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ALLEGRA FELT AS if she’d frozen, as if the very air around her had turned to ice and snow. She closed her eyes, then opened them. Across the table, she saw Stefano’s gaze sweep over her, concern flickering across his features.

His marriage. He’d been married. Married, to someone else. Not to her, never to her. He’d loved someone else, had been with someone else, had said his vows to someone else.

Who?

She swallowed a sudden impulse to laugh, to laugh wildly and loudly until there was nothing left inside.

Why had he not told her? Where was his former wife?

Why was she so hurt?

A restive, rational part of her brain told her there was no reason to react this way, to feel this way. So Stefano had been married. True, he hadn’t mentioned it, but why should he?

Professional.

Friends.

And yet nothing felt professional or friendly about their relationship right now. All Allegra could feel right now was the burning brand of Stefano’s lips on hers, the hurt inside that she’d held back all these years, the girl inside who was still—still—crying out,

Do you love me?

She closed her eyes, willing the flood of feelings to recede.

She hadn’t broken down for seven years and she wasn’t about to break down now.

She wasn’t about to break down ever.

She stiffened her shoulders, lifted her chin. Next to her, Antonia let out a raucous bird-like laugh as she chatted and flirted with the man on her other side.

Allegra heard the murmur of conversation around her, knew no one was paying attention to her, and tried to relax. She stared down at her uneaten dessert, a custard flan in a golden pool of syrup, and felt her stomach roil and rebel.

Relax.

So Stefano had been married. It didn’t mean anything; it wouldn’t mean anything to her.

And yet still … still. Still it mattered, still it meant something. She didn’t want to think what, couldn’t bear to analyse the feeling. Yet she already knew.

Hurt. It was hurt.

Allegra picked up her fork and took a bite of her dessert. It might as well have been cardboard for all she could taste; she was too preoccupied with this new awareness, this new hurt. Understanding and accepting it … and then dismissing it.

Why was she hurt? Why did she let him get under her skin, into her heart now? Still?

Always.

Allegra shook her head in instinctive, desperate denial. No. She wasn’t that girl.

Do you love me?

She wasn’t; she knew what he was like, had known for years. He’d bought her, had bought her like an object, a thing. And, worse, he’d treated her like one.

Not a treasure.

Never a treasure.

No matter what she’d wanted to convince herself of for a single evening’s enjoyment.

She pushed her dessert away, took a sip of wine and felt Stefano’s eyes on her. He was chatting with a business colleague across the table, but his considering glance swept over her, and out of the corner of her eye Allegra saw his mouth tighten and knew he was aware that she was upset. He just didn’t know why.

Dessert was cleared, coffee served, and Allegra forced herself to make small talk with the dowdy housewife on her left. Antonia had abandoned her completely, and Allegra could only be relieved. She didn’t need any more well-placed catty remarks right now.

After the meal the guests circulated, chatting and laughing, while music from a string quartet played softly. Allegra moved through the elegant crowd, saw Stefano sweep the room with a hawk-eyed gaze. She wound her way through the throng and leaned against a cool marble pillar. She didn’t know what she’d say to Stefano now, didn’t even know what to think.

‘Why are you hiding again?’ Stefano had come behind her without her realizing it, and now she stiffened.

‘I’m not hiding,’ she retorted and he raised one eyebrow.

‘You were avoiding me.’

She lifted her chin. ‘Don’t be so arrogant.’

‘You’re denying it?’

‘I didn’t feel like talking, Stefano, to you or anyone. I’m tired, and this isn’t exactly my crowd.’

In answer he touched her chin with his fingertips, levelled her gaze to meet his own. ‘What’s wrong?’ he asked quietly.

Something ached in Allegra. If only it were so simple, if only he really wanted to know. To understand.

If only he could make it better.

‘Nothing,’ she said through numb lips.

‘You’re upset.’

‘Stop telling me what I am!’ Allegra snapped, her voice rising enough so there was a lull in the conversation.

‘You could mingle,’ Stefano said mildly. ‘Get to know people.’

Allegra kept her gaze averted. ‘I don’t feel like it.’

‘I was hoping,’ he continued in that aggravatingly calm voice, ‘that we could enjoy ourselves this evening.’

She hunched one shoulder, her face averted. ‘I’m tired, and I’m not really here to be your escort, am I, Stefano? Remember? I’m here to help Lucio. That’s all.’

‘You think I don’t know that?’ There was a savage edge to his voice that made Allegra’s gaze slide nervously yet curiously to his. She was shocked to see his face, the hard lines and harsh angles of a man set in bitterness. In anger. ‘You think I don’t remind myself of that every day?’ he demanded in a low voice.

Allegra shook her head, not daring to consider what he might mean. What he might want. ‘Stefano …’

‘Allegra, all I’m asking is that you act normally. Socialise. Chat. You used to be able to talk the hind leg off a donkey. I never got a word in edgewise. Have you changed so much?’ He smiled then, and Allegra felt the revealing prickle of tears behind her lids.

She remembered those conversations, how she’d chattered and laughed about anything and everything—stupid, girlish, childish dreams—and Stefano had listened. He’d always listened.

‘Stefano, don’t,’ she whispered.

He touched his thumb to her eyelid and it came away damp. ‘Don’t what?’

‘Don’t,’ Allegra repeated helplessly. Don’t make me remember. Don’t make me fall in love with you. You broke my heart once; I couldn’t stand it again.

The realization that it was in fact a possibility should have terrified her, but right now all Allegra felt was sad. She felt, perhaps for the first time, the sweet, piercing stab of regret.

She blinked, and Stefano’s thumb came away wet again. ‘Why are you crying?’ he whispered and there was surprise and sorrow in his voice.

Allegra shook her head. ‘I don’t want to think about the past. I don’t want to remember.’

‘What about the good bits?’ Stefano asked. ‘There were some, weren’t there?’

‘Yes, but not enough.’ She took a deep, steadying breath and then stepped away from Stefano’s touch. ‘Never enough.’

‘No,’ Stefano agreed, his voice odd, flat. ‘Never enough.’

‘Besides,’ Allegra agreed, emboldened now that he wasn’t touching her, ‘you talk as if we had something real and deep and we didn’t.’ Another breath, more courage. ‘Not, presumably, like you did with someone else.’

Stefano stilled, his expression deepening, darkening into a frown. ‘What are you talking about?’

‘I heard, Stefano,’ Allegra said. She took another breath; her lungs hurt. Or maybe it was somewhere else, somewhere deeper that had absolutely no business being hurt. ‘Antonia told me you were married.’

Even now Allegra expected him to deny it, to laugh even, or make some remark about how the closest he’d come to marriage was with her. Instead, a muscle flickered in his jaw and he gave a tiny shrug.

‘It wasn’t relevant.’

Allegra laughed; the sound carried on the air and people looked their way. ‘It would have been nice to know.’

‘Why, Allegra? Why would you need to know?’ There was a fierce, blazing look in his eyes and on his face that had Allegra stepping back again.

‘Just … just because,’ she said, and her reasons and self-righteousness deserted her, leaving her with nothing but a few stammered excuses. ‘It’s the kind of thing I should—’

‘Know?’ Stefano finished. His voice was soft and dangerous. ‘Do you ask all the adults you come in contact with about their marital history? The parents of the children you work with?’ He smiled mockingly, his eyes hard and cold.

‘You know it’s not that simple,’ Allegra snapped. ‘Stop turning the tables on me, Stefano. You conveniently forget and remember the past—our past—however the mood strikes you! Well, allow me the same courtesy!’ She realized, belatedly, that her voice had risen yet again. People were staring.

‘This is not the place,’ Stefano said between his teeth, ‘for this discussion.’

She ignored him, shaking her head, the implications exploding through her mind. ‘I don’t even know if you’re divorced. If you have children.’

‘I’m widowed,’ he bit out. ‘I told you before, I have no children.’ His hand clamped down on her elbow. ‘Now we’re going home.’

‘Maybe I don’t want to go home with you!’ she said, jerking away from him, her voice rising to a shriek—a shriek people heard.

There was a moment of embarrassed silence, and then the conversation resumed at double speed and sound.

Allegra swallowed, felt colour stain her face and throat. She was making a scene. A big one.

And Stefano was angry about it—perhaps angrier than she’d ever seen him before.

‘Are you quite finished?’ he asked in a voice of arctic politeness.

Allegra couldn’t look at him as she nodded. ‘Yes. We can go,’ she whispered.

‘Perhaps we should stay,’ Stefano told her in a deadly murmur, ‘and brazen it out. But I’ll have mercy … on both of us.’ He took her elbow once more and guided her none too gently out of the ballroom.

She managed to hold her head high even though her face was aflame as Stefano escorted her from the room amid a hiss of speculative murmurs. They were both silent all the way to the car.

Vespas and taxis sped around them in a glitter of lights as they drove from the hotel to the quieter Parioli district.

Allegra sagged against the seat. Her behaviour, she knew, had been inexcusable. She should have waited to talk to Stefano back at his town house rather than force a full confrontation in the middle of an important business engagement.

She closed her eyes against the prickling of tears. He should have told her he’d been married.

No matter what he said now, what arguments he so reasonably gave her, he should have told her.

She should have known.

Why didn’t she know? Allegra wondered. Why had she never heard? Surely, somewhere, somehow she should have known.

Perhaps she should have felt it.

And yet, a mocking voice asked her silently, why should you have known? Didn’t you sever all ties when you left that night? She’d never seen her parents again; her father had died less than a year after, and her mother …

Her mother had got what she wanted. She lived her own life now in Milan, bankrolled by a steady stream of lovers.

As for anyone else who might have known of Stefano’s marriage … who? Who were those people? The girls she’d known at convent school? The relatives who’d shunned her?

She’d made choices in life, instinctive choices that had kept her well away from Stefano and his circle. And, really, she hadn’t wanted to know, had never asked anyone about Stefano, had avoided talking or even thinking about him. It was precisely this kind of information that she’d never wanted to hear.

Yet, in the end, none of it had worked, for here they were together, in this very car, the silence freezing and hostile, their knees still touching. And her heart was hurt, crying out once more.

The car pulled up to the town house and Allegra followed Stefano inside. She watched as he stalked into the drawing room and poured two fingers of Scotch into a glass and tossed it back.

He stood in front of the fireplace, one hand braced against the marble mantle. Outside, a car drove past and washed the room in sickly yellow light. Allegra closed the double doors, drew the curtains and turned on a lamp. All tasks to keep her from the reckoning she knew would come. What she knew she had to say.

‘I’m sorry.’

‘For what?’ Stefano asked, a trace of sarcasm sharpening his tone. ‘For seeing me again? For agreeing to help Lucio? Or perhaps for walking out on me in the first place?’

There was such savagery in his voice that Allegra could only push it away, refuse to consider the implications of his words, the turn in his tone.

‘No,’ she said quickly, ‘for my behaviour tonight. I was shocked that you were married and I … I overreacted at the party.’

‘Yes, you did.’

Her fingers nervously pleated the silk of her gown. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

‘Why should I have?’

‘Because …’ She tried to think of a reason, a safe one. ‘Because I deserve to know,’ she finally said. ‘We’ve acknowledged the past and forgotten about it, but …’

‘But it’s still there.’

‘Yes.’ Allegra bit her lip. ‘I never heard that you’d married.’

‘Did you ever ask?’

‘No, of course not. Why would I …?’ She trailed off, not wanting to follow that line of thought and its inevitable conclusions.

‘You wouldn’t have heard,’ Stefano said after a moment, his voice resigned, ‘because it was kept quiet. By me.’

‘Why?’ she whispered.

He turned around and Allegra was surprised and alarmed by the weariness etched into his features. ‘Because I regretted it almost as soon as the ceremony was over.’

He ran a hand through his hair before sinking into a cream silk armchair. ‘If you want the facts, Allegra, I’ll give them to you. I suppose I should have considered that someone might mention my marriage to you tonight, but I didn’t want to deal with it. Not yet, anyway. So I just pushed it away and didn’t think about it.’ A smile flickered and died, and his eyes were shrewd. ‘A habit I believe we share.’

Allegra looked down. The man in front of her was one she wasn’t used to. Here was Stefano being candid, open. Vulnerable. He sat sprawled in a chair, his tie loosened and the top two buttons of his shirt undone, his whisky tumbler still held loosely in one hand.

‘So what are the facts?’ she asked in a low voice.

‘I was married to Gabriella Capoleti for six years.’

‘Six years!’ It came out in a shattered, shocked gasp. Six years. ‘When did you marry her?’

‘Three months after you left me,’ Stefano said flatly.

Left me. Not Italy, not the wedding, no innocent, innocuous phrases. Left me. Because that was what she’d really done.

Allegra felt dizzy, and she steadied herself by placing one hand on the back of a chair. ‘Why?’ she whispered. ‘Why so soon?’

Stefano shrugged, gave the ghost of a smile. ‘My first marriage didn’t happen, so I planned another.’

‘That simple,’ Allegra whispered.

Stefano smiled, although his eyes were hard. ‘Yes.’

She swallowed. Why did this hurt? This was old ground they were covering. She’d raked it over in her own mind years ago, had laid it to rest. Yet now it felt fresh, raw, achingly painful.

It hurt.

‘I meant to marry you for your name, Allegra, remember? The Avesti name.’ He laughed dryly, without humour. ‘Not that the Avesti name has any standing these days.’

‘Don’t—’

‘No, you don’t like to face that, do you?’ Stefano said, his voice as sharp and cutting as a blade. ‘You don’t like to face the facts. Well, neither do I. I try not to think of my marriage. Ever.’

‘Why not?’ Her throat felt like sandpaper; her eyes were dry and gritty. ‘Did you love her?’

‘Does it matter?’ Stefano asked in a soft hiss. ‘To you?’

Yes. ‘No.’ Allegra drew herself up. ‘No, of course not. I just wondered.’

Stefano was silent; so was she. Waiting. Wondering. Outside she heard the muted blare of a car horn, the trill of a woman’s laughter.

‘I married Gabriella for the Capoleti name, just as I was going to marry you for yours,’ Stefano finally said. His voice was as flat as if he were reciting a list of dry, dusty facts. ‘I needed someone from an old, established family.’

‘Why did you need a name so much?’ Allegra asked, wondering even now why she hadn’t asked this, thought this before. She’d just shut it all out.

His lips curved in a smile and his eyes glittered like topaz. ‘Because I don’t have one myself, of course. I have money. That’s all.’ She heard a bleak note in his voice that she didn’t completely understand.

‘And so Gabriella accepted this arrangement?’ Her voice sharpened as she added, ‘Or did you deceive her as well?’

Stefano gazed at her for a moment, his expression assessing. Knowing. ‘As I deceived you?’ he finished softly. ‘How you cling to that, Allegra. How you need to believe it.’

‘Of course I believe it,’ Allegra snapped. ‘I heard it from my father’s mouth, from your own! Our marriage was nothing more than a business deal, brokered between the two of you.’ Rage and self-righteousness made her stand tall, straight. Proud. ‘How much was I worth in the end, Stefano? How much did you pay for me?’

Stefano laughed softly. ‘Didn’t you realize? Nothing, Allegra. I paid nothing for you.’ She blinked; he smiled. ‘But I would have paid a million euros for you, if you’d shown up that day. A million euros your father had already gambled away. That was why he killed himself, you know. He was in debt—far more than a million euros in debt. And, when you didn’t marry me, he got nothing.’

Allegra closed her eyes, wished she could close her mind against what Stefano was saying.

‘More facts,’ Stefano said softly, ‘that you’ve never wanted to face.’

He was right, she knew. She’d never wanted to face the fallout of her flight, had never wanted to examine too closely why her father had killed himself, why her mother had run.

‘It’s not my fault,’ she whispered, and her voice cracked.

‘Does it really matter?’ Stefano returned.

She shook her head, shut herself off from those memories, those emotions. ‘What of Gabriella, then? Tell me about your marriage.’

‘Gabriella was thirty years old then—two years older than me at the time. Desperate, to be blunt. She agreed to the marriage, to the arrangement, and it all happened rather quickly.’

‘So it would seem.’ Allegra sank into a chair. She felt sick. She’d always known that Stefano had his reasons for marrying her … Hadn’t her mother said, Our social connections, his money? Yet here was the proof, right in front of her that he’d never loved her, had never cared in the least. He was giving it to her.

He was telling her, and he didn’t even sound sorry. Just resigned.

‘Why did you keep it quiet,’ she finally asked, ‘if you wanted her name? Shouldn’t you have … let people know?’ Her voice wobbled with uncertainty and Stefano raised his eyebrows.

‘Cash in on my investment? In theory, yes. But I realized after I married Gabriella that I didn’t want her damned name. I didn’t want her, and she didn’t want me.’ He laughed dryly, but Allegra heard something else in that sound, something sad and broken. ‘And, in the end, I realized I didn’t want to build my business on someone else’s shoulders. I’d got as far as I had by myself, or nearly, and I’d continue the same way.’ He gave the ghost of a smile.

Allegra gave a little jerk of assent, her eyes sliding from Stefano and the bitterness and cynicism radiating from him in icy, intangible waves.

‘So what happened?’ she finally whispered. ‘She … she died?’

‘Yes.’ Stefano raised his eyes to meet her startled gaze. ‘But six weeks after the wedding Gabriella left me. I don’t blame her. I was miserable company and a poor husband.’ He leaned his head back against the chair. ‘She went to live in Florence, in a flat I provided for her. We agreed to live completely separate lives. When she died in a car accident six months ago, I hadn’t seen her for nearly five years.’

‘But … but that’s horrible,’ Allegra whispered.

‘Yes,’ Stefano agreed bleakly, ‘it is.’

‘What … what did you do that made her so miserable? To leave you?’

He raised one eyebrow, his smile darkly sardonic. ‘My fault, is it?’

‘You admitted it was!’

Stefano was silent for a long time, his head back, his eyes closed. Allegra wondered if he’d actually fallen asleep.

Then he spoke, his eyes still closed. ‘I realized I wanted something else from marriage. Something more. And so did Gabriella. Unfortunately, we couldn’t give it to each other.’

‘What was it?’ Allegra asked in a whisper.

Slowly Stefano raised his head, opened his eyes. Allegra felt transfixed by his sleepy gaze, gold glinting in his irises. ‘What do you think it was, Allegra?’

‘I …’ She licked her lips. She didn’t know. What more did Stefano want from a marriage? He’d got the social connections, he had the money. What more was there to be gained? ‘I … I don’t know.’

‘I wonder,’ Stefano mused, turning his tumbler around and around between his palms, ‘why you were so startled by the fact of my marriage. It almost seemed as if you were hurt.’

Allegra jerked back. ‘Of course I was startled! It’s rather a large fact to keep secret—’

‘But you’ve kept secrets, Allegra,’ Stefano interjected softly, ‘haven’t you? I haven’t been celibate for the last seven years. Neither, I believe, have you.’

Allegra felt as if she’d been nailed to the chair. The last thing she’d expected now was for him to turn the spotlight on her.

‘What does that matter?’ she finally asked, trying to keep her voice cool. Logical.

‘Exactly. What does that matter? If I choose to ignore your past, then you should ignore mine, don’t you think? Because it doesn’t matter, since you’re merely here in a professional capacity.’ His eyes glittered and he leaned forward. ‘Does it?’

‘No,’ Allegra said, her voice sounding hollow to her own ears, ‘it doesn’t.’

She felt the truth of what he was saying, what he was implying, like a series of electric shocks to her heart. Because it did matter. It did hurt.

And the only reason it could was because Stefano still mattered.

To her.

‘How many lovers have you had, Allegra?’ Stefano asked softly.

Allegra felt as if an icy finger had trailed along her spine, drifted across her cheek. She didn’t like the look in Stefano’s eyes, the intent, the anger. ‘Stefano,’ she said, her face pale, her voice thready, ‘it doesn’t matter. I never married you, I was free. I’m not yours to command, to possess. It doesn’t matter how many lovers I’ve had.’ Her voice shook. ‘You shouldn’t even ask.’

‘But it does matter,’ Stefano replied, his voice still so soft, so dangerous. ‘It matters to me.’

‘Why?’ She was trembling—actually trembling—under the onslaught of his blazing gaze.

He didn’t answer, just smiled. ‘Who was the man who touched you first?’ he asked softly. ‘Who touched you where I should have touched you?’

Allegra closed her eyes. Images danced in the darkness of her closed lids; imaginary images that had never taken place, memories of Stefano and her that had never been made.

‘Don’t, Stefano,’ she whispered. ‘You don’t want to do this.’

‘No, I don’t,’ Stefano agreed, his voice pleasant, a parody. ‘I know I don’t, and I shouldn’t. But I’m going to do it anyway. Who was he? When did you have your first lover?’

Her eyes were still closed, but she heard—felt—him move. He closed the small space between them and she knew he was standing before her. She heard him drop down to kneel in front of her, felt his hands on her knees. She tensed, he waited.

The moment was endless. They were so close, yet a yawning chasm had opened between them, a chasm caused by memories they’d both claimed didn’t matter. Memories they’d said they’d forgotten.

Allegra felt them tumble through her mind; she saw Stefano smile, she remembered the light touch of his carefully chaste kiss, she even felt the exploding joy within her at being loved.

She’d thought she’d been loved.

But, of course, she hadn’t. Not then, and certainly not now.

She gave a little gasp as she felt his fingers skim her knees, testing, teasing. Touching.

And his touch, as it had all those years ago, caused sensation to explode in her stomach, to spiral upwards from her heart. Her heart.

‘Stefano …’ she whispered, and stopped, because she didn’t know what she was saying. She didn’t even know what she was wanting.

She knew that if they continued down this path it would be dangerous. Deadly. How could they recover, continue the polite parody of their relationship, when this had happened?

This. Desire. Regret. Wonder.

Slowly, Stefano slid his hand along the tender, untouched skin of her thigh. Allegra shuddered lightly, but kept her eyes closed. She didn’t want to open them, didn’t want to see the expression on Stefano’s face. She was afraid of what it would be, what he was feeling.

What she was feeling.

‘Did he touch you here?’ he whispered. His hand slipped along her thigh, his fingers drifting higher, closer. Allegra felt her legs part, leaving her passive to his calculated caress.

She shook her head, not even sure what she was denying, admitting. Wanting him to stop, yet also wanting him to continue. Treacherously, terribly, wanting him to continue, even now.

‘What about here?’ Stefano whispered. His fingers played with the elastic of her underwear, his thumb skimming over her most sensitive flesh. ‘Did you enjoy it? Did you …?’ His finger slipped beneath her underwear. ‘Did you think of me?’

She gasped aloud, whether in pleasure or shame even she didn’t know. Her eyes were still closed, clenched shut. She gave a little shake of her head.

She opened her eyes, saw his blaze into hers with feeling. Anger. Hatred.

Shock reverberated through her at the savage expression on his face, his soul reflected so openly, so terribly, if only for a moment.

‘What is this?’ she choked out. ‘Some kind of revenge?’

Stefano’s eyes burned into hers for one fiery second before he cursed under his breath and jerked back. Allegra watched him stalk across the room, his back to her, heard the clink of glass as he poured himself another whisky.

She sagged against the chair, limp, lifeless. He was treating her like a possession, she thought. Just as she’d feared he would all those years ago, just as she’d always known. A possession. His. His to punish.

He was punishing her, she knew with a cold fury quite apart from the desire he’d sent spiralling through her.

Punishing her, for having had a lover when he’d been married. The realization of such a disgusting double standard cleared her head, gave her strength.

‘It was a doctor at the hospital where I was training,’ she said, and her voice was clipped and cold. Stefano stilled but did not turn around. ‘David Stirling. We were lovers for two months, until I realized he was just about as controlling and possessive as you are. And,’ she added, her voice shaking, ‘we didn’t sleep together until last year. So I waited six years to give myself to someone else, Stefano. You waited three months.’

He still didn’t turn around, and she wanted to hurt him, wound him, as he’d wounded her. Yet she knew she couldn’t, because he didn’t care.

And she did. Damn it, she did.

‘And you’re right, it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter because you don’t care about me, Stefano. You never did. You never loved me. The only thing that was hurt when I left was your wretched pride. You showed it tonight—someone else got to play with your toy! That’s all I am, have ever been, to you. And,’ she continued, trembling with emotion, with the river of suppressed feeling coursing through her in a terrible, unrelenting stream, ‘even if you had loved me, I didn’t want the kind of love you were prepared to give—a kind that didn’t involve honesty or joy or anything that really matters.’

Protection. Provision. What more is there?

He still didn’t turn around, didn’t acknowledge her in any way but the stiffness of his shoulders.

Allegra felt a blinding anger driving through to a needlepoint of pain, anger and pain that fuelled her words. ‘The kind of love you offer, Stefano, isn’t love. It’s nothing! It’s worthless.’

Stefano jerked, though he didn’t turn around. For a triumphant second Allegra actually thought she’d got to him. Hurt him. Yet even as she felt a blaze of victory, she realized it didn’t feel the way she wanted it to—deep and satisfying, a direct hit.

She felt low, cheapened somehow by her own actions as well as Stefano’s.

She took a breath, trying to calm herself. ‘Coming here was obviously a mistake but it’s also a business arrangement.’ She laughed, a sharp, brittle sound. ‘Just like our marriage was meant to be! Funny, how it all comes round. I’ll stay, Stefano, for Lucio’s sake. I want to help him. But when I have, and the next few months, or however long it takes, are over, I’ll thank God that I never have to see you again. A welcome thought for you as well, I’m sure.’

Trembling, still aching to hit him, hurt him, make him at least turn around and acknowledge her, Allegra left the room. She slammed the door on the way out.

Stefano knew he shouldn’t have a third whisky but he felt like it. He wasn’t a man who normally drank, but now he needed the fiery relief burning all the way to his gut.

Rage and remorse coursed through him in an unrelenting river of emotion. Emotion he didn’t want to acknowledge, much less feel.

Damn it. Why had he talked to her, treated her like that?

Allegra. The woman who was going to help Lucio. The woman meant to be his wife. He hadn’t forgotten. He could never forget the moment when he’d realized, when he’d known that she’d left. And she hadn’t bothered to say goodbye, to explain.

Nothing but a note.

That moment was burned into his memory, into his very soul. It felt as much a part of him as his family, his job, his every ambition or fear. He’d carried it around with him for seven years; he wasn’t about to let it go.

Yet, for Lucio’s sake, he had to. He had to try.

When he’d decided to seek Allegra out, to hire her, he’d convinced himself that the past didn’t matter. She didn’t matter.

There was no reason to care what she’d done, who she’d been with, who she’d loved. He’d been married, of all things; he could hardly accuse her for taking a lover. She was twenty-six years old and she had every right to find romance, love, sex, with someone else.

Someone other than him.

Yet the reality of it had been much harder to bear than the mere possibility.

It wasn’t the idea of another man touching her that wounded, Stefano realized with profound bitterness, although that certainly stung. It was the fact that Allegra had chosen—had preferred— someone else. She’d walked away from him to seek solace in another’s arms, and nothing—nothing—could change that.

Even worse, perhaps, was the cold, hard knowledge that he’d done the same thing. And failed.

The only solace he’d found was in knowing he’d made a mistake, and doing his best to rectify it. Giving Gabriella her life, her freedom back had been a relief for both of them.

Stefano dragged in a long, laborious breath and set his tumbler down. He walked slowly from the room, up the stairs to Allegra’s bedroom.

He didn’t try the knob; he had a feeling it would be locked and he didn’t want to find out. He placed his palm flat on the door, leaned his forehead against the smooth wood. All was silent, but he spoke anyway.

‘Allegra.’

He thought he heard a tiny sniff, a little gasp. He continued. ‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said or done what I did downstairs. It was wrong of me. I …’ He paused, his throat closing against the clamour of things he felt but didn’t know how to say. ‘Goodnight,’ he finally managed, and walked slowly down the corridor to his own empty bedroom.