Читать книгу His Final Bargain - Melanie Milburne, Melanie Milburne - Страница 8

WHEN ELIZA LANDED in Naples on Friday it wasn’t a uniformed driver waiting to collect her but Leo himself. He greeted her formally as if she were indeed a newly hired nanny and not the woman he had once planned to spend the rest of his life with.

‘How was your flight?’ he asked as he picked up her suitcase.

‘Fine, thank you.’ She glanced around him. ‘Is your daughter not with you?’

His expression became even more shuttered. ‘She doesn’t enjoy car travel. I thought it best to leave her with the agency girl. She’ll be in bed by the time we get home. You can meet her properly tomorrow.’

Eliza followed him to where his car was parked. The warm air outside was like being enveloped in a thick, hot blanket. It had been dismally cold and rainy in London when she left, which had made her feel a little better about leaving, but not much.

She had phoned Ewan’s mother about her change of plans. Samantha had been bitterly disappointed at first. She always looked forward to Eliza’s visits. Eliza was aware of how Samantha looked upon her as a surrogate child now that Ewan was no longer able to fulfil her dreams as her son. But then, their relationship had always been friendly and companionable. She had found in Samantha Brockman the model of the mother she had always dreamed of having—someone who loved unconditionally, who wanted only the best for her child no matter how much it cost her, emotionally, physically or financially.

That was what had made it so terribly hard when she had decided to end things with Ewan. She knew it would be the end of any further contact with Samantha. She could hardly expect a mother to choose friendship over blood.

But then fate had made the choice for both of them.

Samantha still didn’t know Eliza had broken her engagement to her son the night of his accident. How could she tell her that it was her fault Ewan had left her flat in such a state? The police said it was ‘driver distraction’ that caused the accident. The guilt Eliza felt was an ever-present weight inside her chest. Every time she thought of Ewan’s shattered body and mind she felt her lungs constrict, as if the space for them was slowly but surely being minimised. Every time she saw Samantha she felt like a traitor, a fraud, a Judas.

She was responsible for the devastation of Ewan’s life.

Eliza twirled the ring on her hand. It was too loose for her now. It had been Samantha’s engagement ring, given to her by Ewan’s father, Geoff, who had died when Ewan was only five. Samantha had devoted her life to bringing up their son. She had never remarried; she had never even dated anyone else. She had once told Eliza that her few short happy years with Geoff were worth spending the rest of her life alone for. Eliza admired her loyalty and devotion. Few people experienced a love so strong it carried them throughout their entire life.

The traffic was congested getting out of Naples. It seemed as if no one knew the rules, or if they did they were blatantly ignoring them to get where they wanted to go. Tourist buses, taxis, cyclists and people on whining scooters all jostled for position with the occasional death-defying pedestrian thrown into the mix.

Eliza gasped as a scooter cut in on a taxi right in front of them. ‘That was ridiculously close!’

Leo gave an indifferent shrug and neatly manoeuvred the car into another lane. ‘You get used to it after a while. The tourist season is a little crazy. It’s a lot quieter in the off season.’

A long silence ticked past.

‘Is your mother still alive?’ Eliza asked.

‘Yes.’

‘Do you ever see her?’

‘Not often.’

‘So you’re not close to her?’

‘No.’

There was a wealth of information in that one clipped word, Eliza thought. But then he wasn’t the sort of man who got close to anyone. Even when she had met him four years ago he hadn’t revealed much about himself. He had told her his parents had divorced when he was a young child and that his mother lived in the US. She hadn’t been able to draw him out on the dynamics of his relationship with either parent. He had seemed to her to be a very self-sufficient man who didn’t need or want anyone’s approval. She had been drawn to that facet of his personality. She had craved acceptance and approval all of her life.

Eliza knew the parent-child relationship was not always rosy. She wasn’t exactly the poster girl for happy familial relations. She had made the mistake of tracking down her father a few years ago. Her search had led her to a maximum-security prison. Ron Grady—thank God her mother had never married him—had not been at all interested in her as a daughter, or even as a person. What he had been interested in was turning her into a drug courier. She had walked out and never gone back. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘It’s very painful when you can’t relate to a parent.’

‘I have no interest in relating to her. She left me when I was barely more than a toddler to run off with her new lover. What sort of mother does that to a little child?’

Troubled mothers, wounded mothers, abused mothers, drug-addicted mothers, under-mothered mothers, Eliza thought sadly. Her own mother had been one of them. She had met them all at one time or the other. She taught their children. She loved their children because they weren’t always capable of loving them themselves. ‘I don’t think it’s ever easy being a mother. I think it’s harder for some women than others.’

‘What about you?’ He flicked a quick glance her way. ‘Do you plan to have children with your fiancé?’

Eliza looked down at her hands. The diamond of her engagement ring glinted at her in silent conspiracy. ‘Ewan is unable to have children.’

The silence hummed for a long moment. She felt it pushing against her ears like two hard hands.

‘That must be very hard for someone like you,’ he said. ‘You obviously love children.’

‘I do, but it’s not meant to be.’

‘What about IVF?’

‘It’s not an option.’

‘Why are you still tied to him if he can’t give you what you want?’

‘There’s such a thing as commitment.’ She clenched her hands so hard the diamond of her ring bit into the flesh of her finger. ‘I can’t just walk away because things aren’t going according to plan. Life doesn’t always go according to plan. You have to learn to make the best of things—to cope.’

He glanced at her again. ‘It seems to me you’re not coping as well as you’d like.’

‘What makes you say that? You don’t know me. We’re practically strangers.’

‘I know you’re not in love.’

Eliza threw him a defensive look. ‘Were you in love with your wife?’

A knot of tension pulsed near the corner of his mouth and she couldn’t help noticing his hands had tightened slightly on the steering wheel. ‘No. But then, she wasn’t in love with me, either.’

‘Then why did you get married?’

‘Giulia got pregnant.’

‘That was very noble of you,’ Eliza said. ‘Not many men show up at the altar because of an unplanned pregnancy these days.’

His knuckles whitened and then darkened as if he was forcing himself to relax his grip on the steering wheel. ‘I’ve always used protection but it failed on the one occasion we slept together. I assumed it was an accident but later she told me she’d done it deliberately. I did the right thing by her and gave her and our daughter my name.’

‘It must have made for a tricky relationship.’

He gave her a brief hard glance. ‘I love my daughter. I’m not happy that I was tricked into fatherhood but that doesn’t make me love her any less.’

‘I wasn’t suggesting—’

‘I had decided to marry Giulia even if Alessandra wasn’t mine.’

‘But why?’ she asked. ‘You said you weren’t in love with her.’

‘We were both at a crossroads. The man she had expected to marry had jilted her.’ His lip curled without humour. ‘You could say we had significant common ground.’

Eliza frowned at his little dig at her. ‘So it was a pity pick-up for both of you?’

His eyes met hers in a flinty little lock before he returned to concentrating on the traffic. ‘Marriage can work just as well, if not better, when love isn’t part of the arrangement. And it might have worked for us except Giulia struggled with her mood once Alessandra was born. It was a difficult delivery. She didn’t bond with the baby.’

Eliza had met a number of mothers who had struggled with bonding with their babies. The pressure on young mothers to be automatically brilliant at mothering was particularly distressing for those who didn’t feel that surge of maternal warmth right at the start. ‘I’m very sorry…It must have been very difficult for you, trying to support her through that.’

Lines of bitterness were etched around his mouth. ‘Yes. It was.’

He didn’t speak much after that. Eliza sat back and looked at the spectacular scenery as they drove along the Amalfi coast towards Positano. But her mind kept going back to his loveless marriage, the reasons for it, the difficulties during it and the tragic way it had ended. He was left with a small child to rear on his own. Would he look for another wife to help him raise his little girl? Would it be another loveless arrangement or would he seek a more fulfilling relationship this time? She wondered what sort of woman he would settle for. With the sort of wealth he had he could have anyone he wanted. But somehow she couldn’t see him settling for looks alone. He would want someone on the same wavelength as him, someone who understood him on a much deeper and meaningful level. He was a complex man who had a lot more going on under the surface than he let on. She had caught a glimpse of that brooding complexity in that bar in Rome four years ago. That dark shuttered gaze, the proud and aloof bearing, and the mantle of loneliness that he took great pains to keep hidden.

Was that why she had connected with him so instantly? They were both lonely souls disappointed by experiences in childhood, doing their best to conceal their innermost pain, reluctant to show any sign of vulnerability in case someone exploited them.

Eliza hadn’t realised she had drifted off to sleep until the car came to a stop. She blinked her eyes open and sat up straighter in her seat. The car was in the forecourt of a huge, brightly lit villa that was perched on the edge of a precipitous cliff that overlooked the ocean. ‘This isn’t the same place you had before,’ she said. ‘It’s much bigger. It must be three times the size.’

Leo opened her door for her. ‘I felt like I needed a change.’

She wondered if there had been too many memories of their time together in his old place. They had made love in just about every room and even in the swimming pool. Had he found it impossible to live there once she had left? She had often thought of his quaint little sun-drenched villa tucked into the hillside, how secluded it had been, how they had been mostly left alone, apart from a housekeeper who had come in once a week.

A place this size would need an army of servants to keep it running smoothly. As they walked to the front door Eliza caught a glimpse of a huge swimming pool surrounded by lush gardens out the back. Scarlet bougainvillea clung to the stone wall that created a secluded corner from the sea breeze and the scent of lemon blossom and sun-warmed rosemary was sharp in the air. Tubs of colourful flowers dotted the cobblestone courtyard and a wrought iron trellis of wisteria created a scented canopy that led to a massive marble fountain.

A housekeeper opened the front door even before they got there and greeted them in Italian. ‘Signor Valente, signorina, benvenuto—’

‘English please, Marella,’ Leo said. ‘Miss Lincoln doesn’t speak Italian.’

‘Actually, I know a little,’ Eliza said. ‘I had a little boy in my class a couple of years ago who was Italian. I got to know his mother quite well and we gave each other language lessons.’

‘I would prefer you to speak English with my daughter,’ he said. ‘It will help her become more fluent. Marella will show you to your room. I will see you later at dinner.’

Eliza frowned as he strode across the foyer to the grand staircase that swept up in two arms to the floors above. He had dismissed her again as if she was an encumbrance that had been thrust upon him.

‘He is under a lot of strain,’ Marella said, shaking her head in a despairing manner. ‘Working too hard, worrying about the bambina; he never stops. His wife…’ She threw her hands in the air. ‘Don’t get me started about that one. I should not speak ill of the dead, no?’

‘It must have been a very difficult time,’ Eliza said.

‘That child needs a mother,’ Marella said. ‘But Signor Valente will never marry again, not after the last time.’

‘I’m sure if he finds the right person he would be—’

Marella shook her head again. ‘What is that saying? Once bitten, twice shy? And who would take on his little girl? Too much trouble for most women.’

‘I’m sure Alessandra is a delightful child who just needs some time to adjust to the loss of her mother,’ Eliza said. ‘It’s a huge blow for a young child, but I’m sure with careful handling she’ll come through it.’

‘Poor little bambina.’ Marella’s eyes watered and she lifted a corner of her apron to wipe at them. ‘Come, I will show you to your room. Giuseppe will bring up your bag.’

As Eliza followed the housekeeper upstairs she noticed all the priceless works of art on the walls and in the main gallery on the second level. The amount of wealth it took to have such masters in one’s collection was astonishing. And not just paintings—there were marble statues and other objets d’art placed on each landing of the four-storey villa. Plush Persian rugs lay over the polished marble floors and sunlight streamed in long columns from the windows on every landing. It was a rich man’s paradise and yet it didn’t feel anything like a home.

‘Your suite is this one,’ Marella said. ‘Would you like me to unpack for you?’

‘No, thank you, I’ll be fine.’

‘I’ll leave you to settle in,’ Marella said. ‘Dinner will be at eight-thirty.’

‘Where does Alessandra sleep?’ Eliza asked.

Marella pointed down the corridor. ‘In the nursery; it’s the second door from the bathroom on this level. She will be asleep now, otherwise I would take you to her. The agency girl will be on duty until tomorrow so you can relax until then.’

‘Wouldn’t it be better for me to move into the room closest to the nursery once the agency girl leaves?’ Eliza asked.

‘Signor Valente told me to put you in this room,’ Marella said. ‘But I will go and ask him, sì?’

‘No, don’t worry about it right now. I’ll talk to him later. I suppose I can’t move in while the other girl is there anyway.’

‘Sì, signorina.’

Eliza stepped inside the beautifully appointed room once the housekeeper had left, the thick rug almost swallowing her feet as she moved across the floor. Crystal chandeliers dangled from the impossibly high ceiling and there were matching sconces on the walls. The suite was painted in a delicate shade of duck egg blue with a gold trim. The furniture was antique; some pieces looked as if they were older than the villa itself. The huge bed with its rich velvet bedhead was made up in snowy white linen with a collection of blue and gold cushions against the pillows in the same shade as the walls. Dark blue velvet curtains were draped either side of the large windows, which overlooked the gardens and the lemon and olive groves in the distance.

Once Eliza had showered and changed she still had half an hour to spare before dinner. She made her way along the wide corridor to the nursery Marella had pointed out. She thought it was probably polite to at least meet the girl from the agency so she could become familiar with Alessandra’s routine. But when she got to the door of the nursery it was ajar, although she could hear a shower running in the main bathroom on the other side of the corridor. She considered waiting for the girl to return but curiosity got the better of her. She found herself drawn towards the cot that was against the wall in the nursery.

Eliza looked down at the sleeping child, a dark-haired angel with alabaster skin, her tiny starfish hands splayed either side of her head as she slept. Sooty-black eyelashes fanned her little cheeks, her rosebud mouth slightly open as her breath came in and then out. She looked small for her age, petite, almost fragile. Eliza reached over the side of the cot and gently brushed a dark curl back off the tiny forehead, a tight fist of maternal longing clutching at her insides.