Читать книгу The Forbidden Ferrara - Sarah Morgan - Страница 8

SANTO sat and waited in his office at the Ferrara Beach Club—an office hastily vacated in his honour by the manager of the hotel. If he needed an indication as to why this hotel was less successful than the others in the group it was right there on the desk. Lack of discipline and organisation was visible everywhere, from the scattered papers to the dying plant that drooped sadly in the corner of the office. Later, he’d deal with it. Right now he had other things on his mind. Mocking him from the wall was an enlarged photograph of the hotel manager, posing with his wife and two smiling children.

A typical Sicilian family.

Santo stared moodily at that picture. Right now he felt like tearing it down. He’d never considered himself idealistic, but was it idealistic to assume that one day his family would look much like the one in the picture?

Apparently it was.

He glanced at his watch.

Not for one moment did he doubt that she would come. Not because he had faith in her sense of justice but because she knew that if she didn’t, he’d come and get her.

His face expressionless, he waited as darkness gave way to the first fingers of dawn; as the sun rose over the sea, showering light across the smooth glassy surface.

He’d sent the text in the early hours, at a time when most people would have been asleep. It hadn’t occurred to him to try and sleep. There had been no rest for him and he knew there would have been none for her, either.

Exhaustion fogged his mind and yet his thoughts were clear. As far as he was concerned the decision was clear. If only the emotions were as simple to deal with.

He checked his phone again and found a message from his brother, another person who had been frequenting the early hours. Just four words—

What do you need?

Unconditional support. Unquestioning loyalty. All those things that a family should offer, and which his did. He’d been raised with that support, surrounded by love. Unlike his son, who had spent his early years in the equivalent of a pit of vipers.

Sweat beaded on his brow. He could barely allow himself to think about what his son’s life must have been like. What was the long-term impact of being raised in an emotional desert? And what if the abuse hadn’t just been emotional? Although he’d been young, he still remembered the mutterings and the rumours about the Baracchi family. Remembered seeing Fia sporting bruises almost all the time.

The knock on the door was the most reluctant sound he’d ever heard.

His eyes narrowed and he felt a rush of adrenaline, but it was only a young chef from the kitchen, bringing him more coffee.

‘Grazie—’

The rattle of the cup on the saucer and her nervous glance told him that his black mood was visible on his face although they’d probably all misinterpreted the cause. Everyone in the hotel from the top down was jumpy about his visit. Normally they’d have reason. They had no way of knowing that his current mood was caused by something different. That a reorganization of the hotel was the last thing on his mind right now.

She melted away but moments later there was another tap on the door and he knew instantly that this time it was her.

The door opened and Fia stood there, those fierce green eyes glittering like jewels in a face as pale as morning mist. One look at her white face told him that she hadn’t had any more rest than he had.

She looked washed out and stressed. And ready for a fight.

Across the room their eyes clashed.

They’d been lovers.

They’d shared the ultimate intimacy, but that wasn’t going to help them navigate the treacherous waters they now found themselves in because they’d shared nothing else. They had no relationship. Essentially they were strangers. All they’d had were a few chance encounters and one stolen night, one delicious taste of the forbidden. None of that was going to help them through this desperate situation. And it was desperate; even he could see that.

‘Where is my son?’ He snapped out the words and she leaned her back against the door and looked at him.

‘Asleep in his bed. In his home. And if he wakes, Gina is there, and my grandfather.’

The anger rushed at him like a ravenous beast ready to snap through the last threads of his fragile self-control. ‘And that is supposed to provide me with comfort?’

‘He loves Luca.’

‘I think we have a very different idea of what that word means.’

‘No.’ Her eyes were fierce. ‘No, we don’t.’

Santo’s mouth tightened. ‘And will he still “love” him when he discovers the identity of his father? I think we both know the answer to that.’ He rose from his chair and saw her hand shoot towards the door handle. His mouth tightened and his eyes narrowed in a warning. ‘If you leave this room then we will be having this conversation in public. Is that what you want?’

‘What I want is for you to calm down and be rational.’

‘Oh, I’m rational, tesoro. I have been thinking clearly from the moment I saw my child.’

The atmosphere thickened. The air grew overly warm.

‘What do you want me to say? That I’m sorry? That I did the wrong thing?’ Her voice was smoky-soft and that voice drew his eyes to the smooth column of her throat and then to her mouth. It had been just one night but the memory of it had left deep scars in his senses. He knew how she’d taste because he remembered it vividly. He knew how she’d feel because he remembered that too. Not just the smooth texture of her skin, but the softness of her gorgeous hair. Now released from the clips that had restrained it during cooking, it fell down her back like a dark flame, reflecting the sunrise back at him. He remembered the day her father had cut it short in a blaze of Baracchi temper, hacking with kitchen scissors until she’d been left with a jagged crop. A horrified Santo had witnessed the incident and had tried to intervene but the sight of him had simply inflamed the situation.

She’d sat still, he remembered, saying nothing as hunks of long hair had landed in her lap. Afterwards she’d hidden in the boathouse, her fierce glare challenging him to say one word about it and of course he hadn’t because their relationship didn’t encompass verbal exchanges.

And it had been in the boathouse, on that one night that had ended so tragically, that their relationship had shifted from nothing to everything.

Santo hauled in a deep breath, resisting that savage, elemental instinct that had him wanting to flatten her to the wall and drag the answers from her. ‘When did you find out you were pregnant?’

‘Why does that matter?’

‘I’m the one asking the questions and right now you’ll answer any question I choose to ask you.’