ she said softly. ‘You just need to sign them and I’ll take care of the rest.’

He expelled a breath; his expression gave little away. ‘Show me.’

Skye could scarcely believe how well this was going! She’d been fretting about meeting Matteo again, yet he was being so reasonable... She told herself she was relieved.

‘Here.’ She pulled the document out of her handbag. It was only five pages long. She passed it to him, careful not to get too close, careful not to let their fingers touch.

His eyes, when they met hers, were scathing. He knew. He knew she was avoiding him.

He skimmed each sheet of paper, reading the words quickly, then placed them on the edge of his desk.

‘And if I don’t want to divorce you?’

Skye froze, the success she’d already been inwardly celebrating shattering. Her face drained of all colour. ‘Don’t be absurd.’ The words were whispered from her before she remembered that she needed to be strong. Confident. Matteo preyed on weakness.

‘What’s absurd about wanting to stay married to you?’

And he strode across the room, closing the distance between them, his eyes locked to hers until she was quivering where she stood. Strength, apparently, deserted her at her moment of need.

‘This wasn’t a real marriage,’ she muttered, standing her ground with effort. ‘We both know that.’

His lips flicked with what she took to reflect silent agreement.

‘It felt real enough to me.’ The words were dangerously silky. His hand snaked around her waist, catching her completely by surprise. He jerked her against him, her softness meeting his hard strength in a way that was instantly familiar. Desire flooded her. Heat scorched her soul and a soft moan escaped her lips unbidden. It was foolish to stay so close to him, yet she did. She had denied herself this contact for long, miserable weeks, and now she wanted to enjoy it. Just for a moment. One last time.

‘It wasn’t,’ she said huskily. ‘I know that now.’

‘What do you know?’ The question was asked quietly. Almost gently.

‘I know everything.’ She closed her eyes. ‘I know about your father and my father. I know they fell in love with the same woman and your father married her. I know that my father was angry. I know that he went out of his way to hurt your family.’ Her words cracked as she glossed over the admittance of her father’s part in the angst. ‘I know he felt hurt and rejected and that he took it out on you financially.’

Matteo’s laugh was a grim rejection. ‘You make it sound so sterile. Believe me, this was not the case.’ He leaned forward, his expression menacing. ‘Carey Johnson bankrupted my grandfather. Your father destroyed everything my grandfather spent a lifetime building.’

His vehement passion paralysed her for a moment, but belatedly she found her voice. ‘And so you wanted to punish me?’

Silence fell around them, thick and caustic. She could see him weighing his words, carefully choosing what to say.

‘It was never about punishing you,’ he said finally.

‘Punishing him, then? Punishing my dad?’

What could he say to that? Wasn’t it the truth? Hadn’t he delighted in the final insult he’d held over that bastard Carey Johnson? Making Skye moan for him, Matteo, in his bed all night long? Yes. He’d wanted to take his revenge, one sweet night at a time, and Skye had been a very obliging pawn in his game.

‘You married me because you loved me.’ He returned to their original point with apparent ease, the question asked silkily. ‘Remember?’

God, she had loved him. She’d fallen for him, but it had all been an act. She noted dispassionately how he hadn’t included his own feelings in the neat summation. His feelings were irrelevant; no, his feelings were non-existent. ‘Love and hate are so close on the emotional spectrum, aren’t they? It amazed me, too, how quickly that love morphed into something else.’

‘You’re saying you hate me?’ he prompted, his free hand lifting to her hip, holding her where she was. She felt the stirring of his arousal and her breath snagged in her throat.

Sex.

That was the only truth of their marriage. Even he wasn’t that good an actor. The desire had been real. It had controlled him as much as it had her.

‘Of course I hate you,’ she hissed, knowing she needed to pull away from him—that she would, in a moment. ‘How could I feel anything else for you?’

His laugh was pure, sensual cynicism. ‘Careful, cara. You and I both know how easy it would be for me to prove you a liar.’ He rolled his hips, bringing his arousal into intimate contact with her body, and Skye felt a groan tear through her. Need, unmistakable and urgent, grew within her soul.

‘That’s just physical,’ she hissed, her eyes locked to the top button of his crisp, pale blue shirt. ‘And I’m sure you’ve had enough experience to know it doesn’t mean a damned thing.’

‘But you haven’t,’ he reminded her mercilessly, his eyes glowing with intensity. ‘You were all mine.’

More memories. Their first time together—her first time with any man. She bit down on her lip, hating the way her nerves jerked in response. He’d taken hold of her that night, body and soul. He’d unlocked parts of her she hadn’t even been aware of, and it had all been a part of his game. His plan for revenge. How easy she’d been to con into this marriage—into his bed!

‘And I think you still are.’

A garbled sound escaped from Skye’s throat. But it wasn’t a denial. Was it a sound of surrender? Because he was right. She was desperate to feel his body once more. To be with him one last time.

He would probably always have that power over her, but everything hinged on her being able to stay strong. To remember the reason she had to get the papers signed and get the heck away from him. There was no future for them. There couldn’t be. How could she stay married to a man she loved with all her heart, raise a baby with him, knowing that he’d used her in the most cynical of ways?

Her only hope was never to see him again. To go far from where he could find her. And that was her plan. Once he’d signed the papers she was going to disappear again. She thought of the ticket in her purse, a flight to Australia for later that night, where she planned to find her way to a remote corner of the country, somewhere with a view of the beach, and set about healing her broken heart.

‘You’re wrong.’ She pulled away from him with determination, moving back to the window and staring out at Venice.

‘Am I?’

‘Oh, fine.’ She shrugged her shoulders, not turning around. ‘Apparently, I still...desire you. So what? You were my first lover. I dare say my body won’t ever completely forget the lessons you taught me.’ Fragments of their nights cut through her determination. The way he’d kissed her for hours; the way his mouth had owned her body. The way they’d swum naked in the moonlit ocean off the coast of Sicily or in the rooftop pool at his Venetian mansion. The sensual massages he’d given her. She pushed those thoughts aside. ‘But nor will my heart.’

‘And what did I teach your heart, cara?’

‘Not to trust handsome strangers,’ she said, the humour of the comment sucked away by the desperation in her voice. ‘Sign the papers, Matteo. This marriage is over.’

‘And if I won’t?’ The words were thick with emotion. And for a second hope scorched her. But it was a foolish hope, the same blind love that had led her into the marriage.

‘You wanted revenge. You got it.’

‘I wanted the hotel,’ he said with a dangerous softness to his voice. ‘You were...a silver lining.’

‘A silver lining?’ she returned angrily. ‘For God’s sake, Matteo. I loved you! Doesn’t that mean anything to you?’

He stared at her long and hard. ‘That wasn’t love you felt. It was infatuation. Sex.’

She swallowed past a lump of bitterness in her throat. He was wrong. She’d loved him with her whole heart. She wouldn’t tell him that now, but somehow knowing that their baby had been conceived with goodness in her heart, at least, mattered a whole lot to her.

‘Perhaps you’re right,’ she said with an attempt at a nonchalant shrug. ‘It’s all academic now. Our marriage is over. There’s obviously no way on earth I could ever forget what you’ve done. Nor forgive you for it.’ She sucked in a breath and stared at him headlong. ‘You can have the hotel.’

He was instantly still, every nerve ending in his body in a state of stasis. ‘You’re saying you’ll sell me Il Grande Fortuna?’

‘On one condition,’ she said frostily, devastation at this final, damning proof seeping into her blood, turning it to ice. ‘Sign the damned papers and stay the hell out of my life.’

* * *

When Skye had walked out on their marriage, having learned the truth behind his motivations for pursuing her, he’d had to reconcile himself to the reality that he might never recover his grandfather’s beloved Il Grande Fortuna.

He’d put all his chips on the one square, gambling on marriage to the rich heiress as the best way to get what he wanted. And to have a little fun along the way.

His plan had been simple enough—seduce her and blind her with the passion they shared, making her willing to do, say or sign anything he asked of her. And he’d come so close. She had been eating out of the palm of his hand. Until she wasn’t.

Their marriage had always been about the hotel.

About returning his family’s property to its rightful owner—him.

It had been about righting a wrong of the past.

About avenging his nonno.

Hell, he’d married her because it had been the only way to get the hotel back into his family’s trust. Now she was giving him the thing he’d wanted all his adult life on a silver platter, yet he found himself hesitating.

Why the hell wasn’t he just agreeing to her terms?

Because he didn’t like to concede defeat. And, even though he’d have the hotel, he didn’t like the idea of Skye walking away from him before he was ready.

‘Sign the divorce papers, Teo.’ She used the diminutive form of his name by mistake. The way her face paled showed her remorse. That wasn’t who they were any more. Hell, they’d never been that couple. Not really.

He’d never even wanted a wife. He’d wanted the hotel, and their marriage had been the clearest way to achieve that aim, but Matteo Vin Santo was a bachelor from way back. If he signed this paper, he’d be rid of the wife he’d never really wanted and he’d have the hotel. The only thing to regret was that he wouldn’t have the pleasure of his wife’s body again. A small price to pay for achieving a decades-old goal, though. ‘Fine.’ His nod was curt.

Her relief was palpable. He tried not to take it personally. She’d be all kinds of stupid to want anything other than a divorce from him—and Skye Johnson was definitely not stupid.

‘But I have a condition of my own.’

Her brows shot up, her lips parted, and he ached to kiss her. To wipe that look of disdain from her pretty features. To remind her of just how she came apart in his arms. He’d always loved her in yellow. It showed off her flawless honey skin, the darkness of her hair, the innocence of who she was.

‘I want one more night with you.’

Skye froze, her eyes sweeping shut, her lips parting wider as she struggled for breath. He watched the words take effect; the way colour spread through her cheeks.

‘No.’ It was just a whisper. A husky denial. ‘Never.’

He laughed, a harsh sound of cynicism and frustration. ‘Never say never, cara. Not when you fall apart in my arms as you do...’

Skye tilted her chin, her eyes locked defiantly with his.

‘Desire is one thing, but I have no intention of acting on it.’

‘Then I have no intention of signing those papers,’ he threatened silkily.

Panic flooded her. Fascinating.

‘What’s the matter? Is the idea of being Mrs Matteo Vin Santo so abhorrent to you? I remember a time when you couldn’t wait to be my wife—and be in my bed.’

‘I didn’t know who you were then. Nor what you were capable of.’

‘And what am I capable of?’

‘It doesn’t matter.’ Haunted, miserable words that slammed against him. Guilt was not something Matteo had much experience of, but he felt a flush of it. He didn’t like it.

His obligation was to his family.

Not Skye.

But her hurt was obvious and it was a hurt he had caused.

Yes, he felt guilt. He felt remorse. He wished...what? That he could change it? That he could have procured the hotel without hurting her?

It wasn’t possible. He’d tried that. He’d spent years trying to lure her father into selling and the bastard had been determined.

‘Over my dead body.’ Those were the last words Carey Johnson had said to Matteo. If Carey had only listened to reason, if he hadn’t been driven by the stupid grudge that had led to his taking the hotel in the first instance, it would never have come to this.

But, looking across his office at his wife, Matteo wasn’t sure he cared about the hotel, his grandfather or her father. None of them mattered. He wasn’t foolish enough to think he could salvage their marriage—nor did he believe he wanted to. But he needed, desperately, to kiss her.

To touch her.

To wipe away the grief that was saturating her slender frame.

Like he used to, as though it were his God-given right to hold her in his arms. They were tinder and flame—together the effect had always been extraordinary.

‘Don’t.’ Her eyes held a warning. ‘Don’t look at me like that.’

‘Like what?’ He moved closer, just a few steps, and there was still a table between them. Her ring caught his eye and he reached for it without realising, fingering its weight in his hand, remembering the day he’d bought it. He’d deliberately chosen something enormous, thinking it would be exactly what she would want. The heiress of the Johnson fortune surely valued enormity and extravagance over all else?

Only it had never really suited her. Over the weeks of their short marriage, he’d begun to imagine what he should have chosen instead. Something slender with an understated elegance, made of rose-gold and inlaid diamonds. Perhaps onyx, to match her hair.

He swallowed past the thought. It was a distraction, a red herring. What he needed was to remember the hotel. To remember the reason he’d done all of this.

‘Don’t look at me like you’re actually sorry this is happening. Like you didn’t expect it.’ She tilted her chin. ‘Like this has anything to do with you and me.’

‘It is our marriage we’re discussing ending.’

‘Marriage!’ She spat the word and his gut rolled. It was as though a blade had been plunged through him. Her anger and disbelief filled the room. ‘This was never a marriage! It was a damned trick. A machination. Nothing more. You win, okay? You win! Take the hotel! I don’t want it. I don’t want anything that will ever remind me of you!’ Her voice was loud. He’d put bets on his receptionist Anastasia having heard every word but he didn’t care.

Skye’s pain was palpable and he longed to kiss her to wipe it away. It was the only way he could think of to remove the ache from her eyes; the tears that glistened on her lashes were tiny, moist recriminations that landed squarely in his chest.

‘How you must have loved the knowledge that you had such a sweet revenge over my father! How you’d done something he would have hated, something I would never have agreed to if I’d known about your feud. How you must have been laughing at me! Every night when you came home you found me so happy to see you, and all the while you were lining up the pieces, getting ready to finally swoop.’

A muscle jerked on the hard ridge of his jaw. ‘Yes, Skye. I’m only human. Do you want me to lie to you now? To tell you that our marriage had nothing to do with the fact your father was the biggest bastard on earth? That the fact I hated him with every fibre of my being didn’t have anything to do with why I married you?’

She held a hand up. Her fingers were shaking and her face was so pale that, momentarily, he felt a clutch of anxiety for her. She looked terrible; ill. Matteo was torn between anger at the situation and a strange concern for his wife.

Tears spilled out of her eyes now, rolling down her cheeks. She was so weary. All the planning and coping had taken its toll, and she was utterly exhausted. It showed in the tremble of her voice and the grey of her cheeks. ‘No. There’s nothing you can say that I want to hear. In fact, I can’t bear to be in the same room as you for a moment longer. Just sign the divorce papers. Please. Take the hotel and leave me alone.’ She bit down on her lip as she tried to keep her sobbing at bay.

It was everything he’d wanted. He’d come to accept that he would never get the hotel back—not once Skye had learned the truth. And here she was, offering it to him on a silver platter just to be rid of him.

Was that it? Was his pride wounded by her desperation to be free of their marriage? Was that why he wanted to rail against her insistence? To remind her of what they’d shared—physically—one last time?

His eyes dropped to the divorce papers and then lifted with a heavy grimness towards her face. ‘Fine. If that’s what you want.’

‘I never want to see you again.’

* * *

The heat of Venice slapped her in the face as soon as she stepped out of his office. It was early afternoon and the city was packed. Workers were jostling along the street, tourists were busy taking photographs and Skye was in the midst of them, surprise at what she’d just accomplished moving through her.

She took a step towards the crowds, her mind numb. What now?

Her breath was shallow.

Shock, she supposed, reaching for a pillar to support her. Stars flew in her eyes and heat spread through her body followed by weakness and an odd, soul-deep exhaustion.

It was over.

She was free.

Her hand pressed to her stomach and another wave of tiredness hit her. She didn’t want anything to do with Matteo, but she was going to raise their baby. Could she do it and never think of him?

She’d have to. Matteo was in her past and this baby was her future.

The baby was all that mattered.

She sucked in a breath, but it didn’t seem to reach her lungs.

‘Eh, you okay, miss?’

A kindly gondola operator lifted his brows, waiting for an answer, so she nodded, even though she wasn’t sure she was. ‘Just hot,’ she said, fanning her face.

But the simple, tiny exertion of moving her hand up and down was the straw that broke the camel’s back. Darkness enveloped her.