The Italians: Cristiano, Vittorio and Dario. Jane Porter

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      Furious with herself for opening up a wound she’d wanted to keep closed and even more furious with him for being so blind to his own shortcomings, Laurel thrust her glass into his hand, twisted free and virtually sprinted across the terrace towards the steps that led down to the private beach. She felt like Cinderella on the dot of midnight, except that she didn’t want the Prince to catch her.

      She could lose both shoes for all she cared. That wouldn’t be enough to stop her running.

      Santo stepped in front of her, his expression deceptively benign as he blocked her path. ‘Where do you think you’re going?’

      Laurel ground her teeth, silently cursing everyone with the surname Ferrara. ‘Back to the villa. Not that it’s your business.’

      ‘You’re hurting my brother. That makes it my business.’

      ‘He’s big enough to look after himself.’ But that wouldn’t stop Santo and her insides twisted with envy because she knew he was just looking out for his brother.

      The fact that no one looked out for her didn’t bother her.

      She didn’t expect it or want it. Never had.

      ‘Having you here messes with his head. I just want to say one thing, Laurel—’ Three parts drunk, ten parts angry, Santo blocked the steps. ‘Hurt my brother again and I will crush you like a bug. Capisci?’

      ‘Non capisce niente,’ Laurel shot back, her Italian almost as fluent as his. ‘You understand nothing. Stay out of my business, Santo.’

      Hurt my brother—

      What about the way his brother had hurt her? Apparently that counted for nothing.

      Distress breaking through the barriers she’d erected, she pushed past him, aware that by doing so she’d made herself the object of curious stares. Doubtless everyone wanted to know what Santo had been saying to his brother’s disobedient ex-wife to make her run.

      She virtually flew down the steps that led down to the beach. At some point while she’d been suffering on the terrace, darkness had fallen and the solar-powered lights that illuminated the path down to the beach glowed like a million bright eyes watching her flee. Feeling her chest tighten ominously, she slowed her pace. The last thing she needed right now was an asthma attack. She was ruthless about maintaining her fitness levels but her downfall had always been stress and she’d been stressed from the moment the wheels of the plane had touched the tarmac.

      As her feet sank into the soft sand the chatter behind her faded and the music became a distant hum. Here, the dominant sound was the lap of the sea on the shore and Laurel tugged off her shoes. The solitude was a soothing balm to her raw feelings, the silky sand triggering memories of happier times. But memories couldn’t change the present.

      They were all furious with her. She was about as welcome as a deadly virus at a children’s party.

      And she was furious with them for assuming that all the blame lay with her.

      She was here because of Dani, but it was clear to her now that once her friend accepted that Laurel and Cristiano really were finished, their friendship would be over too.

      Depressed by that thought, Laurel sank down onto the sand and wrapped her arms around her knees, her bag and her shoes abandoned by her side. The sea stretched ahead of her, the inky black broken by the occasional shimmer of light from a passing yacht.

      She’d been stupid, she realised, to think that her friendship with Dani could endure, given what she’d done.

      Desperately she struggled to control herself, aware that her chest was growing tighter and doing everything she could to breathe slowly and keep herself calm.

      She didn’t know how long she sat there staring through a mist of tears, but she knew when she was no longer alone.

      Infuriated that he didn’t have the sensitivity to leave her alone, she tensed her shoulders. ‘Go back to the party, Cristiano. We have nothing more to talk about.’ The moon sent a shaft of light over the sea, illuminating the hard, masculine features.

      ‘I want to talk about the baby.’

      So he’d been saving the worst for last. ‘I don’t.’

      ‘I know, and that’s why we’re in this mess. Because you refused to talk about it.’

      The injustice of it knocked the last of the breath from her lungs.

      Even now, broaching this most delicate of topics, his body language had all the subtlety of one of the many invaders who had plundered Sicily for two thousand years of its colourful history.

      His legs were planted firmly apart, one hand in his pocket, indifferent to the effects of the sand on the sheen of his designer shoes. Laurel recognised the stance. This was Cristiano troubleshooting, those broad shoulders set for battle and those charcoal eyes narrowed to two dangerous slits as he assessed the opposition and realigned his strategy.

      He was six foot two of furiously angry Sicilian male, ready to fight until victory was his.

      And even as part of her loathed that side of him, another part admired that strength and focus.

      Telling herself that raw masculinity was just not attractive, she gritted her teeth.

      Kill it right now, Laurel. Those tiny, dangerous shoots of desire needed to be culled before they spread and threatened to choke common sense.

      ‘You want to talk about the baby? Fine—let’s talk. I was ten weeks pregnant. I had abdominal cramps. You were away on business. I called you, but you decided it would be fine to carry on with your business trip. You made your decision. Things became worse. I called you again but you’d switched your phone off. You couldn’t have been clearer about your priorities. There’s nothing more to be said on the subject.’ The idyllic setting did nothing to dilute the tension that throbbed between them.

      ‘You are twisting the facts. I called the doctor. I spoke to him and he assured me that with a few days’ rest you would be all right. No one expected you to lose the baby.’

      She’d expected to lose the baby. From the first cramp she’d known with a woman’s instinct that something was badly wrong. ‘Then that’s you off the hook.’

      ‘Accidenti, why do you refuse to discuss it?’

      ‘Because this is not a discussion. Just another monologue where you tell me how I should be feeling. You want me to tell you that it was all my fault, that I behaved unreasonably, but I’m not going to do that because I didn’t. You are the one who behaved unreasonably.’ The rhythm of her breathing was unsteady. ‘No, not unreasonably—that isn’t the word. You were cruel, Cristiano. Cruel.’

      ‘Basta! Enough.’ His voice thickened around the word. ‘You make it sound as if this was a straightforward decision but my role in this company comes with huge responsibilities. The decisions that I make affect thousands. And sometimes those decisions are difficult.’

      ‘And sometimes they’re just plain wrong. Admit it.’

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